The Ballad of the Fallen World

 There disappeareth from this tainted world

All sembleance of holy grace and joy,

Just as the fresh fruit groweth rotten,

And the suckling babe becometh a boy.

It may be recognised at once

That Our Lord hath abandoned us,

And we that once He dearly loved

Hath thrown aside, and now hath no trust.

But despair not hapless wanderer,

Ye that wand'reth through this spoilling realm,

For one day He will come again,

Just as the idling soldier putteth on again his helm.

What mattereth now is that we all,

Weak and strong, both rich and poor,

Make of this sinful world a better place,

So that He may come again once more.

I am of doubt that it will be so,

For the earth slowly shuffleth off its mortal coil,

But regardless, you not lose hope, 

And seek to that impending end foil.

Lord give Grace to this fallen man,

Who in his miserable days hath rejected Thee,

And return him one day, unto Thine arms,

Just as a closing flower holdeth close a bee.

Concerning my interest in mythology, and my use of it in some of my poetry

Mythology has been, for the longest time, a subject of fascination to me.
I'm not quite sure why. I'd partially put it down to my interest in Jungian psychology, which has largely been spurred on by my interest in the work of the Canadian psychologist Dr Jordan B. Peterson, and his lectures on the subject.

Dr Peterson's lectures on the mythological have led me to consider certain matters concerning it.
Namely-- what is the basis for all of it?
With my casual acquaintanceship with the work of Jung, I am of the firm belief that there is such a thing as our collective unconscious, and that it is from this that the material which constitutes the mythological emerges. In terms of psychoanalysis, while I like Jung and the anlysts who were inspired by him, I do not like Freud. Some of Freud's theories I find interesting, but I largely think that people take Freud too seriously. I think that his dream-interpretation system is largely based upon grasping at straws and jumping to conclusions based on said straw-grasping. Doors are vaginas, bushes are pubic hair, all things vaguely rod-shaped are phalluses, (i.e. swords, guns and rockets), etc.

If you go into your analysis trying to find certain things, such as sexual imagery in dreams, then you will find said things, because your particular ideology has given you a distinct bias, and therefore, because of said bias, you'll inevitably find things which confirm your narrative as you probe the depths for them, as, from the very outset, you go in search of things, thinking that you'll find many of them.

I believe that all myths, legends, folktales, folksongs and religious narratives have a kind of truth underlying them. This truth, the nature of which I have difficulty defining, I call by one of two names, either 'The Primeval Truth', or 'The Primordial Truth'.

Like with my concept of 'The Beauty of Poetry', I believe that the Primordial Truth is expressed in many ways. This can be anything from a character-type or a tale-type, to ideas like that of the golden apples of youth, which are recurrent throughout international folklore. The only problem I have with the study of mythology is that such generalities sometimes can tend towards wild speculation. At best, this wild speculation can yield works of genius such as Frazer's The Golden Bough, and Weston's From Ritual to Romance, and at worst it can spawn such pieces of far-flung tripe as Grave's The White Goddess, and Waddell's The British Edda.

I tend to use the Arthurian legend and Germanic mythology as the broad basis for much of my poetry because a. it is fertile ground for artistic experimentation, and b. these two mythologies specifically appeal to my core identity as a Briton. I am a British Nationalist, and I wear this on my sleeve.

I define nationalism thusly-- a proud love of one's own nation. I view nationalism as basically being a stronger form of patriotism. Patriotism is liking your country, Nationalism is loving your country.
Then you have what I call 'lust for your country'. This is what people would call Jingoism or Chauvinism, extreme nationalism. This is the kind of nationalism which generates phrases such as 'my country, right or wrong', 'blood and soil', and 'ours is the greatest country on earth'.
I subdivide nationalism into multiple forms-- Civic Nationalism, where you have no problem with sharing your country with people of other races and nationalities, as long as they integrate into the overall culture, Ethno-Nationalism, where you want your country to be inhabited only by people of your specific racial demographic, and Ethnic Nationalism, where you advocate for your own specific ethnic group to have their own self-governing nation. Ethnic Nationalism is compatible with both Civic Nationalism and Ethno-Nationalism. For instance, there are English Nationalists who have no issue with BAME people living in Britain, such as the English Democrats leader Robin Tilbrook, while there are other English and British Nationalists, such as Andrew Anglin of The Daily Stormer, and the BNP leader Nick Griffin, who are avowed Neo-Nazis who want Britain to be a white ethno-state.

