Victory

Ok... the photos have to wait a little more. Wrote this poem out just now... Have no idea what made me think it and write it. Personally, don't think its very good. Anyway, for context, I was imagining a joust (don't bother asking why) and of course thinking gloomily along the lines of my earlier post. (For the ill informed, joust is that thing medieval idiots did where they put on armor and ran at each other on horseback, carrying lances. )

Oh, and I also saw the Goblet of Fire just now. Nice movie to watch, but the reason I love the Harry Potter books is all the nuance, which is utterly, necessarily lost when trying to fit a huge book to a 2/ 3 hour movie, no matter the spectacle. I think TV is a better medium for Potter... Come to think of it, maybe I thought joust because of the Triwizard Tournament in the movie...

Enh. Enough preamble. On to the poem, then...

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Victory

The nameless ones all speak his name
Who won, for but a moment earning fame;
The faithful chant a pious dirge
For the other, subjected to his purge
And Victor and Vanquished both march to the grave
Masters worldly, and time’s slaves

He lost, they say; poor man, alas
Nobility served him not at the last
Yet immortal his memory ever shall be
As we consign him to the sea
No revenge shall soil the memory dear
A fair fight it was; that much is clear

He won by force of might and wit
And for a moment by the King he shall sit
How proud and wise his face will look
His name when enters the victory book
And all shall say it is he, it is he!
Slayer, Knight, sing glory be!

But will the proud cheer echo the halls
As moss creeps slowly o’er the walls?
For in the moment of victory a seed was sown
Darkness was born in depths all its own

Victory sweet, murder appallingly foul
Settled within even as the dying scowled
Upon the heart of the victor; nay, his soul
Burning, stinging, as a smoldering coal
For sport did he kill, a game to some
Not cheap was the price for fame to come

Another thing is sure, this joust alone
All he’ll ever have, his life’s very bone
Wit and might shall certainly wane
Who will ever see him in this light again?
And when old and weak he then shall be
His own parody, haunted cruelly

The vanquished has left; his part well done
The victor shall linger, suffer many suns
The vanquished had his moment, a dirge, a tear
The victor ever on shall live in fear
While the dead sleep peaceful the living shall flee
Foolishly deny what shall certainly be

Who then spares for the victor a tear?
Realizes the cost of murder; of guilt, dear?
And when finally lie down and sleep does he,
Who will sing of victory?
Who will sing of victory?