Winter Cometh

Emily Bronte is among one of the very first female poets that I came to know, and a poet that I deeply respect (The Old Stoic, a delightful little poem about the desire to live in freedom, was the first poem of hers I read). 194 years ago on this day she was born, and so I thought I’d browse some of her works, and perhaps post one of them here … hence today’s post.

'Fall, Leaves, Fall'

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

Lengthen night and shorten day;

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

Blossom where the rose should grow;

I shall sing when night's decay

Ushers in a drearier day.

Of the Poem:

On a superficial level this poem speaks of the poet’s delight in the coming winter, where the nights are longer and snow and ‘drearier’ days shroud the landscape. It is within the midst of an autumn that the poet happily anticipates, like myself at times, the cold and snowy months to come: Every leaf speaks bliss to me / Fluttering from the autumn tree.

But one other possible meaning, a bleaker meaning, weaved tacitly through the poem, may exist.

Little is known about the last two years of Bronte's life, but what is known is that in October of 1848 her health began to falter drastically. Her brother, in the month to follow, would succumb to tuberculosis. It’s said that she was also afflicted by the illness, and that she refused all medical attention (for reasons I’m still not quite clear on) until finally, on December 19th of the same year, she would succumb to her afflictions as well.

Often in the past people have used the seasons as symbols for the diverse stages of life- spring symbolizing birth, summer adolescence, autumn late adulthood, and winter old age and death. It’s obvious that the poem is referring to a desire for winter to come (interestingly, she doesn’t ever use the word ‘winter’ at all).

Is it possible that Bronte wrote this poem indicating a desire to move on from life to death? Is it possible that her illness was too much to endure, or that her brother’s decline and death affected her terribly, or that she wanted to be ‘released’ from the crippling onslaught of so cruel a disease?

It’s just a curious thought, and I’m by no means indicating that our poet was suicidal- far from it! My own guess is this … if this poem was composed during those obscure last years, then the likeliness that it was a cryptic work referring to a desire to die is at least there; if it was composed within the last few months of her life, I’m persuaded on the point. I don’t know … you tell me. 

Happy date of birth, dearest poet ... you're remembered.

Lo Seguitai Felice

Now THAT is the mindset of a 'down' lady (from the Vivaldi L'Olimpiade Opera, Act III, ‘Lo Seguitai Felice’):

Heureux, je l’ai suivi
quand le ciel était serein 
je veux encore le suivre 
les jours de tempête.

*translated:

I followed him happily 

when the sky was cloudless, 
I shall still follow him 
when there are storms in his breast.

To have that type of fidelity from a female is overwhelmingly invaluable! Just sayin' ...

Incredible, Incredible Poet!

Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev (1803 - 1873)

I discovered this Russian poet last week (he’s of the late Romantic period). I cannot- not even remotely- express how utterly floored by his works I am. Philosophical, mystical, wreaking of love and spiritual undertones … this poet is a poet genius. You must, MUST seek out and read his works- or you’re missing out. (period)


Spring Storm
 
I love a storm in early May
When springtime's boisterous, firstborn thunder
Over the sky will gaily wander
And growl and roar as though in play.

A peal, another - gleeful, cheering...
Rain, raindust... On the trees, behold!-
The drops hang, each a long pearl earring;
Bright sunshine paints the thin threads gold.

A stream downhill goes rushing reckless,
And in the woods the birds rejoice.
Din. Clamour. Noise. All nature echoes
The thunder's youthful, merry voice.

You'll say: 'Tis laughing, carefree Hebe -
She fed her father's eagle, and
The Storm Cup brimming with a seething
And bubbling wine dropped from her hand.

Purely From Curiosity

This was really hard to do, and there are hundreds of other poets I love apart from those named here, but I was just too curious. The order of this list no doubt changes with my daily mood or taste or even needs, but this is the official list of my top 20 favorite poets.