In any case, I make use of Celtic and Germanic mythology in my writings because I desire to do a number of things:

I. Glorify the British nation, by drawing upon our vast wealth of folklore and legend. I think that, in the wake of Britain leaving the European Union, we as a nation, need to reassert the glory of our own nation, and celebrate our own national identity. The only means by which I think we can do this sufficiently is through the lens of the mythological and the folkloric.

 Thus, I would say that we need to develop two things: I. a coherent Celtic identity, drawing from such sources of Celtic myth as the Mabinogion, the Arthurian romances, and the folk-tales and myth-cycles of Scotland and Ireland, among others; and II. regarding the English, a coherent Anglo-Saxon identity, drawing from all the sources of Germanic myth and folklore we have, from Beowulf, The Wanderer and The Seafarer, to the Eddas, the Sagas and the folklore of Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany and the Scandinavian countries, because only through the construction of our own national mythos (which was what Tolkien decried our lack of) can we have a true, deep pride in our country, our green and pleasant land.

II. To express, on a fundamental level, a deep desire for something greater, something older, something more profound. Something which, when bound to the Primordial Truth, can create a work of art of true beauty and holiness. We need a British Wagner. We need a national chaos magician, who can weave a great spell o'er our nation, and through the means of mythological art, through anything and everything from music to theatre to literature to film, express the mightiest of primal feelings, and evoke a sense of wonder, a sense of awe, and a greater sense of self, with regards to our nation.

Concerning the inspiration behind my poem, 'The Death of Trystan'.

A while ago, I wrote a poem based somewhat upon the Tristan legend, and specifically the end of it, called 'The Death of Trystan'. In this brief article, I seek to explain what my inspiration for it was.

A while ago, I had been doing some reading on the subject of the Arthurian legend. I had been doing surface-level reading concerning the Tristan legend-- by which I mean that I'd been reading the Wikipedia articles concerning it, and I was inspired to write a piece about Tristan's death-- that is, concerning his death at the hands of his jealous uncle, King Mark, by means of a spear.

Concerning the meter of the poem, it largely came to me out of nowhere-- I literally just came up with the particular meter used in the poem by complete accident. I then arranged that particular metric form with the rhythm of the hooves of a galloping horse in mind.

The section where Trystan is telling Esyllt the stories of Diviciacus and Betis and Gadiferre is a lengthy reference to The Romance of Perceforest, a lengthy prequel to the Arthurian romances, concerning the many adventures of Perceforest, Arthur's ancestor, and his various knights and companions. Diviciacus was a Celtic chieftain who invaded Britain, and conquered part of the south of the country, according to Julius Caesar in his Commentary on The Gallic Wars. In the Romance of Perceforest, it is Alexander the Great who conquers Britain, his ship being blown there during a storm, while he's sailing to India in order to attend the coronation of the king there. I thus thought it only fitting to identify this fictitious invader with an actual historical invader of Britain.

 Having now read Nigel Bryant's The Perceforest Reader, I can say definitively that I have gotten a number of things wrong. I refer to Gadiferre being given the name 'forest-piercer', for instance, but in the actual romance it is Betis who is christened 'Perceforest'. I also refer to how 'these two saw that Darnant died'-- this is blatant nonsense, because, in the romance, Betis kills Darnant entirely by himself. My reference to 'Zellanda' also relates to a section of Perceforest, specifically the story of Troylus, one of Perceforest's knights, and his romance with Princess Zellandine of Zelland. In the Romance, Zellandine falls into an enchanted sleep as a result of a curse laid upon her by a goddess when she was a baby, the sleep itself coming on while Zellandine is visiting Perceforest's court during a day of great feasting.

The final line of the piece 'And Trystan sang no more' was one of the first lines of the piece which I conceived of. I don't know how I feel about my alternation between multiple different verse forms. I don't know whether to be angry at myself for inconsistency, or whether to feel proud at my ingenuity with regards to how I composed these stanzas.

