A Rectilinear Challenge to all Poets
Paul Adams
The ultimate challenge a poet could have
Writing verses both right-flush and left
With meter and rhyme in a sensible frame
Is a feat most uncommonly awesomely deft
Anyone there who dares call himself poet
Or herself poet I might allow to be fair
Should be able to write in a uniform way
If only to show off their dazzling flair
So each of you there who can actually do
What the technically-challenged will not
Is invited to post the result for us all
Show the rest of us here what you've got
William Blake
Tyger, Tyger, here burning bright
In blackened forests of the night
What immortal hand or awesome eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what far-flung deeps and skies
Burnt the fire of thine own eyes!
On what wings dare he now aspire?
What the hand dare hold the fire?
And what shoulders, and what art,
Do twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart begins to beat
What dread hand; what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace forg'd thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare all its deadly terror clasp?
When the stars threw their spears
Watering heaven with their tears:
Did he now smile his work to see?
He who'd made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger, Tyger, here burning bright
In blackened forests of the night
What immortal hand or awesome eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
--
Robert Herrick
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Father Time's still a-flying;
And the flower that smiles today,
On the morrow is yet to be dying.
The glorious lamp above, the sun,
The higher his path is a-getting,
The sooner will this race be run,
And nearer he comes to a-setting.
The age's best that is the first,
When youth and blood come warmer;
But spent, those worse, and worst
Times, still succeed this former.
So be not coy, but use your time,
And while still ye may, go marry;
For having lost your happy prime,
You might yet for eternity tarry.
--
Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many years so long ago
In this kingdom lying nigh on the sea,
That a maiden once lived you may know,
By this memorable name of Annabel Lee;
That maiden lived with never a thought
Other than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I too was a child,
In this kingdom lying nigh on the sea,
But we loved our love more than love--
Both myself and my sweet Annabel Lee--
A love that the winged seraphs on high
Would have coveted, the maiden and me.
And this was the reason why, long ago,
In this kingdom lying nigh on the sea,
A wind blew out of the clouds by night
Chilling right through my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came out
Then they bore her a way aways from me
To enclose her quite up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom lying nigh on the sea.
The angels, not half so happy on high,
Really went envying my maiden and me:-
Yes! that was why (as everybody knows,
In this kingdom lying nigh on the sea)
That the wind left the clouds chilling
And killing my dear, dear Annabel Lee.
But our love was more by far than love
Of all others who were older than we--
Of many others far wiser yet than we--
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down deep under the sea
Will ever sever my soul from that soul
Of the beautiful maiden, Annabel Lee:-
When the moon beams I dream the dreams
Of that beautiful maiden, Annabel Lee;
When the stars rise I feel bright eyes
Of that beautiful maiden, Annabel Lee:
Every night-tide, I'm down by the side
Of my darling, my life and so my bride
In that sepulchre there nigh the sea--
In a tomb nigh on the side of the sea.
--
lmerkel on BIX
Paul Adams <paul...@earthlink.net> writes:
>
>The ultimate challenge a poet could have
>Writing verses both right-flush and left
>With meter and rhyme in a sensible frame
>Is a feat most uncommonly awesomely deft
Naaaaaa. It's no ultimate challenge. It's a cute gimmick.
It's especially no challenge when you pad the lines to
make them fit, as you do.
Below, "their" should be "his" or "her" to fix your
grammatical error. Oops! That shortens the line, doesn't
it? ;-)
Also, when you say "anyone there" -- where's "there"?
You also refer to "the rest of us here," so "here" I assume
is r.a.p. So "anyone there" must be someone outside r.a.p.
How will they read your post?
The ultimate challenge for poets probably includes good
logic and grammar. You might think about that.
>
>Anyone there who dares call himself poet
>Or herself poet I might allow to be fair
"call himself poet or herself poet" -- Ugh. Clumsy.
>Should be able to write in a uniform way
>If only to show off their dazzling flair
>
>So each of you there who can actually do
>What the technically-challenged will not
>Is invited to post the result for us all
>Show the rest of us here what you've got
>
-- Lee Merkel
John Donne
Death, be not proud, though one hast called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for indeed thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which only thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; so from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee yet shall go,
Rest of their toiled bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to fate, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war and sickness so dwell;
Purple poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy cut; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake renewed eternally,
And death can be no more: Death, thou shalt die.
