copying Paradelle for Susan

Deb's Paradelle

I saw a cat in my back yard today.
I saw a cat in my back yard today.
He was large, and had a mane that blazed like fire.
He was large, and had a mane that blazed like fire.
I was in my fire, blazed and back.
A cat, a mane, saw he, had a large yard today.

He could sense the blood of a reddish cock.
He could sense the blood of a reddish cock.
With great stealth, he spied his prey.
With great stealth, he spied his prey.
His prey, spied he, sense of a cock
he could sense the reddish blood with great stealth.

Long leap, brazen teeth, setting out for a feast,
long leap, brazen teeth, setting out for a feast,
cannot stand up to a peck so sharp, and so deep.
Cannot stand up to a peck so sharp, and so deep.
Brazen peck, so long and up for a feast, long teeth
leap out so, setting sharp and deep.

Blood, back teeth feast. A long reddish
cat cannot sense that deep fire he spied.
For a setting, stand up, brazen cock! Sharp
and so long was he today. I saw in
my mane he could of had his prey.
With a like great stealth that blazed out, and so.

This is really weird, and probably doesn't make much sense. I tried though!

Irish Cows

Afternoon with Irish Cows

There were a few dozen who occupied the field

across the road from where we lived,

stepping all day from tuft to tuft,

their big heads down in the soft grass,

though I would sometimes pass a window

and look out to see the field suddenly empty

as if they had taken wing, flown off to another country.

Then later, I would open the blue front door,

and again the field would be full of their munching

or they would be lying down

on the black-and-white maps of their sides,

facing in all directions, waiting for rain.

How mysterious, how patient and dumbfounded

they appear in the long quiet of the afternoon.

But every once in a while, one of them

would let out a sound so phenomenal

that I would put down the paper

or the knife I was cutting an apple with

and walk across the road to the stone wall

to see which one of them was being torched

or pierced through the side with a long spear.

Yes, it sounded like pain until I could see

the noisy one, anchored there on all fours,

her neck outstretched, her bellowing head

laboring upward as she gave voice

to the rising, full-bodied cry

that began in the darkness of her belly

and echoed up through her bowed ribs into her gaping mouth.

Then I knew that she was only announcing

the large, unadulterated cowness of herself,

pouring out the ancient apologia of her kind

to all the green fields and the gray clouds,

to the limestone hills and the inlet of the blue bay,

while she regarded my head and shoulders

above the wall with one wild, shocking eye.

I did some research on Irish Cows, because I was really interested in Billy Collins title for this poem. A well known type of Irish Cow is a Dexter. Dexters are believed to be a cross between a Kerry cow and a Devon. A large portion of Dexter cows were imported into America between 1905 and 1915. They tend to be very small, as far as cow standards go, and are known for their gently and easy-to-handle nature. They do well in all types of weather, and are known for being very fertile.

Free Post-My Birthday

Tomorrow is my 25th birthday. So, I decided to post a birthday poem for my free entry this week. We were talking about Silvia Plath in my group today, so I chose "A Birthday Present" for my birthday poem, sad as it may be!

A Birthday Present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

Sylvia Plath

I like the last few lines the best. Oh, and I gave thought to Parks question of the week.

What is a the best overheard line or phrase that you have heard?

I overheard one of my customers say "let's go to the shitty titty." I have no idea, and I am not sure that I want to know.

Working With Pantoums

First of all, this is a really difficult form for me. Here is my progression with the Pantoum we were assigned.

I played with the lines first:

Sitting in the damp sand,
looking to a cider sky,
I see my house is built
by a tree without teeth.

Look to a cider sky
beyond a fence of withered green
by a tree without teeth.
The purpose of this will be apparent.

Through a fence of withered green
that lies mothy and chaffed,
all purposes of this will be apparent.
It will stand, vaguely confessional.

Lie, mothy and chaffed
from the swift twin swifts.
You stand, vaguely confessional,
Becoming sufficiently fierce.

You stand, vaguely confessional.
I see my house is built,
becoming sufficiently fierce
sitting on the damp sand.

The poem pretty much makes no sense, but I felt like I was getting somewhere.

So here are some changes that I made. I am still not sure how I like it, though.

When I was sitting in the damp sand
and looking to the cider sky,
I recognized that my house is built
next to a tree without teeth.

If you look to the cider sky
and see beyond the fence of withered green,
through the tree without teeth,
then the purpose of this will become apparent.

Beyond a fence of withered green
that lies mothy and chaffed,
you will see the purpose of this will become apparent
and will stand before you, vaguely confessional.

You will lie, mothy and chaffed
from the swift twin swifts of life.
You will then stand, vaguely confessional,
becoming sufficiently fierce.

From the swift twin swifts of life
I recognized that my house is built,
becoming sufficiently fierce
when I was sitting in the damp sand.


Input? Thoughts? I don't know how I like it. I almost like the first one better, but I don't think that I did it right.

Villanelle Form

One Art

By: Elizabeth Bishop


The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.