When I refer to Trystan as March's 'own son', I mean that he is his stepson. There is not a single version of the Tristan legend where Mark is Tristan's father. In the Prose Tristan, and variants of the legend derived from it, a knight named Meliodas is Tristan's father. In German variants of the legend, however, such as Gottfried Von Strassburg's Tristan, Tristan's father is a king named either Riwalin or Rivalen, depending on the version. Welsh variants of the legend, however, Tristan's father is an otherwise unattested personage named Tallwch. The Welsh Triads mention 'Trystan son of Tallwch' in a group of triads describing Arthur's knights. The narrative of How Culhwch Won Olwen in The Mabinogion, meanwhile, mentions the name 'Trystan son of Tallwch' in the court-list. It's likely though that the historical personage upon whom Tristan is based, the Pictish warrior Drustanus, was likely the son of the historical equivalent to Mark, Cunomorus. There's a stone menhir in Cornwall which reads 'Here lies Drustanus, son of Cunomorus, with the lady Ousilla'. It is likely this stone which marks the grave of the historical Tristan.

The word 'cyn', for the record, means 'dog' in Welsh, and is pronounced 'cun', which is why I rhymed it with 'one'.

Concerning Translation, and my efforts in it.

In the past couple of years, I have translated a number of medieval Scots ballads into modern standard English. In the past year or so, I've uploaded a couple of said ballads, Tam Lin and Thomas The Rhymer, to my blog. Here, I would to talk about the process of translating these pieces.

Concerning these pieces, I thought that it was highly necessary to preserve the rhyme-scheme in translation, and thus preserve the overall 'flow' of them. With Thomas The Rhymer, for instance, the end-rhymes of 'brae' and 'gae' I left intact.

With regards to the process, I believe that it was rather easy. This is because Scots is less of a language, and more of a dialect so strong and archaic in its construction that it almost becomes a language in its own right. Because it's more of a dialect than a language, therefore, it takes a relatively light amount of work to translate them. Certain passages remain practically the same. For example, in Thomas The Rhymer, there's the stanza 'For forty days and forty nights, / He wade thro red blude to the knee, / And he saw neither sun nor moon, / But heard the roaring of the sea.'

Outside of a couple of spelling alterations-- 'blood' for 'blude' and 'through' for 'thro', converted to standard English, the stanza remains completely the same. In my version, though, I altered the line 'He wade through red blude to the knee' to 'They rode through red blood up to the knee', because the following stanza begins with the line 'They rode on, and further on,' which implies that The Queen of Elfland and Thomas passed through the blood on horseback, as opposed to what the line itself suggests, as it portrays Thomas wading knee-high through the blood. So, in short, I altered the line for continuity reasons.

There are certain other stanzas which I altered, in order to make the statement contained in them more clear. For instance, the second stanza of Tam Lin, in its original form, reads 'There's nane that gaes by Carterhaugh, / But they leave him a wad, / Either their rings, or green mantles, / Or else their maidenhead.' This stanza implies that very few enter the woods at Carterhaugh, but those who do, typically young women, either leave Tam Lin a gift, or let him take their virginity, in exchange for being allowed to pass through the wood. This stanza I paraphrased as follows: 'Those that go by Carterhaugh, / Leave him a reward, you see, / Either their rings, or green mantles, / Or else their virginity.' It is paraphrased in order to I. make things slightly clearer (the wording of the original stanza is somewhat vague), and II. make it rhyme slightly better ('wad' and 'maidenhead' obviously don't rhyme, but 'see' and 'virginity' do).

These are not the only pieces of poetry which I've translated from a foreign language. I have also produced a Modern English translation of the prologue to Alexander Pushkin's Ruslan and Ludmilla. To explain the process of translating that, I will have to explain my use of social media. I use little social media, but one of the few platforms which I do use is the voice-chat app Discord. It was the summer of 2018, and I'd been on Discord for about a year or so now, because my best friend was on it. I'd recently joined a political server on this app, expressly dedicated to free expression. It was here, in the midst of discoursing and debating issues with users from all over the globe that I encountered and became friends with Mr Alexei Sukhilov, a Russian gentleman in his mid-twenties, who is a university student. Alex goes by the username Alexfree009, and one afternoon, when we were discussing poetry, mythology and folklore, among other things, we turned to the subject of Pushkin.

