• Published 9th Mar 2013
  • 729 Views, 45 Comments

From the Sea - ForeverFreest



This is an epic, a long piece of poetry that tells a tale. This is a story, a winding journey through history lived long ago and almost forgotten. Almost.

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Part Four: Stammer

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Now e'en as the even grew early and heavy,
And e'en as the war wound its way to the start,
As ponies prepared, prejudiced and unyielding,
Still some found the time for creation and art.

Small Stammer the sireless it was, of the earth-kind,
Whose voice was a vase of the clearest perfume
And floated like faerie-kind, flutelike and fragrant
Through mudpony camps as they doubled their doom.

And every ear in the area heard it,
And wondered a while as the wind bore it by,
For Stammer they saw to be sickly and speechless,
So frail and so terribly timid to try.

For Wyrd is a wise one, though well an enigma,
And Muses attend those the gods have wrought weak;
So sense has a portion, though poorly afforded,
And Stammer sang sweetly, though scarce could he speak.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

So never asked Stammer of tribe or of family
To cease or to stop all their symbols of war,
But went--simply went; from the world he would wander
And seek a solution to settle the score.

So calmly he cantered, and chased his reflection
Through rivers and willows and woods for a while,
And made up his mind he would meddle to mend,
For the battle to him tasted bitter as bile.

The weakest the wind lends its breath the more mellow,
And so bitter breezes declined to assail
His frame, fair and frangible, so it might stand
Against all the world, and prepare to prevail.

Little he knew it, but Stammer was god-blessed;
The ichor of alicorns stirred in his veins,
And though it was hidden and harbored in thrall-ring,
A time such as this would soon sever the reins.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

And as he was travelling, whence, he'd no vision
So far on the road to a pasture unknown,
He came to a pike in the street set before him,
With signs long obscured by the vines overgrown.

As he could not reckon the trail or direction,
And as he had need of a right way to go,
He sat and he pondered a minute, enraptured
And first did not notice a heavenly glow.

Till all of a moment, with a feint and a flutter,
There floated unto him a faerie of sorts,
Which lighted before him with dainty decorum
And impishly prim, interrupted his thoughts.

"Young Stammer!" it shouted with silvery lightness,
"From whence have you journeyed, and where are you bound?
Seek you help?--it is waiting, and I am its conduit,
Thus I have flown to your sky and your ground."

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Mere moments had moved since the faerie had spoken,
Yet unto the lad it had felt like a year;
He sorted himself as he stood and searched 'round him
And narrowed his eyes as he tilted his ear.

"Who hails me?" he shouted, or would have, had never
His voice been as shy as the wind o'er the reeds;
He stamped both his hooves on the damp road beneath him,
Aware that his gifts were not suited for screeds.

A cry tore asunder the calm and his footing,
And fumbling, he fell on his fetlocks and tail,
And noticed a creature indignant before him,
Which nearly he'd stamped with his hoof on the trail.

He paled and he quivered, so fond of the fauna
That lurked in the woods of his earthpony home,
But saw that this thing was no typical beastie,
But fashioned like him in a butterfly's comb.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

The thing whirled its wings with a whistle and whinny,
Which sounded as free as the frost and the Deep,
And shook his red mane as he gathered his haunches,
And sprang on a stump with a bound and a leap.

"Your tongue is a twist," it began, ever-blinking,
And thus you imagine yourself some the less--
You must not be blinded; for ever the gods
Did impair, or confound those they'd chosen to bless.

"Your gangly arrangement, and lolloping conduct
Are void and a frail, vapid vessel--your voice
They conceal from your own ears, and more than your senses
Your churlish bone-case veils your mind from a choice.

A choice you must ponder, O Stammer the Sireless,
A choice that may yet set the tremors to right--
But the scales of high Haysgard are thirsting for balance--
So you must be brazen, forsaking your fright."

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

The sprite stood and shimmered, and nodded its brain-box,
And dumbly young Stammer stood waving his hoof,
And watched as it vanished, an eerie illusion,
And felt as his mind were a mile aloof.

When minutes and seconds had come and departed,
And all that remained was the silence around,
Young Stammer stood treading the ground in a crescent
And seemed to be wearing a groove in the ground.

But vacancy did not abide in his hood then;
The pool of his mind was fair cloudy, but stirred.
He thought on the cryptic and dimly-lit message,
Enigmas of choices, and what he preferred.

Although he'd no boldness, he shouldered his burden,
And sternly he settled his snout to the east,
And soon began singing, the swifter his canter,
And something hid down in his soul was released.

When they came over the wake
In a tide of crimson hue
When the anvil rang and the landers sang
Of the bright ones bathed in blue

Author's Note:

Wow.

Can you believe this is still a thing?

I thought about posting blogs while I was writing this chapter, giving updates, promising to be faster in the future, maybe giving samples of what I was working on...but then I realized that when the authors I follow do stuff like that, it kinda ticks me off. So here's part four, unheralded by a plethora of previous blog posts and likely to go unobserved by the vast majority of readers on the site. And that's fine.

Honestly, the main reason I pushed myself so hard to complete this chapter is to show that I haven't given up on it, or left you in the lurch. I know it's been a ridiculously long time since I posted an update, but would you believe me if I told you I'd been working on this by bits the whole time? Truth be told, it's a lot harder to write this now than it was when I started. I don't have that same frenzied zeal I did in the beginning, and that's only to be expected from someone with as short an attention span as I have who's involved in as many projects as I am. Poetry is a very demanding art form--as you can see, I have no problem writing footnotes, blog posts, and silly little ditties on the spot, but when it comes to creating characters in a story centered around a world built upon a style of poetry which requires careful word selection, alliteration, rhythm, pacing, classical emulation and dramatic tone, not to mention the sheer number of words in the thing--it's quite frankly exhausting.

So what, then? Am I resigning as a poet? Am I cancelling this story or putting it on hiatus? By no means. But from now on, I'm not going to make promises about deadlines I can't keep. I'm trying to bear in mind that most classical epics were formed over centuries, not the last couple years of high school. So it's best for me to just...chill. I'll be working on this as the mood strikes me, and I'll be working on a lot of other stuff too. I may write another story, or I may not. I really have no idea. For now, I'm just going to accept that I'm hardly the greatest poetic mind of the 21st century and that I'm definitely not the most driven poet of any century. And that's okay. So here, have an update. It's good to see you all again.

I love you guys!

--ForeverFreest

Comments ( 2 )

Well, I for one am very glad you're still working on this. Good poetry is hard to find on this site, especially epic poetry. Definitely looking forward to more, whenever it may come.

2775348 Hey, remember a year and a half ago when I said I was working on the next chapter? I wasn't lying...

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