In Flanders Field

I wasn't going to post this morning. But then I heard this story on NPR on the way into work. The story of one of the most famous war poems in history.

From Wikipedia: "In Flanders Fields" is a war poem in the form of a rondeau, written during the First World War by Canadian physician and Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae. He was inspired to write it on May 3, 1915, after presiding over the funeral of friend and fellow soldier Alexis Helmer, who died in the Second Battle of Ypres. According to legend, fellow soldiers retrieved the poem after McCrae, initially unsatisfied with his work, discarded it. "In Flanders Fields" was first published on December 8 of that year in the London-based magazine Punch.

It is one of the most popular and most quoted poems from the war. As a result of its immediate popularity, parts of the poem were used in propaganda efforts and appeals to recruit soldiers and raise money selling war bonds. Its references to the red poppies that grew over the graves of fallen soldiers resulted in the remembrance poppy becoming one of the world's most recognized memorial symbols for soldiers who have died in conflict. The poem and poppy are prominent Remembrance Day symbols throughout the Commonwealth of Nations, particularly in Canada, where "In Flanders Fields" is one of the nation's best known literary works.

And here is the text of the poem:

In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

So what do you say on Memorial Day? The long weekend, the BBQs, and the beach certainly make for great memories, but should we really say "Happy Memorial Day?" Probably not.

Fabric, by Jessica Bell

Today I'm celebrating the release of Jessica Bell's new poetry collection, Fabric ... Wait! Please don't close the tab at the the mention of poetry! Trust me, just read a little note from the author herself before deciding to disappear ...

Jessica says:

My poetry will not baffle you with phrasing that scholars award for academic genius and that can only be understood by those who wrote it. My poetry is for the everyday reader. In fact, it is even for those who don’t like to read poetry at all. Because it is real, stark and simple.

The poems in Fabric are no different. They explore specific moments in different people’s lives that are significant to whom they have become, the choices they’ve made. It’s about how they perceive the world around them, and how each and every one of their thoughts and actions contributes to the fabric of society. Perhaps you will even learn something new about yourself.

So, even if you do not usually read poetry, I urge you to give this one a go. Not because I want sales (though, they are fun!), but because I want more people to understand that not all poetry is scary and complex. Not all poetry is going to take you back to high school English, and not all poetry is going make you feel “stupid”.

You can still say to people that you don’t read poetry … I really don’t mind. Because if you read Fabric, you’re not reading poetry, you’re reading about people. And that’s what reading is about, yes? Living the lives of others?

Are you still here? I hope so!

Please support the life of poetry today by spreading the news about Fabric. Hey, perhaps you might even like to purchase a copy for yourself? The e-book is only $1.99 and the paperback $5.50.

Here are the links:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Goodreads

Let's keep poetry alive! Because not all poetry is "dead" boring ...

About Jessica Bell:

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. And not because she currently lives in Greece, either. The Australian-native author, poet and singer/song- writer/guitarist has her roots firmly planted in music, and admits inspiration often stems from lyrics she’s written.

She is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and co-hosts the Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop on the Greek Isle of Ithaca, with Chuck Sambuchino of Writer’s Digest.

For more information about Jessica Bell, please visit:

Website

String Bridge (a novel) 

Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop 

Blog 

Vine Leaves

Facebook

Twitter

For the finale, here's the awesome trailer, too:

Poetic Analysis of a Hip-Hop Song

Sorry I couldn't find a better, or official, video of this song, but for some silly reason, Lupe Fiasco doesn't have an official Youtube channel.

Anyway, people really seemed to like it when I did a Poetic Analysis of a Pop Song, and some even said they hoped I'd do it again, so here it is, with another song I like.

