Beowulf:The Midgard Horrors

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So long ago and far away

Within a place where shadows sway

Evolved an evil out of spite;

Unholy creatures void of light.

An anthem of a mother’s plea

For triumph o’er humanity

Comprised of hate and venom spit.

Coitus in a frothing pit

Evoked a spell of Grindylin-

The witch whose body, wrecked with sin

Perpetuated as a myth

A son named Grendel, kin and kith.

His father, Grundel, creature found

Beneath the lakes of Daneland’s ground

Aroused her loins and called her his;

Together sharing wedded bliss

Begot a child monstrosity

To later breed atrocity.

But for a moment, family ties

Exemplified the trio’s rise

To power in the realms of filth

Provoking land with creatures’ tilth.

Nomadic beings cursed in pain

Descended from the sons of Cain;

The fallen angels lusty seed

Implanted by the mortal’s need

To procreate demonic brood.

The offspring eating men for food.

 

This Grindylin had siblings, three,

A brother, beastly as could be.

Two sisters, witches just as she-

They rounded out her family.

Unlike the others in the  realm,

Unparalleled from stern to helm,

The fearsome four could be as snakes,

Behemoths there beneath the lakes.

Transforming fingers, hands or toes

Into a serpent’s hissing pose.

Indeed, their legs could become tails

Allowing them to slither; scales

Embellished every body part.

The four were envied from the start.

Amazed by all they had beheld,

The other monsters sulked and quelled

The jealous envy’s bated hook

And did so with each hungry look.

A massive beast in Ganther’s form

Displaced him from the beastly norm.

Aside from Grundel, none but he

Eclipsed the lands enormously.

His snakelike features, dragon bred,

A scaly torso; serpent head

And fangs the length of limbs of trees

Convened to bring death to its knees

For even spirits feared the wrath

If ever they stood in his path.

As well, the sisters held their own

Amid the monsters they had known

And yea, were versed in magic spell;

The sisters, spawns of darkest hell.

Amassing power from the veil

Of venom in a poisoned swell.

The first was Gandolina, vile.

The second, Gistolon, her smile

Revealed the manner of a beast.

The sisters both enjoyed to feast

Upon the flesh of mortal men.

Devouring blood and bone and skin,

Compared to other creatures, these

Converged upon the worst degrees,

Expressing nothing in their wake

Except the presence of a snake.

 

As Gandolina entered first

Into the world of demons, cursed,

Deranged, she had no sympathy,

And deep in her anatomy

Amassed a cruel and daunting heart,

The sum of evil in each part.

Beyond the other three, her reach

Extended deeper; seemed to breech

The underworld and out as well,

Commanding creatures straight from Hell.

Within the lands and far abroad,

She mocked and cursed the name of God

Embellished in the devil’s might.

A power hungry, spawned to fight.

As Gistolon and Ganther grew,

And Grindylin and Grundel, too,

All powerful each creature’s wrath,

Except for Gandolina’s path.

Much more than just of Cain’s descent,

a secret story; her lament

Enveloped and enraged her so,

And bade her strength to ebb and flow.

 

Convicted by the need to bleed,

Insatiable, her want to feed

Upon the flesh and bone of man

Propelled her forth, a seething plan.

Unto the realm of ancient kings,

Verbose and boastful, bragging things

The devil-woman had surmised.

Reducing size, she came disguised

Embarking on her own free will

Maliciously intent to kill …

 

 

 

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Wonderful Welcome

Welcome to the corner of the universe where stories are told the old fashioned way … in poetry form. To kickstart my writing career, what better beginning than to release Beowulf: The Midgard Epic? (Thanks, Stitched Smile Publications, LLC!) The challenge of reworking something as ancient and beloved as the English language’s first piece of literature started out as a daunting, if not all but impossible, task. However, I set forth to craft something I hoped would have made J.R.R. Tolkien proud. Utilizing iambic tetrameter (a line of poetry consisting of four iambic feet), I decided to format the rhyme scheme rhythmically to accentuate the action and events of the story. The end result was a style unique and well suited for Beowulf.

Throughout the course of this blog, I will be delving into poetry techniques to teach the craft as I myself am learning. Don’t worry. It’s not going to feel like a college lit class. No exams or quizzes. Well, maybe … Nah. Just good old fashioned fun. Don’t fret if the term I introduced earlier seems a bit heavy. As we progress together, leading up to the November 2016 release date of Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, I’ll familiarize you in detail about counting poetic feet. And have no fear; they don’t stink. (Bad joke … sorry) Likewise, I’ll be posting a weekly flash fiction snippet of the prequel to Beowulf: The Midgard Epic, where audiences will learn about the race of creatures the world knows as Grendel and his mother, with some new and unexpected twists thrown in.

So … Sit back, read, share, spread the word, and get ready. Beowulf is coming back from the dead … (Foreshadowing maybe?)

The Skald

Many moons and long ago an epic crisis rose
Mortal mission to the world eclipsed the Poet’s pose
Entry after entry he had written many times
Crafting tales of wonder in a plethora of rhymes
Cultivated in his skill, a skald unto the Norns
Waiting patiently for fate to blow its ardent horns
Then he met with Beowulf and learned of ancient plight
Then he learned of Grendel and of what it means to fight
Fingers to the keyboard, he composed what came before
This time with much fervor, setting pace in rhythmic score
Lo, iambic tetrameter was the flowing blood
Washing o’er it’s presence; o’er this epic’s raining flood
Beowulf seemed pleasant as the words the skald would write
Sometimes in the morning; sometimes written late at night
Many tales have come and many tales have yet to spin
Beowulf still listens and the good guys, they still win
Though the tired cliche might get its arm pulled out of whack
Still the skald is writing and he’ll keep the plot on track
Nearly forty-two and still the wonder of a child
Drives this Poet’s privy mostly calm, but often wild
Everything is changing and the changes are worth while
Now it won’t be long and Beowulf will thank Stitched Smile
They the house that took him and his skald to be their own
I, James Matthew Byers, to the world now make it known …