I Met a Bard Upon a Moonstruck Night

At Pennsic 35 (2006), I had my closest thing to a “Pennsic fling.” There was a certain bard who caught my attention and I became infatuated with. Unfortunately for me, this bard was particularly popular with the ladies. It was getting towards the end of War, we were both at a bardic circle, and I thought, “Tonight is the night.” I was leaning against his shoulder, as were about three other ladies. It was about 2 am. If I were going back to my tent — a nylon tent on the Serengeti — I knew I needed to start heading back to bed. But of course I wasn’t planning on going back to my tent, I was planning on returning to his, nestled amongst some trees on the path down to the Bog.

Time passed. The circle closed. It was about 4 am. I suggested that the two of us return down the hill to his tent. He at least had the decency to look ashamed as he said, “Actually, I’m going back to this other lady’s tent.” Well, I did the only thing I could do: I wished them well and returned to my cold, lonely tent for far too little sleep. I was heartbroken… for about 12 hours, after which time my natural flirtatiousness kicked in and I put Lord Bard out of my mind.

Then, after Pennsic, a friend challenged me to write a sonnet about something that had happened to me during the War, and this story came rushing back into my mind. Here’s what I came up with.

I Met a Bard Upon a Moonstruck Night
by Katherine Ashewode, “The Pocket Bard”
based on actual events of Pennsic 35
September 2006

I met a bard upon a moonstruck night,
Beside the fire listened to his song,
His eyes shone bright as diamonds in the light,
His voice resounded rich, and deep, and strong.

Our eyes crossed paths before the flick’ring glow,
He placed a gentle hand upon my knee.
His cloak about my shoulders seemed to show
That shortly to his tent we both would flee.

He rose, he said but for the briefest time,
It was an hour more ’till he returned,
And on his arm I saw a maiden fine!
Her lips received his kiss while me he spurned.

But in this choice ’tis he who missed the mark,
For I am fire; she the merest spark.

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