I love this song, but it's an excellent one to breakdown with a literary analysis, because it's full of subtext, symbolism, and metaphor. Keep in mind, that any analytic reading of any kind of literature is going to be highly subjective, so these opinions are heavily based on who I am. Here are the lyrics:

[Lupe Fiasco]

Uh.. yeah

He just sits, and watches the people in the boxes

Everything he sees he absorbs and adopts it

He mimics and he mocks it

Really hates the box but he can't remember how to stop, it

Uh, so he continues to watch it

Hoping that it'll give him something that he can box with

Or how the locksmith, see the box as, locked in the box

Ain't got the combination to unlock, it

That's why he watch-es, scared to look away

Cause at that moment, it might show him

What to take off the locks with

So he chained himself to the box, took a lock and then he locked it

Swallowed the combination and then forgot, it

As the doctors jot it all down, with they pens and pencils

The same ones that took away his voice

And just left this instrumental, like what

Okay, so on the simplest level, and this might seem obvious, but it's deeper than it first appears, the box is television, or the internet. If you didn't notice that at first, I'm sure you see it now. But on a more fundamental level, beneath the foundation, if you will, this song is about consumerism, media, marketing, and propaganda. It's about the standardization of our youth, and how we are telling them who to be, what to wear, and what to buy.

He sits, and he watches the box (media in any format), and anything he sees he adopts it. He is a consumer, especially a young, impressionable consumer, and he is aware he is being manipulated (he mocks it), and he hates that he's being manipulated, but he's chained to the box. This is an essay on that fact that the messages are all around us. Billboards, airbrushed magazine covers, blinged out pro-athletes and rock-stars. It's everywhere.

He's scared to look away, because he's convinced that he can discover a way to transcend the box, from within the box. This is the paradox of media and control. Because, realistically, you can buck the trend, be a creative artist or musician, not fall into the hole of a number two pencil multiple choice bubble test, make something new and unique, but then you need the box to be able make any money doing it. It's a necessary evil. Or is it?

The doctors are us. The parents, the teachers, the ad execs, the CEOs, the politicians. Everyone who is telling him what he needs to do, what he needs to buy, and who he needs to be. We are taking away their voices.

[Chorus: Jonah Matranga + (Lupe)]

And he never lies (he never lies, he never lies, uh)

And he never lies (uh, he never lies, he never lies, no)

And he never lies (he never lies)

Cause he never said anything at all

When I first heard this song, I thought the chorus said "daddy never lies," and I was all prepared to go into how daddy was the media, in a kind of big brother reference, but then when I looked the lyrics up, that argument wasn't going to work anymore.

You can laugh at me now.

[Lupe Fiasco]

He just sits, and listens to the people in the boxes

Everything he hears he absorbs and adopts it

Anything not coming out the box he blocks it

See he loves the box and hope they never stop it

Anything the box tell him to do, he does it

Anything it tell him to get, he shops and he cops it

He protects the box, locks it in a box

when he goes to sleep, but he never sleeps

Cause he stays up to watch it, scared to look away

Cause at that moment, it might get stolen

And that's the last of the boxes

So he chained himself to the box, took a lock and then he locked it

Swallowed the combination and then forgot, it

As the doctors jot it all down, with they pens and pencils

The same ones that took away his voice

And just left this instrumental, like what

Much of this is repeated from the first verse, but there are some new ideas. For those who don't know, cops it is slang for buys it. But then things get worse. He locks the box inside another box (like a TV in an apartment, perhaps), and starts to get paranoid. Clearly you can't steal the media. Someone might take your TV, but the message is still out there, all you need to do is look around. So what's he afraid of? I would argue he's afraid of losing his identity. So many young people (many, but not all) identify themselves and their personalities by external, surface things like clothes and jewelry, and all their little screens. If you've ever had to take your child's iPod away so that they could consider their behavior for a while, you know what this means.

[Chorus]

[Lupe Fiasco]

(Anything at all..) He never lies

Uh, and you can't tell me just who you are

You buy new clothes just to hide those scars

You built that roof just to hide those stars

Now you can't take it back to the start

And you can't tell me just who you are

You buy new clothes just to hide those scars

You built that roof just to hide those stars

Now you can't take it back to the start

This chorus gets a bit more overt. You don't have to have physical scars to want to hide something that's on the inside. We all had identities when we were young, skaters, gangsters, nerds, band-kids, jocks. We want to fit in, it's human nature, so we find a group that we have something in common with, and we conform. But it's not that simple. We are not only what we wear, or what clique we hang out with. We can't see the stars of who we really are, because we build so many barriers to keep that person hidden.

