The Sound and Shapes of Stars (poem)

So, a new prompt from Laura at dVerse Poets is to get Chaucerian with a Roundel. This is something I’m sure I would remember if I were to be transported back to my College days, and Doc Sipple and Doc Bowers but then, in that transporting back, I would most surely get distracted and totally forget the task at hand and forget about those classes and lessons.

But here, in the now?

Circling back to the 14th Century: Though we often associate the Roundel with Swinburne, his was a 19th century deviation because it is to Chaucer that we owe this poetry style, (as well as the iambic pentameter and the ‘rime royal’).

Thus we distinguish the Chaucerian Roundel from all other forms as well as from The Rondel and Rondeau. And by now you’ve guessed that our poetry today is to be written as Chaucer outlines:

Poetry Style:

  • 13 lines
  • 3 stanzas divided into 3 lines (tercet); 4 lines (quatrain) 6 lines (sestet)
  • rhyme scheme: A B1 B2/a b A B1/a b b A B1 B2
  • usually 10 syllables per line as iambic pentameter

As is evident from the above there are only 2 rhymes to the scheme, and once you have the first 3 lines, it repeats in two refrains so the poem is not too challenging!

Ok, now I will beg to differ on the “not too challenging” but?

So I went to where I’ve been on a few things somewhat recently and hope I kept to task Laura.

As to Doc Sipple and Doc Bower? Sorry I’m late, I was a bit distracted.

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The Sound and Shapes of Stars

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

of twilight verses and star choruses those

.

A menagerie of lighted point shapes stabled

fed above clouds of my head on clear eves

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

.

They crow and bubble and roar bark soundings

star shapes of animal comfort arms outstretched

to pet and grasp and sing at time’s knowing

Singing songs no one dears but me off key

stars grass at my back and breeze through my toes

singing songs in boy head of choruses those

When We (I) Were Writers (poem)

The idea here, from Grace, was to make a try at at a different poetry form, Trolaan.

As per Grace’s prompt:

Trolaan, created by Valerie Peterson Brown, is a poem consisting of 4 quatrains. Each quatrain begins with the same letter. The rhyme scheme is abab for each quatrain.

Starting with the second stanza you use the second letter of the first line of the first stanza to write the second, each line beginning with that letter.

On the third stanza you will use the second letter on the first line of the second stanza and write the third each line beginning with that letter.

On the fourth stanza you will use the second letter on the first line of the third stanza and write the fourth each line beginning with that letter.

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So, I thought back here to my undergraduate days when I, and my friends, envisioned ourselves as writers, poets.

.

When We (I) Were Writers

We (I) were words at seeming will

Wrought with grand poetic intent

With a hubris of great writers of skill

Willing envied youth to supplement

.

Every piece was poring/pouring soul

Even knowing in my heart to avoid such a thing

Easy it was claim “soul” glorying to all my one unfounded old

Entreating “hearts” then even made me worse for sing

.

Vanity of but soul would make readers quake at my depth

Vowing to pen classics worthy of masters

Vacating a notion of things just, just things to be said

Venturing not into words that mattered

.

And I came about but in slow, still, revelation

Amid not the soul nor heart’s cliche but the every day

Aweing how sudden old wrought dramatic word made way for just, just simple observation

And that that, that simplest of thought, just might be the true soul say

Bloody Paradise & Death Becomes Us (call and response – poems)

Have this friend that I met through dVerse Poets, Paul (and a thank you to dVerse for such) an absolutely wondrous writer/poet whose work just astounds me and he recently wrote this at his site, Parallax

Bloody Paradise – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon  

Note: I wrote this in response to GP at Pacific Paratrooper following our respective comments on his post  “Letter IX “A Day’s Venture” which is a post about his father Pvt. Everett “Smitty” Smith’s letter to his mother in regard to a rest day spent around Buna after allied forces liberated it. The post was in September 2024 (linked above).

Pacific Paratrooper is a blog based around the life and service of Smitty with the Headquarters Company/187th Regiment/11 Airborne during WWII. Follow the links above to read GPs excellent work.

“The war continues working, day and night.” Dunyah Mikhail

Bloody Paradise

Some things catch us by surprise
like the irony of a sabbath amidst
the trail of death and destruction
in an ever moving theatre of war,
feelings about shame and waste
momentarily cleared by
observations of the ordinary and
mundane albeit cultural experiences
allied with peace and quiet
buddies swimming in
pristine bejewelled water
shaded by coconut trees majestic,
a veritable paradise
framed by a cemetery screaming
“death becomes us,”
as Buna now breathes
Buna becomes today
tomorrow …
if not this war,
then the next.

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Well, this poem and the line “Death becomes us” struck me and I thought to take a bit of a liberty and write a “response”.

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Death Becomes Us

Death becomes us

said General to a friend

in kinder times

when this was just pieces

on a board

a game

over seas distance

closer now

or skies resistance

closer now

and simple regrets

closer now

like a kiss not had

from that pretty girl

at that pretty café

on that pretty shore of a foreign land

to be felt another day

but friend General had dispatched

in quick fashion in need

as only needs need

according to ordered needs

.

I have medals he said

.

Death becomes us

said the dispatched

wishing General hadn’t said that

I had other friends

really

he thought

who didn’t take this so seriously

and danced to tune

in kinder times

it was just a game

.

Death becomes us

said Devil and Lord

puffed chests

In accord

you have done our warned

work

all on your own

you wanted, you played

you moved pieces on a board

you played Devil and Lord

toward

an unquestioned end

.

Death becomes us

always becomes us

in dirt too soon

General

too soon

.

Tell her I think of her

her little pretty

or just pretty

in general

General

at that pretty little café

on that pretty foreign shore

wished

pretty

once

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Hope I did a justice in this uncalled call & response Paul