The Raptor

I spend a fair amount of time, each week, looking for other modern formalist poets, but my searching often goes unsatisfied. There are countless people out there who rhyme - and even a few who combine rhyme and metre, in a sort of caricature of old nursery rhymes - but are there any who treat it as a serious art? I just don't know, anymore. I make no claim to be a great poet, but I am a meticulous poet, and I created this poem to demonstrate the sort of mechanical thought and effort that, I believe, are essential to any real poetry. For those of you not concerned with the dirty details of writing poetry, please enjoy the poem. For everyone else, I have included a brief and limited analysis of poetic elements after the poem, itself.


The Raptor

The carrion-call, shrill upon the air,
as ragged wings now buffet, two and two,
and beat the ribboned rain in disrepair,
to hold a height no summit ever knew,
precedes the silent plunge, as if a prayer
were yielded to fledglings, unaware,
in steady circlings beneath the blue,

that, here, the sand, descended in the glass,
has reached the end and emptied at a rush,
and cannot count the moments as they pass,
for moments make a closing with a hush
before the storm that plummets in a mass
of surging ruin, ready to harass
and break the vibrant spirit of the thrush,

and so, it bursts upon the heedless back,
as bird and bird spin earth-bound in a grip
of lifeless held in life, of swift attack,
while severed feathers scatter free and slip
to wander downward on a flightless track,
and he who bore them, buoyed up, so slack,
by he who will embody Charon's ship.


Ignoring, for today, the actual content of poetry, I would argue that the poet must be concerned with the words and syntax he uses. Poetry is, at heart, spoken song, and, without the aid of music, the lyric of the poetry is carried solely by the words. Further, unless the poet, himself, is there to read his poems aloud, interpretation is left to the reader, who has little or no idea what the poet intends. Therefore, the words should both make the poem sonorous and guide the reader as he renders the written words as sounds. Good poetry begins with inspiration, but only finds its completion in hours of laborious minutiae. Thus, there is little, if anything, in my poetry that is not intentional, and all word choices are made to maximize the ability of the poem to carry its own cadence and tone. I'll only analyze the first verse of 'The Raptor', and then, only the most important parts, but even that should be sufficient to get my point across. To begin:

The carrion-call, shrill upon the air,
This first line begins with two instances of consonance: first, the alliterative 'ca' and second, 'll'. This is followed by the sonic referencing of 'carrion' by 'upon', and the paralleled soft vowels beginning 'upon' and 'air'. A touch of onomatopoeia is provided by 'shrill'.

as ragged wings now buffet, two and two,
The 'a' of 'air' is recalled, here, in the first two words, followed by the repetition of 'w', between 'wings', 'now', and 'two'. We also have our first instance of epistrophe, with the dual 'two'. 'Ragged' continues the theme of onomatopoeia, and this second line solidifies the structure of the poem as iambic pentameter (or ten syllables to a line, alternating between stressed and unstressed syllables, in pairs known, to scansionists, as feet). You may recognize this line structure from traditional Shakespearean sonnets. It gives the poem a sort of tumbling feeling, which matches the subject of a raptor diving on a helpless bird. Notice how the stress is universally placed on every other syllable, starting with the second. There is almost no variation upon this throughout the entire poem.

and beat the ribboned rain in disrepair,
The 'and' that begins this verse ties it to the penultimate 'and' of the last verse, followed by 'beat', which pairs with 'buffet' and 'ribboned'. This is a consonance we won't see again till the end of the verse. Finally, the doubly alliterative 'ribboned rain' carries the center of the line, only to find closure in 'disrepair'.

to hold a height no summit ever knew,
The consonants of 'to hold' are reversed in 'height', even as the latter reaches forward to 'summit'. Finally, 'no' plays off of 'knew', in both consonance and a slight double entendre.

precedes the silent plunge, as if a prayer
This line has an alternating pattern of contrasted hard 'p' sounds and soft 's' sounds: 'precedes the silent plunge, as if a prayer'. It also ends, for the first time, in the middle of a clause. This is important, because the next line is about to break the rhyming scheme, and end with the same masculine rhyme as the current line. The two lines are, thereby, tied together in both thought and structure.

were yielded to fledglings, unaware,
The unity between this line and the last is further enhanced by 'were', which acts as a subdued connection between the more dominant, but still very similar, sounds of 'prayer' and 'unaware'. There is also a subtle progression from the soft, to the plosive, and back to the soft, in the middle of the line: 'yielded to fledglings'. Notice how the sounds rise from 'y' to 'd', then drop back down to the concealed 'y' of 'ing'. Also, the alternate 'l's provide a natural, rolling transition between the open 'y' sound and the plosive 'd' sound.

in steady circlings beneath the blue,
The rhyming pattern is finally cemented as ABABAAB, mixing the simple four-line form of the beginning with an enclosed rhyme at the end. As a side note about the rhyme scheme, notice that the first two verses use soft rhymes, while the third verse uses hard rhymes, leading to a harsher sound that matches and amplifies its violent content. There is, also, a quick triple repetition of 's' in 'steady circlings', which hearkens back to the similar triplet in 'precedes the silent' of two lines previous. 'Circlings' is not traditionally used as a noun, but it is a very small step from adjective to noun, and the hint of onomatopoeia was too nice to pass up. The line finally ends with 'beneath the blue', an inverted double consonance. The alliteration of 'b' was used extensively in the second and third lines, but then given a rest until this point, while the double 'th' acts to draw the final phrase into one continuous sound.