1.       Emily Dickinson

2.      John Milton

3.      William Butler Yeats 

4.      Theodore Roethke

5.       Rainer Maria Rilke

6.      Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

7.      Mathew Arnold

8.      Robert Hayden

9.      Christina Rossetti

10.   Sir Thomas Wyatt

11.   Derek Alton Walcott

12.   Paul Laurence Dunbar

13.   Dylan Marlais Thomas

14.   William Wordsworth

15.   Charles Baudelaire

16.   Sylvia Plath

17.   Hilda Doolittle

18.   Dante Gabriel Rossetti

19.   Wilfred Owen

20.  Arthur Symons

Dickinson and Milton are the only two poets that alternate as my top favorite poet.

Yeats, My Influence

 

 

Born today in 1865: William Butler Yeats 

I love Yeats … came to know him early, early on. What I appreciate about him is his mysticism, his incorporation of mythology (especially Irish mythology, of course) into his poems, his diversity, and the depth of his prolific imagination. 

He inspires me to be creative and to explore not just the ‘rosy’ side of poetry, but comedic side; the tragic side; the hopeless and melancholic side …  the infernal side. He taught me that poetry is a strong, broad-spectrum realm, and by no means some tiny little limited sphere within the world of art.

He helped me appreciate poetry, and for it I thank him dearly.

On my list of poets, he’s one of the highest.

To the Weary

When Sadness Has My Soul Distraught

When sadness has my soul distraught
And twists my weary, weary bones
And owns my bright blue days with gray
And manifests with moans

I will not shrink, nor I repine
Beneath the anguish running deep
Nor sleep will I through all the day

Nor endless will I weep

For though the pain and woe are real
I know that inly I am strong
Let throngs of troubles trouble me
They cannot quench my song

-jwm

Poetic Parameters:

Stanza: Quatrain 
Meter: Lines 1 through 3, tetrameter; line 4,  trimeter

Rhyme scheme: abab dcdc efef 

Note: Notice that the second word of the third line of each stanza rhymes with the last word of both lines two and four (I thought it a good device to use to keep the poem ‘glued together’ better).

Pope and Pentameters

This one's for you, Pope ... happy date of birth, brotha!

 

Of Warfare

Dedicated to three incredible, incredible poets: Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, and Joyce Kilmer.

The Trenches 

They held with horrid hell their lines 

Til shells dispelled their noxious fumes 

Then through the labyrinth there fell 

A myriad to Earth’s gray womb 

A thousand summers ere that day 

Those fruitful fields were green and bloom 

What once were luscious, lovely plains 

Are now a wasteland and a tomb 

-jwm

Of the Poem (A Brief Comment):  

I apologize for that gruesome picture of dead soldiers along that trenchbed, but war is real, and as disturbing as sights like this may be, we need to remember that this is what we do to each other.

I hate it- I can’t stand that we war. But whether it’s for remembering a noble cause (if such a thing exists), or acknowledging the inherent evilness of it, or even simply to weep at its existence, we cannot and should not look lightly past the fact that we war with one another, and that warfare is one of the most heinous, one of the most brutal and cruelest, one of the most unfortunate aspects of human reality.

Never Mind

Here's the poem, done in blank verse, that I read for poetry night last night (it was fun, fun, fun):

Too Much Mind

It is within the heart, where Spirit dwells,
That the seat of heaven, both pure and fair,
Abides unoccupied by most of us.

We clutch and grab and struggle to survive
In this world. We feel offense and give it.
Ceaseless ambiguities flood our lives,
And emotional fortitude fades fast.
And so, we take up residence in mind-
Because “it is our mind that brings us peace.”

This is false. Our mind, like spinning daggers,
Cuts everything asunder- rips through flesh
Like a rapacious wolf dying to kill!
Mind divides, mind isolates, mind severs …
… and it must! Mind must dissect, and must know,
Must analyze the details … mind must judge.

And judge we do. We judge each other from
The cold and callous depths of abstraction-
Seeing obscure silhouettes, not people.
We judge as if we were beyond reproach,
Sinless monks sipping green tea, wearing white.
But we deceive ourselves. We are like Borg:
Hardly human at all- reproachable!
Machines removed from Life’s inner myst’ry.

It is from that abject state of being that
We shun and accuse one another, we lie
And steal and rape and kill for sport, we war
With the intensity of roguish brutes,
Set aflame entire countries, and will starve
Anyone to death just to prove a point-
Indeed, when we vanquish a people … joy!

