431 B. C.
The horns are still; the dawn is willing light
from the far east; the chanticleer crows loud
over the dawning world. In mist, the proud
horses stamp their steaming feet, and the white
mists arise like a steam of fretwork, sight
clouded a moment. Men in armour crowd
around. The air is raw with speech and sound:
later, after the mist, will come the fight.
After the battle’s fought, some side will place
on trampled ground the trophy, make to survey
across the battlefield a thoughtless face
that hides within the dusk the first fruits gained
from hoplites, peltasts, horsemen where they lay
upon a steaming earth bloodily stained.
Bitter Waters: and Other Poems (Banora Point, NSW : privately printed, 2007): 65.
This is a Petrachan sonnet, a type of Italian sonnet (the other type is the Sicilian sonnet), and it is about the start of the Peloponnesian War. I had studied Hellenic history in both high school and university, and the Classics remains one of my many interests to this day.
Abel, on the Earth
As my thoughts fade away,
as my life fades to dust,
I mourn for my mother, who stays
and I cannot remember the day
she first held me up to her breast;
as my thoughts fade away
and my blood stains the grey
soil, until it is rust,
I mourn for my mother, who stays
behind. And I die with the sky
above me: I am as dust
as my thoughts fade away,
and my body fades to a weight
of meat. It is meet and it’s just
I mourn for my mother, who stays
and who, I know, will always
mourn for me, always. Just
as my thoughts fade away,
I mourn for my mother, who stays.
SpeedPoets
This is a villanelle, written as an exercise in mood. It is also a dramatic monologue, though without the clear use of irony that distinguishes Browning’s development of the form. Quite often, I use the dramatic monologue to approach a historical or cultural figure, as an exercise in capturing a mood rather than as an exercise in displaying character, or a character’s hidden nature.
The Ballade of the Barrows
Low and humped, like dumpy beasts
that turn their backs against the sky,
the barrows brood with eyes released
to search for secrets that will lie
beneath the earth, and never die,
the cryptic secrets scripted in runes
that for aeons gone have felt no sigh
express their meanings under the moons.
Like slate that slides in hollow feasts
of fallow sound, the wraiths espy
the mysteries of earth that priests
and sages alike forget, and cry
with tongues as dessicated, dry
as the rotting rocks that make their rooms
within which they will sing what lies
express, their meanings under moons.
And barrows resound, and growl like beasts,
hearing these songs that the wraiths hie.
And the barrows brood, in moody peace,
far from the madding crowds and eye
of antiquarian and sly
alike, who ply their civilised spoons
on civilised soups, mundanely try
express their meanings under moons–
but under wracked moons cracked and dry,
the barrows count their beads–the dooms
that have made the wraiths’ hearts awry,
express their meanings under moons.
The Flayed Man (Baton Rouge, LA : Gothic Press, 2008): 37.
One reason I love using the ballade as a poetic form is that the challenges posed by the limited rhyme scheme and the larger numbers of rhyming words contribute to the sense of it as a more difficult form to essay. In essence, it is one of those forms that proves the worth of a formalist poet. It is also a form that displays the strengths of the refrain in prosody.
The Call of the Deep
Deep in my dreams, the ocean is calling,
tugging my heart and my yearning within;
deeper and deeper, downwards I’m falling
into the sea with no tincture of sin.
Down to the depths of the ocean I’ll swim,
down to the depths of the ocean I’ll venture,
called thus by blood, not by treasure or whim;
called by my blood and the pull of adventure,
down to its depths in delight will I swim.
Joining my brethren, I’ll plunge through the waves,
swim through abysses both depthless and lightless,
swim through the grottoes, the reefs and the caves,
knowing the creatures both dayless and nightless,
knowing not air nor the roar of the waves.
Joining the deep ones by light of the moon,
high on the reef night he town we will gather;
gather, O brethren, oh gather and croon
songs as the people of Innsmouth forgather,
pray to the gods by the light of the moon.
Deep in my dreams, my people are calling,
calling my heart and my flesh to descend
deeper and deeper; downwards I’m falling
falling to join them until all must end.
Innsmouth Tales (2000): .
Lines, Steve, and John B. Ford (eds.), Inhabitants of Innsmouth ([England] : Rainfall, 2006): 37.
A number of my poems are nonce forms, and this is no exception. A small number of them, particularly those that are weird verse, are structured as envelope poems where the first and last strophes differ in form (and sometimes metre) from the rest of the poem. They also tend to avoid the use of iambs, as well. This particular poem is one of my favourites because it catches at the sense of wondrous expectancy that Lovecraft uses at the end of his tale, though without the sense of horror pervading it. I guess this means that, for the purposes of this poem, the coming metamorphosis is something not of horror but wonder and awe.
