That Last Christmas

[Virgil]

Here's the poem I submitted for the poetry competition. Thanks to all who voted. But now I would like some critical comments. What particularly did you think was well done and what could have been improved? Let me say something about the form. The stanza rhyme scheme was roughly ABBCA and each line is ten syllables except for the fifth line which is shortened by at least a foot (two syllables). I stumbled on this form in a poem by a living poet named David Yezzi. I don't know if he invented it or not, but it struck me. His subject was completely different but what I liked about it was that accentuates both a happy feeling (because of the rhymes) and a melancholy feeling at the same time. That fourth line not having a rhyme and the shortened fifth line tinges that sense of happiness. What do you think about that? Do you think that's true? But any comments are welcomed.


That Last Christmas

He coped with one closing Christmas with us.
Graced as a salvation of medicine
Papa returned home after having been
Mended—the surgeons fingering his heart
Like wise men offering pious.

Not fully mended. He needed my hand
To shave, lift out of bed, slide on his trousers.
He tried his best. That’s what life spurs,
His rasping breath, his timorous eyes,
His weight pitched on me to stand.

Mom put out her holiday table twill,
With the poinsettia print. Beneath the tree
The kids appraised the glitzy gifts with glee.
We even drank some wine, though all his meds,
Soothed by singing Santa on the sill.

We mostly talked. His face glowed. He said
Life, pain and all, was pleasant, one complied.
When he smiled it seemed angels were beside
Him. He said he understood our savior’s birth,
Tree lights twinkling green and red.

Brother horsed around, Sis drove a thousand miles;
Mom spread across dish after dish to feast
Into the night. At twelve yearning ceased,
Gifts peeled, he got a pillow for his neck.
He gave the kids twenty dollar bills.

Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart; the glow curved into gloss.
The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

[SleepyWitch]

hey Virge, I like the emotion, but sometimes I don't understand how the words fit together, grammar-wise... but maybe that's just me (serves me right for playing around with word classes a bit too much in my own poems).


Brother horsed around, Sis drove a thousand miles;
Mom spread across dish after dish to feast
Into the night. At twelve yearning ceased,
Gifts peeled, he got a pillow for his neck.
He gave the kids twenty dollar bills.
I like these lines, especially the one about the mother. it's like everyone's trying to make the best of the situation and trying not to think about the father's imminent death.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I confess shame-facedly that the intricacies of the form were more than I wanted to pay attention to, but I was stirred throughout by the precision of the concrete details and by these lines in particular:



His weight pitched on me to stand.


Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart; the glow curved into gloss.
The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

The last line of all is uninsistently but infinitely sad!

[Granny5]

Virgil, this made me teary. I think it's beautiful.

[Virgil]

Thank you sleepy, Prince, and Granny. Sleepy, which words and grammer did you have trouble with?

[SleepyWitch]

Thank you sleepy, Prince, and Granny. Sleepy, which words and grammer did you have trouble with?
mainly this line:
Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart;


on what? on the last hale holy day? Why was and not were?
or do you mean on as in later?
I did get the overall meaning, though.

[Virgil]

mainly this line:

on what? on the last hale holy day? Why was and not were?
or do you mean on as in later?
I did get the overall meaning, though.

Hale means healthy. "Then on it was all stations of the cross" is a little bit of a compression of "from then on his life was all stations of the cross", although I see your point. One could read that as "from then on his days were all stations of the cross." I'll have to consider that. You might be right. "His shrinking heart" is just his heart getting weaker.

Did I cover it all?

[SleepyWitch]

Hale means healthy. "Then on it was all stations of the cross" is a little bit of a compression of "from then on his life was all stations of the cross", although I see your point. One could read that as "from then on his days were all stations of the cross." I'll have to consider that. You might be right. "His shrinking heart" is just his heart getting weaker.

Did I cover it all?

heheh, yep, I know what 'hale' and 'his shrinking heart' mean. sorry if I confused you by including them in the quote.


"from then on his life was all stations of the cross",
ok, I get it now, but I found "then on" extremely confusing. but maybe that's only because I'm a foreign learner.

[Nossa]

The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

These got me tears in my eyes. It's so beautiful Virgil.

[Petrarch's Love]

Congrats Virg. I was a tad out of it around Christmas and somehow missed the contest altogether, but I would have voted for this one anyway, so all's well. The overall emotion of the poem is very moving, and I'll comment on that at the end, but first a few more critical comments:

I like what you're doing with the phrases strung together and the enjambed lines throughout, since it gives a fragmentary effect that is both suited to the subject and suited to creating the kind of ambiguous connections that make poetry work well.


Him. He said he understood our savior’s birth,
Tree lights twinkling green and red.

For example, in the above lines I like the sense of stream of consciousness with the open ended line on the savior's birth drifting unexpectedly into the line about the tree. I also enjoyed playful things like "gifts peeled" in these lines:

...At twelve yearning ceased,
Gifts peeled, he got a pillow for his neck.

It was fun the way "gifts peeled" can be read with the gifts as the subject as though the gifts were performing the action--and this is especially good following the marking of time in a Christmas poem, when one might expect bells to peal--but then can also be read as the gifts having been peeled open.

There are, however, places where, as Sleepy and others have suggested, I don't think these abruptly shifting stream of consciousness type phrases are quite working for you. I loved the metaphor you were starting with the doctors like magi, but I was greatly puzzled by this line:


Like wise men offering pious.

What pious thing are the offering? Or are they offering piously? Unless you had some meaning of pious as a noun in mind that I'm just not familiar with, I think it needs to be changed. Like Sleepy I didn't really follow that "then on it was all stations of the cross," meant "from then on." It left me confused. I also thought "though all his meds" in this line didn't quite work, though I could understand better where you were going with this one.


We even drank some wine, though all his meds,

In general I think if you were experimenting with this sort of style again it might help if you found some clearer way to punctuate a lot of these phrases, either by using more semi-colans, or some em dashes, or elipsis...something to make it a little clearer at certain points where confusion might arise. Just a suggestion of course.

On an emotional level, as I said above, this poem moved me deeply, partly because I've recently had a similar experience (just a week ago my family had a last visit with my grandfather on Christmas Eve, and he died on Christmas morning). You articulated the experience of being with a loved one near the end very movingly. The end lines are wonderful.

[Virgil]

Petrarch that is great criticism. Thanks. I don't have time to respond. It's bed time for an older folk. ;) But I will respond to your comments tomorrow.

[Virgil]

Congrats Virg. I was a tad out of it around Christmas and somehow missed the contest altogether, but I would have voted for this one anyway, so all's well. The overall emotion of the poem is very moving, and I'll comment on that at the end, but first a few more critical comments:

I like what you're doing with the phrases strung together and the enjambed lines throughout, since it gives a fragmentary effect that is both suited to the subject and suited to creating the kind of ambiguous connections that make poetry work well.



For example, in the above lines I like the sense of stream of consciousness with the open ended line on the savior's birth drifting unexpectedly into the line about the tree. I also enjoyed playful things like "gifts peeled" in these lines:


It was fun the way "gifts peeled" can be read with the gifts as the subject as though the gifts were performing the action--and this is especially good following the marking of time in a Christmas poem, when one might expect bells to peal--but then can also be read as the gifts having been peeled open.
Thanks on all that Petrarch. Yes the pun on "peeled" was a bit of good luck and it does echo bells peeling which is a nice allusion to Tennyson's "In Memoriam".



