Unadulterated Text

The above sonnet employs a nonce rhyme-scheme of abccbaabccbadd.  After composing the sonnet as usual, I began to look for ways to break up the lines and change the wording so as to allow for doubling of meaning, abiguity, and intensification.  In the process I found the opportunity to create an additional aspect in the concreteness (visually) of the textual arrangement. It was created rather off the cuff because I saw I hadn't posted in a very long while and wanted to put something original up, and it is a little too abstract even now, for my taste, but I enjoyed the diffusion and the layering of meaning that the self-developed workshopping allowed me to achieve.  Now if I can just do the same with something a little more concrete (memetically).

NOTE:

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So, as you can imagine, with Josely Baptista fresh in my mind, my thoughts are focused on translation.  Add to that a class in Old English language and literature, and you've got yourself a dangerous combination.

I'm reading the Wife's Lament, right, which I can without affectation retitle Lonely Wife Blues.  After all, the scholar who came up with the title "The Wife's Lament" back in the day was simply seeking a descriptive handle by which to reference a text which its scribe left untitled.  Some people will tell you that authors weren't concerned with titling their works until the advent of the printing press and the possibility of widespread printed publication.  I beg to differ.  I think that SCRIBES weren't all that concerned with titles, but authors (in what small sense authorship as we know it existed in a pre-literate culture) always titled their works, and always shared that title with their audience (reader or listener).  What, you think Homer just started strumming and people lined up to listen?  Well, OK, maybe he could have, but I guarantee you that what he did was say something along the lines of "And now I give you the story of Odysseus and his remarkable journey," or something along those lines.  It's basic; it's intrinsic; authors title their works.  In any case, that was a humongous old tangent.  The point is that you can give the Wife's Lament any old title you choose as long as people understand what you're talking about.

So I get to thinking, what modern poetic form most closely approximates the alliterative verse of Anglo Saxon culture, and I realize, we have a form today that is strikingly similar.  When I say strikingly, you're not gonna belive how striking it is.  So what is Alliterative verse?  Basically what you've got is a "line" divided into to half-lines, each of which has two strongly weighted syllables, at least one of these syllables in each half-line alliterating with one in the other half line.  Of course the rules for determining a strongly weighted syllable get pretty complex, as do the iterations that can be used within that basic pattern, but nevertheless, that's pretty much it.  In modern verse, we have something commonly referred to as the blues line.  Basically, it has two half-lines, often (though not always by any means) joined by alliteration on the stressed syllables, with the lines repeating and/or rhyming at the end.  Remove the requirement for rhyme and you've got the updated version of Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse.

What follows is my translation (and I use the word translation advisedly; this is not a transliteration or a traduction or a paraphrase) of the first several lines of the Wife's lament into unrhymed strongly alliterated blues lines.  I have tried to stay true as much as possible down to the word level, and always at least to the level of the half-line.  I think it works as well as any translation can.  What do you think?

Lonely Wife Blues

I'll sing you a song    'bout my sad sad life,
'bout my sad sad plight,    though I say it myself;
and my miserable lot    after i matured.
I've been there before    never badder than now.
I've suffered torment    been sent away,
just like my man was    away from the masses,
when he caused a commotion    and filled me with care.
I wanted to know    just where he was,
So I went on a journey    and looked for a job:
Couldn't make no friends    in my miserable state.
My poor man's kin    considered it great
(though they tried to hide it)   that they'd parted our hearts,
as far away    as the farthest lands.
My man's life was lousy;    he longed for me;
he had me live like him    in the horrible trees.
I didn't have no friends    nowhere in this nation.
didn't have no friends    didn't have no joy.
So when I found him    and he made me happy
didn't know he weren't lucky    that he'd lose his mind;
didn't know he's contrivin'    a homicide.
He had a happy appearance    we promised and vowed
we wouldn't be parted    'til death did his part.
We said we wouldn't be parted,    but that was a lie,
cause I'm sittin here now,     and just want to die.

[To be continued]

At the request of a friend I am posting the following humorous verse.

At the Club

A Farce

"The act of esteeming worthless; pointless" – floccinaucinihilipilification:

I've a constant pinging tintinnabulation

that I can't escape no matter my gyrations.

