Happy Ho Ho Ho

I don’t know about you, but with all the Christmas madness going on I could use a little comic relief. And what better way to get a laugh than a parody. . . or two.

The poems I have for you today don’t really need an explanation, but I’ll give you one anyway. The first one I wrote yesterday morning (and posted on my author’s Facebook page). Let’s just say I was inspired. The second one I wrote about ten years ago, and is my version of A Visit From St. Nicholas.


O Furnace Guy
(to be sung to the tune of O Christmas Tree)

O furnace guy, O furnace guy
I really must apologize
O furnace guy, O furnace guy
I really must apologize
My basement it’s so messy
and maybe smells like kitty pee
O furnace guy, O furnace guy
I really must apologize

O furnace guy, O furnace guy
was that sneezing I just heard
O furnace guy, O furnace guy
was that sneezing I just heard
Did I not mention dry wall dust
or that my furnace is full of rust?
O furnace guy, O furnace guy
here’s some Kleenex, help yourself

O furnace guy, O furnace guy
you sure are taking your sweet time
O furnace guy, O furnace guy
you sure are taking your sweet time
I’ve got so much Christmas stuff to do
Like wrapping presents, baking too
O furnace guy, O furnace guy
At last you’re done, I wave bye-bye.


A Visit From the Computer Tech

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, just the optical mouse;
The cords were all strung to the PC with care
In hopes the technician soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of interwebs danced in their heads;
The wife couldn’t take any more of this crap
So she went to bed while I took a nap.
When there on the screen there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the keyboard I flew like a flash,
Grabbed up the mouse and gave it a bash.
The monitor gleamed with a brilliant blue glow
Seeming to mock me as I loudly moaned, “No!”
And what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a security warning that made my eyes tear.
With an attack on my drivers, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment my computer was sick.
More rapid than eagles the popups they came,
And I whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
“Now Trojan, now Wormy, now BankerFox vixen!
A technician’s coming, my computer he’s fixin’
By installing protection, a router, a wall!
And then he’ll delete you, delete one and all!”
And then, in a twinkling, as I thought to despair,
A van entered my driveway and parked with a flair.
I opened the door with a feeling profound,
And into the house came the tech with a bound.
He was dressed all in blue from his head to his toe
And his jacket was covered with a sprinkling of snow.
A box full of tools was grasped in his hand
And he looked like an angel, come down to land.
His eyes, they were bloodshot, his face was unshaven
From his pocket he pulled a business card graven.
He was balding and old, and he started to sneeze,
Then, spotting the cat said, “I’ve got allergies.”
The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth
And he caught his hat on the door, in the wreath.
A squint of his eye and a shake of his head
Soon gave me to know the bill I would dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to work,
And in a few moments pulled the plug with a jerk.
“The mother board’s fried,” he said, shaking his head.
“And the rest of your hard drive looks like it’s dead.”
Then he packed up the tower and picked up his tools
“Gotta watch these old ‘puters, they’re stubborn as mules.”
He walked to his van, my computer in hand
I had to admit, this did not go as planned.
And I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, but no more surfing to-night.”

Blackout Poetry

After a month of sketchy posts, I'm finally back on track. Even if it is just a repeat of the weekly poetry post.

I’ve known about blackout poetry for a few years, but for some reason I never got around to trying it.

When I first considered it for the form of the month I thought it would be really easy, maybe even a little fun. Basically, to do a blackout poem you take a page of prose, pick out a few key words, and then black everything else out.

With the holiday season closing in fast, I decided to use a page from one of my favourite Christmas stories, the Gift of the Magi, by O. Henry. I actually started out with two pages. The first page I used a yellow highlighter to highlight words that caught my eye. Then I reversed it on the second page, blacking out everything but the words I highlighted on the first page. And this is what I came up with:

It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, especially the blacking out part. I went through seven copies before I got it right. LOL

Meanwhile, here’s another couple of examples of what you can do with blackout poetry:

Smore - Blackout Poetry Challenge

Scholastic Blackout Poetry

For more examples and a better explanation, check these links:

Power Poetry  - 5 Tips For Creating Blackout Poetry
Medium - Creative Deconstruction For Writers: How to Write a Blackout Poem

Always

With Remembrance Day just around the corner, this week’s poem was an easy choice to make. I wrote this several years ago, and while it doesn’t include every member of my family who’s been in the military, I think it gives a nice cross section.

