Writing Group: Epic Poetry

This past week’s prompt was Epic Poetry. I will preface this by saying: no, we did not have time to write a full Epic. It was more looking at the elements: magic, a hero, a vast setting, etc. I did not start a new piece for this prompt; instead I worked on a poem I had started a couple of years ago.

If you have never been to the Pacific Northwest, you should go. The mountains are absolutely incredible. This poem is about a dragon that inhabits Mount Rainier but as a guardian. Yes, he hunts kills but only as needed to survive. This is the tale of his interactions with the first people, the native people, in the area. No, I am not native, so I hope I’m not being insensitive with this work. It really is a tale of people and nature in balance.

This is not a true Epic Poem. There is not a single hero (at least not a human one), there is magic, but the setting is limited. That being said, there are elements that I did include, it is a poem written to mimic oral traditions, it has a lot of repetition, there are lessons to be taken from it, and I use epithets to describe the dragon, blame Beowulf, for that influence.

I would love to know what you think of Epic Poetry and of this piece in particular. This is only part I, let me know if you are invested in part II. See you in the comments. Happy writing.

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Part I: Old Rainier

Come, come little children,  
gather round and listen. 
Listen to your elder
tell the tale of Old Rainier. 

The ancient mountain that 
glowers over our home 
in the Cascades. 
The fire mountain is the domain, 
the home to the guardian 
of this range. 
A being so old that 
his existence is some 
of our tribe’s first memories 
in this region. 

We traveled south, 
south to escape the snows,
the bitter winds, and
the ever present, 
ever dangerous sheets of ice. 
This land was cold too 
but game was plentiful 
and the land made rich 
with the minerals and soil 
that washed down the rivers
from high Rainier. 

Fires we built and game we hunted, 
replacing those tools and shelter 
left behind in our first home range, 
with the bones and hides
of our kills. 
We began to feel eyes, 
a presence watching, 
not with malice
but with curiosity and
caution. 

Then came the stories,
first from the young,
those children like yourselves,
allowed to wander and explore,
of a great creature. 
Bigger than the bison,
we hunted for meat and hide, 
larger even than the mammoths. 
Wing and scale the shade of 
rippling shadows beneath the
old growth trees and eyes, 
eyes larger than a bison skull
as deep and blue as the heart
of a glacier. 

The adults did not believe 
even when an elder swore
that they had seen a great 
winged shape soar
around the peak of
old Rainier. 
They scoffed at the old
believing in a child’s tale.

The old and the young
kept to themselves and
whispered to none 
about the winged one,
that soared and watched 
from the peak 
of lofty Rainier.

Seasons passed, 
summer to fall 
and chilly fall 
to harsh winter winds. 
In the depth of the season, 
when food was scarce, 
the respected hunters 
went searching. 

Through snow 
beneath ancient conifers
they hunted 
elusive elk 
in the shadow 
of mighty Rainier. 

A broken track led
to a valley clear. 
They raised their spears 
then shrank in fear
beneath the concealing trees. 
Overhead swept on wide wings
the watcher old and young reported. 
Hunting as the men were 
for a late winter meal. 

Wings folded inward, 
talons extended 
and the watcher
from the mountain 
plummeted from the air
to slay an elk. 
In panic, hunters ran. 
Ran back to their people 
jabbering in fear. Of
the beast 
from Rainier. 

Beside their fires, 
fear receded, 
replaced instead by 
anger and daring bravado.
Vows they made to themselves
and each other, to slay
the winged one 
that brought them shame, 
caused them to flee. 

They gathered spears 
and stone clubs
and rudimentary bows.
They gathered courage 
and made offerings 
to gather blessings
for the battle to come.

The watcher on the mountain 
heard the rattle of their spears, 
the quickening of breaths
the stink of fear. As
by night they crept
closer to his layer, 
a cave on Old Rainier. 

Watcher met hunters, 
head held high, armored 
and glittering under a
cold winter’s sun. In 
the meadow where they’d run.
bones from his kill, 
between them, a reminder. 

For a moment, the world was silent. 
Birds and creatures held their song, 
their movement stilled. 
wind died in the trees, 
leaves laid limp. 
Existence showed only in the eyes
of hunter and prey. 

A scream broke the magic. 
Rent from a throat unable 
to contain the strain of 
tension and terror before a 
mighty foe and certain death.
These men faced death 
daily, in the wilds 
of their savage world. 
Mighty and massive 
the watcher might be
but so was the mammoth. 

The winged one was no
mammoth, no simple animal. 
They circled, fanning as they would 
to circle prey, to stop prey
from running. 
Attaching as one. 

The creature did not run, 
he watched and 
waited, waited for them 
to attack, with patients 
learned from time. They
began to close the circle. 

Crude spears slid off glistening scales.
The Watcher snorted and stretched his 
neck long and wings wide, the hunters 
backed away, unsure of this new sight. 
The massive tail moved deceptively quick 
from side-to-side. Sweeping hunters
from their feet, dashing them into thick 
green limbs of conifers and slowly
melting snows of winter. 

Once proud men cried in pain or
were knocked senseless, 
dashed against nature’s 
unforgiving surfaces. Death
was upon them, they knew. 
The Watcher towered above their
prone forms, massive and 
menacing. 

Bleeding and senseless 
they lay in the snow. Afraid, 
terrified that their lives were 
about to end in blood and fire
in the snow. A cry escaped their
chapped lips, as the Watcher snorted
smoke, as if in disgust, 
spread massive wings and 
pumping them so hard ice and conifer
needles pepper their skin. 

The Watcher left them there to
live or die as nature decided. As 
shock wore off they gathered 
themselves from the inviting 
embrace of winter’s chill,
gathered their unbroken 
weapons and stumbling
staggered their way –  home.

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Thank you KW Photography for allowing me to use your wonderful photos!

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