{"id":816,"date":"2014-10-26T20:12:48","date_gmt":"2014-10-27T01:12:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/?p=816"},"modified":"2014-10-27T07:47:56","modified_gmt":"2014-10-27T12:47:56","slug":"star-prince","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/archives\/816","title":{"rendered":"The Star Prince"},"content":{"rendered":"

A rough little poem that I wrote which, although rough and amateur, touched me somehow:<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Is this the man who shook Earth?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

He wanders the wastelands in robes of moss,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

with riddles of rolling wrinkles on his face.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Double calamity crossed his life<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

cracking asunder his crown to litter<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

a parched, unholy place.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Crossing crevasses on withered logs,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

the gnatty air in clouds of smoke,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

he glimpsed blind things groping ‘mongst the trees<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Bald heads, gaunt limbs raised in supplication,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0fogged the air with mournful pleas.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Then the land of immigrants,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

men stagg’ring from sea to sea,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

sparrows half-drowned post-storm,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

the dregs of humanity.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cA whither a wand’ring, travelers?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

He who once shook earth. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Ha! Ye growl like a bear –<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

is yer spirit still there,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

goaded to flame by my mirth?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The strange man leered at fair Celia,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

who faced her father, annoyed.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFather, let’s away to our homeland \u2013<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

a homeland though destroyed,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

a place for owls, a swampland,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

but a place we name our own.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

A decaying throne you’ll sit on for sure – <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

but at least you will sit on a throne.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lord Sun had turned his face from Jorilk<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

misery slunk through its fields. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Every day a mountain crumbled,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and creatures expired in its hills. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

No joy found the old man’s daughter in Jorilk.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Lord Sun had stolen the gold from her hair.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGray is the splendour of the old!\u201d she sighed.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot the lot of the fair.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The raven croaked on the corpses of trees,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and millipedes clung to the ground like grass.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

In a cold cavern weeping lay Celia,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

her father enthroned on a limestone mass.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The throne he remembered was dust on the ground.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

As for the palace \u2013\u00a0but rot could be found.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The gold-sheathed tresses of his daughter were gray<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and the Sun neither rose nor set each day.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But behold Elysium’s explosion!<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Out of time and mortal space,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Behold the scattering of heaven’s sons<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

who flee sure wrath for a desolate place.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A young king clothed in sapphires and silk<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

with a gold painted face and a wild, crimson cape,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

armies like swarms upon honey and milk,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

descended the Great Dipper’s path to Jorilk.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cFrom whence have these blooms appeared?\u201d mused Celia,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd how visits Lord Sun this once dismal land?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

My hair is still gray, but my heart is gay,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

I will dance in the fragrance, rather than stand.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As her legs flew like dove’s wings<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and her small fingers swirled,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

the Star Prince walked by on his mid-morning stroll. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

And his gold fringed eyes widened,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

his silken robes blew,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and he rumpled his hair wet with sweet, cloud-dropped dew.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She sensed a presence and stopped to stare,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

saw nothing shimmering through the air,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

for the Prince had hid himself, in fear<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

thinking his heart she surely would hear,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

as it beat like a deer’s in the hunt on the run,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

fleeing the barbs of\u00a0the stars and the\u00a0sun.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Next day, the old man, bitter and blind<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

finally unknotted the ties of his mind,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and left his cold halls and his dim, stony throne<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

to walk through the bluebells and feel the hot sun.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Celia was fishing for trout in a stream,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

rose in her cheeks, in her green eyes a gleam,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

her gray hair lay ’round her, embracing the ground<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

falling like water spilled over her gown. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Her father approached in the coolness of shade,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She turned with a beam and sweet homage paid.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

For a moment, he faltered, his old bones in mutiny, <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

then said he, \u201cThe King is enthralled with your beauty.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhy thank you, dear father,\u201d said she in reply,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

the only king she knew being he.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

His rugged hand trembled its way to her cheek –<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, dearest daughter, come with me.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

To the labyrinthine Bowers they walked,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

shadowed by odiferous, blooming trees.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Celia held Spring in every step as she chatted,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

holding her father’s hand in the breeze.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Then she froze, captured mid-word,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

flushing lips parted, hand raised among branches.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She struggled to meet a starry gaze,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and her eyes were held captive by feathery lashes.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She looked timidly up when a hand brushed her hair.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

A deep voice: \u201cI’m walking on dewdrops and air.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She looked at his feet, and lo, it was true.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can’t get myself down, and the reason is you.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The young\u00a0prince took the old king’s place.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The\u00a0couple they\u00a0wandered with love-ridden grace.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

He teased her \u2013 she tossed berries at his head,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and laughed when he fell down, playing as dead.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Eight months passed in days, and the days passed in hours,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

from autumn to spring, the return of the flowers.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She ran to him clothed in satiny green,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

falling from shoulders with pearly-pink sheen.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI love you,\u201d he said at last, blushing deep red,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

his black hair all curled with the heat of his head.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cIf you would marry this Star Prince of gold,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

my joy on this earth may just swell seven-fold.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

She stepped onto a mossy rock<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and kissed him on his nose.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh King,\u201d she whispered, \u201cI am yours,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

from open to close.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He grasped her hands and whirled around<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and they floated towards the sky.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe wings of my dove are sheathed with silver,\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

he laughed. She began to cry.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, girl?\u201d They dropped back to the earth<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

and her voice swirled the wind in an eddy.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou call my hair sweet silver?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

You truly think gray’s pretty?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Laughing, he kissed her,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour hair is pure starlight,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

much closer my heart than Lord Sun.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Come, let us whisper sweet nothings and kiss,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

for the day is nearly done.”<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And the old man back in his lamp-lit cave<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

smiled out at the winking moonlight.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy daughter’s sons will replace her father,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

who must soon pass on to eternite.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I’m dead and done,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

That tyrant, Lord Sun,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

will see them playing,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

in the snow a’laughing, sleighing,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

splashing in the water welling,<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

welling outside their silver dwelling<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

in puddles of sparkling rain.\u201d <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A rough little poem that I wrote which, although rough and amateur, touched me somehow: Is this the man who shook Earth? He wanders the wastelands in robes of moss, with riddles of rolling wrinkles on his face. Double calamity crossed his life cracking asunder his crown to litter a parched, unholy place.   Crossing…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1,6],"tags":[25,190,16,191,85],"class_list":["post-816","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","category-writings","tag-evocative","tag-fairy-tale","tag-light","tag-stars","tag-writing"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4WcVY-da","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/816","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=816"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/816\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":824,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/816\/revisions\/824"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=816"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=816"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/rasmusen.org\/special\/ameliajane\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=816"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}