Always

I remember my grandfather.
He liked to draw
and when I was very small
he taught me the proper way
to draw a pine tree.
He served
with the St. John's Ambulance
as a driver
in World War I and II.
I will never forget.

I remember my uncle.
He like to read
Louis L'Amour
and to work with
anything mechanical.
He served
as a tail gunner
in a British Lancaster, in World War II before
he became a POW.
I will never forget.

I remember my father.
He liked to work with his hands;
he loved power boats
and used to take me fishing
when I was a child.
He served
with the Canadian Armed Forces
as a Peace Keeper
in Egypt and Korea.
I will never forget.

I remember my brother-in-law.
He had a ready smile
and loved to play pranks.
He carved wood and leather;
he was an amazing artist.
He served
with the American Armed Forces
and fought in Korea.
I will never forget.

These men are my family.
I do not need
a single day
to remember them.
I will remember them
each and every day.
Always.

The Balassi Stanza

It wasn’t enough that I wanted to do a rhyming form for October’s poetry form, but because the original post was scheduled for November 1st, I wanted to do a poem revolving around All Saints’ Day (aka Hallowmas). Jeez I’m not very bright sometimes.

So the form I decided on was the Balassi stanza. I forgot how much I dislike the Balassi stanza. It was created by a Hungarian poet named Balint Balassi who was lauded for his new use of rhymes. This stanza consists of nine lines and it might be easier just to show you the rhyme scheme: AABCCBDDB

But wait! That’s not all! There’s also a strict syllable count. Lines three, six, and nine have seven syllables and all the rest have six. The result is a somewhat choppy rhythm that really bugs the crap out of me. Okay, maybe it’s the syllable count that bugs me. Could be the restrictive syllable count is what makes it choppy.

At any rate, while researching All Saints’ Day I came across the term Allhallowtide. Also known as the Triduum of Death, it spans October 1 through November 2 and consists of All Saints’ Eve (Halloween), All Saints’ Day (Hallowmas), and All Souls’ Day. Awesome - three days, three stanzas.

I have to admit, I’m not happy with the way this poem turned out. Like I said, the form makes it choppy and I found the syllable counts very limiting. However, it is what it is. Maybe some day I’ll re-do the poem and forget about the form.


Allhallowtide

Fires of bone light the night -
year’s dark half now in sight -
end of harvest, feast with kin;
watch mummers in the streets
in disguise - give them treats.
Fortunes are told, fate to win.
Deter the spirits ill,
draw the good and we will
survive Samhain with our skin.

Hallowmas is when we
honor saints faithfully,
their lives and deaths, famed or not -
and give God solemn due
for all He’s done for you.
Honor too those who have brought
the light to other souls
sharing the Christian goals -
give thanks for all you have got.

All Soul’s Day is the last
for honoring the vast
list of purgatory souls.
You dress in black and roam,
peal out a mournful tone
and hope to fill up your bowl.
For each soul cake you eat
a soul’s released to seek
its way - heaven is its goal.

Jack O'Lantern

I thought considering we're so close to the end of the month that a Halloween poem would be fitting. Once upon a time I was a member of a poetry group and as a fun exercise we'd write from prompts. I don't know what the exact prompt was for this poem, but it's one I wrote about five years ago.

