Terzanelle / Anglachel
Anglachel
I sought to have your secret heart remade
in my own image. Lovers so conspire
who are not happy until love's a blade
My own soul was the forge, your soul the fire
Your dark heart and my dark heart intertwined
in my own image. Lovers so conspire
and who can stand against such love combined?
Yet you defend, as though I were the prey,
your dark heart and my dark heart intertwined.
My broken hands will wield you while I may.
I know you will not love these hands for long
yet you defend, as though I were the prey.
The fire of stars, the dark of space your song.
What made me think I could contain your rage?
I know you will not love these hands for long.
You are the iron bar that forms my cage
I sought to have your secret heart remade
What made me think I could contain your rage
who are not happy until love's a blade
*******
Author's notes:
This poem is a terzanelle from Turin Turambar to Anglachel, his sentient sword.
It was written for the Bitter Valentines challenge at Henneth Annun.
I had in my mind the image of the re-forging of the sword; Anglachel into Gurthang.
It made me think about all the unhappy lovers who spend their time trying to
change someone they think they love into someone they would like them to be.
I used variations on Beleg's lines wherever I could, both to tie a memory
of him into the imagery of the poem, and because they have so much poetry already
in them. And lovers like Anglachel always whisper the same stories to each new
lover anyway...
This is for those who like their love poems like their coffee – Black,
bitter and with sediment at the bottom.