[Chorus]

[Lupe Fiasco]

(Anything at all.. anything at all..)

Uh, and you can't tell me just who you are

You buy new clothes just to hide those scars

You built that roof just to hide those stars

Now you can't take it back to the start

And you can't tell me just who you are

You buy new clothes just to hide those scars

You built that roof just to hide those stars

Now you can't take it back to the start

You can't take it back to the start, because you're only born once. You only get one chance to define yourself, obtain knowledge of self, and make that first impression on people.

What I think Lupe's trying to say in this song, is that we need to be ourselves. We need to stop telling everyone that white and skinny is the only kind of beautiful, that expensive cars and diamond earrings are the only proof of success, and that everyone should want to be just like everyone else.

At least, that's one man's interpretation.

Poetic Analysis of a Pop Song

Happy Friday friends and readers. I hope today finds you well and full of inspiration. I had intended to critique my friend Alexia Chamberlynn's query today, but I screwed that up when I missed blogging on Wednesday.

I like to do two posts in a row for query critiques, so that you all can see the query without all my analysis. So, anyway, I hope Alexia doesn't mind if I save hers for next week. Today I'm going to do something a little different. Watch this video (I'm sure you've heard the song):



I'm not a big radio listener (except for NPR), and I don't buy CDs at Best Buy, but I have become aware of this pop song that I like a bit. It has a very underground hip-hop feel to it, even though it's clearly Big Record Label (that's like Big Oil, if you need to understand the Capitalization) material.

Anyway, I'm going to analyze the lyrics for you here, because I think there are some pretty clever metaphors in the verses.

Here's the chorus:

My heart's a stereo

It beats for you, so listen close

Hear my thoughts in every note o-oh

Make me your radio

Turn me up when you feel low

This melody was meant for you

So sing along to my stereo

I'm not analyzing this part, because while being sung by Adam Levine from Maroon 5, who clearly has a great voice, it's not particularly poetic in its lyricism.

Here's the first verse, which is spit by Travie McCoy (spit means rapped, but I hate that word):

If I was just another dusty record on the shelf

Would you blow me off and play me like everybody else

If I asked you to scratch my back, could you manage that

Ye-yeah, chicka Travie, I can handle that

Furthermore, I apologize for any skippin' tracks

It's just the last girl that played me left a couple cracks

I used to used to used to used to, now I'm over that

Cause holding grudges over love is ancient artifacts

If I could only find a note to make you understand

I'd sing it softly in your ear and grab you by the hands

To keep me stuck inside your head, like your favorite tune

And know my heart's a stereo that only plays for you

So I'm probably going to go three layers deeper than was ever intended here, but that's what music and poetry is all about, right? What is means to the reader and the listener, even if that's not what the author intended?

To me, this is a sad but hopeful story of an awkward young man who's been hurt by love. Let me tell you why I think that.

First of all, in hip-hop culture, especially among DJs and crate-diggers (people who hunt for old records in thrift shops) a dusty record does not carry the same connotation it does for most people. To a hip-hop producer, a dusty record is often an old funk classic that hides a hidden gym. A breakbeat, like on Amen Brother, by the Winstons, or Apache, by the Incredible Bongo Band, can be sampled, and mixed into the beat for a hip-hop track. If you're old enough to remember Vanilla Ice versus Queen and Bowie, you know what a sampled breakbeat sounds like, even if that's not an example of how it can be done well.

So my point is, when he compares himself to a dusty record, it's not the insult it sounds like on the surface. To me he's saying that he's a diamond in the rough. A nice, nerdy guy that any girl could love, but who's been stepped on in the past. This is supported by other metaphors in this verse, like "play me like everybody else," (play means to take advantage of in hip-hop culture) and "skipping tracks ... couple cracks." This is another vinyl/record metaphor, which I just absolutely love, because like in a relationship, there are any number of things that can make the needle jump the groove.

