Feb 6, 2011

State of the Poem

A Lycanthropic Apology

It was all a misunderstanding.
No matter my troubles, or trials, or tests,
No matter my fame, or fear that I strike,
He had rights to our joy and to feel well met.

I was typical of the mortals of my day,
Might and fear, my staff and emblem.
I who reigned in Arcadia feared none.
Not men, nor beasts, were my problem.

We sat at our meal, my family and friends.
A victory over our hated enemies, the Moors.
With song and shout, we ate of their courage.
A knock rang out and He was at our door.

His regal acclaim, the disguise fooled us not.
My maidens fair I gave to this assignation,
His eyes held the fire, His voice the thunder,
I invited him to join in our simple celebration.

The cook obeyed his orders to bring out the best.
The plate stacked high with thigh, foot and breast.
But the God was not pleased, He ranted and raved.
Then he burned down my house, a traitorous guest.

I alone survived and slunk to the forest thick.
He gave me a tail, a coat of heavy fur for my endeavor.
He was not through, my blood price would I pay,
And a curse to plague me, to pass on forever.

It matters not whom I bite or I scratch,
I care not if they're the great or the least,
Each month I hunt for an advocate,
Each man I touch to howl for my release.

Even a man who is pure in heart,
And says his prayers by night,
May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms,
And the autumn moon is bright.

-King Lycaon
Final stanza from The Wolf Man (1941)