There are, however, places where, as Sleepy and others have suggested, I don't think these abruptly shifting stream of consciousness type phrases are quite working for you. I loved the metaphor you were starting with the doctors like magi, but I was greatly puzzled by this line:


Like wise men offering pious.

What pious thing are the offering? Or are they offering piously? Unless you had some meaning of pious as a noun in mind that I'm just not familiar with, I think it needs to be changed.
I quite agree with you. That first stanza was the one I reworked the most and never was happy with it. I just got tired of reworking it and decided to move on for now. You're right I'm using "pious" as a noun, which is not in my dictionary. The reason I used it was for the rhyme with "us". There aren't too many words that rhyme with us, and the first line was the only line I really liked in that first stanza, so I didn't want to part with it. You're right, the way I used "pious" is awkward and doesn't match the free flow of the rest of the poem. On a rewrite, I am going to revamp that whole first stanza.


Like Sleepy I didn't really follow that "then on it was all stations of the cross," meant "from then on." It left me confused. I also thought "though all his meds" in this line didn't quite work, though I could understand better where you were going with this one.
I struggled a little with this too as i was writing. That line calls for pentameter so I wound up dropping the "from" which was originally there. Frankly though I didn't and still don't think it's too hard on the reader. I agree one has to read that over a couple of times to catch the right meaning. The way it should be read is "Then on [pause] it was all stations of the cross". I thought of using a comma there, but I thought that was superfluous. I persaonally think I should leave the punctuation the way I had it. I think a more pertinent criticism is Sleepy's "were" instead of "was". What do you think about that?


In general I think if you were experimenting with this sort of style again it might help if you found some clearer way to punctuate a lot of these phrases, either by using more semi-colans, or some em dashes, or elipsis...something to make it a little clearer at certain points where confusion might arise. Just a suggestion of course.
Other than the "Then on..." line, where else do you see puntuation confusion?


On an emotional level, as I said above, this poem moved me deeply, partly because I've recently had a similar experience (just a week ago my family had a last visit with my grandfather on Christmas Eve, and he died on Christmas morning). You articulated the experience of being with a loved one near the end very movingly. The end lines are wonderful.
Oh thanks. I'm so sorry to hear about your grandfather.

[TheFifthElement]

Hi Virgil - I think this is an excellent poem, thoughtful and touching. I was surprised to find there was a form, and then I had to look for it, which is a sign of success in my book, that the form didn't overtake the poem but instead you've used it with sensitivity and care.

Re this line
Then on it was all stations of the cross I didn't find a problem but it seems a few others did. Would it work if you used 'From then' and omit the 'on' as opposed to 'Then on'?

I loved these lines :


Papa returned home after having been
Mended—the surgeons fingering his heart

and these:

Gifts peeled, he got a pillow for his neck.
He gave the kids twenty dollar bills.

and these :

The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

[Virgil]

Hi Virgil - I think this is an excellent poem, thoughtful and touching. I was surprised to find there was a form, and then I had to look for it, which is a sign of success in my book, that the form didn't overtake the poem but instead you've used it with sensitivity and care.


That's what I liked about this form; it was so subtle and i strove for slant rhymes rather than full rhymes.



Re this line I didn't find a problem but it seems a few others did. Would it work if you used 'From then' and omit the 'on' as opposed to 'Then on'?
Great idea!! That works wonders.

Thank you.

[jon1jt]

The poem's design is obvious enough: to tug at the heartstrings by couching it in a prosaic voice -- add the religiosity, dying Papa.


Papa returned home after having been
Mended—the surgeons fingering his heart



He needed my hand
To shave, lift out of bed, slide on his trousers.
He tried his best. That’s what life spurs,
His rasping breath, his timorous eyes,


Mom put out her holiday table twill,
With the poinsettia print.

This normal Last Supper-esque Christmas can, we're told, even be transcended by the person who stands to suffer the most, the father.


He said
Life, pain and all, was pleasant,

C'mon, that is unbelievable, Virge. It's more complicated than that. And another thing I don't understand, or perhaps it is the great mystery of the poem, which I interpret to be a holding back from what you really want to say, is: if the whole event went down as you report it---in that business-as-usual manner that is as far from grinning and bearing it as it comes, why even inform the reader about the ailing father in the first place? Why not then just place him at the table like the others? (You do know I'm one of the Masters Of Suspicion: :p )

I see this as a gross denial of suffering reminiscent of the bored-to-death housewife of the 1950s who had to keep her station standing on the porch waving off her briefcase-touting husband.

The gathering exudes a sense of normality, but there's a pride percolating under-the-surface, as if to say, "Look how our family didn't let this situation ruin our Christmas, nor father's." Divinity becomes the balm.

The shift from mundane to poetic in the last stanza is too abrupt, and it's very confusing, I don't understand the ending at all, actually. Is the father immortalized? Who atoned for what??


Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart; the glow curved into gloss.
The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.


Virge, if I may contradict myself now, I was absolutely surprised and delighted to see you post this poem. The writing is excellent and true---you have something to say, thought hard about, I sensed, even before the poem was written. What we have, in the end, is your understanding, your experience. Thanks for sharing, captain.

[firefangled]

Virgil, this is a fine poem. The form I thought was very subtle. I like it when I read 2-3 stanzas or 10 or so lines before I recognize a pattern. As Fifth said, it's a sign of its success at being an element of the poem without taking center stage. After a few readings, the form became even more significant to me. You may have intended this or it may have surfaced unconsciously within other efforts as is the way of any art form.

I disagree with Jon's (well meant) criticism of presenting this as Chrstmas as usual. "Coping" is not usual to me. We recently spent 2 weeks with my wife's dying brother (who passed on 2 months later). You have captured in this final celebration so many of the small ways we manage the paradox of pleasure and pain when death is insisting on recognition. In fact, those few words, "Life, pain and all, was pleasant..." is precisely the heart of the poem for me. It is ruefully, in the end, a decision to accept or not accept the death of a parent, or loved one, or our own. I think in the poem that decision had been made.

In this regard, the decorum and structure of the poem become its support as it does for the lives within the poem. That to me is the way a poem should hang together from the inside out. As our resident Aunt is fond of reiterating, it is tangible things (used in the right way, not just a list) that make a poem alive.

I thank you for giving us something so personal and well expressed.

[Riesa]

He coped with one closing Christmas with us.
Graced as a salvation of medicine
Papa returned home after having been
Mended—the surgeons fingering his heart
Like wise men offering pious.

Virgil,
I liked the unique use of pious in l5.


Not fully mended. He needed my hand
To shave, lift out of bed, slide on his trousers.
He tried his best. That’s what life spurs,
His rasping breath, his timorous eyes,
His weight pitched on me to stand.

this is so honest, I felt I was getting a glance into what Papa was, I've seen bits of him before in your poems, he was always giving life his best shot, and you are so often found here, the dutiful son.



Mom put out her holiday table twill,
With the poinsettia print. Beneath the tree
The kids appraised the glitzy gifts with glee.
We even drank some wine, though all his meds,
Soothed by singing Santa on the sill.

though confused me here. I at first wondered if it might be a typo, (wouldn't be unheard of ;)) if it was meant to be, 'through' but that doesn't make much sense. I guess it's just economics, but it's times like these that I feel that poetic language is sacrificed to 'form'.