Mind brings no peace- just deep desolation.
It is within the heart, where Spirit dwells,
That the seat of heaven, both fair and pure,
Calls us to compassion and empathy.
Empathy and compassion will bring peace …

Not mind. Mind fears vulnerability
And shrinks in self-complacent lack of trust,
It cannot endure the thought of Spirit,
And will not cater to heart or heaven.
Abandon that residence! Shun that lie!
Rebuke that belligerent hoax! Rebel!
Mind brings no peace- only desolation.
Shut it out and let God reign again-
Stroll the sacred cobbled floors of the heart;
Be brave, and enter that inner sanctum
And seek out in that temple heaven’s throne …

And follow heart.

-jwm

Poetry and Art

Um ... interesting? According to NPR, Expressionist artist Edvard Munch wrote a poem on the backside of one of his most famous works, The Scream (in it he describes the eerie and dreadful encounter he had during one particular sunset). 

Here's that work: 

'The Scream' 

I was walking along the road with two friends. The Sun was 

setting — 

The Sky turned a bloody red 

And I felt a whiff of Melancholy — I stood 

Still, deathly tired — over the blue-black 

Fjord and City hung Blood and Tongues of Fire 

My Friends walked on — I remained behind 

— shivering with Anxiety. I felt the great Scream in Nature.

 

My Yeats Confession

Okay, I have a Yeats confession ....

The first time that I was actually introduced to Yeats and his poetry was in the mid-90s when I heard a song by, yes, the Cranberries called Yeats Grave. In the song Dolores O'Riordan repeats selected portions of one of Yeats’ poem, No Second Troy (a great poem about his fruitless pursuit of an Irish revolutionary beauty, Maud Gonne).

I didn’t have internet at home at the time, so I hit the library, pulled the lyrics, researched the quotes, and came to know of the Irish poet William Butler Yeats- all thanks to the Cranberries.

So no, I didn’t spend the summer in Ireland studying the works of our Irish poet in some revered conclave on the remote outskirts of a rustic Dublin village … I came to know Yeats (unofficially) through the music of the Cranberries.

Lethe

Good morning, peeps! Happy Poem In Your Pocket Day! The poem that I’ve selected to carry with me today is by the early 20th century Imagist poet Hilda Doolittle - one of my top five favorite poets … it’s called, Lethe. Enjoy …

Lethe

NOR skin nor hide nor fleece

Shall cover you,

Nor curtain of crimson nor fine

Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,

Nor the fir-tree

Nor the pine.

Nor sight of whin nor gorse

Nor river-yew,

Nor fragrance of flowering bush,

Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,

Nor of linnet,

Nor of thrush.

Nor word nor touch nor sight

Of lover, you

Shall long through the night but for this:

The roll of the full tide to cover you

Without question,

Without kiss.

Poems & Pockets

Cool! I don’t think I’ve ever participated in Poem In Your Pocket Day. So … uh, I will.

My Dream, and Beslan

I know this isn’t ‘poetry’ in the proper sense of the word (a sense that I’m still trying to define concretely) … but I thought that, since dreams are essentially a of coalescing images, and poetry and imagery are intimately related, I thought I’d post on a dream I once had. 

Do you remember that absolutely horrible, horrible event that occurred in Beslan, Chechnya in September 2004? Terrorist took over a school full of children and, after negotiations collapsed three days later, they set off explosives in the gymnasium and began firing on the teachers and children … over 300 people were killed, 186 of them were children.

This disturbed me so deeply that, a year later, I had a dream that was heavily influenced by that awful event- the first and only dream I ever recorded. The second I woke up, I mean the very second I woke up, I wrote this down …

 

I'm afraid.

I feel like my assailant is all around me. But I have my gun, a black gun (a glock).

I think I'm in an old schoolhouse in Chechnya- everything is bluish gray... the paint on the walls are peeling.

Wait a second, there, about six yards ahead of me at the end of the hallway to the left, I feel a presence. I fire off three shots ... POP! POP! POP! It was really loud but the echo terminated quickly.

Now I hear movement upstairs, and some more down here... now I'm afraid.