And for those of you interested in such things... I did a lot of research before writing this poem and the story about Stingy Jack and his deal with the devil is true, as is the fact that early jack 'o lanterns were carved from turnips.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

Jack O'Lantern

Beware ye fool the devil, for the devil has his due
Beware ye lest the devil, should turn the tale on you
Stingy Jack was one who thought the devil he could best
For him his fate was worse than death, he wanders without rest

Now Jack was not a well-liked man, a mean and wretched soul,
He liked his drink, and that's a fact, be it bottle, keg, or bowl.
'Twas on a night that's such as this Jack bade the devil drink,
A guileless smile upon his face, his cheeks a ruddy pink.

They drank a toast to Samhain Eve and all the souls in hell.
Another, then another, till they heard the church bells' knell.
But Stingy Jack had not the coin 'twas needed then to pay,
He had a plan instead and this is what I heard him say:

"Old Scratch, into a coin ye must turn into straight away.
I'll pay our tab and ye'll change back without a long delay"
The fiend agreed not knowing that old Jack had tricked him well,
In a wallet with a cross beside, Jack put the coin to dwell.

The devil seethed, the devil raged, but all to no avail,
He tried to use his power, even knowing he would fail.
They struck a deal, that should Jack die, he'd not go straight to hell,
Instead he had a year of grace in which to say farewell.

Before his year of grace was up, Jack took the plague and died
But Heaven didn't want him, and the devil had his pride.
Because the year was not complete, he would not claim Jack's soul,
But sent him off into the night with just a burning coal.

A coal is just too hot to hold in nothing but your hand,
So Jack, he carved a turnip face to hold the burning brand.
On Samhain Eve he wanders now throughout the chilly night
A sad and lonely figure in the Jack O'Lantern's light.

Beware ye fool the devil, for the devil has his due
Beware ye lest the devil, should turn the tale on you
Stingy Jack was one who thought the devil he could best
For him his fate was worse than death, he wanders without rest

Squirrel

The is a fun little poem I came up with from a prompt offered by  Brazen Snake Books. If you’re looking for inspiration, you really should check them out. There are new prompts, both poetry and prose, each Monday. And if you don’t see one you like off the bat, scroll down for heaven’s sake! There’s sure to be one in an earlier post.

This one was from October 9 and said: Write a poem from the perspective of a squirrel gathering nuts for the winter. How cute is that? I just couldn’t resist. :-D

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Squirrel

Here’s a nut, there’s a nut,
what’s under this big leaf?
Watch out it might be a trap -
it’s not, to my relief.

I’ll put it here, I’ll put it there
then look around for more.
Winter’s coming - hurry, hurry
build up the winter store.

Run and pause, run and pause,
nose twitching in the breeze -
chitter at the cat below -
he’s such fun to tease.

Careful, careful, have a care
upon the wire high -
a better way to cross the street
if you’re brave enough to try.

A trap, a trap, look out a trap!
In that garden there -
that human’s out to get you
though there’s plenty there to share.

Scurry, hurry, careful now
to the feeder just in reach
I see it’s filled with seeds today
oh, won’t those blue jays screech!

Jump and climb, climb and jump
move from tree to tree -
race through leaves and branches,
chirp out loud in glee.

Home again, home again
my nuts are safe inside
the hollow tree I call my home -
this stash a source of pride.

High School High Jinks

You know, just because I haven’t been posting recently written poems in my passion for poetry posts doesn’t mean I haven’t been writing anything new. I’ve been writing a least a poem a week for the Brazen Snake Books prompts and I somehow think it’s cheating to use them here as well. That’s not to say the poetry muse doesn’t strike at other times as well, but these poems are either too personal or too unfinished to use.

Which means once again I dipped into the poetry vault, this time coming up with a couple of poems I wrote in high school. Oh, the memories . . .


Between Classes

I’m sitting alone
on the stairs
basking in the silence.
Sweet
Dreamy
Solitude.
Suddenly, the sharp
ring of a bell
and the thunder begins.
Doors open and
people begin to pour out.
Lockers bang and
feet assault the floors.
Voices chatter and
people jostle on another
on their way
to heaven-knows-where.
Less than ten minutes
have passed.
Then once again,
Sweet
Dreamy
Solitude.
As I sit alone
on the stairs
basking in the silence.