We mostly talked. His face glowed. He said
Life, pain and all, was pleasant, one complied.
When he smiled it seemed angels were beside
Him. He said he understood our savior’s birth,
Tree lights twinkling green and red.

it's odd that you capitalized HIM and not savior... I think
"Life, pain and all, was pleasant, one complied." sounds much like something he would say from what I know about him. I don't think it's far-fetched, but accepting, and admirable.



Brother horsed around, Sis drove a thousand miles;
Mom spread across dish after dish to feast
Into the night. At twelve yearning ceased,
Gifts peeled, he got a pillow for his neck.
He gave the kids twenty dollar bills.

maybe it's just me, but it bothers me to read 'brother, sis, mom'... I don't know, just rubs me the wrong way. however, I can almost hear the feast, and the family chatting, laughing, eating. so..



Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart; the glow curved into gloss.
The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

This was my favorite stanza, the language is beautiful.

it's very open of you to write like this. Even though I've never heard your voice, I can imagine you reading this out loud, maybe a new Christmas tradition in your family.

[Pendragon]

I am truly sorry my brother that I was so out of it at Christmas, by the time I discovered there was a contest and wrote a poem it was over. You should and did win. I thought the lines



Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart; the glow curved into gloss.
The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

"All stations of the cross" may have referred to his having to be rushed back to a hospital (from the medical cross) and especially with the adding of "the star above decayed." as if life left him. It was a beautiful description of an event that was definitely causing you pain. I don't know if I could write such a poem. You deserve much praise.

Pen

[Countess]

I thought it was a lovely poem, where understatement was used successfully to convey the opposite. Covering the trivialities pointed in the opposite direction - ie what you didn't say spoke loudly through what you said.

Though I like flow and rhythm, I did feel at times the poem was strained to keep to the demands of the form. When form interferes with thought, I detest it (that is why, for the most part, I detest forms). Now you've got it "in form", I'd love to see you take it "out of form" and let the poem say exactly what it wants to say, exactly how it wants to say it, without obesiance to someone else's format philosophy.

[Virgil]

Oh thank you all for your comments. I will respond to each of you personally, but alas it is too late for me tonight. I will tomorrow, so please come back. ;)

[right]

I liked your poem very much and was touched by the pain that everyone carried with them so gracefully...your words captured private moments within the family....

[jon1jt]

I don't get how some of you give this a free pass justifying the poetic blandness (not all) to his emphasis on "form." :rolleyes:

[Il Penseroso]

I don't get how some of you give this a free pass justifying the poetic blandness (not all) to his emphasis on "form." :rolleyes:


I think jon is the definition of the word 'equivocation'. :)


That said, however, I kind of agree about Virgil's use of form. I'm not sure the rhyme scheme is worth the annoying syntax confusions.

[kiz_paws]

I don't get how some of you give this a free pass justifying the poetic blandness (not all) to his emphasis on "form." :rolleyes:


I think jon is the definition of the word 'equivocation'. :)


That said, however, I kind of agree about Virgil's use of form. I'm not sure the rhyme scheme is worth the annoying syntax confusions.
Ummm, these comments kinda scare me, because when I write a poem, I don't think about the format at all.... Is that a bad thing? I just write what comes to me... (I am not attacking the good people I just quoted, I just wanted to give an example of the kind of questions that would freeze my blood over a poem that I submit...).

Now that I got that off my chest, I made my comment to you, Virgil, in your Blog.. :thumbs_up

[jon1jt]

I think jon is the definition of the word 'equivocation'. :)


That said, however, I kind of agree about Virgil's use of form. I'm not sure the rhyme scheme is worth the annoying syntax confusions.


IP: I'd like to believe that I'm fashionably unequivocal. :D



Ummm, these comments kinda scare me, because when I write a poem, I don't think about the format at all.... Is that a bad thing?

I think that's actually a good thing if you don't think about form, kiz. In Virgil's case, he is following some rhyme scheme, which should never be an excuse for muddled writing---that's what I'm saying.

[TheFifthElement]

Ummm, these comments kinda scare me, because when I write a poem, I don't think about the format at all.... Is that a bad thing? I just write what comes to me... (I am not attacking the good people I just quoted, I just wanted to give an example of the kind of questions that would freeze my blood over a poem that I submit...).

Now that I got that off my chest, I made my comment to you, Virgil, in your Blog.. :thumbs_up

I think Kiz that in poetry we should think about form, even if it's only to decide that a structured form isn't appropriate. I think this is perhaps what differentiates good poets from excellent poets - the excellent poet is unafraid to use form when it is appropriate, when the form adds something to the poem as a whole, rather than just avoiding form entirely which then, in itself, becomes a hang-up, a restriction if you like, and you don't allow yourself all the tools at your disposal. Personally I tend to avoid rhyme, but more because I don't feel I have the skill to use it without it becoming sing-songy which would make the poem seem childish, but this is my lack of skill not the fault of rhyming poetry on the whole - perhaps when I'm a little more confident, a bit more of a master of the language than the language being a master of me, I will write rhyming poetry successfully, as well as non-rhyming poetry, form-lead poetry, free verse, the full works.

I think Virgil has succeeded here, applying the form in a subtle, non-intrusive way, and his explanation at the beginning for the choice of this particular form was good enough for me. I don't think the poem suffers for it, but perhaps the constraint in itself has added something to the meaning.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I think Kiz that in poetry we should think about form, even if it's only to decide that a structured form isn't appropriate. I think this is perhaps what differentiates good poets from excellent poets - the excellent poet is unafraid to use form when it is appropriate, when the form adds something to the poem as a whole, rather than just avoiding form entirely which then, in itself, becomes a hang-up, a restriction if you like, and you don't allow yourself all the tools at your disposal. Personally I tend to avoid rhyme, but more because I don't feel I have the skill to use it without it becoming sing-songy which would make the poem seem childish, but this is my lack of skill not the fault of rhyming poetry on the whole - perhaps when I'm a little more confident, a bit more of a master of the language than the language being a master of me, I will write rhyming poetry successfully, as well as non-rhyming poetry, form-lead poetry, free verse, the full works.

I think Virgil has succeeded here, applying the form in a subtle, non-intrusive way, and his explanation at the beginning for the choice of this particular form was good enough for me. I don't think the poem suffers for it, but perhaps the constraint in itself has added something to the meaning.

For a virtual course in the use of rhyme as well as a joyful experience, see
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15301

Apart from using an existent form, the challenge for me is in sensing and following the form inherent in the first few, more or less spontaneous lines that one puts down. What results may be an apparently amorphous form, but a form nonetheless.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Ummm, these comments kinda scare me, because when I write a poem, I don't think about the format at all.... Is that a bad thing? I just write what comes to me... (I am not attacking the good people I just quoted, I just wanted to give an example of the kind of questions that would freeze my blood over a poem that I submit...).

Now that I got that off my chest, I made my comment to you, Virgil, in your Blog.. :thumbs_up

As with making love or worshipping the 'creator,' there will always be those who tell you that there is one and only one way to create a poem or only one sort of thing that qualifies as a poem. My advice would be to create your poems the way you breathe.

[Virgil]

I'm still awfully tied up. I'm glad this has generated such discussion. I can't wait to respond. :D

[jon1jt]

Robert Frost once said that "Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down."

So then, "Writing form poetry is like playing tennis with the net up." In that case, let's not forget to bring our racquets to the game. ;)

[TheFifthElement]

Robert Frost once said that "Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down."

So then, "Writing form poetry is like playing tennis with the net up." In that case, let's not forget to bring our racquets to the game. ;)

Indeed. A ball is handy too.

