Harry Takes the Field : not-a-sonnet by me

Harry trudged to Agincourt, ankle deep
in mud, and wistful, weary, thought of sleep;
thought of crowns and souls, and old life-goals told
to empty rooms when he was young and brash.
The world still thought him young, beguiled by gold
and trinkets made of names. Names are just ash,
he'd learned, had taught himself, but writ in blood
they thicken, may be set and shaped like mud.
But spilt in love it must be, willingly,
and for a cause near-just (but only near--
for mortal men justice runs crookedly
as any crab). He held his soldiers dear,
like children, brothers, even as he spent
their lives like coin.
.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. The royal French, they bent
the weight of all their bitter scorn on him,
and vowed they'd eat his heart where all could see,
would drive his army down into the grim
shadow of the grave. Surely victory,
they said (and all the world with them agreed)
must go to those with strength, with eager steed
and arms still fresh, not yet worn down like teeth
on sand or bone. The outcome's known. Why try?
Return your rusty sword to battered sheath,
bow your head and bend your stubborn knee. Why
take the field when you cannot win the war?
But Harry -- he went down to Agincourt.


This poem brought to you by seperis's search for a better title for The Final Age of Man. Sometimes I really, really don't understand my brain.

ETA: Um. Apparently the title is now "Down to Agincourt". You can't see me, but I'm off in a corner, blushing furiously.
Down to Agincourt. What do you think?

That could be considered the theme, more or less.

Adding: with your permission of course!

Edited at 2014-08-10 03:57 pm (UTC)
You can't see how ridiculously giddy I am right now, but it's pretty ridiculous.

Of course you have my permission!
Leaving another--I started quoting this poem to myself, it's so good. Seriously, seriously, seriously good.
I -- this may sound weird or conceited, I don't know -- but I keep rereading it sort of incredulously because I can't quite believe I wrote it. Y'know?
Ha, I can beat that. The first time I skimmed over the fact you wrote it and was wondering where in Henry V it showed up because ohh, it was so perfect. And then you know, you wrote it. So I felt like an idiot and also HOLY SHIT A FORMAL SONNET you just don't see those every day anywhere, ever, much less in LJ.

Seriously, I'm bright red over here.

Also, thank you. I wouldn't have had a poem to write, if not for your story, so congratulations! You're now at the level of art-inspiring art.
You all should head over to Making Light. They would appreciate this sonnet, and it's not uncommon for people to be asked if they write poetry upon arrival.

Edited at 2014-08-10 09:29 pm (UTC)
I must admit, I'm not quite sure what you're suggesting--that I comment on some of their posts over there? I didn't see anything obviously related to Shakespeare or poetry

Edited at 2014-08-10 11:48 pm (UTC)
ML is kind of eclectic--at the moment, the active Open Thread (#199) is largely about textile production in post-apocalyptic conditions. But they're mostly fen, with a large and overlapping smattering of SCAdians, professional authors, fanficcers, and assorted other geeks.

I meant to link to the nifty poem, but forgot. I will do that. :)

In the meantime, lemme find you an example thread of, read this one:
Oh, I see--I misunderstood what kind of website it was.

And yes, that is a pretty awesome thread.
Visiting via the Making Light linkback. This is a fine piece of work indeed. I'm going to have to re-read it several times over the next few days to be reasonably sure I've gotten everything out of it that's there to be found.

Please do come over to ML and poke around for a while. You don't have to comment if you don't want to (there are a lot of lurkers who post only occasionally), but I think you'd fit right in.
Thank you both for the compliment and for the invitation--I'm trying to cut back on my time spent online, but your place does look like it would be worth poking around on.