Many long years ago, before men walked the earth, there existed the Era of the Giants. The Giants were huge beings, who towered high above the height of the tallest trees, and lived in large rocky dwellings; caves the size of forests deep within the mountains.

All the animals feared them and would run, or burrow, or hide as best they could when they could feel the thundering footsteps of the approaching giants, for the giants would devour them live; bones, skin and flesh with a single bite.

One night, a star fell. It trailed across the sky, leaving in its wake a shimmering gold tail of roaring energy and passion.

And then it struck the earth with a shuddering jolt, so hard that it woke the Giants from their deep day time slumbers and they rose in anger from their caves.

The world they saw was changed. The sky was burning red, and dark clouds rolled across it, like smoke, from fire.

The Giants journeyed for many days and nights to find its source, and as they did so they sky gradually regained its natural blue, and the terrified animals once again ventured cautiously from their homes.

What the giants saw when they eventually reached their destination was a large crater, sunk many of hundreds of metres into the ground and filled with a sparkling, shimmering gold.

The giants turned to each other, with awe in their eyes and greed in their hearts and each giant entered the crater, scooping gold with their large, shovel like hands into their pockets and filling their bags until there was nothing left but a large, deep, empty hole in the ground.

Then the giants turned to each other again, this time with greed in their eyes and desire on their lips, and they raised their fists and fought.

They fought all day, and when the sun sunk timidly behind the clouds and the moon rose higher in its orbit, the giants slunk away from each other, bruised and sore, and turned to hide their treasure, burying it deep below the grounds surface to never be found.

When the sun rose again the next morning, the giants rose also and their fighting continued, and when the sun set that night, several giants lay upon the ground, never to rise again.

And so it continued, until only a handful of giants continued to exist, and a decade later the last giant grew lonely and as much as she stared at the sparkling gold, she found that gold was worth very little when no one else wanted it, and that she missed the company of her fellow giants.

Eventually, she killed herself. She lay down on the sandy plains of Africa with her gold buried far below her and sliced through the thick skin of her wrists piercing her arteries, as a stream of red blood poured down the sandy dunes and into the sea.

And so the Era of the Giants ended, and all that remained were deep holes of buried treasure, as lost and forgotten as the long gone Giants.

No one had heard a thing, as if the night held a silent affinity with the shadows. No wolves were heard howling, or birds unsettled in their night time nesting and no door was heard creaking open or closed as a shadow slipped into the room.

The next day the sheep’s fleece lay, as it had done when she was there, covering the small straw cot. There was no sign of a struggle, no shed pieces of clothing and no sign of an intruder getting past the barred door.

There was no sign that she had been taken, and, except for a small spot of blood which stained the creamy white fleece, no sign that she had ever existed.

I wish for two things:
1) That I could play and write music, because sometimes poems just have to be writen and heard as songs. This is one of them.
2) That I was not so brilliantly skilled at procrastination and would actually write my essay thats due tomorrow.

Mr Wolf

It’s just a fairy tale
Oh, it’s just a fairy tale
And Mr. Wolf
You’re not real, no.

You haunt my dreams
But you aren’t there, no
Not behind the shadows
Not in the dark.

And its 12 o’clock
And I hear a howl
From the woods
But you’re not real.

You’re not real
And I can’t feel
Your claws that rip
And tear my clothes.

You haunt my dreams
But you aren’t there, no
Not behind the shadows
Not in the dark.

You’re not real
And I can’t feel
Your jaws and teeth
That break my bones.

And I’m just a victim
Of your passion
Your violence
Stained in red.

It’s just a fairy tale
Oh, it’s just a fairy tale
And Mr. Wolf
You’re not real, no.

When I was about 14, I recall a teacher of mine making my class read "Porphyria's Lover" by Robert Browning. I think many of the class were disturbed by it, but something of it stayed with me. I recalled the teacher claiming it one of her favourite poems, and perhaps I wondered why. Either way I couldn't get the image of poor Porphyria allowing her lover to kill her out of my head, and some years later I returned to read it again. This poem is the result of several years reflection.

Stained Glass Sunset

The Stained Glass Sunset
Shimmers precariously
Over frosted sheets
Of ice entwined.

The beads have slipped
Around her throat
And audaciously
She begins to choke

Her lips are rouged
And the pillow case
Is smeared with tears
And the Stained Glass Sunset

Disappears.

I haven't updated this in a long long time but as I was clearing up my hard drive I found a couple of scraps of poems, I never posted.

The Song of Skoll

Mine is the timeless duty of a son,
To bear the burden in the sky
And to chase his flaming heels,
Until the day I die.

For Fenrir’s duty passes on,
And his sons must all obey
To follow in his agèd wake
Until each their judgment day.

Ragnarok,
A blessing in destruction’s guise,
It breaks the bonds of my chase
And frees me to roam the skies.

This is based loosely on a dream I had a couple of months ago, and I wrote it up the day after. I quite like it, but it isn't finished and I don't know where to take it from here. Any advice would be nice.