[Virgil]

The poem's design is obvious enough: to tug at the heartstrings by couching it in a prosaic voice -- add the religiosity, dying Papa.

I guess it does tug on the heartstrings a bit, probably more so than i normally do. That's fair, but I do think there is more to this than just maudlin.


This normal Last Supper-esque Christmas can, we're told, even be transcended by the person who stands to suffer the most, the father.
Actually, I hadn't thought about the Last Supper aspect, but thanks. I'll take credit for it. It works! ;) I'm not sure if this is a criticism of the poem. If it is, I don't understand why. It would fall under the author's values and ideas, not whether it's a good poem or not.



Quote:
Originally Posted by quote
He said
Life, pain and all, was pleasant,
C'mon, that is unbelievable, Virge. It's more complicated than that.
Why is it unbelievable? Perhaps it wasn't pleasant but he said it was, or maybe it was. Everyone is different.


And another thing I don't understand, or perhaps it is the great mystery of the poem, which I interpret to be a holding back from what you really want to say, is: if the whole event went down as you report it---in that business-as-usual manner that is as far from grinning and bearing it as it comes, why even inform the reader about the ailing father in the first place? Why not then just place him at the table like the others? (You do know I'm one of the Masters Of Suspicion: :p )
I have no idea what you mean by me holding back from what i really want to say. :lol: I said what I really want to say. ;) As to grinning and bearing it, come on Jon, you just read The Old Man and the Sea. Some people grin and bear it. He's the subject of the poem, that's why he's not just one person at the table. The poem is about him.


I see this as a gross denial of suffering reminiscent of the bored-to-death housewife of the 1950s who had to keep her station standing on the porch waving off her briefcase-touting husband.
Again this seems like your values, not necessarily mine. Not all women sufferred being housewives. Lord knows my wife suffered going to work every day. She's been home the last few months (seeing me off to work in the morning, and I do carry a briefcase now that you mention it :lol: :lol: ) and enjoys it. Back to the subject, you're criticizing the poet's values rather than the poem. The values inherent to many of your poems don't jive with mine, but I've never criticized that. As Henry James says, the writer is allowed his donee`, by which he means his vision and ideas. It's what he does with it that shows his artistry.


The gathering exudes a sense of normality, but there's a pride percolating under-the-surface, as if to say, "Look how our family didn't let this situation ruin our Christmas, nor father's." Divinity becomes the balm.
Or perhaps says lets have a great time while we are together; who knows what the future brings.


The shift from mundane to poetic in the last stanza is too abrupt, and it's very confusing, I don't understand the ending at all, actually. Is the father immortalized? Who atoned for what??
That's fair criticism. Is it too abrubt? It felt fine to me. Atoned is perhaps a bit of a mystery. But those kind of unspecified details which are on the periphery of the subject I think can add a certain amount of depth to the poem, as if to say here are thirty lines of something, but there is so much more behind it. Plus his handing out the 20 dollar bills on the line before is a sort of settling his life.


Virge, if I may contradict myself now, I was absolutely surprised and delighted to see you post this poem. The writing is excellent and true---you have something to say, thought hard about, I sensed, even before the poem was written. What we have, in the end, is your understanding, your experience. Thanks for sharing, captain.
Actually, thank you for your comments. :) I'm always curious to see how people read and react, and of course what ever they can suggest to improve it is most welcomed. And I think you hit it on the head as to the most general theme of the poem, an understanding of the experience by the narrator.

I still intend to respond to everyone else. Just be patient. :)

[AuntShecky]

Yes, this piece works and I for one appreciate the effort the
writer put into its FORM.

The images and puns were quite good. The use of "peeled" for the gifts was terrific; and I liked the double
meaning of "shrinking heart." From what I hear those with heart disease are more likely to have an "enlarged" heart, but the opposite notion here also points to a miserliness or a --forgive me-- "Grinch-like" selfishness (Seuss: "His heart was three sizes too small.")

The concluding line -- the "punchline" truly makes this poem. Perhaps the star is being extinguished just like a
hearth whose fire ("passion," "feeling," "zeal,") will go out
without earnest human effort.

Again, this was a fine piece of which the writer should be proud.

[jon1jt]

Again this seems like your values, not necessarily mine. Not all women sufferred being housewives... Back to the subject, you're criticizing the poet's values rather than the poem. The values inherent to many of your poems don't jive with mine, but I've never criticized that. As Henry James says, the writer is allowed his donee`, by which he means his vision and ideas. It's what he does with it that shows his artistry.

No, all women didn't suffer, but I figured I don't have to always qualify every statement with a "not always," "most," "some." It would make responding awfully tedious. Anyway, I recognize you have other people to respond to, so let me just clarify my point and be done with it. I didn't criticize the value system of your poem, not at all---what matters to me, above all, is the extent to which the reader is able to truly identify with the predicament---that is, get inside the experience presented.

I don't have to accept what's being told in the same way I would not necessarily swallow whole my friend's version of an argument she had with her husband. In my opinion, the great challenge for poets is to somehow universalize the experience, and my criticism is that you didn't quite get there. Hey, you don't have to, it's your poem.

[Virgil]

Virgil,
I liked the unique use of pious in l5.

Thanks for that, Reisa. I'm really torn about that. I still can't make up my mind.


this is so honest, I felt I was getting a glance into what Papa was, I've seen bits of him before in your poems, he was always giving life his best shot, and you are so often found here, the dutiful son.
Thanks.




Quote:
Mom put out her holiday table twill,
With the poinsettia print. Beneath the tree
The kids appraised the glitzy gifts with glee.
We even drank some wine, though all his meds,
Soothed by singing Santa on the sill. though confused me here. I at first wondered if it might be a typo, (wouldn't be unheard of ;)) if it was meant to be, 'through' but that doesn't make much sense. I guess it's just economics, but it's times like these that I feel that poetic language is sacrificed to 'form'.
The way to read that Reisa is "although the medication" because one shouldn't drink wine with all the medications. What do you think now?


it's odd that you capitalized HIM and not savior... I think
"Life, pain and all, was pleasant, one complied." sounds much like something he would say from what I know about him. I don't think it's far-fetched, but accepting, and admirable.
Neither were consciously done. "Him" is capitalized only because it's the beginning of a line. Poetic convntion used to call for that, and my Word program automatically does that. I could force it to not, but it didn't matter to me. As to "savior" are you supposed to capitalize it? I don't know. Merriam-Webster doesn't say anything about it.


This was my favorite stanza, the language is beautiful.
Thanks. No one has picked up that the star refers the Christmas star over the Christ birth.


it's very open of you to write like this. Even though I've never heard your voice, I can imagine you reading this out loud, maybe a new Christmas tradition in your family.
Oh that might be a little too emotional. It was hard enough to do the eulogy.

[Virgil]

Virgil, this is a fine poem. The form I thought was very subtle. I like it when I read 2-3 stanzas or 10 or so lines before I recognize a pattern. As Fifth said, it's a sign of its success at being an element of the poem without taking center stage. After a few readings, the form became even more significant to me. You may have intended this or it may have surfaced unconsciously within other efforts as is the way of any art form.

