The Last Articulate Man

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, medieval fixed verse, pantoum, triolet

~~a sequence of form poems~~

1 – Triolet

To the last articulate man standing
I have put out a call.

I am dumbstruck, appalled by what people are handing
to the last articulate man standing.

Can he not see we have slowed to a crawl?
We cower in shadows, don’t say a damn thing

to the last articulate man standing.
I have put out a call.

2 – Pantoum

What do you want?
To die of old age in your sleep,
or to live in slow-motion despair
wearing grief like a bone in your throat?

To die of old age in your sleep
is a wish you’ve no right to impose on the rest.
Wearing grief like a bone in your throat,
you’re a cock in the wind on a roof

is a wish you’ve no right to impose. On the rest,
there’s really not much you can do
but spin & complain that the view stays the same.
If only you’d learn to declare

there’s really not much you can do
or to live in slow-motion. Despair…
If only you’d learn to declare,
WHAT DO YOU WANT?

3 – Rondeau (Ringelreim)

Baloney. It’s something you ate
as a kid on white bread. It was great
until you grew older
and facts made you bolder.
You started to choose what you put on your plate.

But the flavours, of late,
make you sick. So much hate
rolling over us all like a boulder. Baloney.

Everyone feels. That’s not up for debate,
unless you fall for the poisonous bait,
the allure of the outraged, the scolder
outwitting the scolded. You both feel colder
and blame it on fate. Baloney!

4 – Triolet

Gently now, there is no rush,
no race to find the answer.

Settle in, surrender to the blush,
gently. Now, there is no rush.

Your every step and fall’s a brush
with love. Eternal, flawless dancer,

gently now, there is no rush,
no race to find the answer.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

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Who Needs Hell When You Have Facebook?

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#Facebook, #WeDoWhatWeCan, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, humorous verse, times of upheaval, triolet

~~a trio of triolets~~

begging your pardon, chatelaine, if you’ve a moment, please,
we’ve a crisis with the seating in the northern banquet hall.

the salty-tongued are wedged between the skipjack and the cheese.
begging your pardon, chatelaine, if you’ve a moment, please,

the curtains have caught fire & the cushions twitch with fleas;
the secretly entitled have engaged upon a brawl.

begging your pardon, chatelaine, if you’ve a moment, please,
we’ve a crisis with the seating in the northern banquet hall.

we have to find a way to seat the nasty with the kind;
otherwise, this realm is sure to split right down the middle.

the furious take too much space, defeated hoard the wine;
we have to find a way to seat the nasty with the kind.

the royal sanctimonious insist that we must dine
in deference to some history writ upon a holy griddle.

we have to find a way to seat the nasty with the kind;
otherwise, this realm is sure to split right down the middle.

o, servant dear, when will you learn there’s grace beyond the muddle,
and no one will be served by you exhausting your own station?

yesterday’s great deluge will become tomorrow’s puddle.
o, servant dear, when will you learn there’s grace beyond the muddle?

the beastly ones you can’t control, they hunger for a cuddle;
you’re not their ruler, nor the judge or source of their creation.

o, servant dear, when will you learn there’s grace beyond the muddle,
and no one will be served by you exhausting your own station?

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2017
Image: political cartoon from 1813

With apologies to Mark Zuckerberg and all hardworking FB employees. Truth is, I love the medium, but, boy, yesterday was a killer! I can’t even imagine what it’s like from where you sit. So, for all you do, Facebook, thank you!

“Sisyphus, it’s Zeus.”

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, medieval French fixed verse, poetry with a sense of humour, the heroine's journey, the myth of Sisyphus, triolet

~~three triolets~~

I

Sisyphus, it’s Zeus, your ancient cortical
connection to full power over gods.

You no longer stand so vertical,
Sisyphus. It’s Zeus, your ancient cortical

desire to dominate, toppled to diagonal.
Where wisdom finds no purchase, idiocy plods.

