Epic Poetic! - An Original Story In The Style Of Epic Poetry

You can hear this story read by my dear friend, Morgan Farlie, on the Soundcloud link at the bottom of this post. He did an exceptional job and I think you would enjoy it.

This is a final I was given the option of writing for my Honors Ancient Legacies class. It was a fairly open project, so I decided to try and write a paper that mimics the tone and style of "epic poetry".

I can't remember the last time that I wrote a story, and I have never tried to keep up a rhyming schema for more than a page. So, uhh, tell me what you think! O_O

Outline: The main character encounters several famous individuals/characters from throughout history and interacts with them, specifically Gilgamesh, Epictetus and Dante Alligheri. It is heavily influenced by The Inferno, and in the same way that Dante begins his journey in confusion, so does my character here. It is also influenced by various Platonic ideals, Stoicism and the writings of St. Augustine. In the end, it's an amalgam of what I thought I knew and what I thought I had learned in the class. It could be better and it's a few years old.

Critiques and opinions of all sort are most welcome, and as always, thank you for visiting! :)

Epic Poetic

As it was, or was it as it is, on occasion one morning and having found a place to sit; I came curiously to questioning what to make of all this; all this reading, and writing, and the understanding of it had left me twisted and tired, and generally perplexed, betwixt. The light was dim and rhyming in time with it were shadows of ghosts, goblins and jolly, flung misfits. Dancing and prancing above where lit, my eyes would dare to glimpse or even take sight of it and so instead I buried my face and silent then I began to make out the sounds of spider webs, high and hung above the fire ledge, tiny sounds of scurrying to make my hair rise on end. Building in myself avoidance, I thought to myself in silence,

“I'll perfect myself tomorrow, just some more time borrowed, and when I wake I'll make this life all hallowed and exceptionally modeled through the harrowed and now comfortably settled dustings of my previously sleepily ramblings and bellowed hip-happenings; to, through, and out the door. I’ll procrastinate!” I said, and then continuing in denial pled, implored: “I'll align myself more with the parameters of perfection once I get off this floor and in rested reflection perform all those varying chores that I'd been avoiding, all the more deserving of my studious attention and custodial blessing as I get to the Spring cleanings of my Self's muggy leavings, unappreciated lessons and encrusted missed-perceivings which hang in my mind like webs along a door or higher ceiling hanging, above where the eyes, the light there dim and fading, generally indulge themselves or even in peeking, care to take their tour; and rarely daring endure, instead gaze below where things and their shadows together appear more sure and certainly more certain than the webs atop the curtains, who’s creators hold deterrent and prefer it were a servant, who though designed and built the house which shelters their assertions, would be bound and quite subservient to the whims of his guests and tenants, such that he were no longer at home but instead wholly imprisoned, and thus blinded all the more.”

“Yes!” I thought, “I’ll pursue this outdoors! Where the unusual and sun-blinded find their limbs useless and sore, there will I be able to synthesize this knowledge from months before, unhindered and sun-shining I’ll write four pages. Hell, I’ll write more!” And so I went, got up and lent my feet toward their shoes, walked out the door and thumbing through news jammed down the street with the anticipation of youth. But lo, the heat! And in it I did lose all of my consciousness, the grass there used and comfortably I did snooze a number of hours that I would not dare excuse except to the individual who, on waking me to move, needed the space clean to make his dues; for in that sleep that found me through dreams and screams and laughter too did come and appear to me the faces which I had set out to prove were not beyond my comprehension, nor my understanding, too.

Fire, and then drums. Thumping, pounding, from a thousand thrusts. What do I see? Is this thunder, lightning, what? Not drums, no, not fire but men dancing in bright and orange attire, their feet stamping ground and knees flying higher. A dance? To whom is gifted such an honor? A man? A god? Or is it something finer? A crafted thing which, when after all, may be neither? Yes, Gilgamesh, the one without his brother. The one who in his triumph cast aside all others, save one; Enkidu the Traveler. The son of Ninsun, a goddess mother and the fabled Labulganda, his heavenly father. I see him now, and too frightened to shiver, merely wait as his approach brings him closer. “You there,” he begins:

“Are you a little girl cowering, scared? Perchance I shall make you my wife, rightly as with all women fair. Hahaha! You are but a mare, perhaps I shall break you and take you to the stables over there and while bracing you brand you as a Sumerian heir. Do you know who I am? I am Gilgamesh!”

His voice shakes me and I tremble,

“I am he who dared defy Humbaba, with the help of good Enkidu who when set on by Inanna was freed to be as men are, and free to do as men do. It was we who rejected Asherah, the whore known as Ishtar, and slew the Bull of Heaven and threw it in her face for our own amused contentment. It was we who defied Heaven! But lo, who am I kidding? Our pride saw him dead and mine saw me grieving. Endless, tireless grieving. I tried, still, to conquer even death’s inevitable defeating, but in the end was left with nothing, but the walls of my city and an author’s empty pity.”