I disagree with Jon's (well meant) criticism of presenting this as Chrstmas as usual. "Coping" is not usual to me. We recently spent 2 weeks with my wife's dying brother (who passed on 2 months later). You have captured in this final celebration so many of the small ways we manage the paradox of pleasure and pain when death is insisting on recognition. In fact, those few words, "Life, pain and all, was pleasant..." is precisely the heart of the poem for me. It is ruefully, in the end, a decision to accept or not accept the death of a parent, or loved one, or our own. I think in the poem that decision had been made.

In this regard, the decorum and structure of the poem become its support as it does for the lives within the poem. That to me is the way a poem should hang together from the inside out. As our resident Aunt is fond of reiterating, it is tangible things (used in the right way, not just a list) that make a poem alive.

I thank you for giving us something so personal and well expressed.


I am truly sorry my brother that I was so out of it at Christmas, by the time I discovered there was a contest and wrote a poem it was over. You should and did win. I thought the lines



"All stations of the cross" may have referred to his having to be rushed back to a hospital (from the medical cross) and especially with the adding of "the star above decayed." as if life left him. It was a beautiful description of an event that was definitely causing you pain. I don't know if I could write such a poem. You deserve much praise.

Pen


I thought it was a lovely poem, where understatement was used successfully to convey the opposite. Covering the trivialities pointed in the opposite direction - ie what you didn't say spoke loudly through what you said.

Though I like flow and rhythm, I did feel at times the poem was strained to keep to the demands of the form. When form interferes with thought, I detest it (that is why, for the most part, I detest forms). Now you've got it "in form", I'd love to see you take it "out of form" and let the poem say exactly what it wants to say, exactly how it wants to say it, without obesiance to someone else's format philosophy.

Fire, Pen, Countess. I truely thank your comments. I intend to post something on why form is important in a littlle while. So come back and comment on my thoughts on form.

[Riesa]

The way to read that Reisa is "although the medication" because one shouldn't drink wine with all the medications. What do you think now?

Well, I did understand the meaning the first time, after I read it and looked for the sense. I still think it's a bit forced.

Neither were consciously done. "Him" is capitalized only because it's the beginning of a line. Poetic convntion used to call for that, and my Word program automatically does that. I could force it to not, but it didn't matter to me. As to "savior" are you supposed to capitalize it? I don't know. Merriam-Webster doesn't say anything about it.

Oh isn't that strange? "Him" is the only time I noticed that the beginning of the line was capitalized. :blush: I assume Savior is capitalized.

[PrinceMyshkin]

As to "savior" are you supposed to capitalize it?

I believe the convention is if you are referring to Jesus Christ you WOULD capitalize it, but if you are referring to a saviour or saviours in a generic sense, you would not. (My variant spelling is that in Canada we observe British spelling customs.)

[kiz_paws]

I think that's actually a good thing if you don't think about form, kiz. In Virgil's case, he is following some rhyme scheme, which should never be an excuse for muddled writing---that's what I'm saying.Oh, I see. Thanks, Jon. :)


I think Kiz that in poetry we should think about form, even if it's only to decide that a structured form isn't appropriate. I think this is perhaps what differentiates good poets from excellent poets - the excellent poet is unafraid to use form when it is appropriate, when the form adds something to the poem as a whole, rather than just avoiding form entirely which then, in itself, becomes a hang-up, a restriction if you like, and you don't allow yourself all the tools at your disposal. Personally I tend to avoid rhyme, but more because I don't feel I have the skill to use it without it becoming sing-songy which would make the poem seem childish, but this is my lack of skill not the fault of rhyming poetry on the whole - perhaps when I'm a little more confident, a bit more of a master of the language than the language being a master of me, I will write rhyming poetry successfully, as well as non-rhyming poetry, form-lead poetry, free verse, the full works.

I think Virgil has succeeded here, applying the form in a subtle, non-intrusive way, and his explanation at the beginning for the choice of this particular form was good enough for me. I don't think the poem suffers for it, but perhaps the constraint in itself has added something to the meaning.Your explanation is much appreciated, Fifth, thank you for taking the time to write this out. :)


As with making love or worshipping the 'creator,' there will always be those who tell you that there is one and only one way to create a poem or only one sort of thing that qualifies as a poem. My advice would be to create your poems the way you breathe.Your advice is good, thank you sir! ;) (Also thanks big-time, for the link you gave!)

[Il Penseroso]

I think, perhaps, that the emphasis on form in the poem's comments demonstrates that, though you do handle the rhyme scheme/meter quite quite nicely in places, it perhaps draws too much attention to itself in other places (the syntax variants). My initial reaction is to say that the form is not worth it, even though I think this poem shows you at your peak in handling rhyme - in certain places. Perhaps I just routinely put too much emphasis on how the poem flows; I don't think this should be compromised for poetic gimmicks.

I do greatly respect your ability to come even this far with a form that to me seems quite difficult. It demonstrates endurance and poetic strength. That itself fits the poem's subject matter, no?

[Virgil]

I will enter this conversation on form as soon as I have a little more time. But please consider these poems from various times in history, and none of these poems would have been as great as they are without form. Just consider that.


Sonnet 106
by William Shakespeare

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing.
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.


Sailing To Byzantium
by William Butler Yeats
I
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.


Ode On A Grecian Urn
by John Keats

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."


In a Dark Time
by Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.

[jon1jt]

Interesting poems, Virge, thanks for posting for discussion's sake.

I'm going to say it---this is the first time I'm reading Shakespeare's Sonnet 106, and quite honestly, I think it sucks. What does it teach? Does it sing? I don't hear it.

[Virgil]

I liked your poem very much and was touched by the pain that everyone carried with them so gracefully...your words captured private moments within the family....
Right, I forgot to include you in my thank yous before. Thank you for your compliments.



I don't get how some of you give this a free pass justifying the poetic blandness (not all) to his emphasis on "form." :rolleyes:


I think jon is the definition of the word 'equivocation'. :)


That said, however, I kind of agree about Virgil's use of form. I'm not sure the rhyme scheme is worth the annoying syntax confusions.


Ummm, these comments kinda scare me, because when I write a poem, I don't think about the format at all.... Is that a bad thing? I just write what comes to me... (I am not attacking the good people I just quoted, I just wanted to give an example of the kind of questions that would freeze my blood over a poem that I submit...).

Now that I got that off my chest, I made my comment to you, Virgil, in your Blog.. :thumbs_up

First of all, I'm only a mediocre poet, so my use of form is not as smooth as the examples I've given. Second, the use of form does three things that I can think of:
1. Becuase no one speaks in rhyme or meter or measured line length, it instantaneously charges the language. And charging the laguage is the bottom line in poetry. One can use simpler language with form and still get more umph in the line because its strained not by far fetched leaps but by pattern.
2. Form suggests an emotion or feeling to the poem. Like I found with the form in my poem, the use of rhyme scheme ABBCA created a mixed sense of happiness and melancholy because of the unrhymed line. And the shortened concluding line to each stanza added a sese of forboding. There are forms which amplify jubilation and forms that amplify tragedy. Notice how the Keats poem above amplifies beauty.
3. Form identifies a poem with a poetic tradition. It allows the writer to parallel or contrast his poem. It provides a certain set of rules for the reader and the writer to share, which is the basis of communication.
4. Form provides aesthetic meaning. Art is the ability to shape, and form provides a means of shaping. If that makes any sense to anyone. ;)

Kizzo, you should write as you see best how to shape your thoughts. If it's without form than that's you. But just like music has form, so do other art forms.

[Petrarch's Love]

'm going to say it---this is the first time I'm reading Shakespeare's Sonnet 106, and quite honestly, I think it sucks. What does it teach? Does it sing? I don't hear it.