Sisyphys, it’s Zeus, your ancient cortical
connection to full power over gods.

II

Oh, suspicious Sisyphus, your sibilance
sprays pointlessly like toms among the spayed.

What use is your opinionated vigilance,
oh, suspicious Sisyphus? Your sibilance,

unlike my rain, is spit and spit upon. To push against
resistance steepens your already hopeless grade.

Oh, suspicious Sisyphus, your sibilance
sprays pointlessly like toms among the spayed.

III

Thanatos (Death) and I with Hermes have conferred.
You’ve pushed your rock up long enough. No more!

So what, you’re man enough to give the gods a bird?
Thanatos (Death) and I with Hermes have conferred.

It’s time you faced downhill, my friend, and heard
what sings beyond the morbid river Styx dark shore.

Thanatos (Death) and I with Hermes have conferred.
You’ve pushed your rock up long enough. No more!

~~~

Some years ago, I co-facilitated a series of goddess workshops for women, based on my adaptation of The Hero’s Journey (called The Heroine’s Journey). We rented the upstairs floor of a Starbucks convenient to us all. The name of the Starbucks manager? Zeus. You can’t make that sh*t happen.

The tight, repetitive form of the triolet seemed to lend itself nicely to poor, boulder-pushing Sisyphus. It also gives a sense of how it might feel to have the father of the gods spray-talking at you.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Wear Your Power Lightly, Child

Tags

Elaine Stirling, form poetry, triolet

i

wear your power lightly, child
what you see distressing you is density

it’s not your home, your source or style
wear your power lightly, child

like vapour pass through mayhem, wild,
unencumbered—nothing less is mastery!

wear your power lightly, child
what you see distressing you is density

ii

adore the angles of a perfect fit
enjoy the heathered slope, the wind-blessed sea

the best do what they do for fun of it
enjoy the heathered slope, the wind-blessed sea

trace avenues of gold and chocolate
only you can shape your destiny

adore the angles of a perfect fit
enjoy the heathered slope, the wind-blessed sea

iii

when the silence comes to call
make room for him, your dearest friend

push come to shove can only fall
when the silence comes to call

reminding you the great enthrall
is what creates and knows no end

when the silence comes to call
make room for him, your dearest friend

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
The painting is by Polish Art Deco artist Tamara de Lempicka (1898-1980).
What a life she lived! It’s worth checking out her bio.

Missing: Poet

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Elaine Stirling, medieval French fixed verse, poetry, Roberto Bolano, triolet

for R.B.

I

The poet has boarded up his lonely streets.
Do not seek him there

where ink dilutes on flapping sheets.
The poet has boarded up his lonely streets,

learned all he could from lazy cheats,
his knuckles chafed, cold schemes laid bare.

The poet has boarded up his lonely streets;
do not seek him there.

II

They whisper him in the Academy
where Góngora was once reviled.

On silver trays, the fear of poverty
is served on ice to huddles of society.

Meanwhile, his poetry, cross-referenced, A to Z,
feeds the unemployed, the homeless child.

They whisper him in the Academy
where Góngora was once reviled.

III

A fresher word for victory is enough,
the poet laughs, of blood and pointless grief.

The artist unafraid to call his bluff
will find the world is built of finer stuff.

Inspiration is best eaten off the cuff—
a squeeze of rhyme, a lick of sweet relief.

A fresher word for victory is enough,
the poet laughs, of blood and pointless grief.

~~~

The triolet is an 8-line fixed verse form that was popular in the courts of medieval France. The image of Roberto Bolaño comes from http://www.fanpix.famouspix.com.

© Elaine Stirling, 2015

Dead Poets Rising: 3 Triolets

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Elaine Stirling, Ferguson Missouri, form poetry, triolet

I

Dead poets rising from the fissures in the heartland
are taking up their posts in the New Democracy.

I see William with his tyger playing leapfrog with a lamb;
dead poets rising from the fissures in the heartland.