Gilgamesh sat, and drinking said,

“Call me Gilgi. All my life I have been unrivaled. So, in a sense alone, my passions unbridled, I excelled and many accolades I piled upon my mantle of stone. So blinded, and having had chance to find him, my companion and I sighted upon all we surveyed. We succeeded, and conquered, and even Heaven we flayed. But in our non-sense, never belayed, and on one fateful day Ishtar conspired to see Enkidu away. Away from me. Our pride was the cause of his death, and in it we were too blind to see. In my madness I ran and tore at myself, I forgot men and their aspirations of wealth. I lost it, and for a time, it lost me. But my arrogance came, and to this day remains, and drove me out again and into the plains, and there in my hopeful audacity I thought to be, climbing again for glory, on the precipice of immortality. But my human folly assaulted me, and in my weakness I drifted off to sleep! And so, as it was, immortal life was robbed from me by a snake of all the lowly things, as if it doesn’t regenerate by virtue of its anatomy! Wisdom, little girl, get understanding and thus understand the meaning of these things.”

He sat with back against rock and gaze affixed to stars. I rose to make my exit and walking did not get far, before I heard the thunderous snores of one of history’s larger scars. “Does he regret himself?” I asked the air, thoughtfully. “Why should he present himself with such esteem, when he is riddled with remorse, it seems? Why should he regret an author’s pity, when it is he who has been inspiring? Perhaps he does not understand that in his life I have found enlightening treasure? Be cautious when dethroning gods not to confuse one for yourself and in designing man’s society be sure to avoid false wealth, let not pride instill you in pride’s place, confusing yourself for the master of all-Fate.” I thought, “Gilgamesh, even if you don’t recognize it, you’ve helped brighten my world. The glory you sought has through centuries been hurled. But, for what reason I’ll never imagine, did he think me a little girl?”

In my ramblings I seemed to have lost my way, or rather, having never had it and merely in daze, made toward a place when at a distance appeared to me to be a gate, set on end and flanked by trees which were curiously arranged, behind which appeared to rest a shining, glistening lake; shimmering, the trees swayed and as I drew closer I could see the face, or faces, of several varying men of varying ages protruding from the surface of the lake. Distance minimizing changed the angle of my scrutinizing, and slowly as if lying for a nap, the gate laid down in the lake’s bright lap and opening soundlessly became the frame of those appearing before me, as a door or passageway, through which were crystalline faces emerging from the lake’s quiet ebbing, being contorted continuously, though it seemed not uncomfortably, into shapes and forms all unknown to me, save that they were human and aware of me presently.

“Here’s one!” a multitude clamored. “A strong one, too!” my peaceful silence was shattered. “Come closer! Let us.. see you.” A torrent of voices, mingling together as one, played upon my senses and left my will but crushed. I moved forward, somewhat bolstered, having conversed with a legend and lived to recall it and set my feet upon the edge of the shore, careful to avoid falling. “Who are you!” they, or he, or it shouted. “How do you come here and by what grace is allowed it?” So I responded, “I am Ty! Uh, Knight! And I don’t know how I got here.” Laughter and excitement ensued as the voices split and cackled and spewed, again then uniting and inquiring too, “A Knight? Haha! Is it by your knightly virtue then that you are found here, flung from home and country and without fear to inquire here of us and all that is, or those who are, bound by the Seer here?” “No,” I replied, “my only fear is that you misunderstand. I am not a knight, it is only my name. I do not come here for glory, there are no quests for riches or fame. I sought only the solace of the park, so that I could write my papers today. I do not know how I got here, or how long I’ve been away. I awoke amongst a celebration, and a dance fueled by rage, held in honor of a titan, the god-man Gilgamesh, or Gilgi as he’d bade.”

“Bwaha! Only your name? And what’s in a name? Where is your sword and shield, shall I call upon your thane? Or, perhaps it was Gilgamesh who brought you to our lake, to speak of ancient wonders and the ones who designed their fame. Do you have no honor? Or courage? How else could you grace this place? Who are you, tell us and make it plain.”

“I tell you honestly, I am Ty Knight of Albuquerque. I was born to Becky and Jon Knight in Germany, I like writing poetry and am a student of Anthropology. I do possess courage, though Gilgi called me girly, and in as much as honor is concerned, who are you to be asking? I have ferocious curiosity, and that’s my authority! I tell you honestly that I don’t know what means of travel brought me to this curious, isolated place that is the depths of your valley. You speak of ancient wonders and identities bound here eternally, so answer me truthfully when I ask who are you and why do you press so upon me?”