Alex brought up to me the subject of the opening to Ruslan and Ludmilla by sending me a link to a website which featured both the original Russian text of Pushkin's prologue, and a line-by-line translation of it into English. The translation was, to put it bluntly, terrible. Grammatically, it made no sense, and Alex was quite annoyed by how poorly-written it was, and how low-quality the translation was. So I put to him the following-- what if we translate it ourselves?

He liked the idea, and during that summer afternoon, we produced a line-by-line translation of Pushkin's prologue. The method we formulated was as follows:

I. Alex would read the line in the original Russian,
II. He would give me a direct translation of what that line meant,
III. I would copy the line into the word document which I had on my laptop,
IV. I would suggest certain words-- certain nouns, verbs and adjectives which I thought would have a certain kind of effect on the reader, would emphasise certain elements in the piece, and would better express certain ideas conveyed in the piece,
V. Alex would agree to the words which I'd suggested to him,
VI. I would rewrite the line translated, to include the words which I'd suggested.

The piece produced did not rhyme, but did have a kind of beauty to it which is hard to describe in  words, but which may be concisely described using the phrase 'the beauty of poetic form'. The 'Beauty of Poetic Form' as I put it, is hard to describe, and I think that the only way of putting it would be to describe it as 'that ecstatic, transcendental feeling which one gets after reading The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock'. It's a kind of beauty dependent on the resonances and stylistic form of poetry for its existence, which produces the kind of feeling which I've just described. My translations, I believe, capture that spirit as well as any other work of poetry might, by means of my own careful considerations which I made during the writing process.

Concerning distraction, and an inability to complete projects.

In my work as an amateur writer, I have often suffered from the problem of distraction.

When I refer to distraction here, I am not talking about being distracted by things other than my projects. That would be procrastination. I am instead referring to the problem of being distracted by other projects.

This is an issue I've had to face for several years now, and it's one that frustrates me deeply. Oftentimes, when I work on a project, I will work on it non-stop, day-in, day-out, until I suddenly have a new idea, and swiftly abandon the old project for the new. It's a cycle I have often repeated, and it's one that now seems to be a permanent feature of my life and work. I think that it's to do with part of my writing philosophy-- when I have an idea, I must write it down, ere I forget it and lose it forever.

I believe that I got this from reading something by Roald Dahl-- I don't remember exactly what, I believe that it was something at the back of one of his children's novels-- where Dahl said that, whenever he had a new idea, whatever it was, he would write it down as quickly as possible, with whatever he had to hand, whether that be with a pen, a pencil, a crayon or a lipstick. I do this same thing, just less often than Dahl did. I do so using my laptop, as I tend to write things down less nowadays, owing to my usage of said laptop for writing and taking notes.

I suppose it's a matter of concentration, and a matter of thinking. With the internet, and with the rapid speed of culture now, we have extremely short attention-spans and memory-spans, which makes the creative process extremely frustrating, as you may very easily forget lines of prose or poetry you've conceived of but haven't put to paper yet, and thus forget portions of the very work you're in the process of crafting.

It's maddening. Tooth-grindingly so. One moment you have some of your ideas transcribed, the next, the other ideas which you plan on transcribing, and connecting to the ones already transcribed, have all vanished from your head like the ethereal daemons that they are.

Note that I say 'daemon' and not 'demon'. I say the former because the word 'daemon', in Greek, refers to a kind of guardian spirit or familiar spirit, comparable to the Norse Fylgja or the Irish Fetch. I use this term to describe the nature of ideas as immaterial, flighty things, which may disappear in an instant, and rightly so; because ideas, like the guardian spirits of mythology and religions, are purely conceptual in nature.

How I feel about the writing itself also matters. I don't know if I've ever experienced what they call 'writer's block', but I do know that I've had this problem concerning my projects so often that it's rare for me to finish one. One of these days, I'm probably going to have a 'clean-out' of my lap-top's files, just to get rid of all of the superfluous unfinished writing-projects which I've ever embarked on, in order to narrow things down to the few projects which I actually have any kind of investment in.