The second instance of the chorus is a little different, but we're not analyzing that one either. Here's the second verse:

If I was an old-school fifty pound boombox (remember them?)
Would you hold me on your shoulder wherever you walk
Would you turn my volume up in front of the cops (turn it up)
And crank it higher everytime they told you to stop
And all I ask is that you don't get mad at me
When you have to purchase mad D batteries
Appreciate every mixtape your friends make
You never know we come and go like on the interstate

I think I finally found a note to make you understand
If you can hit it, sing along and take me by the hand
Just keep me stuck inside your head, like your favorite tune
You know my heart's a stereo that only plays for you

This whole song is essentially a love song, but this second part can go a little deeper if you look into the subtext. A big boombox was a symbol of revolution for the hip-hop culture of the Bronx in the 1970s and 80s. Without the boombox, Breakdancers, also known as B-boys and B-Girls, never would have been able to take their art form to the streets, and never would have been able to express themselves in a way that ended up catching the attention of the mainstream media. It's also a symbol for defying authority, because boomboxes were often confiscated or destroyed by police, and to "turn [its] volume up in front of the cops" is certainly a reference to challenging authority.

Those old boomboxes were heavy, though, and expensive (mad D-batteries means you have to buy A LOT of batteries) so when he talks about carrying one on your shoulder wherever you walk, to me that's a metaphor for the burden of emotional baggage that every person brings into a relationship. A human being is a complicated thing, and their past can make them cry as easily as it can make them sing.

Anyway, this post has already gone on too long, but I wanted to share with you guys how even a silly pop song can have a deeper meaning, if you look more closely at the language. I think about comparative language like metaphors a lot, and I probably over-use them in my creative writing, but then again, there is nothing quite like the perfect turn of phrase, is there?

Quotes Week, Part Two

For Jessica:

• Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. ~Leonard Cohen

For Bryan:

• The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter - it's the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning. ~Mark Twain

For Andrew:

• A critic can only review the book he has read, not the one which the writer wrote. ~Mignon McLaughlin

And for all of us:

• Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we? ~Terri Guillemets

The Sound of Prose - Part III

I think this will be the last day of this series of posts but I haven't decided yet for sure. Today I'm going to share a poem with you that I consider an excellent example of rhythmic writing.

Edgar Allen Poe first published his poem The Raven in 1845. In it he borrows the complex rhythm and meter of Elizabeth Barrett's poem "Lady Geraldine's Courtship", making use of an internal rhyme scheme as well as alliteration throughout the text. It first appeared in the New York Evening Mirror on January 29th that year. It's publication made Poe quite popular within his own lifetime. Though critical opinion on the poem is still divided there is no disputing it as one of the most famous poems ever written.

It's even longer that Kubla Khan though, so I'll just go ahead and get to it (if you don't have time just read the first stanza and skip to the bottom, that's enough to illustrate the point about its rhythm):

THE RAVEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This poem is made up of 18 stanzas of 6 lines each. Technically the poem is written in trochaic octameter, which is a specific type of rhythm or poetic meter. A trochee "foot" is a pair of syllables of syllabic sounds that follow a pattern of stressed followed by unstressed. Think of it like a kick drum followed by a snare or like saying "BUM-ba". The octameter part just means that each line is 8 "feet" or 16 syllables, except, of course for the last truncated line of each stanza, which has only 7 syllables.

Poe apparently made arguments that the meter of this particular piece was much more complex, but they are so in-depth that I won't go into them here. Suffice to say that Edgar Allen Poe was an evil genius, second only to H.P. Lovecraft of the greatest American Horror Authors ever.

This post is long enough as is so I'll leave it at that, especially considering yesterday's post got the fewest comments ever! No big deal, I understand reading all these blogs is extremely time consuming, especially with posts as long as this one.

If you did have the time and patience to make it all the way through leave your thoughts in the comments like a badge of honor!

The Sound of Prose - Part II

Today I'm going to use a poem that I think has a great example of diction. It's really long so there won't be much room for my inept analysis, but is that really such a bad thing?

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote Kubla Khan in 1797 after a dream he had about the Tartar Emperor that was allegedly heavily influenced by his use of opium. According to history that part is disputed, but I think the poem makes it clear that such a thing is highly possible. Whether or not it's true takes nothing away from the text.