The Library

There was a library. The room was dusty, old, and dilapidated. It did not end, for just when you reached what you thought might be the last shelf, piled in books covered in cobwebs and smouldering in the damp, only then did the library unfurl another of its tendons and the room would shift endlessly into another passage, hidden by more shelves, and low slanting roofs and walls which forge into one.

In the middle of this ever extending labyrinth sat The Librarian. He knew everything there was to know about the library. He had never left the library; he could quote a million different descriptions on what it is to love or to feel the wind in your face, from texts as ancient as cave paintings and chirographic, but he had never seen the colour of the sky nor felt the sun on his back.

I refer to him as “he” for it seems we must all have some label, although for The Librarian, it is hard to think of him as either male or female, he is unanimously known as The Librarian. He was dressed all in black, not a purple black or a dusty black, but a black that indicated the absence of light. He wore a hat, which sat on his head more permanently than mountains on the horizon and beneath this, from his face of ashy grey two eyes stared out, like black voids, absorbing all.

The Library was to be avoided if possible.

It seldom had visitors that embarked down the first majestic flight of stairs that stood in a grand foyer, carpeted in red with a chandelier hanging decadently and spilling light generously. Even fewer reached the second staircase, where the carpet looked more worn, less plush and bright. On each flight of stairs, the light grew fainter and the shadows grew more prominent until, by the time you had reached the fifth flight of stairs, the light seemed almost to end before it touched the floor. The carpet was threadbare, the plaster was decaying in the damp atmosphere and the darkness clawed at your ankles. And on the seventh floor, where few had ever walked the light gave way entirely to dark.

Then, only the occasional flicker of light amidst the darkness would lead you onwards for several miles in the icy blackness till you entered the dusty realms of shelves and books.

And for all that came here, they were never quite the same again. The dark left its mark on them all, black burns that covered your eyes and mouth, and gradually spread slowly like a rash or disease across your face. And none but those who have entered the library can imagine the searing pain, the immense agony as invisible flames burn at your flesh turning it into charcoal for all to see.

Tom was an animal, more precisely; Tom was an old silver grey cat of the female persuasion (her name had been a mistake, but it stuck) and she had spent her youth the proud and savage mistress of a domain entailing a large stretch of the local neighborhood.

But now Tom was old, she had adopted a family who fed her since she could no longer stalk her prey with her old legs that ached of rheumatism, and they would pet her whenever she had a whim to be petted. And Tom was satisfied.

She spent her days in the shadow of a rose bush that stood to the front of the family’s garden. From here she had the perfect vantage point of the neighbourhood. She would watch the family drive away each morning, follow the postman cycling past with a regal incline of her head, and stare with vague interest at the elderly couple next door as they tended to their garden. Eventually as the day progressed she would see the younger cats venture into the sun.

They would keep their distance from Tom’s bush, her scent was in the wind, and they could hear the thump of her tail as it struck the ground. They would not intervene there; one glance at her victory scars or the confident mew was enough to keep them at a respectful distance.

And so she spent her days watching, and waiting.

And on the night when watching was no longer necessary, she woke up in the hours of darkness and felt something strange; nothing had changed, the sky and constellations around her were the same as ever, the sounds of house and family at sleep had not changed, yet the air around her felt thicker as if it was filled with electric tension, and was ready for an impact. Time felt frozen suddenly, fresh life was flowing threw in her veins, and she stood up, arched her body in a stretch, young again in the moonlight and bolted out of the cat flap.

That night Tom prowled the streets and alleyways again, as she had done years before. The moon shone on her sleek coat, and she paraded the street as a queen. The ground span past under her feet, whilst she stalked the night, her tail waving cautiously, and her fur was tingling with an acute awareness of everything that was happening around her.

She fought once again, with the madness and bravado of a kitten, and she expanded her kingdom in that night to a mighty realm. Those cats too meek to challenge her authority hung their heads in respect, or skulled away into their homes to avoid the humiliation. Those who stood their ground, learned immediately to regret it and crept away silently to lick their battle wounds in the shadows as Tom walked her walk.

As the dawn crept into the sky that morning, Tom strode proudly back to her rose bush and raised her stiff and aging neck to look up to the sky for the last time. Then she stretched out her aging body and shut her eyes to dreams. And in her dreams, she stood as proud and mighty as she had in the silent hours of the night.

Just like to mention this is in no way intended to relate to Tori Amos' Blood Roses.

Blood Roses

For you, I untie my heart
From the ribbons of my chest.
I place it in a vase, with water
And add twelve white roses

For you, and the roses grow
In passion as they drink
The elixir of my life and heart.
The Greatest Gift of Man;

Blood Roses.

I wrote most of this in the last few hours of my summer holiday, and now halfterm is almost over with 2 essays and my philosophy synopsis due I feel its even more relevent. Of course, the fact that I have so much work to do just makes me even more prone to procrastination...

Last minute work
Is not a good idea,
Not when I’ve had all summer,
But tonight is a ritual.
Like in summers past
The computer screen illuminates
The cool night
As the season paints autumn.
And books and pens are splayed
In disarray on the floor
In concordant with tradition
And like always, I wish
For another day, or two.