This is what came out of a sleepless night and some searching into the literary and mythical history of Gog and Magog that my high school English teacher, Frank Brown led me to; I would invite anyone seeking inspiration to investigate these figures as well:
Lost in the deep thick of a forest, green,
I, weary from wandering, stopped to take rest.
Beneath rain-kissed branches,
laden with fairy fruit, dripping with steam,
I sighed for sleep and fell, at once, into a dream.
A voice came ech'ing o'er the chilly air,
singing a spell to wake me from sleep.
The emerald trees began to murmer,
their strange music whistling through the breeze in my hair.
A far off maiden was whispering my name in a meadow,
I knew not where.
I broke through the thicket to find her,
my armor flashing in the moonlight, pale.
At last there came a clearing in the woodland, wild,
And a muteness befell me, so lost was my will.
Before me danced giants, trampling the green mantle bare.
Clad in aprons of flapping hide,
like ancient stones of milk-white marble,
men or beasts they leapt through fire,
in time with tongues of dragon-breathed flame.
And in their midst a girl was standing,
A garland of petals through her golden hair tied.
My brow was damp with melted dew,
my brave skin torn by bramble and rock,
when she saw me hiding and bid me come.
I took up my sword, but at once set it down
And went running, instead, to her eyes' piercing hue.
And the earth seemed to rumble
when seeing me they laughed
in tones afore unheard by any man.
We danced in the deep as if old, long lost friends
while streams were hissing and sloshing froth.
Their hands were stained, but not with blood-
with juice of berries, warmed in hot sun.
But thieving light came and morning broke.
The milk-white marble was turned to stone
And in place of my giants four mountains stood.
And she, in an instant, vanish'd from sight,
from the distant wood where we danced away night
But in her place a trinket I found-
an amaranth swaying, still casting a spell.
Now here I sit beneath four mountains, tall,
guarding this flower 'til next night shall fall...
I chose the image of the amaranth because it's usually red or purple, a mythical symbol of love and immortality, and then after i wrote the poem I found this verse, which got me thinking about my image of giants:
Look at the amaranth:
on tall mountains it grows,
on the very stones and rocks
and places inaccessible.
I wrote this intending it to be set to music, but in this early draft it turned out to be not especially settable rhythmically. Then I tried messing with format a bit without destroying the dramatic flow, but it changed the character of my giants, and even my knight-
A wanderer lost in a forest, green,
Beneath rain-kissed branches dripping with steam,
I sighed for sleep and fell into a dream.
I woke to the echoing fae-kissed air,
and I saw through the thicket before me out there-
Giants were trampling the green mantle bare.
Clad in aprons of flapping hide,
they were tearing down trees when someone cried
and I saw in their midst a maiden was tied.
The earth seemed to rumble when seeing me they laughed
in tones long reserved for those of their craft.
Through dragon-breathed flame was my only path.
But a thief stole the night and morning broke.
They turned to stone and I awoke.
In place of my giants stood mountains in smoke.
And she, in an instant, vanish'd from sight,
from the distant wood where we met in the night
but a trinket I found in her place, bathed in light-
An amaranth swaying, as if to me call.
Now here I sit beneath four mountains, tall,
guarding this flower 'til next night shall fall.
I liked this second attempt, although still probably a bit long for him to set musically, especially on a time crunch with the music due in November... but then I started daydreaming about my friend, about home, about being across this great, big ocean (as I'm now living in England), and, ultimately, wishing it would dry up so it might be easier to cross over.
I wake and yet feel still asleep
'til off I drift into a dream
where giants tear down heavy trees,
through dancing flames forge golden beams.
I beg them, "Stop! and quiet, be-
drink up this brook, this cursed stream.
When it is dry then I may reach
the far off one who calls to me."
Funny how the simplest, most honest expressions of ourselves sometimes turn out to be the most special.