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Entry Category: Uncategorized
Published On: 09-13-2007 18:18 PM
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.
...the poem continues...
One of Whitman's most transcendental poems, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking is Whitman's dramatization of the evolution of the poet, and also represents a masterful example of free verse done well. Throwing off the constraints of structured prosody, Whitman builds the rhythm of the poem through an almost preternatural understanding of the way sounds work together.
This one just...might...be...my favorite poem of all time. Everytime I read it, I see or hear or feel something new.
Published On: 09-13-2007 18:18 PM
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man—yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.
...the poem continues...
One of Whitman's most transcendental poems, Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking is Whitman's dramatization of the evolution of the poet, and also represents a masterful example of free verse done well. Throwing off the constraints of structured prosody, Whitman builds the rhythm of the poem through an almost preternatural understanding of the way sounds work together.
This one just...might...be...my favorite poem of all time. Everytime I read it, I see or hear or feel something new.
Entry Tags: This blog has no tags.
Entry Category: Uncategorized
Published On: 09-06-2007 12:07 PM
The Second Coming, by W.B. Yeats (the poet's poet):
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Comments? Interpretations?
I find this possibly the most apprehensive poem I've ever read. The images and sounds meld beautifully to create the sense of spinning, of losing control. The sounds of the words whirl until, by the tenth line, the reader is metaphorically on her knees, looking up at the revelation presented in line eleven. And could there possibly be a more striking, dread-inspiring image than that presented in the last two lines?
Published On: 09-06-2007 12:07 PM
The Second Coming, by W.B. Yeats (the poet's poet):
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Comments? Interpretations?
I find this possibly the most apprehensive poem I've ever read. The images and sounds meld beautifully to create the sense of spinning, of losing control. The sounds of the words whirl until, by the tenth line, the reader is metaphorically on her knees, looking up at the revelation presented in line eleven. And could there possibly be a more striking, dread-inspiring image than that presented in the last two lines?
Entry Tags: This blog has no tags.
Entry Category: Uncategorized
Published On: 08-30-2007 17:29 PM
On the twenty-first of January in what is customarily believed to be the year 304 A.D., a thirteen-year-old Christian girl, Agnes of Rome, was martyred when she refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods and lose her virginity by rape.
She became the patron saint of virgins, betrothed couples, and chastity in general, and iconographers almost always represent her with a lamb, which signifies her virginity. The eve of her feast day, January 20th, became in European folklore a day when girls could practice certain divinatory rituals before they went to bed in order to see their future husbands in their dreams.
Fifteen hundred years after her death, St. Agnes' Eve would translate itself into one of the richest and most vivid literary and artistic themes in history, perhaps most notably in Keat's "Eve of St. Agnes," a pre-Raphaelite painting-on-the-page.
Stanzas I to IX
I.
St. Agnes’ Eve—-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.
II.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
III.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue
Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;
But no—-already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.
IV.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star’d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
V.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new stuff d, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing’d St. Agnes’ saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
VI.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
VII.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by—-she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir’d; not cool’d by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.
VIII.
She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
IX.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—-in sooth such things have been.
Interested in what happens? Go here to see what becomes of Madeline and Porphyro.
Published On: 08-30-2007 17:29 PM
On the twenty-first of January in what is customarily believed to be the year 304 A.D., a thirteen-year-old Christian girl, Agnes of Rome, was martyred when she refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods and lose her virginity by rape.
She became the patron saint of virgins, betrothed couples, and chastity in general, and iconographers almost always represent her with a lamb, which signifies her virginity. The eve of her feast day, January 20th, became in European folklore a day when girls could practice certain divinatory rituals before they went to bed in order to see their future husbands in their dreams.
Fifteen hundred years after her death, St. Agnes' Eve would translate itself into one of the richest and most vivid literary and artistic themes in history, perhaps most notably in Keat's "Eve of St. Agnes," a pre-Raphaelite painting-on-the-page.
Stanzas I to IX
I.
St. Agnes’ Eve—-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith.
II.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
III.
Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue
Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor;
But no—-already had his deathbell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve.
IV.
That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
Star’d, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
V.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
The brain, new stuff d, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing’d St. Agnes’ saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
VI.
They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight,
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey’d middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
VII.
Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by—-she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
And back retir’d; not cool’d by high disdain,
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.
VIII.
She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort,
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
IX.
So, purposing each moment to retire,
She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—-in sooth such things have been.
Interested in what happens? Go here to see what becomes of Madeline and Porphyro.
Entry Tags: This blog has no tags.
Entry Category: Uncategorized
Published On: 08-13-2007 12:43 PM
There used to be a time when we were embarrassed by mediocrity (Salieri, anyone?) Now, we celebrate it. Thus, I present to you...
h2g2 is my bible.