When class first started, I stated in one of my blogs that "One Art" was my favorite poem. It still is, but I didn't know the context of the poem. Knowing that "One Art" is a Villanelle makes the poem even more special to me, especially when looking at Bishops draft, and realizing the hard work and effort that it took to create this poem. I always knew that she had repeating lines in her poem, but I never NOTICED them, if that makes any sense. I never even really paid attention to rhymes, or even noticed them. I just noticed that the poem flowed so well, and was beautifully crafted.

Going back to Bishop's draft, it is hard to believe it is even the same poem, and even harder to believe how a she used a villanelle to better express her purpose in the poem. She still gets to say what she wants to say, and get across to the audience the grief of losing a loved one or friend, but the Villanelle allowed Bishop to do in in fewer lines. Even the title change of the poem was perfect for this form.

Here are some of my favorite alterations that Bishop made to her draft when changing "One Art" into a Villanelle:

-She changes "one begins by 'mislalaying'" to "loose something everyday" or "so many things seem to be filled with intenet/to be lost that their loss is no disaster."
-Bishop used some religious imagery in her draft ("I have lost, it can never be found" and "He who looseth his life...") yet she takes it out in her Villanelle to keep with a central theme.
-Instead of coming out telling the audience she lost a person, as she does in the draft, Bishop begins to almost hold a conversation in the Villanelle, making it more personable.

Needless to say, the Villanelle served "One Art" very well, and I feel like writing good poetry like Bishop could be possible for me through experimenting with forms like she has!

My hand at syllabic poetry

Writing in syllabics is a lot harder than I thought it would be! Here is one, I hope it isn't bad.


The Strange Cat

There is the strange cat,
in the wayward house down
yonder. Running through a
land of sink-holes, after

a large, tricksy wren.
He leaps towards his abrupt,
early eternity.
Don a dirty gas mask.

There is no heaven here.

Yes, it is weird, but I kinda liked it. I did 5 syllables in the first lines of each stanza (except the last) and 6 syllables on the rest. I hope I did okay, I am not that great at counting syllables. As I said before, it is really difficult to do syllabics, but I like it! It makes you choose your words differently. I would like to go back to some of my poems, and try doing them in this form.

The Sonnets of Today and Yesterday

When reading about sonnets, I think about how different that they are in today's world. I have decided that I am going to do some small research on contemporary sonnets and sonnets that were written in the Elizabethan Era. The difference between the subject matter in these poems are fascinating to me. I have always been interested in how things change, and you can defiantly see how different sonnets were in the Elizabethan Era, Even though Elizabethan Sonnets were usually written for Queen Elizabeth.

Examples of Elizabethan Sonnet:

III

William Shakespeare

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single and thine image dies with thee.



One Day I wrote Her Name Upon The Strand

Edmund Spenser

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
but came the waves and washed it away:
Again I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tide and make my pains his prey.
Vain man (said she) that dost in vain assay
A mortal thing so immortalise;
For I myself like to this decay,
and eke my name be wiped out likewise.
Not I (quod I); let baser things devise
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame;
My verse your virtues rare shall eternise,
And in the heavens write your glorious name:
Where, when as Death shall all the world subdue,
Or love shall live, and later life renew.



Contemporary Sonnet Examples:

In Simultaneous Rooms

Alfred Dorn

How many doors open, how many close
while your eyes skims this "moments monument"?
Holed up in a slum lord's apartment house,
and old man dies, alone, irrelevant.
Another life is pierced out of the womb,
from tropic sleep into our arctic day.
In the deluxe hotel's Edwardian room
a window fiercely hugs a rose bouquet
set by a chamber half her age, with card
warbling silk words that curtain has design.
In the Sahara of a hospital ward
a bed explodes with pain like a land mine.
And meanwhile the galaxy, that spiral ear
carrying us through darkness, does not hear.


Nightfall

Jared Carter

Now while I sit here in this dark chamber
By firelight, a lost traveler returned
From a distant country, and half unlearned
In his own tongue--I must risk the danger
Of remembrance. Pensive, I would linger
Over old books, yellow pages burned
By unquenchable years, that I once yearned
To know: the verse of forgotten singers.
First almost nothing remains--a fragrance
Of blossoming trees, a single footstep
On the cobbled stone beneath my window.
Yet every line reverberates. A dance
Perhaps, in the way the music has kept
To an old balance, among these shadows.



Though I only listed a couple of these sonnets in each section, but the list can go on and on. As you can see, both the Contemporary and the Elizabethan Sonnets are 14 lines, in 10 syllables. There are very interesting differences in the two, however. As I have seen in many Contemporary Sonnets, they tend to not rhyme as often as Elizabethan Sonnets. Also, the subject manner in both of these poems are very different. In most Elizabethan Sonnets, they are geared towards an object of affection, or love. I noticed in Contemporary Sonnets, however, that they tend to lean on a variety of subject manners.

I think I could learn a lot from looking at these two styles of sonnets. I think that I can learn about how beautiful language can be, while writing about things that I would like to write about. I have always strayed away from Sonnets because I have always been taught that they were written in admiration to someone or something. Looking at Contemporary Sonnets shows me the variety that they can be in.