Goodbye Teens

Slips of paper
with parts of poems
tear stained pillows
fights on the phone
pictures of people
whose names have been lost
drawings of summer
or winter’s bright frost
what’s left of the tickets
of movies you seen
sad secret smiles
for the dreams you once dreamed
old faded blue jeans
hung up for good
saddened goodbyes
to your lost teen-hood.

The Shadow On The Stoneby Thomas Hardy

While I really enjoy Thomas Hardy’s poetry, I have to admit I’ve never read any of his novels and I don’t believe I’ve read any of his shorter fiction either. Maybe one of these days I’ll look him up on Project Gutenberg . That site has everything. ;-)

In the meantime, for today’s passion for poetry I’d like to share my favourite Thomas Hardy poem. It was written shortly after the death of his first wife, Emma. He wrote a whole series of love poems for her, regretting how much they had grown apart in the later years of their marriage.


The Shadow On The Stone

I went by the Druid stone
That broods in the garden white and lone,
And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows
That at some moments fall thereon
From the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing,
And they shaped in my imagining
To the shade that a well-known head and shoulders
Threw there when she was gardening.

I thought her behind my back,
Yea, her I long had learned to lack,
And I said: ‘I am sure you are standing behind me,
Though how do you get into this old track?’
And there was no sound but the fall of a leaf
As a sad response; and to keep down grief
I would not turn my head to discover
That there was nothing in my belief.

Yet I wanted to look and see
That nobody stood at the back of me;
But I thought once more: ‘Nay, I’ll not unvision
A shape which, somehow, there may be.’
So I went on softly from the glade,
And left her behind me throwing her shade,
As she were indeed an apparition—
My head unturned lest my dream should fade.

The Poet Tree

About four years ago I was invited to join a group of poets who were giving eulogies to a tree. Yes, that’s right, a tree. This wasn’t a protest, this was saying goodbye to the last elm tree in Victoria Park before it was cut down. The occasion was even videoed and uploaded to YouTube. Good luck finding it. ;-)

Afterwards we tucked our poems beneath a string wound around the tree so that passersby could read them. I just recently saw in our local news that the first of several benches made from the wood of the tree are ready to be placed in the park. Apparently the wood needed to season before it could be used.

At any rate, this is the poem I came up with for the occasion:


The Poet Tree's Tale

Hear my tale that you may see
The dream I dreamed beneath this tree
Whose rich enchantment captured me;
While I was sitting in its lee.

There was a sweet tranquility
Of visions that were sent to me
By this majestic poet tree
Whose life is filled with history.

Ages of serenity
Years passed by in harmony
Such innocence and purity
It caught me up, then set me free.

"But peace no more," alleged the tree,
"The world has changed, and so have we.
Life is just uncertainty -
A storm is coming, wait and see."

"Earthquakes leave behind debris,
Earth and fire, wind and sea,
The heavens weep unnaturally,
For what is past and still to be."

"The warnings come by two and three
Ignored by those too blind to see.
And you, the guardians, meant to be
Abandoned us, ignore our plea."

And when I woke, beneath the tree
I wept for what would come to be
I wept for all life's frailty
And the dream I dreamed beneath this tree.

Dreaming

I was actually going to try to write something new for a change, only, well, it was late when I started this original post and my brain was not fully in gear. In fact, it took several tries before I rooted out even an old poem to use.

I’m pretty sure I was around thirty when I wrote this poem, which is kind of funny when you consider the subject matter. But just to give you a little perspective on the way my mind works ... I have a sister who’s ten years older than me, so when she turned thirty I was only twenty and I thought thirty was positively ancient. She has never forgiven me for the hard time I gave her. LOL


Dreaming

If I could live another’s life, my world their point of view
Oh, how happy I could be to do the things they do.
Instead of drab existence, a life more richly led
A wish fulfillment fantasy - another’s path to tred.

