minstrel: Poem (Ragnild's Sorrow)

[Russell Gilman-Hunt]

Greetings, Friends!  

My name is Conchobar mac Muirchertaig.  I am from the Barony
of Three Mountains, An Tir, where I am a sergeant to her 
Excellency Hlutwige Wolfkiller.  I am also an apprentice to
Ollamh Lonergin Fionn O'Flaherty.  

I would appreciate some feedback on this poem.  I don't mind
public or private feedback - if you have something to say and
you would be happy to say it in front of a crowd of people I'll
take it.  (In my modern life I've been through several classes and
workshops for my poetry, and I am used to public ridicule (laugh).)
On the other hand, keeping in mind bandwidth issues, if what you 
have to say applies to me personally and not to a few of us, feel
free to email me directly.

I know the poem is not perfect in meter or alliteration; I thought
that enhanced the broken-up feeling of the speaker.

--------------------------------------
Dim damp dreary    day at home
Solid rain beats    scent of sodden sheep
Cold dim fire     complaining too
Quiet evening hush    Quiet as Kolgrim

Dearest Ragnhild    Daughter of our father
He sighed your name    hungry for home
Head held by Hrolf    Hand by me
His heart, given to you    Held in yours

Without my words    we would never
Walk the moon's path    west to the shore.
But the clean wind    billowed in my sail
Ragnhild, I promised    to bring him home.

Crying, you begged    Keep our ship home
Warm golden smile    wealth enough for you
Smells of wet sheep    Sour smoke, cold fires
Convinced us    to crave adventure

We planned to take    wealth and gold
>From the weak west    fighters unknown
My plan was wrong    memory remains
I'll never forget    black raven's call

Fierce and hot    fighters strong
Struck us when we    snuck from our sea steed
They waited for us    the fight was short
You waited for us    your Kolgrim, your love.

You are my sister    young, and lively
Kolgrim, sworn brother    kept a small house
I wanted him worthy    wanted him wealthy
For you, Ragnhild,    your soft sweet hands

He died, Ragnhild    he loved you still
Hating me for hating    home smells of sheep
I convinced myself    It was the best path
Until I, weeping my words    brought him home.

Russ Gilman-Hunt
May, 1998


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