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~ because the waves and tumbles of life are only as serious as we make them.

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Tag Archives: fixed verse

Today I Shall Wear a Green Dress

30 Thursday Jul 2015

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, Kew Gardens, poetry, rondeau quatrain

008

“There are songs that come free from the blue-eyed grass,
from the dust of a thousand country roads.”

—Robert James Waller, The Bridges of Madison County

~~a rondeau quatrain~~

today I shall wear a green dress
and reread excerpts from Madison County
eat cheese and spinach pie with flaky pastry
paying less attention to the obvious

cholesterol, they say’s the cause of stress
it may be the reverse, a dearth of poetry
today I shall wear a green dress
and reread excerpts from Madison County

the media diet of desperation and duress
I’ve tossed like arsenic. Gentility
I’ll sip instead, chaw down on parody
whatever celebrates our tendency to mess…

…things up

today I shall wear a green dress
and reread excerpts from Madison County
eat cheese and spinach pie with flaky pastry
paying less attention to the obvious

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
This genteel snapshot is the view from the reading gardens of our local library.

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Toy Soldiers

21 Sunday Sep 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry for Fun

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

early war gaming, Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, HG Wells, International Day of Peace, Plus ça change plus c'est la même chose, poetry for fun, rondeau quatrain

HGWells_Illustrated London News_1913

To cool the fever in his heart,
a boy plays soldiers on his bed
with cavalries of tin and lead
in trenches of chenille held apart

by knobby knees. The war games start
at crack of dawn on pillowed head
to cool the fever in his heart,
a boy plays soldiers on his bed.

Now two and seventy, the major part
of life well spent, he still pits bolshy red
against the fascist hordes; his mortal dread
the cardiologist configures on a chart.

To cool the fever in his heart,
a boy plays soldiers on his bed
with cavalries of tin and lead
in trenches of chenille held apart.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The image that accompanies this rondeau quatrain is of H.G. Wells in 1913, demonstrating a move in the hobby war game he developed. The full article about the author’s “Little Wars”, intended to warn us against the real thing, can be read here.

So You Call Yourself a…

19 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

#TalkLikeaPirateDay, Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, poetry, sonnet

hand writing

Scupper the limits of fiction while ye may;
draw down the lines of first offense and wear
them like the amulets of bone your gram
ten generations back concealed. To stay
where repetition lies for fear you’ll scare
the truth away is poison by the dram.

We’ve all the cup of mortal brew agreed
to drink; the scratching at the tavern door
has sobered some and others turned to drone.
Only a few the rattle and the seed
befriend, and if you be among the four
or five, let freshness be your whetting stone.

Outrun with joy the silence and faint praise,
for nothing less pre-paves the world stage.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Let the River Clear

12 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Form Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, form poetry, triolet

261

A Triolet

I let the river clear itself, take counsel from the weeds
they’re weaving banks for dreaming to begin again

serenity, through secret routes, my deepest hunger feeds
I let the river clear itself, take counsel from the weeds

while currents bend, they dance and stem what bleeds
for minnows to plant silver, to set free the how and when

I let the river clear itself, take counsel from the weeds
they’re weaving banks for dreaming to begin again

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Photograph by author

For You, the Figs Ripen

02 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Form Poetry

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, mantinades, traditional poetry of Crete

figs

On this good day of days, I wonder if you’ve seen the bright stripes
of sun beaming through the window, or is your heart too shuttered?

The rain has stopped; old Rafiki is tuning his mandolin.
People bring jars to gather honey from the cracks in his voice.

Sara still speaks of the midwife who buried your cord to free
you of vendettas. For you, she said, figs will ripen early.

Why, now, do you pollute your mind with actions of evil men?
Every day, it’s harder for me to scrub the soot from your shirts.

Our fate is already sown into the grain of our coffins.
The olive tree knows for whom to bend and pour her fragrant oil.