So I sit and ask Doc Smith's interpretation,

and he tells me it's just due to loud vibrations

and a cure is pointless in his estimation.

It's the gin he'd drunk that in my estimation

caused his analysis of my problem to devolve into mere floccinaucinihilipilification.

To identify the causative vibrations

of my now quite painful tintinnabulation

will require a dowser's skilled interpretation

of a hazel wand's erratic quick gyrations.

And I'll prob'ly have to go through some gyrations

to allow me to obtain an estimation

of the price to stop the noise. Interpretation?

Why it's simply that quite a lot of exclamatory and self-exculpating floccinaucinihilipilification

will result when I explain my tintinnabulation

and request the end of those blameworthy vibrations.

I sure hope the ceasing of those foul vibrations

will allow me to be rid of these gyrations

and will end this dreadful tintinnabulation.

Otherwise, my search, by any estimation,

will be bound to endure a considerable amount of floccinaucinihilipilification.

If the singer's very flawed interpretation

(And I've very loosely used "interpretation"

for the rather less than musical vibrations;

though I don't mean to be engaging myself in any floccinaucinihilipilification.)

and the dancer's un-interpretive gyrations

could be stopped, then, in my humble estimation,

I could find the cause of my tintinnabulation;

but between the effects of my tintinnabulation

and the music and the dance, interpretation

has become impossible. No estimation

can succeed. I'll have to live with the vibrations

and just sip my beer and watch the strange gyrations

of the dancers. And it begins to become obvious that the floccinaucinihilipilification

of the tintinnabulation and the cymbals' loud vibrations

gives a weird interpretation to the dancers fierce gyrations;

and though no one pays attention, my estimation of the situation is that it can all reasonably be chalked up to a simple matter of a lot of floccinaucinihilipilification.

If George Bush wants to win the race he'll have to free his campaign from the taint of missing WMDs. If Edwards wants the liberal nomination then He'll have to show the delegates that he could win. Poor examples no doubt, but worth the exercise.

Writing a Sestina I only write one line. That's all I have to write. I keep the meter tight. No need to run across the line-ends. Each is clear, and each one stands alone. So each one stands alone, I only write one line. The line ends. It is clear that that's all I have to write. No need to run across the meter, keep it tight. The meter is kept tight so each one stands alone. I need to bear my cross and write the only line I ever had to write. The line ends. It is clear the line ends. It is clear the meter is kept tight. And all I have the right to do is stand alone and write the only line I need. To bear my cross I need to run across the line-ends. It is clear I have but one right line, whose meter is too tight. I know to stand alone It must be exactly right. It must be exactly right, with no need to run across another line. Alone, the line ends it. Is clear meter just too tight? It's all I can write. One line-- I write across the page, alone, struggling to be clear, clinging tightly to the pen through just one last line.

I wasn't really happy with yesterday's poem. It failed to keep rigorously to the requirements of the rhyme. The one below is slightly more satisfactory.
Continuum

Look in the interstices
  of spider webs and flowers.
To purge the inner vices
  look in-between the hours.
If you would find true pleasure
  in aromatic spices,
it's not in what you measure;
  it's in the interstices.

Grief Beaches call; stony clamor of silence rings through dead air. Dead air receives the stammer and sinks without a sound. Where are the calls of the sea birds? This silent screaming teaches me the power of no words as I sigh on the beaches.

I think all heartfelt love poetry, composed in the moment and to a real lover, is probably pretty cheesy. I know for certain that mine is. All the technique and craft I normally hope to employ are right out the window. Nevertheless, here's a cheesy, heartfelt love poem composed for my wife on Valentine's Day. Argument To His Lover on Valentine's Day I've seen you self-destruct and seen you win Your way past snags Odysseus would rue. I've seen you, with your clothing all askew, Stare down an erring kid, and finally, when They sat in meek submission, seen you grin In pardon, turning pique to cheer in two Quick seconds. All the things I've seen you do Seem meaningless the moment I begin    To contemplate your physical perfection      Which I know that you would argue is fictitious.        Your face would make the very form of face    Blush to be compared to your reflection.      To argue with me surely would be vicious        So shut up and wrap me in my Love's embrace.