Someone’s coming to get me.

Now I know for sure that I'm in a schoolhouse.

I think my assailant is trying to come down stairs (there are teenagers hiding in the hallways- I can see them through my periphery as I focus the gun where I think my assailant will emerge).

As a warning to my assailant, I fire two more shots down the corridor to my right... POP! POP! Loud thunderous echoes in the hall terminate quickly, my right ear is ringing.

I'm afraid and nervous, my assailant is closer, I know it (he- or maybe she- is tracking me from my gunshots).

There, ahead at about five feet to the right, there's a staircase leading up- I think my assailant is up there. I have to go.

How many bullets do I have in this gun?

There are people hiding.

I swing my gun around that staircase and point it up slightly- I thought my assailant was there (I almost shot another bullet … I'm glad I didn't).

The stairs zigzag to the left, I'm still going up- I swing my gun to the left now, slightly pointed up.

How many bullets do I have?

I'm almost at the top.

I see an empty room- it feels like someone is in here.

The paint on the walls are peeling. I am in a Chechen school.

I'm at the top.

I'm afraid.

I'm going to fire a warning shot somewhere.

Someone’s here.

I pull the trigger... 'click.' I'm out of bullets.

There's someone here-

I'm vulnerable...

... I wake up.

Mina Loy*

Mina Loy (1882 – 1966)

In 1921 Ezra Pound wrote to Marianne Moore: "... is there anyone in America except you, Bill [William Carlos Williams] and Mina Loy who can write anything of interest in verse?" But for decades, the avant-garde poet Mina Loy was virtually invisible next to many of her fellow modernists. While she makes colorful appearances in the biographies of many other writers and artists, including those of Djuna Barnes, Marcel Duchamp, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce, Marianne Moore, and Gertrude Stein, Mina Loy had no biography of her own until 1996, when Becoming Modern: The Life of Mina Loy (by Carolyn Burke, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1996) was released along with a new edition of her poems, The Lost Lunar Baedeker.

Mina Loy was born in London on December 27, 1882. She attended a conservative art school and was influenced early on by Impressionism. She achieved some success as a painter, and her paintings were included in the prestigious Salon d'Automne show in Paris, 1905. After several years in the heart of Parisian literary and arts society, Loy moved to the United States in 1916, although her reputation preceded her. While hailed as representing the New Woman and the last word in modern verse, Loy's poetry disturbed a few of her more conservative contemporaries. Marianne Moore found herself uneasy in Loy's company, and Amy Lowell was so incensed by the publication of Loy's "Love Songs" in Others magazine that she refused to submit any more work to the periodical. Conrad Aiken encouraged readers to "pass lightly over the . . . tentacular quiverings of Mina Loy," and John Collier cited Loy's verse as an example of "the need for objective standards." Still, Loy had many admirers, among them William Carlos Williams, Marcel Duchamp, and the members of the New York Dada group--including the poet/boxer Arthur Cravan, whom she married in 1918. In 1921, Pound extolled the virtues of her work to his closest friends, and in 1926, Yvor Winters compared her to Emily Dickinson.

Also an artist, Loy has been labelled a Futurist, Dadaist, Surrealist, feminist, conceptualist, modernist, and post-modernist. Experimenting with media in her artwork, she moved from oil to ink by World War I, then lighting fixtures in the late 1920s, and finally to sculptures featuring items collected from the streets and garbage cans of Manhattan. She allied herself with her visual art more than her writing, claiming at the end of her life that she "never was a poet."

Loy became reclusive in her later years, and lacked any interest in building a reputation for herself. Mina Loy died September 29, 1966, in Aspen, Colorado, leaving behind an unfinished biography of Isadora Duncan and an unpublished collection of poems she had written during the 1940s.

*Biography from Poets.org

To Rebel or Not to Rebel

I'll be reciting the poem below tonight ...


Those Evil Few

With wealth, the likes of Helen's Troy,
There are these few that think they're coy
They seem so modest- but I warn,
Their modesty is but a ploy

They hung two 'thieves' the other morn-
In fact, the day my son was born.
Their crime: some stolen fruit, some grain ...
Two homeless, hungry men forlorn.

