Poems from my past, written when I was in school

Disclaimer: These poems were written long ago, when I didn’t have absolute command of the English language, not now when I can write entire essays without a single grammatical misteak.

The Blacksmith

The beautiful thing about poetry is how some lines resonate, have an impact far greater than they should. To me, one such line comes from Invictus by William Ernest Henley, which closes with the lines: ‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul’.

I tramp into a village
At the crack of dawn.
All was still.
But for the ringing
Of metal on metal.
I make my way towards the pleasant din.

At the center of town
Under and around a massive tree
Stands a mountain of a man.
Jet black beard, steel blue eyes
Arms bulging impossibly.
Over an apron dark with soot.

In one hand he holds a hammer
Not an ordinary hammer no.
A massive Hammer, six feet tall
Engraved with beautiful intricacies, gilded with gold
And he swings it with ease.

Dread and Curiosity war within me as I stand.
Curiosity wins and I make my way towards him.
As the Sun lights the sky.

He looks up at me and stops mid-swing.
Innumerable questions bubble up, half formed.
And I ask,
“Who are you? “

He looks into the distance and ponders awhile
“I am the Blacksmith. Shaper of lives.”
All who have the gift of life will meet me, many more than once.
But mistake me not. Though I wield the Hammer of Fate
I know not what I make.

I wield the Hammer. But it is you who wields me.
What is it you wish to make of your life?
A shield that protects? A scythe that reaps?“

I stay silent.
For who among us truly knows what we want to be?

He fixes me with his steely eyes and says,
“I am the Blacksmith.
And so are You.”
And he hands me his Hammer.

A Talking Table

A joke wrapped into a poem delivered in a quick and punchy way. What’s not to love about limericks? This is a modest first attempt about the destruction of the Tower of Babel

There was once a talking table,
Made entirely of maple.
All around him were burning,
Blazing and struck by lightning,
“Oh shit! I’m on the Tower of Babel.”

The Harbinger

Harbinger is such a cool word isn’t it? I certainly thought so, when Wormtongue calls Gandalf a harbinger of doom, bringing troubles wherever he went. Years later, reading about The Cthaeh in the Kingkiller Chronicles gave life to that seed of an idea, giving life to this slightly dark poem.

The Sun sets o’er the rolling fields
Of waving wheat and curling corn.
Men go back to their waiting wives,
Laughing children and a bottle of wine.
To gather ‘round the hearth
And tell their tales
Of mighty mystics, wise old men
Witty jesters, and a dragon’s den.

The Harbinger hears them and smiles,
As he tap-taps his way into town.
A wise old man is he,
But beneath the veneer of wisdom
Lies a heart as black as soot.

He sees the future with a measured gaze,
Hawk-eyed, watching.
The infinite ramifications of every action,
And their worst possible consequence.

He guides all towards their doom,
With twisted words and a gentle smile.
His cloak foreboding, his staff a death knell
To all that hear it.

He limps into the crowd of people,
The flaming firelight flickering
On his robes flaked with dust.
Casting serpentine shadows of dread.

A woman speaks up,
“Welcome traveller, rest your weary feet in our humble town.“
The Harbinger does naught,
He stays still as a standing stone.

At length he begins to speak
And quiets the townsfolk’s rambling.
Words of uncanny wisdom
Fly like arrows from his mouth,
Shafts of lies, feathered with truth.

Silence prevails
As The Harbinger journeys on.

He leaves behind a shattered town.
Broken spirit and broken soul.
And I look upon this wreck of life
Wonder at the monstrosity that is
The Harbinger.

The Maelstrom

If I remember correctly, this poem was an entry for a school competition, where the theme was personification. Writing a poem in a two hour time limit is never going to be easy, but somehow this came out alright. Perhaps rattling off words inside your head and trying to come up with a rhyme does help with learning a language.

Nature’s Fury unleash’d,
That is the visage of the storm.
Devastating power released,
In a tempestual Maelstrom.
Crackling lightning, rumbling thunder
The needle-like unrelenting rain.
Led by warriors of ice who plunder
On their campaign for everlasting fame.
Demonic winds burst asunder
From their home in the heavenly sky.
To the terror, awe and wonder
Of the creatures as they die.
Nature’s Fury united,
That is the visage of the storm.
The kingdom of Man subjugated,
Under His Majesty, The Maelstrom.

The Moon

Jewel of the night,
Shines bright yet averts her eyes.
Scarred, but beautiful.