--Robert Flach

I. Impotence "It seems to him there are A thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world." You try to break out of your cage In a feat of fearsome strength. You pace Behind the bars, and, in your rage, You try to break out of your cage. You're in an unforgiving age; Society will not embrace You. Try to break out of your cage In a feat of fearsome strength, then pace. II. Power "The movement of his powerful soft strides is like a ritual dance around a center" Ignoring bars, in cyclic scope He plots his path, pursues his prey. Though never a breath of tight held hope Escapes the bars. In cyclic scope He circles with a steady lope. His eyes, on fire, would like to flay Offending bars. Instead, to cope, He plots his path, avoids decay.

The 'sh' slid out-- shameless, thoughtless, after I, careless, kicked the couch, an 'i' piled up-- a perfect scream issued as pitch increased, increased. The 't' breaks, trembling-- torn from my lips, like my nail, lost now but lingering, drips to a stop, stunned as blood-- like copper, leaks from my cuticle, cut off.

I like to titivate a lot; I titivate with all I've got. My titivation knows no bounds. Although my titivation's sounds Sometimes annoy my patient spouse, I titivate the whole great house. I hope you know just what I mean When I'm done even the pipes are clean! ... I told you to beware of doggerel didn't I?

DEAREST <STOP> LOVING ME IS LIKE YOUR PROGRAMMING <STOP> HOPELESS- NESS DOUBLES AS HOPE WHEN YOU HOPE I'LL LEAVE <STOP>WORKING HE SAID AND I'VE BROKEN<STOP> WE'VE GOT BUGGY CODE AND YOU WON'T <STOP> HACKING ME THE VERY THING HE ACCUSED ME OF <STOP> BURNING ME LIKE A P-4 WITH NO FAN YOU AUTORESPOND <STOP> LOST WITH ME WITHOUT A JOB WITHOUT A PROGRAM YOU HOPE IT'LL BE FINE <STOP>LYING <STOP>BEING MY WIFE <STOP>UNDERSTANDING I CAN'T <STOP>

A few Double Dactyls for your reading pleasure. They're hiding... Can you find them? Come out, come out, wherever you are ... Please note, the following verse is childish, silly, and sometimes ascerbic. It's the type of stuff you might expect to find on a bathroom wall, really. Enter at your own risk and

Beware of Doggerel

UPDATE:I went ahead and finished the sonnets for each of the standard forms, so click at the bottom of this post where it says Read the rest of this entry >> to read the other two. Gave a presentation on Sonnets for a class. Wrote this while working on the 8.5x11 tri-fold brochure on sonnets that I created as a handout. It has examples of all the major types of sonnets, covers all the basics of the sonnet form, offers some options and alternatives to traditional sonnets, and provides some exercises in sonnet writing. If you would be interested in obtaining a copy, e-mail webmaster@allauthors.com. If you would like to write Petrarchan then You’ll need to learn your rhyme and meter well. Your prosody should flow and weave a spell That’s wrapped round mind by page, round page by pen. You cannot write one with an ear of tin, Nor can your import be an empty shell; Your sounds should ring as lovely as a bell And after you have eight lines written, when You start the sextet, change your mode of thought, Bring some new aspect, or new thought to light, And change your rhyme to indicate that fact. And also, to be great, you really ought (If you would like your poems to take flight) To end with something that the octet lacked.

Come, faerie, dance with me Where shaggy sea meets rugged crag. In mist by shores where fisher folk Set out to see what fortune brings; You slip through curtains of the mist To dance away with me. We dance to drums and pipe By flickering light of bonfire brands; We dance, 'til they begin to fade, Together find a fresh-lit gleam Of half forgotten dreams. And then The music sleeps. I end.

John Tomich was an Elf, as broad as he was merry. He loved to stuff himself on fruit and nut and berry.

Note: This is what happens when you pull words only from context, and learn from books without teachers... you write a pair of poems in which triolet rhymes with bet, rather than hay. Oh well, live and learn, maybe I'll try to rework these sometime, maybe not. I. Written You try to write a Triolet in a modern coffee shop. You do not dare to rhyme. They will not let you try to write a Triolet. They see tradition as threat, would ridicule if they but knew you try to write a Triolet. In a modern coffee shop, you do.