Either that, or I'll combine elements from those unfinished projects which I have no interest in with elements which I'll be putting to use in the projects I'm interested in. I'm not sure. 

Perhaps, one day, there will be time,

Before the taking of the toast and tea,

For me to finish up my work,

Bind it all up in leather,

And ship it across the sea.

The Ballad of Tam Lin

O I forbid you, maidens a’,

Who wear gold on your hair,

To come or go by Carterha’,

For young Tam Lin is there.

Those that go by Carterhaugh

Leave him a reward, you see,

Either their rings, or green mantles,

Or else their virginity.

Janet has kilted her green kirtle

A little above her knee,

And she has braided her yellow hair

A little above her bree,

And she’s awa’ to Carterha’,

As fast as she can gae.

When she came to Carterhaugh

Tam Lin was at the well,

And there she found his steed standing,

But away was himsel.

She had now pulled a double rose,

A rose with heads two,

Till up then started young Tam Lin,

Says, ‘Lady, why’d you do so?’

‘Why’d you pull my rose, Janet,

And why’d you break my tree?

And why’d come to Carterhaugh

Without the leave of me?’

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‘Carterhaugh, it is my own,

My father gave it me;

I’ll come and go by Carterhaugh,

And ask no leave of thee.’

Janet has kilted her green kirtle

A little above her knee,

And she has braided her yellow hair

A little above her bree,

And she’s gone to her father’s ha’,

As fast as she can gae.

Four and twenty ladies fair

Were playing football,

And out then came fair Janet,

The fairest flower among them all.

Four and twenty ladies fair

Sat there playing chess,

Till out then came the fair Janet,

As green as any glass.

Out then spoke an old grey knight,

Lay o’er the castle wall,

And says, ‘Alas, fair Janet, for thee

But we’ll be blamed all.’

‘Hold your tongue, you old-faced knight,

Some ill death may ye die!

Father my child on whom I will,

I’ll father none on thee.’

Out then spoke her father dear,

And he spoke meek and mild;

‘And ever alas, sweet Janet,’ he says,

‘I think that you go with child.’

‘If that I go with child, father,

I alone must bear the blame;

There’s not a laird about your house

After whom the child I shall name.

‘If my love were an earthly knight,

As he’s an elf-knight grey,

I’d never leave my own true-love

For any lord that you hae.

‘The steed that my true-love rides on

Is lighter than the wind;

With silver he is shod before,

With burning gold behind.’

Janet has kilted her green kirtle

A little above her knee,

And she has braided her yellow hair

A little above her bree,

And she’s awa’ to Carterha’,

As fast as she can gae.

When she came to Carterhaugh,

Tam Lin was at the well,

And there she found his steed standing,

But away was himsel.

She had now pulled a double rose,

A rose with heads two,

Till up then started young Tam Lin,

Says ‘Lady, why’d you do so?’

Why’d you pull my rose, Janet,

Among the groves so green,

And all to kill the bonny babe

That we gat us between?

‘O tell me, tell me, Tam Lin,’ she says,

‘For the sake of God that died on tree,

If e’er you were in holy chapel,

Or in Christendom were seen?’

‘Roxburgh was my grandfather,

Took me with him to bide,

And once it fell upon a day

That woe did me betide.

‘And once it fell upon a day,

A cold day and a snell,

When we were from the hunting come,

That from my horse I fell;

The Queen o’ Fairies she caught me,

In yon green hill to dwell.

‘And pleasant is the fairy land,

But, an eerie tale to tell,

Ay at the end of seven years

We pay a tithe to Hell;

I am so fair, and pure of flesh,

I’m afraid it be myself.

‘But the night is Hallowe’en, lady,

The morn is Hallowday;

Then win me, win me, and you will,

For well I know that you may.

‘Just at the mirk and midnight hour

The fairy folk will ride,

And they that would their true-love win,

At Miles Cross they must bide.’

‘But how shall I ken you, Tam Lin,

Or how my true-love know,

Among so many eldritch knights

The like of whom I never saw?’

‘O first let the black steed pass, lady,

And soon let pass the brown,

But quickly run to the milk-white steed,

And pull his rider down.