Let us take the skiff in the morning to Paximadia.
Together, we’ll hunt the rosy pumice blessed by Artemis.

~~~

This is my first attempt at an ancient poetry form developed in the Mediterranean island of Crete. It is called mantinada, derived from Venetian for “morning song”. The couplets are decapentasyllabic, fifteen syllables per line, and are not required to rhyme. In its purest meter, there would be a midline caesura (pause). I let that go in favour of a more conversational style.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Did Anyone Write Poems While We Were Away?

29 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Form Poetry

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Chant Royal, Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, form poetry, narrative poetry

Landscape

I

The rebels set us free today, some stately dance
involving dams and promises to swing the vote.
They gave us time to call our families, a chance
to bathe and trim our nails before the rescue boat
arrived with senators and diplomats whose hats
sat jaunty on their heads. Hugs all around, and pats.
Good job, you have survived! Now, tell us how you feel.
They fed us well that night, a patriotic meal,
a speech from the new President who’d paved the way.
The shyest of us said to him of our ordeal:
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

II

We meet at noon on Tuesdays in High Park, Bonnechance
and me. I come from a volcanic isle, remote,
a goatherd’s daughter; she, from Port-au-Prince. First glance,
you know the squealing children in our care who float
like seahorses from slide to swing, are sometimes brats,
from our sweet wombs they did not fall. Our little sprats
wear shoes because their Mamas tend to kids well-heeled.
Aunties sing them lullabies. They know us by sealed
envelopes with cash. Tears and necessity pay
their way. One day, Mercy will answer our appeal:
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

III

The virus creeps along, alert to circumstance,
fast wed to civil wars, they clutch at groin and throat,
agreements reached beneath the veil, a small distance
from the mission camp, draped in white. A tattered note
hangs in surgery, a psalm above the reed mats.
The young doctor from Santa Cruz sold river rats
to live; she knows and listens for the subtle wheel.
Though outwardly she treats them equally, the deal
of who survives and who moves on does not dismay
her. All patients dream of home, their favourite meal.
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

IV

The officer in camouflage, he prays to chance,
and sure enough, he finds two kids beside the boat
behind the school. I ought to grab you by the pants
and drag you back. You wanna be like me? A goat
too dumb to read? The girl cowers; the boy, he pats
on the shoulder. We need smart men at the salt flats,
unafraid to fight injustice. They watch him peel
open a pack of smokes. Your Mama, how’s she feel,
you skipping school? The little girl’s too tough to sway.
The boy, scratching words in sand, is easy to steal.
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

V

The President’s daughter texts her cheating ex, stance
on her stilettos wide apart. I burned your coat
and alligator shoes, you pr***, don’t try to prance—
A skinny arm, a pistol at her pretty throat,
a trembling whisper. No quick moves. The rebel that’s
obliged to prove himself throws her into a flat
bed truck, tries not to think of Mama eating veal
off fancy plates. The effing princess liked to squeal,
then caught the virus, botched their Proof of Life display.
A strafe of bombs, the boy’s tattered journal reveals:
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

Envoi

Give up the battle to control what others feel
and say. The greatest war is that which you conceal,
the fear of disrespect distorting hearts by day,
each night dissolves to peace and whispers her appeal.
Did anyone write poems while we were away?

~~~

Some of you will recognize the rhyme scheme and repetition of a Chant Royal in this piece. By dividing the stanzas into cantos, I’ve diluted some of the “chant” experience in favour of the narrative’s underlying thread.

The meter is duodecasyllabic, twelve syllables per line.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image comes from Wikipedia.

The Hibiscus are Calling You Home

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Form Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, poetry, reconciliation, rondel

002

A Rondel

The hibiscus are calling you home
beyond the hurt, beyond the tangled
cords that locked your words in tones
I couldn’t hear, in cells that mangled.

How I wish I could have known
and seen your soul differently angled.
The hibiscus are calling you home
beyond the hurt, beyond the tangled

floating gardens specially grown
by the lords of Xochimilco are spangled
with your name, no more fear to jangle
or confuse. My love accompanies this poem;
the hibiscus are calling you home.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Perennial Selfie

13 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Form Poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Archilochus, brave new business leadership, Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, form poetry, iambe, Jeremy Bentham, satirical verse, The Corporate Storyteller, utilitarianism

Jeremy_Bentham_Auto-Icon

Behold, friends, my Auto Icon,
perennial display of nattiness and wit.
Reluctant to move wholly on,
I chose to leave for you my bones and choicest bits.

While you across this mortal coil
still shuffle debts, post shots of self while text-obsessed,
believing in the power of toil,
I offer you a fresher choice in form of quest.

I sought through life utility,
maximizing happiness, minimizing pain,
measuring length of amity.
In five million pages or less, I laid it plain.

My felicific calculus
proves truer than it ever has, though the software
has some bugs, I am serious.
The utility of you runs smooth, everywhere.

To the furthest cosmic reaches
you perceive with unerring possibility
all the swells and sandy beaches
of the best alternatives and most variety.

Every grand success rose first
in the imagination of a quicker mind
as a solution from the worst.
The path of least resistance is your greatest find.

Mistake me not! The borderlands
of what will take you and what will leave you behind
are clearly marked with solid bands,
electrified. In every way, they’re well defined.

What you must learn to navigate
is absolute intolerance toward feeling bad,
coupled with refusal to state
in word or thought all that diminishes the glad.

As your numbed senses come to life,
thinking dumbed by needless loyalties will sharpen
and the instant path will flash, rife
with the next best step, to which all aid will hearken.

Your perennial self lives now
for there is nowhere else to expect and receive
the best. Relax your furrowed brow
and forget the dusty bones of us when you leave…