If I could have the romance that others seem to find,
The passion everlasting, the closeness so divine
The happiness I would derive from such a life as this
Seems to me the best that I could ever hope to wish.

If I could find adventure, the kind others seem to find
How exciting life would be - a mystery to unwind
Flights of fancy lead me to far exotic lands
Filled with wondrous peoples and vistas ever grand.

If I could see the dreams I dream come to life at last
The way that others seem to do then when the dreaming’s passed
I could look back upon a life and see what others see
And feel the satisfaction, that dreaming caused to be.

If I could live my life once more now that I’m at the end
I’d live a life that’s real this time instead of one pretend.
I’d do the things I dream about and when my life is gone
There’d be no regrets, as there is now, for things I’ve never done.

Twofer

This week I made my poetry selection from my archives. Because the first one is so short I added a second to give you a two-for-one deal. :-D

This first poem was part of the Writer’s Digest PAD challenge I partook of several years ago. The idea was to write a poem a day, to their prompts, over the month of April. If nothing else, the challenge was interesting, and it introduced me to the Sestina, which set me on an exploration of other forms.

I believe the prompt I had to follow for this one was something to do with being dead, or things you'd like to say to people after you're dead, or something along those lines.


Now That I’m Dead
Now that I’m dead I can finally say
all the things burning inside me.
None to prevent me having my way,
to speak serious or blithely.
I can speak of my love without any fear
of derision of my choices.
I can speak all the words you never could hear
in a chorus of many voices.
Did you think with me gone my words would be too?
You don’t really have to answer.
Words, like money, often accrue.
My words will be here forever.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

For my second poem I thought I’d lighten things up a bit. This poem is a parody. It may surprise you to learn, considering most of my poetry is rather dark, that I love parodies. I love taking a classic poem, twisting it around, and making someone chuckle over the results.

Unless you slept through English class, you should recognize what poem I used for this particular parody. For those of you who did sleep through English class, the original poem was Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s immortal How Do I Love thee. If you’d like to read the original, check this out. And now, my version:


How Do I Procrastinate?

How do I procrastinate? Let me count the ways.
I procrastinate to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling lethargic
For the ends of Boredom and ideal Laziness.
I procrastinate to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by neon and halogen-light.
I procrastinate freely, as men strive for Progress;
I procrastinate purely, as they turn from Television.
I procrastinate with a passion put to use
In my old excuses, and with my childhood’s justification.
I procrastinate with an energy I seemed to lose
When faced with work, – I procrastinate with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if the Muse choose,
I shall continue to procrastinate until death.

Abhanga

Abhanga is a form of devotional poetry sung in praise of the Hindu god Vitthala also known as Vithoba. Abhangs were first sung by the Varkari saints like Tukaram. Tukaram in his native language, Marathi. Tukaram was a seventeenth century poet, who lived in a town named Dehu, which is located near modern day Pune. He was a popular poet and was a leading figure in the Varkari Movement of the time, that sought to put the emphasis back on devotion and love towards God, in contrast to blind obedience of rituals and arcane religious practices.

The form is simply described:
four lines, with syllable counts of 6, 6, 6, 4, and lines 2 and 3 rhyming.


Incomplete

Soft waves of midnight hair
frame her dawning face,
eyes in submissive grace,
beauty silenced.
~ Judi Van Gorder

Magic Moments

There are books of magic,
we love Harry Potter,
me and my granddaughter.
"Read it, Grandma."
~ Judi Van Gorder

Quaternion

In researching this form I found two very different definitions.

First we have a verse form named for the algebraic equations that were introduced by Irish mathematician Sir William Rowan Hamilton in 1843 which had to do with the multiplication of three dimensional imaginary units by four dimensional objects. The connection between the algebraic concept and the form is they both have a 3 by 4 concept.*

Quaternion is a poetry style where the theme is divided into four. Each part explores the complementary natures of the theme or subject. The word quaternion is derived from the Latin word quaterni, meaning four by four. The poem may be in any poetic form.

