The onset of spring and so now it feels as if the time is right to open a new window unto the world; to unearth a fertile patch of web, a plot within which to plant my future scribblings. This space I have named Nedaseungreda....
...I found the word Nedaseungreda engraved on a medieval sword blade in the V&A Museum, London. The caption at the museum said they had no direct translation of the word but believe that, as if a spell, it had been inscribed upon the sword in order to protect the knight in battle. Looking at the inscription the owner would have been reminded of all those things his/her knighthood stood for.
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| Sword, with straight quillons and a wheel-shaped pommel, English, 1250-1300, recovered from Whittlesea Mere, Cambridgeshire in the 1840s. the long double-edged blade constructed of two parallel pattern welded rods to give a shallow concave medial fuller which is decorated with an inlaid talismanic inscription in latten letters on both sides. |
I believe that sometimes we all need symbols like this to help remind us what it is we stand for. I have a great admiration for those people who, despite the contradictory world around them, the challenges they will have to face, the sacrifices they might have to make, still aspire to a certain truth. For me 'Nedaseungreda' is representative of the battles we sometimes have fight in order to stay honest to what is we believe in. I hope that by baring this name upon my blog it will continue to inspire, just as it once did the knight who carried it.
I leave you for now with a piece I wrote, and which Matt Black illustrated, that was loosely inspired by the sword above. In three parts, as if themselves reflections, so these words will remain puddled upon the surface of my blog:
Part One
An oversized rocking chair, wood slowly splintering as if the emigration of a thousand tiny spines. They rise up, out from within its heavy arms and like flames their flickering reaches for the window. Each one a dusty tear blurring its single eye. In order to watch he tilts his own head, doubt blinded by emotion as they begin to spiral toward the black glass. Lids heavy, his slit of concious drawn to a close by the cacophony of what formally had been such seasonal tides. And so this winter hope's grin springs from the warmth of bulbs, the spread of his desk fallen icy cold. Fingers skate before him and yet still those memories sing, twist his ear lobes first east and then west. As always, the pendulum swings.
Part Two
Another moon chimes, the attic silence of old unfolding as if a new born flock of wings, air undulating as their limbs slip from the darkness. So once again the sands of time begin to decend, each grain drawn from the crest of mourning, herself a falling lament. Flakes of white, her toes reach for the crumpled yellow canvas, narrow eyes drawn against the tumbling shafts of light. Her lashes palms, their silhouttes stencils, petals enveloped by the eternal blue hearth she waits, for the sun's incandescent ashes to curl around her limbs, begin to swirl within the plams of her cupped hands.
I leave you for now with a piece I wrote, and which Matt Black illustrated, that was loosely inspired by the sword above. In three parts, as if themselves reflections, so these words will remain puddled upon the surface of my blog:
Part One An oversized rocking chair, wood slowly splintering as if the emigration of a thousand tiny spines. They rise up, out from within its heavy arms and like flames their flickering reaches for the window. Each one a dusty tear blurring its single eye. In order to watch he tilts his own head, doubt blinded by emotion as they begin to spiral toward the black glass. Lids heavy, his slit of concious drawn to a close by the cacophony of what formally had been such seasonal tides. And so this winter hope's grin springs from the warmth of bulbs, the spread of his desk fallen icy cold. Fingers skate before him and yet still those memories sing, twist his ear lobes first east and then west. As always, the pendulum swings.
Another moon chimes, the attic silence of old unfolding as if a new born flock of wings, air undulating as their limbs slip from the darkness. So once again the sands of time begin to decend, each grain drawn from the crest of mourning, herself a falling lament. Flakes of white, her toes reach for the crumpled yellow canvas, narrow eyes drawn against the tumbling shafts of light. Her lashes palms, their silhouttes stencils, petals enveloped by the eternal blue hearth she waits, for the sun's incandescent ashes to curl around her limbs, begin to swirl within the plams of her cupped hands.
Part Three
The day blinks, all thoughts suddenly fireflies. The glow of yesterday's embers smoke beneath my soles sat so coldly now upon the doorstep; eyes to the sky, my cradled coffee cup and I, the winds silent reproach. Dreams rise shyly, with wry smiles freckle the night. Stll though I hear them whisper... '...listener? Once woken, be sure to sleep tight.'
Hauntingly beautiful! Thank you for this blog, and for being such a welcome and inspiring muse!
ReplyDeleteThank you for your kind words :) and you'll have to forgive me for my slow reply, taking me a little while to get the hang of this 'blogging'. Wishing you all the best with your own work.
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