The Duke of Vanterelle
A dark tale of evil and revenge49 total reviews
Comment from mfowler
Excellent story in a poem
The mixed meter did as you'd hoped. It wasn't sing-songy; just rolled off at a good clip. That suited such an action bound poem. The contrast of good and evil is great. The mood and the setting are suitably dark. The surprise ending works very well. Really enjoyable. Best of luck in the contest.
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
  |
Excellent story in a poem
The mixed meter did as you'd hoped. It wasn't sing-songy; just rolled off at a good clip. That suited such an action bound poem. The contrast of good and evil is great. The mood and the setting are suitably dark. The surprise ending works very well. Really enjoyable. Best of luck in the contest.
Comment Written 05-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thank you - I value your opinion.
Steve
Comment from garrymc5
Top story, well handled. You kept your metre, your rhyme, and the narrative was a classic tale.
I'm including my 'more difficult' but related peeve
Venterol Bells below.
My only suggestion
'Twas some other prey he'd seek.
Suggest
for some other prey to seek.
Venterol Bells
In the year 1244
Stern, candleless morning,
weak light on stomach's awning,
the bells of Venterol ding
to the valley's groan and daub.
Rise to holiness' false tone,
peasants passing fortress times
limping,
backs shackled to land, ox and master,
shirk and furrow,
no time conversing
with nobility or
church's fixed line of interest.
Live resentment,
plot and plod,
when light bites and bells command
'Get to church on time,'
but never on a horse.
Left to bad temper evenings,
reassured the never-present saints shall free you,
lucky for death in bed,
eternally guilty and sinful selves
reach for amusement,
a farmer's destiny
fertilizing onions and leeks.
Time clings to our thin girth
like rabbit pelt, without the gut of honour,
our given template is sticks to burn,
hands to prove and lives to suffer,
thinking food-on-the-table
and pumping the night
for pregnant tomorrow,
should Fate allow.
Winter rains benign and niggard dukes,
olives in their mouths,
smiling for priest and lord,
duck fat on our curling lip and tongue-tied selves.
Cut cheese with leathery thumbs.
Given mud tracks to our pastures and homes,
no ambry, coffer, goblet or ring,
Hells bells,
is there no relief from building roads for the king,
and carriageways for nobles?
Our friends fight other's wars
to the sound of horns.
Venterol bells, Spring irony
when a passing priest wins pilgrimage south,
his good-work sullying daughters and boys,
escaping God's judgment,
his white hands touching
silk before saintliness,
knowing crime before choirs.
In dawn's rapacious mist,
our tower rises above the silence
tolling the fallen ones,
the black plague donating
bodies to stone slabs and yellow pyres
lord and tiller equal,
no quarter spared by the diseased wind
blowing through our guts,
villien, lord and abbot
given a Tartar's farewell.
Laughter becomes death
when every tenant prone
is a master's lost labour,
a peasant's release.
Priests and abbots tender to no one,
inside the protective ring of fire,
lest people ask for mercy.
Uproar sees the budding fields untended,
calamity still,
every minute craving
life's last pleasures lost in funeral fells.
Plague takes away our mother and brother.
The Barronies hills echo
to solstice weddings and
Saturnalia funerals,
vassals knowing
sorrow and eternal misfortune to
flapping wings and drumming locusts,
all of us tied to the honest work of ploughing,
husbanding and harvest.
Kept free from knowledge,
captive to miracles, faith and lords,
lest peasant's learning turn to passion,
our stubble Latin become opinion,
our muddy boots rebellion,
lest we find life's darkest knight
in every witch's brew.
Bells-
you gluttons for time,
dire & sleepless chimes,
breeding the dutiful,
putting the dullard in us,
when ears of wheat
sway in the fields,
lavender eternal.
Hours strike and persist, the summers long,
ploughman in the fields not knowing
his child lifted from forest glade,
taken for slavery and ransom,
our masters but at home
when tocsin bells call,
our eyes turning
to the savage forest,
the gathering tribe with lance & scythe,
piercing the sky, hills overtaken,
archer and artisan searching
until dawn's cruel light
spears hope,
plough
and hoe thrown down,
despair becomes our brother.