“Bwahahaha! We are the many made from few, and the few cast as many. We are the sand, and we are the stars. We are your time, and your space, but the progenitors of neither. Through us all things are made manifest, but in us all things are as sure as dust. We are not eternal, but eternity is made through us. We are the pitcher, but not the water. We are the water, but not the metabolism. We are the metabolism, but not the fire. We are the fire, but not the fuel. We are the fuel, but not the catalyst. We are the catalyst, but not the cause. We are the cause, but not the source. We, young knight, are You. Hehehahaha!”

“Stop playing games with me, how can you be me? How can you not be eternal, but be responsible for eternity? Tell me what I wish to know, and tell me only plainly!”

“What is it that you wish to know, young knight?”

“I wish to know who you are!”

“So slow on the uptake, allow us to lower the bar. We are as a lens, through which may be made any number of requests, upon which may be cast any deep regrets, inquiries without relent, so as to ascertain perspectives of which your eyes haven’t yet met and acquire knowledge that you might have never guessed. Who do you wish to speak to, young knight? What do you wish to know?”

Glancing at the pen that I’d scrawled across my hand in order to remember all the names of all the men that I’d intended so strongly to write about before the park became my bed, I made out the names of Plato and good ol’ Gilgamesh, followed by Orestes and then Epictetus.

“Epictetus!” I shouted, “One of my main men! I wish to speak with him, if you can indeed do what you say, let’s see it done then.” And as if blessed by apriori, the crystalline body began to gain shape a bit less frightening, before I could hardly assemble my notion, much less had I begun uttering, and upon fully forming, the face took to speaking,

“They are irreverent, because they are not the source of knowledge, but rather the interpreter of it. Like you.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Epictetus, your main man.”

“What did you mean by irreverent? I’m irreverent?”

“Are you not? Did you not say that your tenacity and curiosity have brought you here, young animate? To a place you do not know, comprised of elements you scarcely recognize, hardly able to speculate?”

“The ones here before you, they said that they were me. What does this mean?”

“There were none here before me, for I am They. This font before you is a kind of transformer, a relay. As an antenna it is the comprisal of all knowledge, all forms, even that of its own self and in this way is both a grand transmitter, and receiver day after day. However, in its grandeur, in our grandeur, we are merely transient displays. This appearance, and even yours, is even now slipping away. Except here, on the precipice of creation, all things fade. Your insights, your emotions, your sense of Self and all of your hopes and fears someday subside, whether o’er weeks or years, they will dis-appear. Appear, I say it again for you to listen, we merely appear. Appearances and illusions mask what is real. Know yourself, and you may know Them. Know Them, and you may know yourself. This is the truth as has been revealed.”

“How can you refer to Truth when you claim that all experience is merely appearance?”

“Men are disturbed not by things, but by the view which they take of them. It is impossible to begin to learn that which one thinks one already knows, agreements?”

“What is it that you know?”

“Only that the myriad forms of composite existence are as apparitions, mere appearances, and the source of their arousal defies my most honest comprehensions.”

“I understand.”

“Haha. You are a little soul carrying around a corpse. What else do you wish to know, young animate?”

“I wish to know more about the source. Who else can inform me of the force that drives this congregate?”

“We all can! Who do you seek?” replied a chorus, shaking my focus but in having bolstered my boldness through grilling Epictetus I stood quite firm and did not relent then, instead pressing forward and stressing the words, the enunciation of each syllable as I felt my ears confirm that I was in fact speaking the name of my philosophic enemy, across from me sat formed in diamond freely what I can only conceive to be, or at some timing to have been, the face of Dante Alighieri.

“I am he whom you have as recent been seeking. What do you require of my wisdom and teaching?”

“I am curious about what the others, or.. you all, have referred to as the Source. What is this?”

“Haha. You do not want to hear! As I formed in this shiny muck your heart shook with fear, you’re terrified of what I come to bear; did you not comprehend your man when he proclaimed that all things are merely that which appear? Haha! You still do not understand yourself, or the manifestation it fulfills and represents. Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground!”

“I don’t understand. I don’t even believe in Heaven!”

“Haha! Fool! Pride, envy, avarice – these sparks have set on fire the hearts of all men. Noone thinks of the crimson cost. Pay attention, initiate. Nature is the art of God. If the present world goes astray, the cause is in you. The customs and fashions of men change like leaves on a tree, but the Source is unchanging. Immutable, if you will humor me. It matters not if you believe in Heaven, or in what language you propose to disguise its being. It simply is, take care to heed the lessons you found in Gilgamesh’s struggles. In your deposing of God, be sure not to enthrone yourself in his place. Pride, for you as well as for me, was and will be both a source of great motivation, but also your greatest folly. Be discerning, initiate, and be careful. Remember Augustine and all his questioning, it’s not too late for your late arriving reckoning. You have the existent Universe at your discretion, but never confuse yourself as being responsible for its creation. Endless forms abounding, none of which permanent but all of which permeating and pro-creating, but never co-creating, that which is the world or the Universe as its housing. You do have intelligence boundless, with which to interact, both conscious and unconscious, but you arise dependently, and though perhaps not necessarily above you, there is a source to all this. Condemn your arrogance, cast aside your prideful ignorance, ascend through your conscience and find for yourself deliverance. Pain be your catalyst, if you so will it; but at no time delay, and always seek forgiveness.”

