The Octava Real is the Spanish version of the Ottava Rima. This 14th century stanzaic form, like its Italian counterpart, is a narrative, often telling the story of important events.

The Octava Real is:
* stanzaic, written in any number of octaves.
* hendecasyllabic, written in 11 syllable lines.
* rhymed, abababcc.
* a narrative, tells a story.


In the Public Domain - The Artwork: (metmuseum.org)
In Fairyland: A Series of Pictures from the Elf-World

Artist:Richard Doyle (British, London 1824 - 1883 London)
Author:Poems by William Allingham (Irish, Ballyshannon, Donegal 1824 - 1889 Hampstead, London)
Engraver:Engraved and printed in color by Edmund Evans (British, Southwark, London 1826 - 1905 Ventnor, Isle of Wight)
Publisher:Longman, Green, Reader and Dyer (London)
Date:1870
Medium:Illustrations: color wood engraving and color lithography

My thought process of the day:

I was browsing public domain images of classic art. I found a piece that I really liked by a Spanish artist. The artwork is of a fairy. Since the artist was Spanish, I thought I'd read up on forms of Spanish poetry, to my delight I found several. I chose one of the forms and began to write this poem. I had it almost done and realized that the artwork I'd chosen wasn't a good match for the poem. I did another search and found one I felt was perfect.

Upon further research, I discovered that this piece (pictured above) had been used as an illustration in a book of poems by William Allingham in 1870. From there I went to see if I could find some of his poems. I found this one (printed below) at poemhunter.com. It is titled, The Fairies. Those who know a little something about where I'm from might smile at the irony of me finding this piece of poetry today, just as I did. And thus, for a few moments, I've fancied William Allingham the King, and myself, the Queen of the gay Northern Lights. That being said, I'll dedicate this poem to Bridget, whomever she might have been.

Thank you for taking the time to read and review.

Kim

The Fairies by William Allingham

Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.

High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
If any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!

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