Sample Epic Poem
Written for solo performance, this epic poem with songs celebrates the season of Epiphany through a retelling of the Biblical Three Kings story. 623-word excerpt; 8,798 words total.
The Western Star (excerpt)
There was a king who ruled in days gone by,
whom none in all the valley could excel
in generosity and strength of heart.
His kingdom stretched as far as he could see
from East to West, and so again beyond
the mountain peaks that hid his land from view,
as far from West to East as told before;
though all this vast expanse of land lay far
beyond the faintest streaks of daybreak in
our Eastern sky, ‘cross hills and seas and mountains
to a place we hear about from travelers,
or dream of in our beds and fail to grasp
when light from that forgotten Eastern land
pricks open our sleeping eyes and scatters
visions of the earth this wise king ruled.
That monarch, in his kindness, with his people
shared the wealth of wisdom gifted him
by what mysterious power he knew not.
And so the people came from far and near,
across the mountains or from there within
the mighty walls of his fair city, same
for those who traveled months to seek his word
as those who stopped and waited at his gate
while out to buy their bread or meet a friend.
He was no miser with this fount of knowledge,
nor did he scoff at simple-minded folk,
but sought to guide them best as he knew how;
and oftentimes the king did well and good
and kept his promise to the land, that it
might grow and prosper as had his wise self.
But this tale brings us listeners to a time
when all within the king was fierce unrest,
and no despairing subject at his gate
sought peace of mind from kind and generous words;
for every soul within the city walls
and every soul without about the country
knew there would be no wise counsel from
the king where one great matter was concerned.
Every year the question would arise,
and every year the people would look up
to see their ruler in his lofty tower,
furrowed lines of worry on his brow
and agitation weighing down the corners
of his mouth—and yet not see, for darkness barred
their sight from all but faintest silhouettes
and shadows of the monarch’s lofty towers
casting gaping holes against the stars.
Yes, every year the dark descended on
the wise king’s realm; the sun grew ever more
reluctant to display its brilliant robes
of molten gold, cascading down in rivers
of joy and warmth and sweet life-giving breath.
The scented West Wind, light with honeybees,
began to hide away and leave the stoops,
once carefully and lovingly swept clean,
to shudder in the fearsome gusts and storms
that ravaged ragged hillsides in the months
when darkness took the land; and this poor king
knew not what he could do to stem the flood
of fear through every heart among his people.
And so the king would spend those darkened days
consumed in worry, chilled with doubt: perhaps
this year would be the ever dreaded year
when, finally, the sun, the source, the flame
would fail to find the strength to change its course,
and, sinking ever lower in the sky,
would dip at last below that icy mass
of mountain at the farthest edge of sight
and not return. Perhaps the groping hand
of night would tighten its black fist around
its prey so firmly that the melting rays
of dawn no longer would release its grip;
and snatched away would be the frozen tower,
city, farmland, wilderness, the hills
and streams and villages and those who called
the hamlets home, who warmed their hands by hearths
that cut a tiny haven in the dark--
the very mountains night would come to claim
and leave behind abyss.
Listen to the full poem at www.jackdesboisthewesternstar.weebly.com.
There was a king who ruled in days gone by,
whom none in all the valley could excel
in generosity and strength of heart.
His kingdom stretched as far as he could see
from East to West, and so again beyond
the mountain peaks that hid his land from view,
as far from West to East as told before;
though all this vast expanse of land lay far
beyond the faintest streaks of daybreak in
our Eastern sky, ‘cross hills and seas and mountains
to a place we hear about from travelers,
or dream of in our beds and fail to grasp
when light from that forgotten Eastern land
pricks open our sleeping eyes and scatters
visions of the earth this wise king ruled.
That monarch, in his kindness, with his people
shared the wealth of wisdom gifted him
by what mysterious power he knew not.
And so the people came from far and near,
across the mountains or from there within
the mighty walls of his fair city, same
for those who traveled months to seek his word
as those who stopped and waited at his gate
while out to buy their bread or meet a friend.
He was no miser with this fount of knowledge,
nor did he scoff at simple-minded folk,
but sought to guide them best as he knew how;
and oftentimes the king did well and good
and kept his promise to the land, that it
might grow and prosper as had his wise self.
But this tale brings us listeners to a time
when all within the king was fierce unrest,
and no despairing subject at his gate
sought peace of mind from kind and generous words;
for every soul within the city walls
and every soul without about the country
knew there would be no wise counsel from
the king where one great matter was concerned.
Every year the question would arise,
and every year the people would look up
to see their ruler in his lofty tower,
furrowed lines of worry on his brow
and agitation weighing down the corners
of his mouth—and yet not see, for darkness barred
their sight from all but faintest silhouettes
and shadows of the monarch’s lofty towers
casting gaping holes against the stars.
Yes, every year the dark descended on
the wise king’s realm; the sun grew ever more
reluctant to display its brilliant robes
of molten gold, cascading down in rivers
of joy and warmth and sweet life-giving breath.
The scented West Wind, light with honeybees,
began to hide away and leave the stoops,
once carefully and lovingly swept clean,
to shudder in the fearsome gusts and storms
that ravaged ragged hillsides in the months
when darkness took the land; and this poor king
knew not what he could do to stem the flood
of fear through every heart among his people.
And so the king would spend those darkened days
consumed in worry, chilled with doubt: perhaps
this year would be the ever dreaded year
when, finally, the sun, the source, the flame
would fail to find the strength to change its course,
and, sinking ever lower in the sky,
would dip at last below that icy mass
of mountain at the farthest edge of sight
and not return. Perhaps the groping hand
of night would tighten its black fist around
its prey so firmly that the melting rays
of dawn no longer would release its grip;
and snatched away would be the frozen tower,
city, farmland, wilderness, the hills
and streams and villages and those who called
the hamlets home, who warmed their hands by hearths
that cut a tiny haven in the dark--
the very mountains night would come to claim
and leave behind abyss.
Listen to the full poem at www.jackdesboisthewesternstar.weebly.com.