to meet your great acclaim
and grow into the beauty of your name.

~~~

The bones of this poem are inspired by Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832) whose Auto Icon (his coinage) resides to this day at University College, London. Bentham is remembered, somewhat simplistically, as the father of Utilitarianism, its objective being the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people.

The form I’ve employed is called “iambe”, a satirical fixed verse that comes down to us from the Greek poet Archilochus (c. 680-645 BCE). Seventeenth-century French satirists established the meter as octosyllables alternating with alexandrines, eight syllables, then twelve, with a rhyme scheme of abab, cdcd, etc. The quatrains’ awkward swing from long to short works well with a theme intended to stir things up.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Why Poets Think (erroneously) They are Unread, Pt. IV

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Narrative poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Elaine Stirling, ennead, fixed verse, narrative poetry

muse2

I

Spy, thief, beggar, and the merchants of
grief meet in the halls of great relief,
to receive instruction from above.

The poet we’ve tested for belief
has vanished into a thorny wood,
but the trees protect her with their leaf

and root. Pursuing her now, no good
would come. She knows your scent and taste too
well. It’s time you all removed your hoods.

II

The sunny god watched his shadowed crew
disrobe, disarm their twilight disguise,
while his tidal mate cold ashes blew

into a flame, revealing high shelves
where all the selves of one book of life
lay scrolled in a chrysalis of cells.

Instructions we will leave, good wife,
in the purveying of great relief,
joyful and wealthy, absent of strife.

III

In every endeavour, three is chief.
Ask with trust. Relax, allow. Receive.
A looping pair, delight and mischief

are the cursive pen of Logos, word,
the poet’s ink, the poet’s gold, met
halfway if not more by our great lord

of commerce, quick-silvered, wings of jet;
his flash outruns, outshines the copper
coins and bits of markets that don’t let.

IV

Though mulish still, she is well trained. Her
ear is glued to all we’re saying. She’ll
steal us blind; we’ll come around to better

sight and so on, both deeply and well
the poet is heard. She knows that we
never left nor ceased to toll her bell.

Here ends our treatise, friends, that will free
any poet who wishes to see
abundance wed with infinity.

***
The priestess gathers her I / you / we
and sails off to meet her destiny.

Finis

~~~

Post Script: A Recap on Poetic Form

If you’ve been reading Oceantics for a while, you’ll know that I enjoy playing with the fixed verse forms handed down to us from medieval troubadours. Those fabulous men and women were not only composers of music and verse, they were storytellers. They developed wit and wisdom that informed, entertained, and, no doubt, inflamed. The best of them, I suspect, held no expectations of a long life span.

For this narrative series, I employed four forms beginning with the sestina. Part II is a septime, for which I can provide no Wiki link, as I developed the form myself. It’s basically the seven version of the six-based sestina, with a more chaotic end word sequence.

In Part III, the 8-syllable, 8-line ottava rima (octave) gave me the dramatic tightening I wanted for that most unhappy setting.The concluding episode I’m calling an ennead, the Greek term for a set of nine. 9-syllable, 9-line poems, apparently, are rare. Research brings up the word nonet, which sounds to me like a hair stiffening product for the food industry.

An ennead, on the other hand, will navigate you through the 3-tiered deities of ancient Egypt, as perceived by the Greeks. I used the terza rima rhyme scheme for its delightful tractor-like pull.

So, in brief, my form choices were 6, 7, 8, 9. If you’re an aficionado of Near East mysticism, you’ll have no trouble identifying the thorny tree. Thank you for reading!

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Why Poets Think (erroneously) They are Unread, Pt. III

18 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by elainestirling in Narrative poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, narrative poetry, octave, ottava rima

middle eastern market

Would you read my poems, kind sir?
You’ve commented before. My heart’s
in chaos, life’s a hurtful blur.
Oh, please, I’m not sure that it starts
to rhyme quite right. You cause a stir
with all you write—you’re off the charts.
Why do you walk away from me?
I thought we were a family.

I watched the hungry poetess,
her hands outstretched, creative gain
ignored and trampled. Caring less
than what I ought, I looked again
at clustered groups around her, pressed
into each other’s words, their drain
of spirits puddling at my feet,
thin shoulders sagging in defeat.

I turned to face my priestess friend.
I thought you said that poetry
is welcome here. It’s a dead end.
What is this place? Poems for free,
but no one cares. Is this a trend?
If so, I’d sooner talk to trees,
pin my verses to a cedar
where reception will be sweeter.

She replied, this is the beggars’
market, where no one gets to choose.
You’ll learn the rules from your betters,
pick up a trick or two, and lose
your bearings as they slip fetters
around your authenticity,
in staggering complicity.

We passed a man knee deep in tears,
known for the world’s best love sonnets.
Crowded by lust and stung by fears,
his voice drones like dying hornets.
He writes sometimes of bygone years,
living in a battered Comet.
All he can do now is seduce
new virgin talents of their juice.

If you can figure out who owns
this marketplace of beggars, you
might stand a chance of writing poems
to transcend the spies and thieves who
served you for awhile. Not all loans
are bad; not all friends are untrue.
I hope to see you when the fourth
of the distorters runs his course.

I walked along the poets’ stalls
avoiding eyes and plaintive cries,
read posters plastered on the walls:
Poets never make a buck. Prize
for best free verse—twin kewpie dolls!
Artists starve while big business thrives.
Forget your hopes, come live with us.
There’s lots of room in this big bust!

I snuck away while poets slammed
each other’s work to keep the good
ones down; crawled under bleachers crammed
with talent petrified. I could
not say yet how they had been damned,
but staying would not help. The wood
I reached was of some thorny tree.
Smiling, I pinned my poetry.

to be continued…

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

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