I felt indignant, bitter pain,
As I stood watching through the rain:
"If I were starving, like these two,
Would I steal food ... and thus be slain?

Who knows how many men they slew-
But here is this, and this is true:
That if they touched my starving son
I'd grab a sword and run them through!

For by their greed their wealth was won ...
My wherewithal? - it's next to none.
Those evil few, so fatly fed,
Impoverished me ... and everyone!"

And still the hungry hang there dead,
Condemned by laws those few have said.
And now my hunger has me torn:
Obey their laws ... or steal their bread?

-jwm



Poetic Parameters:

Stanza: seven quatrains
Meter: tetrameter (e.g. four metric feet, or eight syllables per line)
Rhyme Scheme: aaba bbcb ccdc dded eefe ffgf gghg

Note:

The poem’s overall structure was inspired by a Robert Frost poem I read sometime ago, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening (a poem whose style was in turn modeled on an even older form known as a Rubaiyat stanza).

Poetry, Science, and Dirac

In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.

Paul Dirac

A Charles Baudelaire Poem: The Owls

The Owls

Under the overhanging yews,
The dark owls sit in solemn state,
Like stranger gods; by twos and twos
Their red eyes gleam. They meditate.

Motionless thus they sit and dream
Until that melancholy hour
When, with the sun's last fading gleam,
The nightly shades assume their power.

From their still attitude the wise
Will learn with terror to despise
All tumult, movement, and unrest;

For he who follows every shade,
Carries the memory in his breast,
Of each unhappy journey made.

Charles Baudelaire

Joyeux Anniversaire!

By far- and I mean by far!- the most coolest, the most darkest, and most kick ass French poet there is … Charles Baudelaire was born this day in 1821. He’s said to be the leading poet of the French Symbolist period (even though, as far as I know, he never actually hung out with the acknowledged circle of Symbolists: Arthur Rimbaud, Paul Valery, Paul Verlaine, and Stéphane Mallarmé).

There’s a bleak existential anxiety that’s woven throughout every one of his works- but it’s not too overwhelming or depressive (just close to it). He’s dark, make no mistakes about it; and his poems, when they appear lighthearted and upbeat, are really just delightful masks on the face of sarcasm. Baudelaire is a poet that every poet must know.

His poem, The Sky (which if you haven’t read you must), was the first poem of his that I read- I thought to myself, after that read: What a jerk! Then I continued to read everything else he ever wrote! He’s a good poet, really good. He writes good prose, as well.

I've said elsewhere of Baudelaire:

"Bleak and oblique are many of the poems that have emerged from the pen of this French writer, and in many ways Baudelaire reminds me of a hip, coffee-drinking existentialist just waiting for a reason to rebel. Make no mistakes, I respect Baudelaire as a man and as a poet, and think much of his poetry cleverly written and interesting ... I'm just saying, he's different- but perhaps that's where his poetic genius lies."

Joyeux Anniversaire à vous mon cher ami!

The Caged Bird

I know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou

Your influence is dear to the world, and dear to the world of poetry ... happy birthday, lady.

To a Demon

To a Demon
I affirm, by the boasting in you which I
have in Christ Jesus our Lord, I die daily.

It told me that I had to bow,
That God was gone, and gone was light-
That Legion ruled my spirit now,
That I was but a slave.
I laughed intrepid: Bow to whom?
To wicked fiends the like of you?
Let this my flesh be Legion’s tomb!
I serve the Lord Most High.
It furrowed angrily its brow
And, like a madman drunk with spite,
It staggered close and made a vow:
Tonight you’ll meet the grave.
I fear not dark, I mocked, nor gloom;
Nor do I fear the lies you spew.
I'm saved from your eternal doom,
For daily do I die!

-jwm

Of the Poem (Poetic Parameters):

Stanza: The poem is essentially four quatrains combined into a single stanza.

Meter: Every fourth line consists of a six syllable count, or a dimeter; the remaining lines are done in tetrameter (i.e. eight syllables per line).

Rhyme Scheme: abac dedf abac dedf (notice that the rhythmic structure of stanzas 1 and 3 correspond to one another, as does stanza 2 and 4).