--
Lewis Carroll
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble along the wabe;
All whimmimsey were the borogroves,
And the momme girraths out gerrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, now my son!
The jaws bite, and the claws catch!
Beware that Jubbjubb bird, and shun
The frumious tumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his bivorpal sword in hand:
Long time the anxom foe he sought--
And rested he by the Tummtumm tree,
And fairly stood awhile in thought.
And as in huffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling out the tulgey wood,
And burbled chardigally as it came!
One, two! One, two! Through the goo
The bivorpal blade cut snick-snack!
He cleft it dead, and with its head
In triumph he went galumphing back.
"So hast thou slain the Jabberwock!
Come to my arms, my beamingish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He magleefally chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble along the wabe;
All whimmimsey were the borogroves,
And the mommee giraths out gerrabe.
--
deb
lme...@BIX.com (lmerkel on BIX) immortalized the moment, writing:
> Below, "their" should be "his" or "her" to fix your
> grammatical error. Oops! That shortens the line, doesn't
> it? ;-)
guess you ain't been around the american psychological association
lately. their style guide suggests avoiding reference to gender if at
all possible, but if you have to do something, instead of using "his"
in the generic (as we have been doing forever in the english language,
thus relegating the little miss to the unintelligible void of unspoken
and unmeant miasma) you should use "their." i know it offends your
grammatic sensibilities and it offends mine. that is why i always
use:
truckdrivers dump their loads whenever possible.
rather than:
a truckdriver will dump their load whenever possible.
but there is precedent for the latter, in the APA style guide.
the times they are achangin.
- deb
************
deborah kilgore
college station, tx
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In charmed Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasures-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river ran
Through caves measureless to man
Straight down to sunstarved sea.
Thirteen miles of fertile ground
Had walls and towers put around;
Gardens displaying sinuous rills
To many an incense-bearing tree;
And forests ancient as the hills
Circled sunny spots of greenery.
That deep romantic chasm slanted
Thwart the hill of cedarn cover!
A savage place! and as enchanted
As e'er beneath the moon haunted
By woman wailing to demon-lover!
In this chasm, turmoil seething,
Like Earth so thickly breathing,
A fountain momently came forced:
Mid whose half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like hail
Or as chaff in thresher's flail:
And amidst dancing rocks forever
It flung aloft the sacred river.
Meandering on with a mazy motion
By woods and dale the river ran,
To the caves measureless to man,
With tumult to a lifeless ocean:
'mid tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestor voices prophesying war!
A shadow of the dome of pleasure
Now floated midway on the waves;
Here to hear the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny dome midst caves of ice!
One dusky damsel with a dulcimer
In a definite vision once I saw:
Appearing as an Abyssinian maid,
And on that dulcimer she played,
Singing, singing of Mount Abora.
Could I but now revive within me
Her symphony and delighted song,
To such rapture it would win me,
That with music so loud and long
I should build that dome in air.
Sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
If one heard he'd see them there
And all should cry so you beware
Flashing eye, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And shut your eyes in holy dread
For he now on honeydew hath fed,
And drunk that milk of Paradise.
--
Christopher Marlowe
Come live with me and become my love,
And we will all those pleasures prove
Which valleys, groves, hills, fields,
Woods, or steep high mountain yields.
And we both shall sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed the flocks
Near shallow rivers, unto whose falls
Melodious birds shall sing madrigals.
And I will fashion thee beds of roses
Adding to a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and an ornate kirtle
Embroidered so with leaves of myrtle;
A white gown made of that finest wool
Which off those pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers against the cold,
With buckles made of the purest gold;
A crafted belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coraline clasps and amber studs.
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and become my Love.
Shepherds' swains will dance and sing
Giving thee delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind would move
Then live with me and become my Love.
--
William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as does a cloud
Floating up o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I spied a crowd,
A host, of golden-hued daffodils;
Beside the lake, neath the trees,
Fluttered, dancing in the breeze.