FOUR SEASONS
By Anne Bradstreet

Another four I've left yet to bring on,
Of four times four the last Quarternion,
The Winter, Summer, Autumn & the Spring,
In season all these Seasons I shall bring;

SPRING

Sweet Spring like man in his Minority,
At present claim'd, and had priority.
With Smiling face and garments somewhat green,
She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been,
Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath,
Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death.
Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share
March, April, May of all the rest most fair.

SUMMER

When Spring had done, the Summer did begin,
With melted tauny face, and garments thin,
Resembling Fire, Choler, and Middle age,
As Spring did Air, Blood, Youth in 's equipage.
Wiping the sweat from of her face that ran,
With hair all wet she pussing thus began;
Bright June, July and August hot are mine,

AUTUMN

Of Autumn moneths September is the prime,
Now day and night are equal in each Clime,
The twelfth of this Sol riseth in the Line,
And doth in poizing Libra this month shine.
The vintage now is ripe, the grapes are prest,
Whose lively liquor oft is curs'd and blest:
For nought so good, but it may be abused,
But its a precious juice when well its used.

WINTER

Cold, moist, young flegmy winter now doth lye
In swaddling Clouts, like new born Infancy
Bound up with frosts, and furr'd with hail & snows,
And like an Infant, still it taller grows;
December is my first, and now the Sun
To th' Southward Tropick, his swift race doth run:


The second cites this form as English, a twelve-line, three-quatrain poem with a fixed rhyme scheme.**

The Quaternion is metered at the discretion of the poet and is rhymed aabb ccdd abcd


THIRD DIMENSION
By Judi Van Gorder

Forgotten in a tight airless attic,
a thing that was to prove problematic,
a Halloween reflective diorama
in reenactment of a psychodrama.

The shoebox, webbed and painted black,
a tiny coffin's cedar lid drawn back,
inside a body stiff in death, an axe
imbedded in the head, a final tax.

A challenge to create this poematic
with ghoulish display in frightful panorama.
The sounds with screeching tone, elegiac
and words don't always tell the lonely facts.

*Poetry Magnum Opus
**Poetry Base

Pensee

I have a folder on my computer that holds all the forms I’ve found that I’ve come across in my research and haven’t explored yet. The problem is, I don’t cite sources, so when I pick one of these forms to explore, I end up having to do a whole new search for information.

Such is the case with the Pensee. I checked my usual sources and found that it’s a syllabic form with five lines, originally created as a short prose poem. So then I did some more digging and a single source added that it’s an invented form introduced by an American by the name of Alice Spokes. So far I haven’t been able to find out any more regarding Ms. Spokes, so whether or not she really did invent this form is unconfirmed.

The structure of the Pensee is as follows:
Line 1: subject – 2 syllables
Line 2: description – 4 syllables
Line 3: action – 7 syllables
Line 4: setting – 8 syllables
Line 5: final thought – 6 syllables

As you might have guessed by the fact I produced three examples, I found this form both easy and enjoyable to write in.


Summer Romance
the moon
shining softly
perfumed breeze wafting gently
summer garden filled with magic
romance is in the air

Caught
true love
as I know it
is not for the faint of heart
you chase it until you are caught
too late to change your mind

Winter
darkness
all enfolding
souls in torment reaching out
hell is nothing like expected
no fire, just the cold

Rondeau Redoublé

The Rondeau Redoublé is not an easy form to write. It has twenty-five lines and like the Rondeau it uses only two rhymes throughout, repeats whole lines, and has an awkward repeated half-line at the end.

To write one of these, start with the final half-line, then do the opening stanza, and you're half-way there. The first stanza is the key to the whole poem. Its four lines reappear in turn as the final lines of the next four stanzas, and the first part of the first line reappears again as the half-line at the very end.