“I don’t understand,” I questioned “I don’t remember you saying these things in the books that I’ve read. Who are you, and what is this? Am I dead?”

“I am you, initiate. This place you facilitated, a nexus of consciousness in which you have integrated your awareness and sense of it. You come here by way of your imagination, and here you may inquire until your heart’s contented. Has this answered your question, or shall I explain it again then?”

“You mean that this has all been in my head? When I awoke to find Gilgamesh and rambled toward this font of enlightenment? You are not Dante then, but rather an amalgam of all of them who I conceived of to write about with paper and pen? This is much, much for me to comprehend.”

“No, it is not. You write even as your thoughts tarry and fraught with despair ferry themselves back to consciousness. You are not lost, but rather un-boxed. Stretch your soft muscles and feel the rocks.”

“Rocks? What rocks? Is this a metaphor, what means your talk?”

“Get off of the rocks.”

“I see no stones, no pebbles, and absolutely no rocks! What boulder is hiding beneath this spot?”

“Hey, kid, get off of the damned rocks!”

As if suddenly, with sharp pain in my side and foggy haze beginning to rise, lifted and taking little time to less than gently wipe from my eyes the tired feeling that waking oft’ provides.

“Wipe the rocks off your face and get up out of this place, kid. I’ve got work to do and bums like you make it difficult. If you want to sleep then go to the shelter on 6th, but whatever you do, get out of my way, kid.”

“I, uh.. I was doing homework. I’m sorry to be in your way, sir.”

“Don’t apologize, just get up and on with it. I’ve got Spring cleaning to do, and of this park I’ve got to clean every bit. I heard you mumbling, and in that grumbling I noticed that you have an understanding of this. So get off your end and attend to yourself your own custodial obligations, there are cob-webs in every corner of consciousness. Might as well quit dallying and instead see yourself just get to it, then.”

“But I worry that I haven’t demonstrated a proper understanding of my lessons, and what effects that might have on my graduation!”

“Haha! You know what you’ve learned, write it down and move on, in turn. A sentence each for the characters and individuals you beseeched in the past several months and weeks to show you’ve learned.”

“Isn’t that a bit uninteresting, sir?”

“Haha! In my standing here I’ve heard you ramble on what must be 7 or 8 pages, assured. If pages were fur, your insulated paper just might be on the verge of catching so as to burn! If pages were feathers, surely yours would be a flightless bird. It’s heavy enough, now you’re just adding words!”

“Now listen here, mister janitor. I haven’t even mentioned Odysseus and his encounters with Penelope’s suitors. How his men turned to swine after having cheese and wine provided by the witch-goddess Circe; or how he angered great Poseidon by leaving the Cyclops Polyphemus blinded and hurt. I neglected Telemachus and Eumaeus the ever faithful swineherd. Nor have I mentioned Moses and his wise words, or the trials of the Jews as they walked along the desert. I have not brought attention to Orestes or Agamemnon, or the cycles of revenge that plagued both of them; or the gods who, like Apollo and Athena, always seem to sponsor events and guide them. No mention of Plato or his philosophic advancements, not even the cave or the Socratic method. I have not mentioned the Gospels or the contention found between them, to say little of the advice they seem to be imparting, or of the wisdom. I have not mentioned the gradual seeming increase from immanent deity to deity transcendent, nor have I elaborated on the sense of law and justice that has evolved over several millenniums.”

“Stop your sniveling! You’re still in my park, what do you need an idiom to get you moving before dark? It’s raining cats and dogs, ok!? Your paper is raining cats and dogs, now get up and get to moving, please. Your analysis of epic poetry does not need to be an epic poem in itself, you see.”

“I.. oh.”

“The Sun is setting, refrain from fretting, get up and take with you your 8 some pages of poetic stressings. Take your lessons with you, and your paper and pen too, before I get on my phone and dial for APD’s troop!”

“Well, I hardly think that’s necessary –“

“Go! Before my sympathy turns as cold as an old janitor’s fury. Not to mention, don’t you have a deadline, shouldn’t you get to being hurried already?”

A deadline! And so running, still wheeling from the visage given me and stealing time like a bat out of hell crossing streets, I made my way hastily across the, sun now setting behind trees, orange and pink colored concrete hoping, or betting, that I’d not return home too late to turn in these sheets and see, at least mostly, this amazing class bitter-sweetly complete.