One thing that I’ve always found rather amazing is how pervasive the Arthurian Legends remain in our culture. One of my favorite series of books, Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising Cycle, is heavily based on Arthurian myths. The Once and Future King gives a history of Arthur from boyhood on, and he appears in a whole slew of other books. There are references in music - from Led Zeppelin’s Battle of Evermore through Roxy Music’s Avalon. Then you have all the movies about Arthur - the best of which is, of course, Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Recently, I’ve had references surface in two rather unexpected places. The other evening the family and I watched the Babylon 5 Episode A Late Delivery from Avalon which draws on the Arthur myth for inspiration - and uses it in a very non-contrived and believable way - in an excellent episode featuring Michael York who completely nails the role of “Arthur”. The other place I’ve encountered Arthur - and, oddly enough, T.S. Elliot’s The Wasteland - is in Tim Powers’ book Last Call, where Arthurian legend mixes with the Fisher King stories and the Tarot deck to create a story as compelling as it is unpredictable.

So to keep with the theme, I’ve decided to share a poem on Arthur today. Even though Tennyson wrote a boatload of poems about Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot, and the rest of Camelot I’m going to give him a pass. It’s not that I don’t like his poems, but I wanted something a bit shorter and with more of a punch to it. Given that - and because his first name fits the theme - I’ve chosen Legend By Arthur Guiterman.

Legend Arthur Guiterman

Boulders huge and dales encumber Where, in necromantic slumber Arthur lies with all his peers Through the long, long days of summer, Through the long, long nights of winter, Through the hundred, hundred years.

Gray is all the vale untrodden, Cloud and crag are gray and hodden, Gray the earth whence nothing grows; Gray the hue of hills and rocks is; Nothing red is there but foxes, Nothing black is there but crows.

Deep the cavern: Twelvescore bowmen, Fivescore knights with tenscore yeomen Sleeping, hedge their sleeping lord, Who reposes, silken-vested, Golden-bearded, massy-chested, Strong and silent as his sword.

Aye, the sword; what arm may guide it! There it hangs, a horn beside it, Near the cavern’s outer bounds Where in dreams of greenwood chases, Clean-limbed, sprawl in fancied races Fourteen packs of coupled hounds.

When the world is old and weary, Loveless, lawless, mirthless, dreary, Racked with doubt, by discord torn, One shall come, in youth immortal, Who shall cross the gloomy portal, Draw the sword and blow the horn.

Broke shall be the spell; up-leaping Hounds, fullcry, shall rouse the sleeping; Steed shall neigh and steel shall ring; Forth shall ride the doughty fighters, Hate-subduers, evil-righters, Knights and yeomen round their king.