Revel-ations (or, Through the Drinking Glass)
[(Being observations of the poet while attending mostly Ostgardian events between February A.S. XXX, St. Valentine's, and August A.S. XXXI, Pennsic XXV, with apologies to Lewis Caroll.)Ñby Anabel Ravaya de Guzman

he snow was gleaming on the ground, gleaming oh so fair.
It did its very best to cover all things everywhere.
And this was odd, you see, because the spring was in the air.

The spring was brooding sulkily, because she thought the snow
had got no business being there, and that it ought to go.
"How very rude of it," she said, "to come and spoil my show."

The Baron and the Pelican were sitting down to dine.
They wept like anything to see such quantities of wine.
"If only this were drunk away," they said, "it would be fine."

"If ten stout guests with ten stout thirsts drank it for half the night,
do you suppose," the Baron said, "that it would be all right?"
"I doubt it," said the Pelican, "but still, I hope they try't."

The Hall was wet as wet could be, the feast the grandest sight.
The gentles oh so full of grace, and the food fight was polite,
to start with a scrap of quail and end with raspberry delight.

But beware the Russian water when you sit down to drink.
Though cool and clear and odorless, Ôtis stronger than you think.
One moment you are wide awake, enjoying of the day,
the next you're down, as if one dead, until you're dragged away.

And it is something of a bother when a dance-master's your beau.
All revel long you wonder if you're treading on his toe.
Though your garb may be quite fetching and your words considered sweet,     you're afraid that the impression you have made is on his feet.

When the spring finally arrived and painted green the land,
gentles sported themselves gaily and did parade so grand.
But if you took a closer look at that lady over there,
you found not all was as it seemed: the lady's face had hair!
And at the Coronation of fair Morgan and Bjorn
we were privileged to witness a new Pelican being born.
Among all Peers most noble, of truest heart and pure,
almost as if to prove the point, he humbly asked, "Are you sure?"

At midsummer's eve to distant Muttontown we went
to laugh and sing and dance and play before the season's spent.
There was much to eat and drink as well, jests and pranks much to be      had,
but if you sense of humor was too thin, then it was just too baaaad.

"Will you dance a little faster?" said the lady to her beau.
"Squire What's-His-Name's behind us, and he's treading on my toe.
He has a way with women and he's really rather sweet.
He has made a big impression, but alas, Ôtis on my feet!"

"Oh, men-at-arms, come march with us!" the squire stood and cried.
We've come this far to go to War, to stem the Midrealm's tide.
We cannot do with less than four to start upon this ride."

Four strapping fighters hurried up all eager for the treat:
Their helmets buffed, their tabards washed, their armor clean and neat,     and this was fine as they formed ranks and marched down the street.

Four other fighters followed them, and yet another four,
and thick and fast they came at last, and more and more and more,
all marching toward the greening woods, all trotting to the fore.

But when they came upon the field to bring the foe to heel,
to their dismay all that they saw was row Ôpon row of steel,
but still so valiantly they fought, with all honor and all zeal.

And when the heavens broke with a clatter and a roar,
and a veritable deluge came in noisiest downpour,
these great hearts kept all fed and dry.  Of this tale there's not much more.

Through drink and dance and pouring rain, through loves both won and lost,     the noble ideals high we share, through all lines cut across,
Grace, Honor, Courtesy and Love endure through tempests tossed.


From the October 1996 Seahorse