Published On: 08-13-2007 12:43 PM
There used to be a time when we were embarrassed by mediocrity (Salieri, anyone?) Now, we celebrate it. Thus, I present to you...
Quote:
How to Write Bad Poetry Say not that you are bad at writing good poetry,Ah poetry! To some it is the food of love, to others, a way to say farewell true love lost. Poets make us laugh, help us cry, or paint a picture through their use of the written word. Many of us attempt to emulate their genius; however, far too often we fall short of our dreams. If you fall into this category, do not despair, for in the very appalling nature of your efforts you may show talent unheard of in the celebrated bards. You could be the quintessential bad poet. So what are the secrets of writing bad poetry? The Basics Unlike good poetry, the truly awful stuff can be written at lightning speed, and with very little thought. On the other hand you can agonise for hours and still write something truly appalling. Sometimes the longer you agonise over it, the more you will cause others to do so, too. However, beginners may find the 'take away' school of poetry the easiest to attempt: fast, nasty, and guaranteed to clog up the arteries. Remember the adage of good writing: write what you know. Ignore this rule with impunity. After all, it doesn't apply to you. Rhyming Bad poetry should rhyme if at all possible, although some of the best of its aspirants have ignored this rule with considerable success. Trust us, with enough thought, anything can rhyme. When it comes to finding those rhymes, the following strategy is recommended; just add the sound of the word you're trying to rhyme with to successive letters of the alphabet, until you come up with:
Here is an example of how to find a rhyme: Oh my love, you led me astray,The dilemma - what to rhyme with 'speak'? A-eek? Beak? Creak? Deek? Eek? Freak? Greek? Geek? Heek? (And so on... continue until you get to Zeek). Just find the first that you like. Here's an example: I'll love you at least 'til the middle of next week!If all that seems like too much work, cheat. The rhyming dictionary has already done the work for you! After all, why go to more effort than you have to? Now you've gone to all that trouble to find all those rhymes, why waste them? Nothing says 'three minutes thought' more than an endlessly repeated sound. Here's an example: Boom!The above example also demonstrates another old reliable technique: the 'not quite rhyming' technique. If you've gone through every letter of the alphabet and haven't found a single word you're happy with, and your friends aren't gullible enough to believe 'gistansil' really is a word, near enough is always good enough. So, tune rhymes with boom, and if your readers don't believe it, well, they may be right; on the other hand, maybe they're just too ignorant to understand your literary genius. You decide. Never forget the 'absent' rhyme. So you can't find a word that rhymes with 'cactus'? Who cares? There's no point in letting the flow of your thought ebb for such a minor detail. Ignore the last sound of that line, and just get on with the rest of the poem. The sudden change in your rhyming pattern will make a powerful statement. Of some description. For example: It was a dark and stormy dayAdvanced Bad Poetry There are many techniques used by good poets to create imagery through words. These include alliteration (*1), sibilance (*2), and cacophony (*3). Needless to say, these are not in any way necessary in your poetry. However, from time to time, you may find them useful. A good rule of thumb is while in good poetry a little is good, in bad lots is best. It's impossible to overdo it. So, if 'Anna ate eighty apples avidly all around Australia' you're definitely on the right track. Rhythm: if you haven't completely ignored this aspect of your poem, and you find you must keep it flowing then feel free to contract words as it suits you. After all, don't even good poems have o'er and e'en in them? Why reinvent the wheel? You could spend hours perfecting the turn of phrase most suited to your muse, but why bother? There’s a cliché for every occasion, and an occasion for every cliché. Season your poetry liberally with them. Once again, you can never have too many: Oh warm and fuzzy feline,Haiku The haiku deserves special consideration, not only because it is a short, meaningful type of Japanese poetry, but because it is so easy to do badly. While traditional haiku has all sorts of elements that provide atmosphere, yours need only follow the syllable rule. Your first line should have five syllables, the second seven, and the third five again. As long as you have most of your fingers intact, this should not cause a problem: I like bees, they're soThe Clerihew Once you've mastered the art of bad poetry, the first thing to do is to show off to your friends; and in what better way than immortalising them in verse? The Clerihew is the perfect vehicle for this, allowing you to appease their vanity while using all those rhymes you've so carefully uncovered. And since rhythmic form is completely optional, you can churn these out at a rate that will please even the most exacting public. Humphrey McDuffFinally... Should your poetry, despite your most heroic efforts, be looking suspiciously classy, there's nothing like a bit of gratuitous name-dropping to bring it down a peg or two. Don't be fussy. It doesn't matter whose name you drop, or (if you've managed to slip more than one name in) how incongruently you juxtapose them; their very presence will suffice. Remember, while you may never aspire to being William McGonagall, just be the worst poet you can be. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- *1 -- The repetition of the same consonant sound, or different vowel sounds at the beginning of words. *2 -- Characterised by a hissing sound: 'Sally sat singing sweetly'. *3 -- Using jarring or discordant sounds. |
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