Langston’s got a jazz club; Sappho’s in the band.
Walt’s put final touches on the “Resurrected Song of Me”.

Dead poets rising from the fissures in the heartland
are taking up their posts in the New Democracy.

II

Such flippancy, a founding father mutters,
while fires throughout his constitution rage.

Justice must not stoop for poets, sons, and mothers!
Such flippancy, a founding father mutters.

Whatever truths your bleeding hearts uncover
will not shake the bulwarks of this profit-raking age.

Such flippancy, a founding father mutters,
while fires throughout his constitution rage.

III

And still the poets rise from grave and ash
with law books writ in sonnet and fine verse.

Minds slowly rouse while antiquated systems crash,
and still the poets rise from grave and ash

to found a willing, new majority through brash
and hopeful rhyme, true reason to disperse.

And still the poets rise from grave and ash
with law books writ in sonnet and fine verse.

~~~

The image of Ferguson, Missouri, to which I dedicate these verses, comes from http://www.mumpsimus.com where Langston Hughes’s haunting poem, “Let America be America Again” accompanies more beautiful photographs. Every voice and every image matters.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Let the River Clear

Tags

Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, form poetry, triolet

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

Real Estate: Three Triolets

Tags

Elaine Stirling, form poetry, triolet

I’ve been allotted a parcel of land
for the raising of dignity, tax free

built a small hostel on Liberty Strand
I’ve been allotted a parcel of land

where the sunsets are grand
and all trails descend to the sea.

I’ve been allotted a parcel of land
for the raising of dignity, tax free

~~~

If you come as a guest, you will leave
as a friend with a present to use

as you please—though expecting reprieve
if you come as a guest, you will leave

with the feeling you could have believed
something better, felt less of a bruise.

If you come as a guest, you will leave
as a friend with a present to use

~~~

On this parcel of land, there’s no charge
for the stay. Who attempts to extend

his own reach can make use of the barge
on this parcel of land, there’s no charge

disappointment will only loom large
to the arrogant, fearing an end

on this parcel of land, there’s no charge
for the stay who attempts to extend

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

Playing with Thoth: Four Triolets

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creating new worlds, Crowley, cyclical reality, Egyptian mythology, Elaine Stirling, Emerald Tablets, form poetry, Hermes Trismegistus, ibis god, Medieval French verse, Mercury, new mythology, philosopher's stone, seeing beyond, tarot, Thoth, transformation, transmutation, triolet

I

No matter how I lay the cards
they say, you cannot stay.

Too much of you strains backwards,
no matter how I lay the cards.

We all reap just and infinite rewards,
but you in retrograde prefer to play.

No matter how I lay the cards
they say you cannot stay.

II

As millstones go, your words grind fine
to dust a certain kind of grain

too bittersweet for tastes like mine.
As millstones go, your words grind fine

the coarser thoughts unwilling to refine
within the convoluting husks of pain.

As millstones go, your words grind fine
to dust a certain kind of grain.

III

It’s time to wade beyond these reeds
and spongy ground to open sea

where fisher king, unwounded, feeds.
It’s time to wade beyond these reeds

and heed the author-god of creeds
whose beaded net pulls in new mastery.

It’s time to wade beyond these reeds
and spongy ground to open sea.

IV

Through flights of joy I catch a glimpse
of all that you’ve expanded and become

enough that I am ever more convinced
through flights of joy I catch a glimpse

upon the beach a set of prints
that lead to you, full standing in the sun

through flights of joy I catch a glimpse
of all that you’ve expanded and become.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

A Little Bit, with Everything

Tags

abundance, beauty, beyond appearances, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, innocence, inspiration, Law of Attraction, Medieval French verse, simplicity, triolet, tweets that grow

A Triolet

Be a little bit in love with everything
for anything can be a start

a quiet glance, a broken string
Be a little bit in love with everything

the bellicose, a freshly buttered kugel ring
beyond appearance lives the tender heart

Be a little bit in love with everything
for anything can be a start.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013