‘For I’ll ride on the milk-white steed,

And aye, nearest to the town;

Because I was an earthly knight

They give me that renown.

‘My right hand will be gloved, lady,

My left hand will be bare,

Cocked up shall my bonnet be,

And combed down shall be my hair,

And these are the tokens I give you,

No doubt I will be there.

‘They’ll turn me in your arms, lady,

Into a lizard and an adder;

But hold me fast, and fear me not,

I am your child’s father.

‘They’ll turn me into a bear so grim,

And then a lion bold;

But hold me fast, and fear me not,

As you shall love your child.

‘Again they’ll turn me in your arms

To a red hot bar of iron;

But hold me fast, and fear me not,

I’ll do to you no harm.

‘And last they’ll turn me in your arms

Into the burning gleed;

Then throw me into well water,

O, throw me in with speed.

‘And then I’ll be your own true-love,

I’ll become a naked knight;

Then cover me with your green mantle,

And cover me out of sight.’

Gloomy, gloomy was the night,

And eerie was the way,

As fair Janet in her green mantle

To Miles Cross she did gae.

About the middle of the night

She heard the bridles ring;

This lady was as glad at that

As any earthly thing.

First she let the black steed pass by,

And soon she let the brown;

But quickly she ran to the milk-white steed,

And pulled the rider down.

So well she minded what he did say,

And young Tam Lin did win;

Soon she covered him with her green mantle,

As blithe as a bird in spring.

Out then spoke the Queen o’ Fairies,

Out of a bush of broom:

‘She who has gotten young Tam Lin

Has gotten a stately groom.’

Out then spoke the Queen o Fairies,

And an angry woman was she:

‘Shame betide her ill-fared face,

And an ill death may she die,

For she’s taken away the bonniest knight

In all my company.

‘But had I known, Tam Lin,’ she says,

‘What now this night I see,

I’d have taken out your two grey eyes,

And put in two from a tree.'

The Ballad of Thomas The Rhymer

True Thomas lay on Huntleigh bank,

And he beheld a lady gay,

A lady that was brisk and bold,

Come riding o’er the ferny bray.

Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,

Her mantel of the velvet fine,

At every lock of her horse’s mane

Hung fifty silver bells and nine.

True Thomas he took off his hat,

And he bowed down upon his knee:

‘All hail, O Mary, thou Queen of Heaven!

For your peer on earth I never did see.’

‘O no, O no, True Thomas,’ she says,

‘That name does not belong to me;

For I’m but the queen of fair Elfland,

And I’ve come here for to visit thee.

But you must go with me now, Thomas,

True Thomas, you must go with me,

For you must serve me seven years,

Through well or woe as may chance to be.’

She turned about her milk-white steed,

And took True Thomas up behind,

And aye whene’er her bridle rang,

The steed flew swifter than the wind.

For forty days and forty nights

They rode through red blood up to the knee,

And they saw neither sun nor moon,

But heard the roaring of the sea.

O they rode on, and further on,

Until they came to a garden green:

‘Light down, light down, you lady free,

Some of that fruit let me pull for thee.’

‘O no, O no, True Thomas,’ she says,

‘That fruit must not be touched by thee,

For all of the plagues that are in hell

Fall upon the fruit of this country.

‘But I have a loaf here in my lap,

Likewise a bottle of claret wine,

And when we’ve gone farther on,

We’ll rest a while, and you may dine.’

When he’d eaten and drunk his fill,

The lady said, ‘Lay down your head upon my knee,

Ere we go and climb yon hill,

I will show you marvels three.

O, don’t you see yon narrow road,

So thickly beset with thorns and briars?

That is the path of righteousness,

Though after it but few enquire.

O, don’t you see that broad, broad road,

That lies across yon lily leaven?

That is the path of wickedness,

Though some call it the road to heaven.

And don’t you see that bonny broad road,

Which winds about the ferny bray?

That is the road to fair Elfland,

Where you and I this night must gae.

‘But Thomas, you must hold your tongue,

Whatever you may hear or see,

For if you should chance to speak a word,

You’ll never get back to your own country.’

He’s gotten a coat of the even cloth,

And a pair of shoes of velvet green,

Aye, till seven years were past and gone,

True Thomas on earth was never seen.