Love's losses mount our shoulders,
the Rhone's bay horses galloping south
letting all the land know our towering pain,
when lord and priest regale
'God works in mysterious ways.
you work without stopping.'
Confounded schemers
finding ourselves in the master's chamber
his piss pot with a velvet seat,
running our hands over bear skin rugs
warming our backs at the fireplace
inspecting the book of numbers before...
bells, ceaseless bells,
calling the day empty.
Then
one
passing day
autumn soothsayer
foretells that bells shall
harass their crimson robes,
take wine from their white hands,
place coins in a merchant's pale lips,
praying mantic messenger next day
leaves with a spear through his back.
*
Coarse anger finds haughty voice,
removing the raven's cap,
clawing lord and gentry
priest and abbot,
red morning
stark
Venterol's bells ringing unbounded joy
and the voices of blood.
Revenge is flour for a million,
milk for a crying child
sang-froid angels gifting bread,
honey and mead,
grape and lavender,
eyes and lips knowing
the meek shall inherit the earth,
and the quick, gather gold.
Thunder and blackened wings,
arrows piercing throats,
women torn by knights
sworn to chivalrous love,
merciless reply to peasant revolt
lancing voices, distended limbs,
hands grasping for stupendous resolution,
until
sinless silence
to winter frosts
and prowling wolves,
Venterol devoured,
village heartless
and abandoned,
castle crumbling.
Miraculous tomorrow.
is the claws of a falcon,
the eyes of a night owl,
the beak of a swift,
monsterous adaption
drawing blood from a horse's back
consuming beetle and mite,
Venterol rebuilt,
resonant voices singing a thousand years
tolling triumph, quavering loss,
Humanity's sobering toll becomes
the vibrant carillon of ages.
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
 |
Top story, well handled. You kept your metre, your rhyme, and the narrative was a classic tale.
I'm including my 'more difficult' but related peeve
Venterol Bells below.
My only suggestion
'Twas some other prey he'd seek.
Suggest
for some other prey to seek.
Venterol Bells
In the year 1244
Stern, candleless morning,
weak light on stomach's awning,
the bells of Venterol ding
to the valley's groan and daub.
Rise to holiness' false tone,
peasants passing fortress times
limping,
backs shackled to land, ox and master,
shirk and furrow,
no time conversing
with nobility or
church's fixed line of interest.
Live resentment,
plot and plod,
when light bites and bells command
'Get to church on time,'
but never on a horse.
Left to bad temper evenings,
reassured the never-present saints shall free you,
lucky for death in bed,
eternally guilty and sinful selves
reach for amusement,
a farmer's destiny
fertilizing onions and leeks.
Time clings to our thin girth
like rabbit pelt, without the gut of honour,
our given template is sticks to burn,
hands to prove and lives to suffer,
thinking food-on-the-table
and pumping the night
for pregnant tomorrow,
should Fate allow.
Winter rains benign and niggard dukes,
olives in their mouths,
smiling for priest and lord,
duck fat on our curling lip and tongue-tied selves.
Cut cheese with leathery thumbs.
Given mud tracks to our pastures and homes,
no ambry, coffer, goblet or ring,
Hells bells,
is there no relief from building roads for the king,
and carriageways for nobles?
Our friends fight other's wars
to the sound of horns.
Venterol bells, Spring irony
when a passing priest wins pilgrimage south,
his good-work sullying daughters and boys,
escaping God's judgment,
his white hands touching
silk before saintliness,
knowing crime before choirs.
In dawn's rapacious mist,
our tower rises above the silence
tolling the fallen ones,
the black plague donating
bodies to stone slabs and yellow pyres
lord and tiller equal,
no quarter spared by the diseased wind
blowing through our guts,
villien, lord and abbot
given a Tartar's farewell.
