Holy Crap, I wrote a Poem.

about  Sir Bedivere, of all things.

Here's a post about my creative process...

I've been slowly, very slowly for the last few years been working on turning my couple of "King Arthur Poems" { "That Bitch Morgana", "That Bastard Merlin, Fucking Launcelot, and Galahad Recalls"} into a longer bunch of King Arthur poems, and maybe some prose bits that might approach being stories. tied all together in the voice of an elderly outlived them all Dowager Queen Guinevere. She's feisty, and shares a lot of blasphemy and heresy, but her stories are fun, so people listen and let her talk.

That's the idea of it as a book. some bits are her poetic voice, or her voice poetically, other parts are her weaving her memories into a version of various Arthurian Stories, of my own devising. I've all the titles and ideas for most of the stories and poems.

For the last two years, though I haven't had any poetic inspiration, though I've got some prose done.

Then Blammo.

After GMing my "Exiles" like Superhero RPG this afternoon, I stepped outside and had a little inspiration tea in the garden. I listened to the crows bickering. I started to almost caw back at one that was getting into my zen. But then I thought:

Don’t Answer The Crows.

I ran inside, and opened up Bean (my word processor of choice) and poured out this very much a work in progress. It's not quite yet purple and ripe enough for me, but the skeleton is there, and I like the idea of sharing an early draft as it's something I never do. comfort zone - Zap.

Here it is in it's very much first draft state:

Don’t Answer The Crows

Sir Bedivere had a keen

edge in his eye

a detective living in the wrong

time 

like

Arthur, he was meant for bloodier

warfare than fighting your

own kin.

Medic was he, ever green

in the ways of 

the Wych

would he heal you as you

stood

          fighting blade

upon blade shield

upon shield? 

He almost never spoke aloud, 

only whispers in Arthur’s ears... 

and in mine after a time.

(He always spoke in

baritone whispers

through my 

battle burned hair:

“Don’t answer the Crows.”

Every time I was about to 

take something

Lancelot said

to

heart.)

It’s a wound 

Bedivere cannot

salve 

The once

and

future

of 

Kings:

His soul is gnawed at for

three decades hence as he turned to the white, fell under

the Church

Rising through him

Abraxas:

 a mad bedraggled 

Monk wandering Briton

healing the poor with

his gift of hands

and 

wielding the King’s sword still seeking 

the grail

when a clue is found

or so The story goes in the 

Midlands.

but in fact in the

ground is he, near this place

dead in battle

saving Merlin’s

(who loathed poor Bedivere)

Scraggly life, dove into Mordred’s twisted 

obsidian blade

that same sword, same vessel

of Morgana’s twisted 

love for her half

brother The King

Arthur: The First and Last.

If only we

hadn’t answered those crows.

© Josie Boyce 2013 (excerpt © Josie Boyce "Tales Told, By The Ugly Queen")

If there is some interest in this, or maybe either way (gotta post more!) I will post the other 4 poems I have finished and published under my former name here "A Cure For Mirrors."

This is a ridiculously ambitious project (for me) but it's been under my skin so much, hopefully this will get me moving, I'm going to post bits here and try to get my self some practice writing a blog about things other than my transition.

* photo above is of my nearby while editing for forgotten details. characters reference guide.