Rhyme Scheme:

1st Stanza: (RA1)B1A2B2
2nd Stanza: babA1
3rd Stanza: abaB1
4th Stanza: babA2
5th Stanza: abaB2
6th Stanza: babaR


The following example of the form was written from the point of view of one of the RAF officers carrying the coffin of Diana, Princess of Wales to the plane that was to carry it to England.

Guard of Honour
by Paul Hansford

The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.
The physical weight is a thing that I share,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair?

I am close to you now. Yes, touching my hair
the flag with its lions of gold and of red
that wraps round your coffin. I know you are there.
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead

My comrades move with me in slow, solemn tread.
Our eyes are all fixed in an unseeing stare.
Our shoulders support you in your oaken bed.
The physical weight is a thing that I share.

As I feel the world watching I try not to care.
My deepest emotions are best left unsaid.
Let others show grief like a garment they wear,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.

The flowers they leave like a carpet are spread,
In the books of remembrance they have written, "Somewhere
a star is extinguished because you are dead.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair?"

The tears that we weep will soon grow more rare,
the rawness of grief turn to memory instead.
But deep in our hearts you will always be there,
and I ask, will I ever be able to shed
the burden I bear?


Rondeau Redoublé
by Dorothy Parker

The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.

My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are sombre days and gay.

Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.

Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
Because my dearest love is gone away.

Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
And virgin daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
Within my heart is melancholy night.

And this, oh love, my pitiable plight
Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light ...
I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
The same to me.

Italian Sestet

A Sestet can best be described as any six-line stanza. The Italian Sestet originally had no set meter and was rhymed abc abc. The first documented user of this form was the Italian poet, Petrarch, who eventually incorporated it into the Petrarchan Sonnet.

Spenser brought this form to England and eventually the poets there began to use iambic tetrameter or pentameter. They gave the Sestet new rhyme schemes and, following in Petrarch’s footsteps, it was soon expanded into their Sonnets – Spenserian, Shakespearean, and Miltonian.

Today, very few poets consider the Italian Sestet a form in itself and it is seldom used. I actually found the rhyme scheme interesting to follow, but I find the six lines with which to complete my poem somewhat limiting. I can understand why the Sestet was abandoned for the lengthier Sonnet.





Does history dare repeat itself
By turning back the hands of time
And cause the world to backwards spin?
I have witnessed this myself
And wonder, is it such a crime
To reach the end and thus begin?

~ * ~ ~ * ~ ~ * ~

Ah, sleeping cat curled in a ball
I wonder what goes through your mind
When you’re awake and shadow-stalk
Along the floor and down the hall
Seeking prey that’s undefined
With green-eyed vision like a hawk.

Redondilla

The Redondilla is a Spanish form, one of the most popular Castillian stanzas since the 16th century. The name is derived from the Spanish redondo, meaning “round.”

Ezra Pound experimented with this form and brought about a resurgence in popularity in the 20th century.

It is an eight-syllable quatrain rhyming either abba or abab. In the latter rhyme scheme it is usually called serventesio. A Redondilla can also be referred to as Redondilla Mayor, Cuarteta and Cuartilla.

The Redondilla is:
syllabic, usually written in 8 syllable lines.
stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
rhymed, most common rhyme scheme abba.
called the Serventesio when rhyme abab is used.

Schematic:

xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa



Thief

You steal my thoughts, without a care
They’re unimportant in your view
It doesn’t matter what I do
Why did I not know to beware

You steal my words to make your own
As if it all were just routine
Misunderstanding what I mean
Your coldness cuts me to the bone

You steal my life, subdue my mind
A subtle shift and it was done
I used to think you were the one
But I am learning I’ve been blind

You steal my heart to set astray
It clearly was not meant for you
And now I need to start anew
I can’t compete with yesterday

Yama

In Vedic tradition Yama was considered to have been the first mortal who died and found the way to the celestial abodes, thus making him ruler of the departed. According to Hindu mythology, Yama decides which Naraka (lower world or hell) and/or Swarga (higher world or heaven) the soul needs to spend time in, before returning to Bhoomi (earth) - the only world from which the soul can permanently escape the birth and death cycle. Good and bad deeds don't cancel out each other, and thus the same soul may spend time in both a hell and a heaven.

