A Finer Head of Jazz

Tags

chanson de geste, Elaine Stirling, hemistich, medieval heroic poetry, poetry of the troubadours, Spanish romance, W.S. Merwin

The paddle wheel turns     while the river mist rises
and the crew moves slowly     so as not to disturb
around this passenger     tearing into tiny pieces
manifestos of despair     with names she would rather
dispel and forget, if not     remember sweetly
was it all just a lesson     in love or navigation
of flow or mechanics?     she left school years ago.
passengers still sleeping     miss the paper snowfall
cannot read or learn     and those who snatch at scraps
thinking they know    the message, must they crow?

The river boat docks     while the new moon rises
and the flag is withdrawn     so as not to offend
the merchant class waiting     I know who to greet
with crisp bills of lading     no starving artists
in this bright new land     where spontaneity rules
with civil peace and unity     I pen my thoughts
with firmness; to ignore     when there’s nothing to be said
keeps the current fresh     and the bass notes
played by sailors dreaming     offer a finer head of jazz.

~~~

This form of poetry, apart from the sonnet, perhaps, has caused more muddle and distress in my creative education than any other. I’m calling it a Spanish romance, not because I’ve achieved it but because, in the chronology of my poetic experience, this was the name given. You could also call it chanson de geste, in the medieval French tradition. Click on the hyperlink, and you’ll see what a poet’s breakfast it is.

The first of two important poets to introduce me to this style is W.S Merwin who, when he was very young, at the urging of Ezra Pound, translated and published Spanish Ballads. The hemistich in the center approximates, for me, a river of space that meanders and holds the left and right apart. By reading the half lines vertically, you can experience two separate poems, which, joined, create the whole piece.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

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Partimens are such sweet sorrow: the dialogues

Tags

copla de arte mayor, Dead Edit Redo, dialogue verse, Elaine Stirling, medieval fixed verse, narrative form poetry, octavo, partimen, the Court of Love, The Third Place

The prologue to this piece can be found here.

Round One

From firm amen to firmament, so be it, she
began the discourse known as partimen,
but do not think I shall be ladylike and see
with batty and forgiving eyes the truths you bend
to fabricate and lubricate dumbstruck women.
I was one, I know. The ground is pocked with hidey
holes of those who wish that life could be more tidy,
while secretly they hope you will happen again.

Touché! I thought you’d give me too much credit. Not
enough is better—keeps me hungry, slightly mad
and vengeful. Hidey holes are fine, but not a lot
of fun once scars have healed. For you to think me bad
is easier than to maintain a Galahad.
I like my women small, pretending helplessness,
but only so that I can put off happiness
and float, a former prince, upon this lilypad.

You make me want to croak, said she. What happened to
the fearless knave, enchanting minds and broken hearts?
If not for you, I never would have wandered through
these catacombs to echoes of assembled starts
that went nowhere but could. I would have missed the arts
of time, of rhyme and pulse, the sciences of grace.
Tributes to you are heaped and crammed in every space,
while thieves are making off with who you were in carts.

Round Two

The poet from a slowly moving eddy watched
the poetess and waited for the impulse that
would stir to words that either remedied or botched.
I know I have done both to you, knocked hard and flat
the tenderness you offered. I’m a heartless brat,
but for all that, we are together still. What yearned
in you for me is gone; I see what I have burned.
Why is it hot in here? Who turned the thermostat?

The poetess who always had too much to say
felt planks of certainty break loose and start to drift.
Get back here, you! A partimen, once started, may
not lie unfinished. Someone had to drag and lift
what constancy remained; she could not lose this gift
or him! To no one in particular, she said,
I don’t recall what ejected you from my bed.
My rhythm’s off. I can’t iamb. What is this shift?

The poet wept, but not so that his former love
could see or know what kept them, while embodied, bound.
Fleshless, boneless, he had nothing now left to prove.
I’m here, he said, for what it’s worth. The hallowed ground
you sought I could not be, and what I thought I found
in you seemed easily replaceable. The chase
was all I knew. Outrunning you became the race.
They may find traces of us in some burial mound.

The Arbiter

She walks along the shore, a pocketful of spheres
and dreams that spin above her head in tubular
and spiral shapes. When beauty’s crushed, nothing adheres,
some plaintive voice is telling her in angular
profusions. What we two achieved was jugular
and cruel. Not so, she says. Your ballast holds me here
in this new place where sound precurses poetry
of dialogue from two to three, spectacular!

