Grim Folklore

Kuno listens to an old dwarf's tale before the throne of King Goldemar, king of the dwarfs. Artist not named, 1877

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Along the Ruhr River, A righteous steed was spurred. Where few such creatures wander, A noble old kobold, Brought riches to squalor, After a mockery he endured.

A king he claimed to be, A princess as his wife, Though she loomed above him, While he tuned his harp, And sharpened his knife.

He came to the castle, In a time of great ruin. For he loved the mortals, And would share their undoing.

He pled with King Neveling, Who offered a dwelling, Upon his own royal bed, Although he also was wed.

His name the kobold kept hid, And so too his face, Free to wander the castle, and put the clergy in their place.

Humbly, he demanded, But a seat with the king, And as much wine and mead, As he liked to drink, Between hands of fate, The kobold so loved keeping.

Fortune favored the house, The River Ruhr flowed with gold. King Neveling blessed his guest, The charmed and charming kobold.

But alas the house divided, And so the minds of men, Came together and decided, To glimpse the master’s friend.

Cold and slimy fingers they felt, And wondered who might he be, This blessed guest, Who vaguely crept, around during their sleep.

A foolish soul burned short and bright, Scattered ashes aimless, To see a print of the sprite, Who shared the master’s chambers.

The gracious kobold, Whose story is told, Had been so very ruffled, That he cut the unwise person up, and stewed him with some truffles.

Then in the night, Like a bird in fright, The kobold took his leave. Upon his door, A note that bore, A message so to grieve.

Sommersonnenwende by Igor Maykov

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Barren trees upon rotten leaves fall still. Hands that tend to fire burned slow and brown, Can not help but swiftly recall at will, Where lightning flies anchored upon a crown.

Fair fingers did lead beneath earthen weeds, Where pink heavens in cautious bloom arise. Infested with violet creams and deeds, That spoil ripe when a single tear cries.

By infinite turns and orbital lights, A bidding that binds well to soft velvet. Secretly swaying on midsummer nights, Joined at the crease where will and power met.

But candles provided While children were chided And wells sprung from the earth

Time will slow and broaden Tortuous, forgotten And deaf to cheers of mirth.

Written on July 12th

A feast the likes of which are seen of old A feast where wine flows alongside gold An Elven feast fit for mortal kings A forest feast among sacred rings

I come invited from a distant land To clutch sterling silver in signet hand Little we distinguish in song and speech Elven fingers upon harps of beech

My brothers and I are of royalty The forest must provide for me We drink and eat with heavying head, Ripened fruits and grain-rich bread

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Twas six and twenty years that hence We lost brothers to such offense To fury so deep We dare not weep Until we leave the caverns immense

We sought for gold, with scraping hands In mountain caves, in distant lands Alongside giants Who dwell defiant With silent voices make deaf demands

Days atoil, beneath soil and air We wandered into a monstrous lair Twelve fell mute Upon the brute We gazed in awe, as faces turned fair

A cowl of night and hair of white Stature wide and great of height Mountain monk So deeply sunk With eyes and skin aflame to sight

Upon us all to lightning smite His hammer swung with godly might To crush the heads And drag the dead Beneath the rocks for his delight

The dark consumed our screams of pain At the giant’s breath the acid rained Blistered and blind We left our kind To boil and burn and entertain

Three of us of twelve are left With hand and face of skin bereft We mourn, we yearn For brothers return From deep and golden halls of death

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Der Wechselbalg (The Changeling) by Henry Fuseli, 1781

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A cradle unguarded

A candle unlit

An unlocked door

No place to sit

A frigid north wind

On midsummer eve

A bed so warm

Difficult to leave

But whisked far away

In hands of white

A sweet melody

Of song and light

Daybreak comes

All is safe and sound

Child sleeps deep

With ears of a hound

A fire for a meal

Kettle starts to whistle

Mother bare-handed

Frau Gauden according to Jakob Grimm

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As evening’s mellow fades to night Water glances off dying light Frau Gauden does alight From home, she walks to the woods

To seek where shadows do take flight All the lonely beasts afright By torch and axe she grips with might Unfettered, she walks in the woods

At her flanks, her daughters guard Their dearest mother with faces hard Against the darkness, smoky, charred Together, they parade through the woods