It sat unpublished and did not become available for public consumption until Coleridge was urged by George Gordon, Lord Byron (another of my favorite English poets who may come up this week) to make it so in 1816.

It should be pointed out that this poem was not appreciated by Coleridge's contemporaries except when he read it aloud - so perhaps it's a good example of cadence as well, but we pretty much covered that yesterday. So without further ado, the poem:

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

There is some great diction in this poem. Some of it has to do with the language of the time, such as sinuous rills, which is a great turn of phrase in my opinion. Sinuous is a word we still use today but as far as I know rills has fallen out of fashion. Apparently it is either a small stream or a valley on the moon. Either one of those fits quite nicely here.

Other times it almost seems as if he makes words up, like mazy for example. It actually is a word, an adjective meaning maze-like but I have never seen it before or since this poem. Momently is also technically a word, but I don't believe that is used in modern speech or writing either.

Just another couple of examples of great diction, not only because of their rhyme and reason, but also because of the unique ring to the way the words sound:

- Mingled measure.
- Miracle of rare device.
- Damsel with a dulcimer.

The poem was apparently cut short after having been originally planned to be 200-300 lines long. It seems as though Coleridge was interrupted by a visitor, and we all know what a bummer that can be when in the midst of a groovy opium trip. I'm kdding, of course.

I wouldn't normally point people to Wikipedia for analysis of poetry but there is actually a halfway decent article on this poem here.

Anyway that's it for today, I hope you all enjoyed it and thanks as always for visiting, but especially for commenting!

The Sound of Prose - Part I

Morning everyone. Thank you so much for all the support on Tahereh's post on Friday, I thought it went very well.

I've finished the novel I was reading and have yet to hit the library or the bookstore so over the weekend I was glancing back at Noah Lukeman's The First Five Pages, which is not my favorite book on writing but certainly in my top five. In it he talks about the SOUND of writing. I've always cared about this aspect of my words a lot so I thought a would devote a post or two to it.

To me sound (in writing) has always been about rhythm, cadence and diction. He also describes something he calls echoes which in its simplest form is only repeated words or ideas but also grows more complicated. I'm not really smart enough to explain it here so if you want to know more you should get the book. These topics may not seem very important in prose, especially since it is rarely read out loud, and it's true, they are quite subtle but can sometimes make the difference between good writing and great writing.

Diction in its simplest definition is only about the choice of word to use in a specific situation, but it's more than that I think. The illustrious Bryan Russell (Ink) wrote a great post with more in-depth analysis of the concept here.

Cadence would seem to only apply to writing read out loud, and certainly it is much more prominent in poetry, or spoken word, or song, but I find that I consider carefully the beats in a sentence and I hope that this will lead to better balance within a paragraph, a page, a sentence.

Rhythm is much more primal, of course, and in many ways is similar to cadence, but Lukeman makes a great point about the length of sentences and how altering the rhythm of a passage on purpose can make something stand out or slip behind some other ideas. A short sentence surrounded by longer ones can drive a point home with added emphasis.

He suggests that the best way to learn about the sound of prose (other than reading your work out loud or having someone read it to you) is to study poetry. So this week I'm going to feature some of my favorite poems that hopefully are all in the public domain and won't get me into trouble for posting here. I have no college degree and have not studied poetry since high school so I won't give much analysis but maybe I'll introduce someone out there to something new.



Today's poem is Ozymandias. It's a sonnet by Percy Bysshe Shelley, first published in 1818. I believe that he was the husband of Mary Shelley, the famous author of Frankenstein, but I could be wrong about that; please correct me in the comments if so:

OZYMANDIAS

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

The theme here is of course about the decline of civilizations and empires but that is not the point I'm trying to make. I'm not sure why I love this poem or why it has stuck in my mind all these years but I do think the rhythm of Shelley's words has something to do with it. The meter is decasyllabic, which means that there are 10 syllables to each line. It is interesting because it almost seems like the poem could do without the first line and a quarter, but that of course would throw the cadence all to hell.

So that's it for today. Please leave your thoughts in the comments and thanks for visiting!