I see that Jon's passing judgment on Shakespeare now. Knew it was only a matter of time. :lol: Looks like I'll have to read some more of what's been going on lately on this thread tomorrow when I'm not quite so exhausted.

[SleepyWitch]

That's fair criticism. Is it too abrubt? It felt fine to me. Atoned is perhaps a bit of a mystery. But those kind of unspecified details which are on the periphery of the subject I think can add a certain amount of depth to the poem, as if to say here are thirty lines of something, but there is so much more behind it. Plus his handing out the 20 dollar bills on the line before is a sort of settling his life.

hi Mr Virge, personally, I don't think it's too abrupt, but of course this is very subjective.
in my opinion, it's clear from the beginning on that you wrote the poem in retrospect, so if you "jump" from "mundane" to more "poetic" matters in the last stanza that's OK for me, because I read it as your interpretation of or musings about the situation after it was completed. ... er do you know what I mean?

[SleepyWitch]

Interesting poems, Virge, thanks for posting for discussion's sake.

I'm going to say it---this is the first time I'm reading Shakespeare's Sonnet 106, and quite honestly, I think it sucks. What does it teach? Does it sing? I don't hear it.

what do you mean by "what does it teach?". do you mean a poem should have a message and teach us something about life, or did you mean "what does it teach us as (wannabe) poets about writing and form?"
I agree with you that it sounds a bit abstract (or maybe too concrete), because we don't know the person he was describing. so yep, I don't really hear it sing, either.
but then, we could always imagine it's about a person we know, i.e. someone we find so beautiful that we can't describe it in words (did I get the meaning of the poem?? :confused:) and then all of a sudden it seems to be charged with emotion beneath the surface?
of course, if you can't connect with the idea because you don't like it or your own emotions work in a different way, then the form won't save it and no matter how well-written it is you won't like it.

[PrinceMyshkin]

what do you mean by "what does it teach?".

Great question, Fr Pepperkakehus! The concept that every poem, story, novel or indeed real-life experience ought to teach us something is an unfortunate extension of the prevalent middle-class bourgeois notion of acquisition as the supreme value of life. But even the things that do not overtly, measurably teach us anything, may indeed teach us at some deeper, subconscious level.

[Virgil]

hi Mr Virge, personally, I don't think it's too abrupt, but of course this is very subjective.
in my opinion, it's clear from the beginning on that you wrote the poem in retrospect, so if you "jump" from "mundane" to more "poetic" matters in the last stanza that's OK for me, because I read it as your interpretation of or musings about the situation after it was completed. ... er do you know what I mean?

Good point Sleepy. It's obvious that it's in retrospect and that does make a difference at the end.

[jon1jt]

what do you mean by "what does it teach?". do you mean a poem should have a message and teach us something about life, or did you mean "what does it teach us as (wannabe) poets about writing and form?"
I agree with you that it sounds a bit abstract (or maybe too concrete), because we don't know the person he was describing. so yep, I don't really hear it sing, either.
.

To perceive the world and everything in it as vital, to take in every breathing second as a consideration, to have this capacity to discover for ourselves, even if that means to ask while others consider them, me, tritely, but to ask anyway, and again; to get inside that which we understand and that which we do not--Sonnet 106, Virgil's poem, children, strangers, the sky--is to truly love. Besides, the world is knitting my doom I have a right to question it. ;)

Allow me to refer you to a higher authority on the matter:


"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach,...and not when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
--Henry D. Thoreau

[Virgil]

Yes, this piece works and I for one appreciate the effort the
writer put into its FORM.

The images and puns were quite good. The use of "peeled" for the gifts was terrific; and I liked the double
meaning of "shrinking heart." From what I hear those with heart disease are more likely to have an "enlarged" heart, but the opposite notion here also points to a miserliness or a --forgive me-- "Grinch-like" selfishness (Seuss: "His heart was three sizes too small.")

The concluding line -- the "punchline" truly makes this poem. Perhaps the star is being extinguished just like a
hearth whose fire ("passion," "feeling," "zeal,") will go out
without earnest human effort.

Again, this was a fine piece of which the writer should be proud.

I thank you Aunty. I hold your opinon in high esteem. I'm not sure if I mentioned it anywhere, but that star came to me as the Christmas star over Bethlemhem on the birth of Jesus. The Jesus parallel here is a rebirth for Papa at Christmas time, a miraculous birth at that.

[barbara0207]

The way to read that Reisa is "although the medication" because one shouldn't drink wine with all the medications. What do you think now?

Well, I did understand the meaning the first time, after I read it and looked for the sense. I still think it's a bit forced.


The reason why 'though' raised confusion is that a conjunction is used instead of a preposition, which would be 'in spite of' here. Call that grammatically incorrect or poetic licence. :)

[barbara0207]

the use of form does three things that I can think of:
1. Becuase no one speaks in rhyme or meter or measured line length, it instantaneously charges the language. And charging the laguage is the bottom line in poetry. One can use simpler language with form and still get more umph in the line because its strained not by far fetched leaps but by pattern.
2. Form suggests an emotion or feeling to the poem. Like I found with the form in my poem, the use of rhyme scheme ABBCA created a mixed sense of happiness and melancholy because of the unrhymed line. And the shortened concluding line to each stanza added a sese of forboding. There are forms which amplify jubilation and forms that amplify tragedy. Notice how the Keats poem above amplifies beauty.
3. Form identifies a poem with a poetic tradition. It allows the writer to parallel or contrast his poem. It provides a certain set of rules for the reader and the writer to share, which is the basis of communication.
4. Form provides aesthetic meaning. Art is the ability to shape, and form provides a means of shaping. If that makes any sense to anyone. ;)

Kizzo, you should write as you see best how to shape your thoughts. If it's without form than that's you. But just like music has form, so do other art forms.

Virgil, I agree heartily with everything you posted about form. But actually form is the reason why I didn't vote for your poem. I may have had a very bad, schoolmarmy day. :( ;) And maybe my post here will be considered schoolmarmy by some of the Litnetters. I've been pondering about whether to have my say or not for some days now, and finally decided to post it.

When I first read the poem, I found it very appealing. I had made the same experience with my father-in-law, and I thought that the situation was rendered excellently.

But then I realized that the poem was supposed to have a certain form, which was, however, followed very loosely. That put me off. (I told you I had a bad day.)

1. Rhyme
Convention has it that unstressed syllables do not rhyme with each other unless the stressed syllable before or after them rhymes, too. Hence, "us" (stressed) does not rhyme with pious (unstressed), and "trousers" (unstressed) does not rhyme with "spurs" (stressed). If the last two were to rhyme, you'd have to pronounce "trouSURS", putting the stress on the last syllable.

2. Metre
Also by convention, a poem that has a certain rhyme scheme should obey a certain metre, i.e. should be to some extent regular in the way stressed and unstressed syllables follow each other. In this poem dactyls, iambs etc. are mixed in no particular order.

Please understand me right, Virgil. Yours is not a bad poem. I'd have loved it if it had been in free verse. But if you want to use form, you should obey conventions more closely - in my opinion.

At the beginning of the 20th century poets started writing free verse because they wanted to free themselves from form. which they found oppressing. It was a revolution. But today it is no longer revolutionary to write free verse, so some poets return to form.

I love both. It all depends on what the poet has to say or wants to express. There's only one thing I ask: Either do form right or write free verse.

