Yet another King Arthur incarnation. “King Arthur: Legend of the Sword” filmed by director Guy Ritchie in 2017 will air on HBO March 25 to April 1. It is a testament to the staying power of the legendary King Arthur, his Knights of the Round Table, and Camelot that Ritchie, who is known for crime and mystery films not for fantasy or adventure films, decided to take on the storied topic.
Yet, Ritchie’s choice is also not surprising. The Western imagination can never seem to escape Arthur, nor does it seem to want to. Even the 17th-century English poet John Milton, famous for his epic “Paradise Lost,” at one time planned to make his great epic Arthurian rather than biblical. Outside of religious or spiritual beliefs, no set of stories seems to resonate so vividly, or cinematically, if you will, across the English-speaking world as those of King Arthur. The fact that historians still debate whether or not a real King Arthur even existed is largely irrelevant. He exists in our hearts and minds without a doubt.
Excerpted from ‘Idylls of the King’
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)King Arthur Inspires New Poetry
See how modern poets still treat Arthur as a serious subject. Keith Robson, 69, of England, writes subtly and suggestively about an Uncle Arthur. Lastly, I drew upon my real visit to the ruins of Tintagel Castle in England, thought to be King Arthur’s birthplace, to write this ballad.The Clockwork Butterfly
By Keith RobsonWhen I was a child, and my dreams were of gold I always believed everything I was told, My faith was implicit, my innocence pure And magic existed, of that I was sure. My old uncle Arthur was always in bed His twinkling eyes sunken into his head, He told me his stories of dragons and elves That lived in the books on his library shelves.
On the table that stood at the foot of his bed Was an old leather box colored purple and red, And the lid was embroidered in threads of maroon With the soft shining face of the man in the moon. I asked him to show me what rested inside And he said ‘Press the button, and open it wide!’, Then up from the box, with a deep whirring sigh Rose a magic mechanical gold butterfly.
It fluttered its wings as it gently spun round Its beauty serene in the absence of sound, And I was entranced by its magical flight As it bathed in the flame of the candle’s soft light. As I lay in my bed with my head in a dream I still could imagine the butterfly’s gleam, So I made up my mind to go back the next day To watch the gold butterfly flutter and play.
Visiting the Ruins of Tintagel Castle
By Evan MantykI wandered through a forest deep in Cornish countryside And thought I saw some elves asleep And giants run to hide.
The branches gnarled like magic wands, Green velvet moss on trees, The ivy cloaked around the ponds, Soft rocks bejeweled the streams.
I wandered further out to where The hedges walled the roads, The open hills go rolling there As on the tongue roll odes.
The Force of Man stands tall and proud Filled up with stubborn rock, Draped in a grassy battle shroud, O’er eons, taking stock.
The Force of Nature peers right back, So endless, flat, and deep. An earthquake or a tidal attack May make Man’s fatal sleep.
What’s speckled on the battlefield Midst stairways, bridges, paths? The people small try not to yield To war’s long grinding wrath.
They’re pushing onward on their way With virtue in their hearts, Creating beauty every day, Each waking, playing parts.
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