Trichain Verse Form

The Trichain is an invented form, credited to Lisa La Grange of Allpoetry.com. Like many invented forms, information about this one was hard to come by. And a search for the author didn’t help. So here’s what I know.

This form is stanzaic, consisting of three or more quatrains (four line verses). Each quatrain consists of three 8-syllable lines, and one 6-syllable line. It also has a somewhat unique rhyme scheme. The first three lines of each stanza rhyme with each other, but the fourth line has the same rhyme throughout the poem.

Maybe a schematic would help:

xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxb

xxxxxxxc
xxxxxxxc
xxxxxxxc
xxxxxb

xxxxxxxd
xxxxxxxd
xxxxxxxd
xxxxxb

Is it just me, or does this make it a little tricky? Presumably you can make it as long as long as you wish. The minimum length is three stanzas. There were no suggestions of what to write your Trichain about, so it looks like you can use any subject matter you wish.

While I thought the rhyme scheme was interesting, I find having only six syllables in the last line of each verse a little jarring. Of course that could be because in my first attempt I forgot, using eight syllables instead of six, and I had to totally redo it.


Turning Seasons

One day the trees are brightly green,
the next they’re something in between
and finally they’re gone, unseen
the seasons turning here

The sky is dark, the moon is bright
the air is clear this starry night
with just a hint of winter’s bite
a start of the new year.

In bitter cold, snow turns to ice
thaws and freezes, not once but twice
the snow compacts down so concise
and soon begins to clear.

The snow is gone the rains begin
there’s mud where once the ice has been
a hint of green, still looking thin
branching out, more appear.

The sun is warm, and soon it’s hot
time to relax, devoid of thought
with all the pleasure this turn’s brought
never lasting I fear.

The sun begins to cool again
once more it’s time to reap the grain
the leaves will turn, a glowing chain
as seasons reappear.

What Happens In Notty . . .

. . . stays in Notty.

Whew! What a weekend! I don’t know where to start except at the beginning, so here goes.

First of all, I’d been fighting a wicked sinus cold all week, and it was a losing battle, I tell you what. But I wasn’t about to miss my stitching retreat, so . . . We left Cobourg at 9 a.m., and yes, I did warn my passenger about my cold and offer to wear a mask, but she was fine with it. And actually, the worst of my cold was Friday – I was just a little sniffly the rest of the weekend.

The fact that we didn’t reach the Nottawasaga Resort until 1 p.m. was due more to us making a pitstop at a humungous outlet mall than traffic. So here’s what the resort looks like (I took this picture off their website):

See how the building fans out in those nice long arms? Yeah. My room was at the end of one of those long arms, and they only had elevators in the center portion. My room was just to the right of that light at the end of the tunnel, so I tried not to have to go back there very often. 😊

The room we were give to stitch in was on the bottom floor, and we had to go through a bit of a maze to get there, but it was a great room, brightly lit with natural light and a great view that wasn’t too distracting:

The four of us were guests of the Toronto Guild – well, two of us were guests, one of us was a member of their guild as well, and one of us was a soon to be member. Here’s a shot of us all hard at work.

Conversation rose and fell, and laughter was abundant. These ladies were every bit as warm, welcoming and friendly as our own group, and we felt right at home as soon as we got there. I swear, it has to be a stitching thing.

We weren’t alone down there either. The conference room beside us had a scrapbooking group who had an impressive amount of paper and cutters and stickers and everything you could think of to do with scrapbooking spread around the perimeter of their room.

.

And there was a double wide room for a quilt group called the Serial Rippers. Is that not the coolest name ever? Their room was a little frightening. It was filled with cutting boards and steamers and irons and some of the fanciest sewing machines I’ve ever seen. I had a serious case of sewing machine envy.

That picture is just the small half of the room, the other side is twice as big and filled to the brim with quilters. Unfortunately, my camera phone doesn’t always work that well so a lot of my pictures didn’t turn out.

Everyone there was super friendly. It must be something to do with the creative spirit. But I gotta tell you, I don’t get that sense of camaraderie at my writing retreats.

Also unlike my writing retreats, meals were included. And man, what meals they were! Breakfast was a buffet, and for lunch and dinner we were given three different choices. This is the restaurant where we took our meals. On the other side of the double fireplace were more tables, with a terrific view of the golf course.

On Saturday and Sunday there was an annual Sugar Plum Fair, a craft show with over a hundred vendors. This was held in the Trade Center attached to the resort, and we could walk over via a tunnel that connected the hotel to the sports complex. Yes, I spent way too much there, but a lot of it was on Christmas presents.

I did surprisingly well with my social anxiety over the weekend. Breakfast was between 7:30 and 8:30, after which we retired to the stitching room. We’d break for lunch, and then back to stitching until dinner a 5 or 6. That’s a lot of time together.

But like I said, it was a different energy than I get at a writing retreat. Being around these ladies was energizing. And we weren’t glued to our needlework by any means. We could take a walk, or wander around to see what the other groups were doing, or go up to our room for a nap. The fact that few of us did just tells you what a friendly bunch we were.