(Hope we're still on speaking terms now, Virgil. No offence intended!)

[SleepyWitch]

To perceive the world and everything in it as vital, to take in every breathing second as a consideration, to have this capacity to discover for ourselves, even if that means to ask while others consider them, me, tritely, but to ask anyway, and again; to get inside that which we understand and that which we do not--Sonnet 106, Virgil's poem, children, strangers, the sky--is to truly love. Besides, the world is knitting my doom I have a right to question it. ;)


er? whatever it is you smoked, is there any left of it for me? ;)

Virge, I think barbara's got a point about those stressed and unstressed syllables. I wondered about that too... but maybe it sounds different if you pronounce it the American way.. I think trousers does more or less rhyme with spurs in American*, as far as the quality of the vowels is concerned... but it's still stressed like TROUsers, not trouSURS :(

*cf. the weird, erratic and as yet not fully studied behaviour of the non-existent schwa sound before "r" in American English, otherwise known as r-colouring

[jon1jt]

er? whatever it is you smoked, is there any left of it for me? ;)



When I give I give myself. --Whitman :p

[Virgil]

To perceive the world and everything in it as vital, to take in every breathing second as a consideration, to have this capacity to discover for ourselves, even if that means to ask while others consider them, me, tritely, but to ask anyway, and again; to get inside that which we understand and that which we do not--Sonnet 106, Virgil's poem, children, strangers, the sky--is to truly love. Besides, the world is knitting my doom I have a right to question it. ;)



er? whatever it is you smoked, is there any left of it for me? ;)

:lol: Yes, Jon gets into these altered states. But what's scary is that I don't think they are induced by any mind altering substances.


Virge, I think barbara's got a point about those stressed and unstressed syllables. I wondered about that too... but maybe it sounds different if you pronounce it the American way.. I think trousers does more or less rhyme with spurs in American*, as far as the quality of the vowels is concerned... but it's still stressed like TROUsers, not trouSURS :(

*cf. the weird, erratic and as yet not fully studied behaviour of the non-existent schwa sound before "r" in American English, otherwise known as r-colouring
Let me answer Barbara directly.

[Virgil]

Virgil, I agree heartily with everything you posted about form. But actually form is the reason why I didn't vote for your poem. I may have had a very bad, schoolmarmy day. :( ;) And maybe my post here will be considered schoolmarmy by some of the Litnetters. I've been pondering about whether to have my say or not for some days now, and finally decided to post it.

Oh that is ok. I love schoolmarms. ;) Why have you been pondering about whether to post your opinion? Please feel free to express your thought, especially if it concerns anything written by me. I absoutely want to hear people's opinions, especially if they are critical.


When I first read the poem, I found it very appealing. I had made the same experience with my father-in-law, and I thought that the situation was rendered excellently.

But then I realized that the poem was supposed to have a certain form, which was, however, followed very loosely. That put me off. (I told you I had a bad day.)
First thank you finding it appealing and resonating with personal experience. Second you seem to be a purist when it comes to form. Before I get into the details, may I ask why can't a poem follow a form loosely? Perhaps a poet felt that the poem is best expressed in this manner.


1. Rhyme
Convention has it that unstressed syllables do not rhyme with each other unless the stressed syllable before or after them rhymes, too. Hence, "us" (stressed) does not rhyme with pious (unstressed), and "trousers" (unstressed) does not rhyme with "spurs" (stressed). If the last two were to rhyme, you'd have to pronounce "trouSURS", putting the stress on the last syllable.
Let me hold off on commenting on rhyme. That's a complicated subject that I need to look up a thing or two.


2. Metre
Also by convention, a poem that has a certain rhyme scheme should obey a certain metre, i.e. should be to some extent regular in the way stressed and unstressed syllables follow each other. In this poem dactyls, iambs etc. are mixed in no particular order.
In the poems I quoted in the prevous page check notice how lack of metrical regularity they have:


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,


So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing.


Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:


What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

What's common to all of the quotes is a naturalness of language. Unless the poet is using meter for a particular effect meter should be a reflection of the a natural language. I found this in Wiki:

Not all poets accept the idea that meter is a fundamental part of poetry. Twentieth Century American poets Marianne Moore, William Carlos Williams, and Robinson Jeffers, were poets who believed that meter was imposed into poetry by man, not a fundamental part of its nature. In an essay titled "Robinson Jeffers, & The Metric Fallacy"[1], poet/critic Dan Schneider echoes Jeffers' sentiments: "What if someone actually said to you that all music was composed of just 2 notes? Or if someone claimed that there were just 2 colors in creation? Now, ponder if such a thing were true. Imagine the clunkiness & mechanicality of such music. Think of the visual arts devoid of not just color, but sepia tones, & even shades of gray." Jeffers called his technique "rolling stresses".
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meter_(poetry). But the article is wrong. It did not start with American poets. Shakespeare's language in his plays violates meter constantly. John Milton hardly ever cared about meter; look through Paradise Lost; John Donne purposedly violated meter in his poems even his sonnets which supposedly required to be in iambic. The other day I was just comparing the poetry of Jonathon Swift with Alexander Pope. Swift, who is by far a lesser poet never seemed to break regularity, but Pope, who is one of the greats English poets ever was very free with meter. And then there is Wordsworth who believed in natural language, and Gerard Manly Hopkins who used what he called "sprung rhythm" even in his sonnets. Please go and look up the poetry of these writers if you are not familiar with them. I don't have the space here to post examples of each. What is consistent with all of them, and what those 20th century American poets are trying to say, is that unless there is a particular metrical effect, the naturalness of the English language is what should take priority.


Please understand me right, Virgil. Yours is not a bad poem. I'd have loved it if it had been in free verse. But if you want to use form, you should obey conventions more closely - in my opinion.

At the beginning of the 20th century poets started writing free verse because they wanted to free themselves from form. which they found oppressing. It was a revolution. But today it is no longer revolutionary to write free verse, so some poets return to form.

I love both. It all depends on what the poet has to say or wants to express. There's only one thing I ask: Either do form right or write free verse.
Again I think there is a third alternative, and that is naturalness, and one is not required to go to free verse for naturalness.

At least that is my opinion. ;)

!)[/QUOTE]
Oh Barbara, of course we're on speaking terms. :) I'm glad you brought up the thought. I'll address rhyme tomorrow.

[jon1jt]

:lol: Yes, Jon gets into these altered states. But what's scary is that I don't think they are induced by any mind altering substances.

:lol: To think that all this while I thought I had everyone fooled. :lol:


Interesting response to Barbara, Virge, by the way. :thumbs_up

[barbara0207]

Virgil, thanks for considering my post so thoroughly. Yes, concerning rhyme and meter I am really a purist. I learned these things at university and still teach them to my students. As far as I know nothing has changed in that field.

I think that you mix up rhythm and meter - which are actually completely different things. And that is perhaps why there is so much confusion on the threads that deal with form.

In fact all the examples you posted above are very regular in meter. All these lines are iambic pentameters, which seems to be the most common meter in English. The rhythm, however, is not regular, that is why the language seems so natural. It really requires great poetic talent to create poetry that flows in an irregular, natural rhythm with an underlying regular meter.

Consider your first example. Stressed syllables are in bold print.

Meter:
That is no country for old men. The young
in one another's arms, birds in the trees.

Rhythm (example):
That is no country for old men. The young
in one another's arms, birds in the trees.