Laughter becomes death
when every tenant prone
is a master's lost labour,
a peasant's release.
Priests and abbots tender to no one,
inside the protective ring of fire,
lest people ask for mercy.
Uproar sees the budding fields untended,
calamity still,
every minute craving
life's last pleasures lost in funeral fells.
Plague takes away our mother and brother.
The Barronies hills echo
to solstice weddings and
Saturnalia funerals,
vassals knowing
sorrow and eternal misfortune to
flapping wings and drumming locusts,
all of us tied to the honest work of ploughing,
husbanding and harvest.
Kept free from knowledge,
captive to miracles, faith and lords,
lest peasant's learning turn to passion,
our stubble Latin become opinion,
our muddy boots rebellion,
lest we find life's darkest knight
in every witch's brew.
Bells-
you gluttons for time,
dire & sleepless chimes,
breeding the dutiful,
putting the dullard in us,
when ears of wheat
sway in the fields,
lavender eternal.
Hours strike and persist, the summers long,
ploughman in the fields not knowing
his child lifted from forest glade,
taken for slavery and ransom,
our masters but at home
when tocsin bells call,
our eyes turning
to the savage forest,
the gathering tribe with lance & scythe,
piercing the sky, hills overtaken,
archer and artisan searching
until dawn's cruel light
spears hope,
plough
and hoe thrown down,
despair becomes our brother.
Love's losses mount our shoulders,
the Rhone's bay horses galloping south
letting all the land know our towering pain,
when lord and priest regale
'God works in mysterious ways.
you work without stopping.'
Confounded schemers
finding ourselves in the master's chamber
his piss pot with a velvet seat,
running our hands over bear skin rugs
warming our backs at the fireplace
inspecting the book of numbers before...
bells, ceaseless bells,
calling the day empty.
Then
one
passing day
autumn soothsayer
foretells that bells shall
harass their crimson robes,
take wine from their white hands,
place coins in a merchant's pale lips,
praying mantic messenger next day
leaves with a spear through his back.
*
Coarse anger finds haughty voice,
removing the raven's cap,
clawing lord and gentry
priest and abbot,
red morning
stark
Venterol's bells ringing unbounded joy
and the voices of blood.
Revenge is flour for a million,
milk for a crying child
sang-froid angels gifting bread,
honey and mead,
grape and lavender,
eyes and lips knowing
the meek shall inherit the earth,
and the quick, gather gold.
Thunder and blackened wings,
arrows piercing throats,
women torn by knights
sworn to chivalrous love,
merciless reply to peasant revolt
lancing voices, distended limbs,
hands grasping for stupendous resolution,
until
sinless silence
to winter frosts
and prowling wolves,
Venterol devoured,
village heartless
and abandoned,
castle crumbling.
Miraculous tomorrow.
is the claws of a falcon,
the eyes of a night owl,
the beak of a swift,
monsterous adaption
drawing blood from a horse's back
consuming beetle and mite,
Venterol rebuilt,
resonant voices singing a thousand years
tolling triumph, quavering loss,
Humanity's sobering toll becomes
the vibrant carillon of ages.
Comment Written 05-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Strange coincidence about the name Vanterelle/Vanterol - I just plucked mine out of thin air - or thought I did!
Your poem is much more complex, deeper, darker - until the vibrant carillion at least.
Thanks for the fine review and for sharing your piece.
Steve
Comment from Spitfire
Dynamite ending! The beat reminded me of the classics such as "The Highwayman". There's also a ballad feel to it especially in the sorrow filled content. To put such characterization, plot, and dialogue into a poem is real talent. Best of luck in the contest.
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
Dynamite ending! The beat reminded me of the classics such as "The Highwayman". There's also a ballad feel to it especially in the sorrow filled content. To put such characterization, plot, and dialogue into a poem is real talent. Best of luck in the contest.
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thanks, Shari - yes, I guess i was after some of that ballad feel - glad you felt it worked.