~~~

This partimen in the 8-line, 12-syllable style of “copla mayor” is dedicated to L.F., glosera.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Spin Class: A Rondeau Redoublé

Tags

banishing the unwanted, Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, form poetry, French medieval verse, inviting what you want, one woman's meaning of life, rondeau, the power of grace

A muse, a maze, there is a mystery
of complicated steps dancing us around
a pole we called the jubilation tree
until we bored our senses to the ground.

Garlands of happiness cannot be found
when blame and fear o’ertake me
at the roots, entangled by what sounds
a muse, a maze, there is a mystery.

If I could be amazed and let the fury
fall to stillness, be amused, unbound
by webs of politics, I’d re-examine history
of complicated steps dancing us around.

Niccoló knew it’s easy to astound
a stunnéd prince who shuns simplicity,
while Henry drew from Walden’s ground
a pole we called the jubilation tree.

The wondrous mind embraces symmetry;
resentment blinds and clubs us down
to sizes never meant to be. This we could see
until we bored our senses to the ground.

I am now freedom bound,
unique, an axis mundi, mystery
of stillpoint rising, a revolving mound
of song and laughter, poetry,
a muse, a maze.

~~~

Author’s Note: Long before there were dust busters, leaf blowers, and other noisy banishers of the unwanted, we had fixed form poetry. Energy-efficient and quiet, fixed verse like the rondeau had—still has—the effect of rousing desiccated thought systems and blowing them the heck out, if we choose. We are what we think. We are also what we allow ourselves to believe. As kids, we didn’t have much choice over what we took in, and much of what we defend as adults, especially when it’s noisy, knee-jerk, and name-calling in nature, sources from those creepy old dust bunnies. Niccoló refers to Machiavelli, a highly misunderstood soul, while Henry’s identity, I’m sure, is self-evident.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of Yggdrasil, the World Ash, from Wikipedia

Man of Magic, Woman of Wit

Tags

cobla exchange, Elaine Stirling, for the love of Mexico, French medieval verse, fun and silly rhyming verse, humour, Law of Attraction, nagual, narrative poetry, Oaxaca, Occitan form poetry, partimen, poetic dialogue, rancheros, Tehuantepec, tenso

A Partimen with mature content: reader discretion advised

I met you on the streets of Oaxaca
at night, staggering home from a party
or fight, you were singing rancheros
with all of your might, and I feared
my chihuahua would die of sheer—

Frightened you were, my love, that
I agree, I affirm uncontestedly, but we
met on a boat in Tehuantepec. You
admired my muscles, the curve
of my peck—

No, no, no! A lady of virtue that
I surely am would never engage
in ogling a man, though as I recall
I was waving a fan in the heat
of the boat and your hand—

Two threes and a king
wouldn’t buy me a taco, but
you had this thing that you did
with your eyes, and my courage
she rose, and a thought came to
life in the crook of my thighs…

Go on, I’m listening.

…and I looked at the guys
who were looking at you—

And I knew when you won
with the crappiest hand I had
found me the one, a magical man
who could hold up his own in the
face of my wit on the boat,
the canal of Tehuantepec—

No, no, no! They never did
build the canal, I was wrong.
We met in Oaxaca, the streets
were quite empty, and your little
hua-hua despised my guitarra,
but I kept on singing ‘cause you
gave me power, and now we are—

Masterful, magic and wit, forever
inseparable, though I submit we
should quit this partimen and
find a cantina. It’s your turn to pay.

~~~

Walking the streets of Oaxaca
at night is not recommended,
but if you should find yourself
craving tamales, garnachas,
a nice chimichanga with no
other signs of a Mexican
hunger, then do check your
pockets and heart—not for
money, but things you believe
in. If love is not there or you’ve
squashed it with reason, look
around in the dark, in the shadows
you’ll find a handsome señor and
his foxy señora, their yappy
chihuahua who hates the
laments of ranchero guitarra.

They’ve come not to harm you
but show you a way to chase
the unwanted diablitos away
like this, sing with me…

Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores!

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image: streets of Oaxaca, Mexico,
from Wikipedia