The work that was done in this room was mind-boggling. There was needlepoint, cross-stitch, crochet, embroidery, blackwork, cut work, new projects, old projects, practical projects, decorative projects, and if you finished something, you got to ring a bell to announce it.

Here’s a sampling of some of the work the four of us from Cobourg did. The first is by the insanely talented Heather, who must have eyes like a hawk because she’s always working on something intricate with single strands of silk thread. This one is part of a small-size replica of 17th century gentleman's night cap (an etui when finished), from Thistle Threads designs.

Next we have a tablecloth the indomitable Immy is working on. It’s going to be gorgeous when it’s done, don’t you think?

Then we have this cute piece by Emily, who’s deserting us to join the Toronto Guild. And they’d better take good care of her or we’re stealing her back! Incidentally, she was the only one who got to ring the bell.

And this is the zentangle sampler I’ve been working away at. I can only work on it a bit at the time because the material I picked is NOT good for stitching, but it was nice to make some progress.

Honestly, this is the tip of the iceberg as far as the talent in that room went. And like I said, the camera in my phone sometimes didn’t work properly, so many of my pictures didn’t turn out all that good. Plus, I didn't get names to go with the pictures of the other work I captured, so I can't give proper credit to them.

I’m about 3,000 words behind in my NaNo challenge, but I can’t bring myself to care. LOL I’ve been further behind than that before and caught up, so I’m not too worried. Besides, it was totally worth it. I had an amazing weekend and I’m sorry it had to end.

I’d like to thank the Toronto Guild of Stitchery for inviting us to join them, and I promise if you let me come back next year I’ll bring my good camera, and a notebook to take down names so I can give credit where credit is due. 😊

Tigerjade Verse Form

It’s always a bit disappointing when I find a new form but find very little information about it except for the basics. A search for the creator, Jacqueline Sturge, mostly just brought up links to examples of her poem, although one link was for a poetry book she’s included in: Poetry Styles, Book 8, by Alliance Poets.

So I don’t know why this form is called a Tigerjade, but I thought it was kind of a cool name. It’s written in as many octaves (eight-line stanzas) as you wish, and has a strict syllable count (3-3-12-12-12-12-3-3) and it rhymes in couplets.

Schematic:

xxa
xxa
xxxxxxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxxxxxc
xxxxxxxxxxxc
xxd
xxd

xxe
xxe
xxxxxxxxxxxf
xxxxxxxxxxxf
xxxxxxxxxxxg
xxxxxxxxxxxg
xxh
xxh

. . . and so on for however many verses you wish to make.

And that’s all the information I could find about it. A search of the name itself came up with the Tiger Jade Capital investment company, and the crassula picturata, a rather cool looking succulent better known as tiger jade.

I would imagine you can write your Tigerjade on any subject you wish, and if you want to have a little fun with it, you could center it on the page. To be honest, I didn’t like the three syllable lines any more than I did the twelve syllable ones. Three was too few, twelve was too many. But I did like that it was written in couplets.


I see stars
maybe Mars
when I look up into the brilliant night sky
we seem to be alone here and I wonder why
the universe is so large and we are so small
is there no one out there who will answer our call?
So alone
on our own

We send probes
to other globes
in hopes of finding otherworldly life somewhere
some other species with new ideas to share
and if they are willing to travel all this way
we hope they will listen to what we have to say
peace for all
man’s sangraal.

Woven Fabric Basket Project

Slow stitching means setting aside time to find myself somewhere in the thread and spread myself out on a piece of fabric.
— Kelly Martinez

There should be an extra day of the week called sew day.
— Makerist

No matter how it looks from the outside, everything that is made by hand requires a lifetime of effort.
— Kit Dunsmore

From time to time my stitchery guild offers classes or seminars or whatever, and recently they offered a class in creating a woven fabric basket. Sounds like fun, right?

Well, I gotta tell you. I did not get off to a good start with this project. We were sent the instructions and I guess I didn’t read them correctly, because I kind of messed up, right off the mark.

To start with, we had to cut a number of fabric strips. I figured it would be easier to buy material than to dig through my fabric stash, so I took myself to Walmart and bought some fat quarters.

Unfortunately, a fat quarter was too short to use for my strips - my own fault, I hadn't really paid attention to what size the strips needed to be.

Then apparently I really didn’t read my instructions, because we were supposed to come to the first part of the class with our strips cut and ironed. Then we were going to spend the class inserting the batting in them and sewing them along the edges.

Well. After realizing the fat quarters weren’t going to work, I ended up having to go through my stash after all, and found some plain, pastel material as well as a print for contrast. So I brought it all with me . . . and spent the next two hours cutting and ironing (with lots of help).

The colour doesn’t show well in the picture, but when I was finished (at home) I had five long patterned strips, and fourteen solid coloured strips (seven pale pink, seven pale mauve).