Steve
Comment from Barb Hensongispsaca
Oh I wish I had a six for anyone who can write this kind of poem with all the rhymes within the rhymes.
I have tried and yours flows so expertly.
Great story in a poem and hope it does great
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
Oh I wish I had a six for anyone who can write this kind of poem with all the rhymes within the rhymes.
I have tried and yours flows so expertly.
Great story in a poem and hope it does great
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thanks, Barb - glad you enjoyed. Yep the regular internal rhyme is a special challenge...
Steve
Comment from Irish Rain
HOW I wish I had six stars left to give you! This deserves 10! Not only a great (and interesting!) story..but flawlessly written! The WINNER for sure!!!!!! Love the ending!
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
HOW I wish I had six stars left to give you! This deserves 10! Not only a great (and interesting!) story..but flawlessly written! The WINNER for sure!!!!!! Love the ending!
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thanks so much for the kind (and confident) words and the virtual six.
I would say there is no such thing as a sure winner, especially after the last three site contests, all of which I thought I had a good shot at - didn't even get a mention!
Steve
-
I know! I've had only 2 or 3 poems in the past, that I just KNEW would win...nothing. Then I've had 4 or 5, that I just threw on there, last minute, come in 2nd or 3rd...go figure. I'll write anyway, ha ha.
Comment from Jacqueline M Franklin
Hi, Steve,
I always enjoy your work, but this one even more. I wanted it to go on. Of course, always wish for a happy ending, but the son getting even is a good thing.
Great work.
Cheers & Blessings
Keep Smilin'.... Jax (*:*)
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
Hi, Steve,
I always enjoy your work, but this one even more. I wanted it to go on. Of course, always wish for a happy ending, but the son getting even is a good thing.
Great work.
Cheers & Blessings
Keep Smilin'.... Jax (*:*)
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Jax, thanks as always for the kind words - I had my doubts about the ending so glad you liked it.
Steve
Comment from Cookie333
Excellent! A wonderfully told tale you created my friend. This one read extremely well, and what a storyline.
I wish you all the best
Thank you for sharing this creation
Karen
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
Excellent! A wonderfully told tale you created my friend. This one read extremely well, and what a storyline.
I wish you all the best
Thank you for sharing this creation
Karen
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thank you - I was pretty pleased with that story myself!
Steve
Comment from flylikeaneagle
Well written with the mixed meter and story of suspence. The king just wanted an heir, The end was nigh and the walls were high and the hero flies. Wow, ghost stories to tell at the campfire... great entry.
flylikeaneagle
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
Well written with the mixed meter and story of suspence. The king just wanted an heir, The end was nigh and the walls were high and the hero flies. Wow, ghost stories to tell at the campfire... great entry.
flylikeaneagle
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thank you - glad you enjoyed!
Steve
Comment from bob cullen
Fanstory has many good poets and a few who are exceptional, and you, kiwisteveh certainly fit into the exceptional category.
You provide proof to my pet theory, the ineptness of the rating system.
You write the poetry I like to read
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
Fanstory has many good poets and a few who are exceptional, and you, kiwisteveh certainly fit into the exceptional category.
You provide proof to my pet theory, the ineptness of the rating system.
You write the poetry I like to read
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thanks, Bob, for the great review and the six stars - not to mention the flattering words.
As for the rating system, I reckon I could crack it if I posted every day and then reviewed like crazy to pump the posts up - who has the time and energy to do that?!
Steve
Comment from dmt1967
This story in a poem is very well written. I like the punctuation as it makes it more haunting and spooky. The man on the horse reminded me of the take of the headless horsemen except your one wasn't headless. Good luck in the contest and thank you for sharing.
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
|
This story in a poem is very well written. I like the punctuation as it makes it more haunting and spooky. The man on the horse reminded me of the take of the headless horsemen except your one wasn't headless. Good luck in the contest and thank you for sharing.
Comment Written 04-Feb-2015
reply by the author on 05-Feb-2015
-
Thanks for the kind words.
Steve