Continued as the stars that shine
And twinkle across the milky way,
They reached in never-ending line
Just beside the margins of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at one glance,
Tossing heads in sprightly dance.
Waves beside them danced but they
O'ercame sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but help be gay,
In such beautiful jocund company:
I gazed in awe but little thought
What wealth the show had brought:
For often, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or with a pensive mood,
They flash in upon the inward eye
Which is bliss drawn of solitude;
And my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances on with the daffodils.
--
Ray Heinrich
Singular they, like plural you, has been used on and off for centuries.
Maybe it comes from the low german languages of bavaria? I use it
myself because i usually prefer not to specify gender unless it has
a distinct purpose.
I started using it a long while back in texas to write love poems to men.
It was more a "cover-your-ass" technique then, but i grew to like the
open feeling it gave a poem. And the utility! I could recycle the
poems regardless of the sex of my next love. I think it works the
same way for readers, but then i do have a certain bias.
-ray
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league
And half of a league onward,
All into the valley of Death
Rode the doomed six hundred.
"Forwards the Light Brigade!
Charge on the guns!" he said
Far into the valley of Death
Rode the doomed six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Were there any men dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Someone had badly blundered.
Theirs was not to bid reply,
They came not to reason why,
Their job but to do and die.
And into the valley of Death
Rode the doomed six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon too off left of them,
Cannon more in front of them
Volleyed loud and thundered;
Stormed with shot and shell,
Boldly they strode and well,
Nigh unto the jaws of Death,
Right into the mouth of hell
Rode the doomed six hundred.
Flashed all the sabres bare,
Flashed, and churned the air
Sabring those gunners there,
Charging brave an army while
Near all the world wondered.
Plunging on in battery-smoke
On across a line they broke;
Both Cossack and Russian too
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and well-sundered.
And they rode back, but not,
Not wholly that six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon off the left of them,
Cannon still in back of them
Volleyed loud and thundered;
Stormed with shot and shell,
While horses and heroes fell
They that had fought so well
Came from the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left from them,
Left of the old six hundred.
When could their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world then wondered.
Honor that charge they made!
Honor now the Light Brigade,
Brave and noble six hundred!
--
Michael McNeilley
In article <32AE49...@earthlink.net>,
So, did you translate these from the English--
all by yourself?
mcn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10 by mcn:
http://www.art.net/~mmichael
(now with *music*)
Zero City:
http://www.cruzio.com/~zerocity/
Paul Adams
Michael McNeilley wrote:
>
> In article <32AE49...@earthlink.net>,
> William Wordsworth <paul...@earthlink.net> wrote:
> >I wandered lonely as does a cloud
>
> So, did you translate these from the English--
> all by yourself?
>
> mcn
I have to admit I did not. They were done by my seven-year-old son.
He likes to have something else to keep his mind occupied while he
is chopping the wood. I just typed them in because I don't have a
braille keyboard for him yet. He says thank you very much for your
interest in his practice pieces.
--
Michael McNeilley
In article <32B2A5...@earthlink.net>,
I suppose this crap makes more sense
than rewriting other people's poetry
to make it worse.
Peter Stewart Richards
>>> William Wordsworth <paul...@earthlink.net> wrote:
>>> >I wandered lonely as does a cloud
>I suppose this crap makes more sense
>than rewriting other people's poetry
>to make it worse.
>
>mcn
>
>
>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
>
> 10 by mcn:
> http://www.art.net/~mmichael
> (now with *music*)
>
> Zero City:
> http://www.cruzio.com/~zerocity/
>
>
>
I wander around on my own
In much the same way that
Clouds do or would if all
The other clouds are like
Somewhere else making the
One cloud lonely but what
The hell, clouds have got
A whole sky to fly around
In, so they ought to bump
Into some kindred spirits
Somewhere up there in all
That ether only we should
Know enough about that eh?
Ray Heinrich
>I suppose this crap makes more sense
>than rewriting other people's poetry
>to make it worse.
>
>mcn
>
hey, don't knock re-writing. re-writing a good
poem and making it worse is usually a lot better
than the bad original you would have written
if you hadn't been re-writing.
besides, this rectilinear challenge stuff is better
than holding up 7-11's any day.
-ray