The Yama verse is both a syllabic and a rhyming form. Traditionally it is a poem of death, grief or sorrow, although it can be expanded to include simply a poem of loss (even of a season). It can be any number of quatrains, but it is written in lines of 6 syllables and must always have a title.

Structure:

xxxxxx
xxxxxa
xxxxxx
xxxxxa

xxxxxx
xxxxxb
xxxxxx
xxxxxb

. . . and so on






Goodbye

I didn’t see in time
That you were falling ill
I did the best I could
But you grew sicker still

You rallied once or twice
Though you were still so weak
I watched you waste away
And knew the end you’d seek

I can’t believe you’re gone
No longer here with me
But you are free of pain
And have tranquility

Now you’re the brightest star
In heaven up above
All that I can do is
Remember you with love

Waka

The Waka is the verse from which many Japanese forms developed, including the tanka, choka, and sedoka. Like most Oriental forms, the Waka is a short poem written to express feelings. These short poems were important to the early Japanese, used to celebrate special occasions. In the Heian period Waka were an important form of communication between lovers. A person's skill in poetry was a major criterion in determining his or her standing in society, even influencing political positions.

Over the centuries, however, Waka began to be written more to capture emotions than to explain or define them. Because the Waka is brief, the glimpse into the emotion represented by the verse is also brief.

It is written in 31 syllables, or onji, arranged in five lines. It is often said to have an upper verse, which refers to the first three lines, and a lower verse, which is the last two. The Haiku form is based on the upper verse.

In brief, the Waka is:
the basis for other Japanese forms
written in five lines
has 31 syllables
is broken into: 5-7-5-7-7
usually captures emotion rather than explaining it



I am in mourning
For the change of the seasons.
Soon will be Winter -
Summer is past, Fall almost gone –
And Spring a distant promise.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *


I see them out there
Gathered around the fallen
Like angels of death -
Dispassionate eyes staring
Waiting to make the first move.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *


Careless words spoken
Cutting deeper than they should;
My blood runs unseen.
You wield your weapon with skill -
Unknowing and uncaring.

Ronsardian Ode

My apologies for the tardiness of this post!

The Ronsardian Ode is the creation of French poet, Pierre de Ronsard. Ronsard (1524-1585) was one of the stars of the Pléiade, French humanists who were inspired by classical culture, but sought to create a French literature. His poetry is musical, sensuous, pagan, romantic. Although a cleric in minor orders, he was constantly celebrating the beauties and sorrows of his various loves.

I have not checked the Ronsardian Ode against other ode forms, but I found it quite “odious” to work with. It can have any number of nine line stanzas, and the syllable pattern is 10-4-10-4-10-10-4-4-8 with a rhyme scheme of ababccddc.

xxxxxxxxxa
xxxb
xxxxxxxxxa
xxxb
xxxxxxxxxc
xxxxxxxxxc
xxxd
xxxd
xxxxxxxc


The Prisoner
I look at the world outside from within
A safe haven,
Watching the seasons, the night and day spin,
The stars hasten.
Emotions rising and falling with time,
Embracing each one while safe in my shrine,
There must be more
Outside the door -
I yearn to embrace what is thine.

You’re caught on the other side looking in
Almost touching.
Held apart by so much, where to begin?
The walls crushing -
My fear is the truth, of what it could mean,
Loss of the past and a slate that’s wiped clean.
A look, a touch
That say so much -
I yearn to embrace the unseen.

A life lived in fear is no life at all
You have taught me.
It hurts so much less when you have a fall
If you are free.
But what if I find your words are untrue?
Can I bid all of my old fears adieu?
Please hold my hand,
Beside me stand -
I yearn to embrace life with you.