There it is. If I have scared some of you away from attempting poetry ever again, I apologize. If, on the other hand, I have motivated you to make something more of it than simple lines that share nothing but end-rhymes, I have accomplished more than I could have hoped. Let there be no mistake; this sort of writing is difficult, to say the least. Yet, it also grows easier over time. Techniques which were once awkward and unnatural for me now seem intuitive, and it takes me substantially less time to write a poem now than it once did. As with any skill, practice is the truest path to mastery, and though it may be painful and frustrating at first, you will find, over time, a gradual change taking place, as you go from simply writing poetry to being a poet. Good luck.

Two Homes

California seems an awfully long way from Oregon, these days. Winter is lovely, but I'm far more fickle than the seasons, and I'm ready for a temporary change.


Two Homes

My body has one home, a humble place,
that knows me only by the empty space
I leave behind as lightly as a ghost
whose footsteps tread the floor without a trace.

My heart, too, has a home, so far from here,
but closer, yet, and ever more so clear;
perhaps a dream, or just a wish at most,
but even dreaming can be counted dear.

And I? I do not mind this double fate,
for as my heart is stamping at the gate,
my flesh consents to play the patient host
and so the two, in bondage, bear the wait.

Autumn Shift

The leaves are finally falling from the trees. It is that lovely, indefinable point between life and decay, when the plants have died and dropped, but have not yet faded into the damp, dreary layer of compost that marks the beginnings of Winter. The leaves lie so thick on the sidewalks, that even the leather soles of my dress shoes make no noise in passing. What joy Autumn is.


Autumn Shift

A heavy west wind heaves to main from the coast
and spills over mountain and lake,
to work its way inland - a zephyral ghost,
unburdened of shower and flake -

through forest and field, through valley and vale,
spread fallow and fertile alike,
in eddies and rushes ahead of the gale,
across the long overland hike,

until it arrives at the foot of our door,
unbidden, but not unforeseen,
and strips the trees bare with a wintery roar
that leaves their bones crooked and clean,

to carpet the earth with a brilliant hue
and blush-heady happiness long overdue.

Dreaming

I think Autumn is the proper time of year to write about dreaming. Early evenings and dark mornings incline one to delay the inevitably chilly rising for a few spare minutes beneath a down comforter or heavy woolen blanket. Those minutes invariably stretch on in dreams and half-dreams, until one awakens, surprised by the dim, foggy light and insistently-beeping alarm clock, and rises to begin a new - if not entirely desired - day.

Dreaming

Old Morpheus has swallowed up the sky,

to walk the ways above our shadow-flush

and flit from bed to bed, where bodies lie,

in shifting shades that ride the drowsy rush.

Two escorts lead the lonely monarch on -

slack lethargy and windless weariness -

who prime the gears that turn until the dawn

and set them spinning with a deft finesse,

and all the souls that they have sunk in sleep

recline in readiness. An airy breath

slides off the brow and under tallied sheep,

to settle in the eyes, as dark as death.

Then shall we drift, unhanded by his dreams,

in torpid tow, for nothing's as it seems.

Room and Door

I'm working on my sonnet form, again, this time with fractured sentences. I generally dislike poems that break sentences between lines and verses, but I'm sure it has its value. I just need to discover it. Also, despite the despondent content of this poem, life is quite good. Dark poems often come from the most cheerful days, I find.

Room and Door

If every doorway opened on a room

as bare as this, then what would be the shame

of shutting it again? This is a tomb,

and here, the candle was not worth the game;

a sputtering flame splaying finger-light

upon the pale shades of pictures-hung,

when solitude has followed on the night

and dismal sleep, subduing one last sung

and sorry lullaby. So speak of lush,

abundant furnishings if it will please,

but speak of these illusions with a hush;

my weary mind can hold no more unease.

This room may, one day, want a bright decor,

but until then, maintains a bolted door.

100

100 poems. It only took me two years to get here. As accomplishments go, it is not a grand one, but it is an accomplishment, nonetheless. So, a toast to the Quiet Cartesian; happy centennial, and here's to many more poems to come!

100

A century within a word;

each syllable, an age

that echoes on, though never heard

nor penciled on a page.

Unspoken, though the speaking be

the measure and the meat

that satisfies in small degree

and gives the burden feet,

while shoots and flowers bend to frost,

to stand erect, again,

and sunlight waxes on the ghost

of winter, fitful friend,

and time unwinds against the clock

that counts the hours down,

until the grave and grief unlock

a legacy and crown.

For whom? The asking is not mine.

This duty, set astride

such feeble shoulders, frail spine,

is simply to provide

my rendering, a meager one -

inheritance of time -

that wills the wanting, once begun,

to rest within a rhyme.

The Offering

Is it true? Tea time is upon us, at last! It was finally cold enough, a couple evenings ago, to have a cup of tea. Not just any tea, of course. Not for the first cup of the season. An old-growth pu-er, aged and fermented, and simply exuding the damp, mossy smell of a dark forest in the rain. The tea describes itself as such: "Deep, earthy flavor, dark red-gold color, and a rich, velvety texture. Woody, earthy, vegetal aroma, like an old-growth forest." I think that sounds absolutely lovely. Don't you?

The Offering

A soul was offered me,

and offered only once,

though once, eternity,

had I but seen the glance.

So many more, and fair,

as stars upon the sheet,

how could a one compare,

or equally compete?

And yet, that offer pressed

a jewel from the coal,

as alchemies arrest

away a single soul

and hold it high above

the simple stars about,

to let the offer prove,

no more the other doubt.