But for the next class I was fully prepared. We were to have the bottom of our basket woven and sewn, ready to weave the horizontal strips in.

None of us had brought enough pins with us, and the clips really didn’t help as well as they should have, so those of us doing the project (not everyone was participating) spent a rather frustrating couple of hours weaving and re-weaving our baskets. In my case, I was moving my pins up as I wove, and ended up with a gap in the side where the ends of the horizonal strips were supposed to meet.

Back at home, where I had adequate pins, I did much better. However, I couldn’t help but notice that one of my horizontal strips was shorter than the others by about an inch, maybe a little more. So I decided to start with that one because I figured the bottom would be the narrowest.

Well, I was about a quarter of an inch short even meeting with the other end of the strip, let alone overlapping it like I was supposed to do. So I unpinned the whole thing, and then loosely sewed the two ends together making a loop. I found the middle opposite where I joined it, and pinned it in place on one side of the basket, pinning the part I’d joined on the other.

It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but I finally got that first row pinned in place. After that it went fairly easily. With three rows done, you can see the basket shape starting to take place.

And here’s the finished basket, all that’s left is to do some top stitching (by hand) around the top to tack the strips in place.

And after all that work, I think I’ll go get one of those glass domes to put it under, to preserve it for all time.

The Raven

Seeing as last night was All Hallows Eve and today is All Saints Day (tomorrow is All Souls Day), I thought I’d do something a little different. I have many poems that deal with the spirit season, but I think none are more appropriate than The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe.

Today I’m not only sharing this classic poem, but I’ve included a video so you can listen to the great Vincent Price recite it as you read. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.





The Raven

by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

One Foggy Morning . . .

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
— Carl Sandburg.

Sometimes we need the fog to remind ourselves that all of life is not black and white.
— Jonathan Lockwood Huie

There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.
— Hal Borland

I love the fog. There’s just something about that feeling of being cut off from everything. A long time ago I used to commute to a college north of here. The small highway I took was very hilly, and in the fall quite often there was fog in the morning. The valleys would be shrouded in it, and then I’d drive up a hill above it and it was like I was on top of the world.

Our weather was really up and down last week, and Thursday it was foggy. I thought about going out and taking pictures, but figured by the time I got down to the waterfront the fog would have burned off. So I worked away in my office, glancing up at the window every once in awhile, and the fog was still there. Not only was it not burning off, it looked like it was getting denser.

So I caved. I grabbed my camera and drove down to the waterfront to take pictures. It wasn't quite as dense as it had been a couple of hours prior, but it was still atmospheric.

This is the point that separates the yacht basin from the west beach:

And this is a view of the west beach from the point:

Looking to the east of the point, you can see a few waterfowl bobbing on the water, and if you look hard, you can see the lighthouse.

Looking more to the southeast, you can see a few waterfowl, and that blur just above them is the breakwater for the yacht basin.

I was determined to get a good picture of the swans, so I walked to the end of the point, and, because the water was low, I went down onto the shore. The ground was really squishy here – a combination of seaweed, dirt, and debris. But I got my shot.

By this time the fog was starting to dissipate. It was still kind of grey, but not shrouded like before. So I headed back to the boardwalk and started taking pictures along the somewhat scrubby shore.

These little flowers were a random bright spot in the scrub:

There were several other interesting plants as well. Patches of this grew closer to the boardwalk:

While clumps of this grew on the sandy/rocky shore:

And when I got close to the end of the boardwalk, the fog was pretty much gone.

Next time, I won’t hesitate going out to adventure in the fog. Maybe to the east beach.

Trimeric Verse Form

This form was invented by Dr. Charles A. Stone (which seems to be a pseudonym), a retired professor, a poet, and an entrepreneur. Dr. Stone has published poetry in many journals and anthologies and published three nonfiction books. Check out his books HERE.

The Trimeric (tri-(meh)-rik) is a short poem of just thirteen lines. It has four stanzas, consisting of a quatrain (four lines), and three tercets (three lines).

While there is no rhyme or syllable count, and the lines can be however long or short you want to make them, the tercets each start with a refrain. Line 2 of the first verse becomes the first line of the second verse; line 3 of the first verse becomes the first line of the third verse, and line 4 of the first verse becomes the first line of the fourth verse.

Without a syllable count I can’t really do a schematic, but the endings of the first verse would be a-b-c-d. and the following verses would begin b * *, c * *, d * *

It takes a little more thought than the forms I’ve been offering lately, but I found it to be just as much fun. This is a great form for anyone who doesn’t like a strict rhyme and rhythm format.


Life is fueled by dreaming things
Ask the trees, they’ll tell you the truth
The stars dance to their own tune
While the world continues to spin

Ask the trees, they’ll tell you the truth
They’ve been here from the beginning
And their knowledge is vast

The stars dance to their own tune
Cosmic music only they can hear
Eternal in its beauty

While the world continues to spin
The rest of the universe grows old
Entropy always wins