You see that the rhythm can even go against the meter. And depending on who recites the poem, the rhythm may even differ.

You are certainly right that most poets sometimes "violate" meter, but not too much so. That's why I wrote "to a certain extent" in my last post. I'll have to check on Pope, but it may be that he just seems to violate meter because he is a great poet and knew how to deal with meter and rhythm.

I hope what I've written makes sense to you.

[Virgil]

Virgil, thanks for considering my post so thoroughly. Yes, concerning rhyme and meter I am really a purist. I learned these things at university and still teach them to my students. As far as I know nothing has changed in that field.

I think that you mix up rhythm and meter - which are actually completely different things. And that is perhaps why there is so much confusion on the threads that deal with form.

In fact all the examples you posted above are very regular in meter. All these lines are iambic pentameters, which seems to be the most common meter in English. The rhythm, however, is not regular, that is why the language seems so natural. It really requires great poetic talent to create poetry that flows in an irregular, natural rhythm with an underlying regular meter.

Consider your first example. Stressed syllables are in bold print.

Meter:
That is no country for old men. The young
in one another's arms, birds in the trees.

Rhythm (example):
That is no country for old men. The young
in one another's arms, birds in the trees.

You see that the rhythm can even go against the meter. And depending on who recites the poem, the rhythm may even differ.

You are certainly right that most poets sometimes "violate" meter, but not too much so. That's why I wrote "to a certain extent" in my last post. I'll have to check on Pope, but it may be that he just seems to violate meter because he is a great poet and knew how to deal with meter and rhythm.

I hope what I've written makes sense to you.

Thanks Barbara. I do know that rhythm and meter don't always coincide but perhaps I don't quite understand the difference. For instance I can't see how that first line from Yeats is even remotely iambic. I would scan it this way:
That is no country for old men. The young

I read accented words almost straught across. The "is" may or may not be accented, perhaps somewhere in between. Can you clarify for me the difference between rhythm and meter. I understand it intuitively, but I can't articulate it.

[barbara0207]

Thanks Barbara. I do know that rhythm and meter don't always coincide but perhaps I don't quite understand the difference. For instance I can't see how that first line from Yeats is even remotely iambic. I would scan it this way:
That is no country for old men. The young

I read accented words almost straught across. The "is" may or may not be accented, perhaps somewhere in between. Can you clarify for me the difference between rhythm and meter. I understand it intuitively, but I can't articulate it.

What you have done is not scanning but reciting. Plus, in Germanic languages it is very unusual to scan or even recite poetry with so many stressed syllables. Especially in reciting most syllables should be unstressed because that gives you the opportunity to emphasize the syllables that are the most important to convey the meaning (I often do recitals on stage).

As for meter and rhythm:
My students usually have the same difficulty to differentiate between the two. It's not easy, especially with the great poets. I always make them clap their hands regularly and say something like pah-dom (for iambic meters) before we scan the poem. Then they go on clapping, scanning the poem line after line. Mostly, that helps. If you do that with the lines quoted above, you will see that they are really regular iambs.

A word of one syllable may or may not be stressed. These words give the poet some freedom with the meter (thankfully, the English language has a lot of these words!). With words of two or more syllables you have to obey the natural stress in the meter.

I checked on Pope, as you suggested. Out of about a hundred lines, I found only one that is not quite regular. It's the beginning of his 'Ode On Solitude'.
Usually, Pope writes iambs, pentameters in his 'Essays' (on Man, on Criticism), in this 'Ode' three lines with four stresses each and then one with two stresses.

"Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground."

As you see, in the first line he uses a trochee first, then continues with iambs. That is probably a deliberate 'violation' because it puts special emphasis on the word 'happy'.

Hope you see what I mean.

[Virgil]

But what I don't understand is what does meter really mean? Rhythm is certainy more important and in any group of four lines, almost every poet violates the meter at some point. Now you checked Pope, but what about Milton or Donne or one of my favorites Gerard manly Hopkins. Here's a famous sonnet by Hopkins.


The Windhover
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,--the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Perhaps it's because of all the modern poetry I read, but I really don't feel that meter is that important any longer. A couple of reasons. First, I believe meter was once important because it reflected the speaking language. Now I don't know what the speaking langage was exactly like before modern times, but I just don't hear iambic in natural speech. Second, perhaps my American english is very anti iambic, unlike British english. American poetry I think is much more irregular in meter. Second, I think poetry continues to strive for the most natural speech. But that doesn't preclude other forms being imposed. There's no reason that form can't be used while excluding meter. It's not either or, but mix and match.

[barbara0207]

But what I don't understand is what does meter really mean? Rhythm is certainy more important and in any group of four lines, almost every poet violates the meter at some point. Now you checked Pope, but what about Milton or Donne or one of my favorites Gerard manly Hopkins. Here's a famous sonnet by Hopkins.

Milton, Donne and Wordsworth are fairly regular, which cannot be said about Hopkins, whose sonnet is shockingly irregular. ;) He only uses rhythm and no meter. Honestly, not my cup of tea. :) I feel like I stumble when I read it. But perhaps the poet wanted the reader to stumble, just because they were used to more regularity. I'll have to give that some thought.


Perhaps it's because of all the modern poetry I read, but I really don't feel that meter is that important any longer. A couple of reasons. First, I believe meter was once important because it reflected the speaking language.

No, as far as I know it didn't. People have always loved to play with language and have loved the regular beat of music. So accentuated, rhymed poetry was more or less done just for fun (folk song), then it became some kind of intellectual game when poets got more accomplished, creating most elaborate verses to express their thoughts. Those who were able to condense their thoughts and fit them into a poem of rather regular meter but with a seemingly natural flow of rhythm were considered the masters. For their audience understood about form. Lesser poets would often create absolutely regular poems and think they had thus mastered the form, but their works mostly sounded like droning sing-song.


Now I don't know what the speaking langage was exactly like before modern times, but I just don't hear iambic in natural speech.

No, you wouldn't, for the reasons mentioned above.


American poetry I think is much more irregular in meter.

We'll have to check that.


Second, I think poetry continues to strive for the most natural speech. But that doesn't preclude other forms being imposed. There's no reason that form can't be used while excluding meter. It's not either or, but mix and match.

Let's agree to disagree. ;)

[miss tenderness]

This is one of the most touching poems . I can't decide what got
me to feel likewise , is it the moving emotion or the feelings that
we can't resist when it comes to our parents .



He coped with one closing Christmas with us.
Graced as a salvation of medicine
Papa returned home after having been
Mended—the surgeons fingering his heart
Like wise men offering pious.

Returning home and being wraped by his family is just
a blessed end . It feels good to be around the person
who had always been there for you .


Not fully mended. He needed my hand
To shave, lift out of bed, slide on his trousers.
He tried his best. That’s what life spurs,
His rasping breath, his timorous eyes,
His weight pitched on me to stand.

Mom put out her holiday table twill,
With the poinsettia print. Beneath the tree
The kids appraised the glitzy gifts with glee.
We even drank some wine, though all his meds,
Soothed by singing Santa on the sill.

the scene is highy picturized , it takes the reader
to the exact situation of the poet.



Atoned, that was his last hale holy day.
Then on it was all stations of the cross,
A shrinking heart; the glow curved into gloss.
The winter night rounded into a bellow,
And the star above decayed.

And the star above decayed.

:

I think I've read this piece before . I couldn't but live it again with all
these sincere feelings that glow on the lines.