Many a beast slain by this vangaurd Praised by townsfolk, sung by bards Beloved despite their faces scarred Firs bend when they walk in the woods

Alas Frau Gauden, finally the prey To a Beast she could not delay Lying abed, she begs to stay And asks to forever walk in the woods

Scorned but cruel enough to obey The Beast stalks viciously away Frau Gauden rises, blesses the day And yet another walk in the woods

But as she steps outside her door The garments that her daughters wore Replaced with fur, all twenty-four As they yelp and bound through the woods

Erlkoenig by Moritz von Schwind

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Where are you running to, child? The day is young and the forest is wide. Listen to the creek, hear the birds in the trees, do they not beckon you, call for you? I have many children, fine children like yourself, with golden hair and eyes of sky. They would play with you by the river if only you would come. And the day is so warm! Let the sun still peer upon your face and give life to your pale cheeks. The water will refresh your perspired brow.

There are many meadows in the wood, have you not heard tales? Flowers you have seen in memory and dream, just footsteps away. Your mother has a keen eye for colors and beauty, my daughters shall pick a bunch for her household. But they must give it to you, and you must come to them. Fear not, I know the way there and back. Follow me, you bright-eyed wonder.

It is only afternoon my delightful one, why do you rush to return home? Has the forest treated you so cruelly? Have I done wrong by you? Stay for a feast and allow me to soothe your worries. We have laid a place for you at our oaken table, beside me and my people. You will dine on cuts of rich meat, and my children will pluck the ripest fruits especially for you. You will taste the woodsfolk’s mead, and feel the lifeblood of the forest run through your veins.

Hush now, your mind is full of the pleasant fog of the forest mead. Sit down a while upon this rock and rest, so that you are well in time to return home. Let me tell you tales of the forest that your people have never heard. Listen closely so that you may tell them of the wonders of the wood. Lay your head in my lap as I speak, put yourself at ease. Oh how splendid is the darkness of your hair and brow, like soil after a rainfall, from which blooms young green shoots. And how soft! There now, close your eyes and rest, let the haze fade from your mind.

Do not fear my beautiful one, it is not long after sunset. The evening light still remains. You are safe here with me, I have protected you from those who would harm you. What is this? You wish to leave, even after all the good I have done you? What of the forest, dear one? You have not seen the wood at night, it is both beautiful and mysterious, and it would delight you to see. Do not think of your foolish mother, she has abandoned you to me, she has not even come after you. The forest has accepted you as one of its own, would you forfeit that?

Do not shrink away from me, I have proven myself to you, it is time you do the same. What of the beauty of the river, the endless meadows, the hearty meals, the wonder of the wood? And what of me, am I unsuitable to you?

You cannot leave, I cannot bear to be parted from you. You are young but you have seen so much, and your mind is pristine beyond measure. Your beautiful form excites me; I must have you. If you will not come back to me I will take you, even if it pains me.

Asgårdsreien (The Wild Hunt of Odin) by Peter Nicolai Arbo

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Thy rest was deep at the slumberer's hour,     If thou didst not hear the blast Of the savage horn, from the Mountain-tower,     When the Wild Night-Huntsman past, And the roar of the stormy chase went by, Through the dark unquiet sky!

The Wild Huntsman by Felicia Hemans

“All you who wander in town Shut firmly door and window Listen to the mighty sound Of thunder in a forest meadow!”

Bows of pine rustle overhead Curtains shield every face “Children! To cradle and to bed!” No mortal man may give chase

For to behold the undead host And rippled steeds aflame Is to walk among them, a ghost Without memory or name

Yet foolish youth on the road Away from weakened rays Finds his path soon to be slowed and idle as the final horn plays

Crickets flee the gathering fire Then rats and birds and snakes Give rise to a famished choir For which the earth shakes

The boy is of flesh and mud Melody become shrill word The Hunt is wreathed in blood And its terrible leader is heard

“Arise from darkness, fiery mounts Savagely gnashing and enslaved! Upon many-legged horses and hounds You sallow-eyed and depraved!

To me, legions of Hell, my flock You will serve me well in death Let us capture our livestock And inhale its dying breath!”

Surrounded for a spell Light and noise fade away And youth awakes well Upon the road, at boiling midday