Poetry Month, 2012

Happy National Poetry Month, all! What will you be doing? Me, myself: I intend on reading the history and works of at least four poets that I've never read before; listening to and reciting some poetry at some local places; maybe do a reading on the radio; trying a few different poetic forms; and sharing, sharing, sharing the beauty and history and reason for poetry with any who will listen ... and more.

Verlaine, the Symbolist

Of the French symbolists, Paul Verlaine (1844 – 1896) is probably one of my least most studied and read of the poets … but what I have read, what I have studied and learned about him, is utterly inspiring- at times darkly inspiring. His poetry almost lends a sort of ‘blueprint’ on how a poet becomes poetic. He inspires on a practical level.

His poetry, like Baudelaire's who influenced him, takes on some of the most unnoticed aspects of common human experience and makes them poetically eloquent, endowing them with a sort of sacred superiority unseen by the blind masses.

Of the little I know about this poet and his turbulent existence, what I appreciate about him the most is that he has the poet’s eye: the thorough inability to see anything in reality superficially.

Here an example of Verlaine’s work (translated from French by Louis Simpson) …

The Young Fools (Les Ingénus)

High-heels were struggling with a full-length dress
So that, between the wind and the terrain,
At times a shining stocking would be seen,
And gone too soon. We liked that foolishness.

Also, at times a jealous insect's dart
Bothered out beauties. Suddenly a white
Nape flashed beneath the branches, and this sight
Was a delicate feast for a young fool's heart.

Evening fell, equivocal, dissembling,
The women who hung dreaming on our arms
Spoke in low voices, words that had such charms
That ever since our stunned soul has been trembling.

Kanaalaq

Kanaalaq

Kanaalaq came and bore me kisses
From bright blue skies where heaven’s bliss is …
To me, a loveless, lonely mortal,
Descended she from heaven’s portal!

She passed my flesh to reach my spirit-
Bestowing love as she drew near it;
And merging, merging like the mystic,
Grew one with me unhedonistic.

In passions steeped we intermingled-
Our souls with one another tingled-
Til we were one, and we were captured
In deep elation, deeply raptured.

The bliss brought existential numbing-
And climax rapidly was coming:
Nirvana’s otherworldly feeling
Consumed my being and had me reeling!

All hint of night had fled off frightened,
And I, within this bliss, enlightened
Felt truly happy with this creature:
“O never leave” I did beseech her.

She dwells here still (my heart is grateful),
This goddess- loving, gorgeous, faithful.
She fills me too with true renewal …
Kanaalaq, ah, my lovely jewel.

-jwm

Happy Birthday Bach!

Today is the 327th birthday of one of the most popular and most talented Baroque composers known, Johann Sebastian Bach. The Baroque period is by far my favorite period in classical music (Vivaldi being my all time favorite composer).

Anyhow, although very familiar with Bach and his works, I was quite surprised to find out from my cousin that- apart from being a great classicalist- he was also a great writer of poetry. Wow! I had no idea.

My cousin, Chris May, posted one of Bach’s poems to me on Facebook- I loved it! Bach’s definitely a good writer of verse- no question about it. He just went up a notch in my Book of Creative Minds (… I don’t literally own such a book).

Here’s that poem, let me know what you think …

******


Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco Smoker

Whene'er I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away
My thoughts, as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.

Like me this pipe, so fragrant burning,
Is made of naught but earthen clay;
To earth I too shall be returning,
And cannot halt my slow decay.
My well used pipe, now cracked and broken,
Of mortal life is but a token.

No stain, the pipe's hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death's call I must harken
My body, too, all pale will grow.
To black beneath the sod 'twill turn,
Likewise the pipe, if oft it burn.

Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then instantaneously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
'Til naught but ash is left to see.
Man's fame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.

How oft it happens when one's smoking,
The tamper's missing from it's shelf,
And one goes with one's finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell
How hot must be the pains of Hell!

Thus o'er my pipe in contemplation
Of such things - I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation,
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, at sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.

-J.S. Bach



Of the Poem (Poetic Parameters):

Stanza: Sestet (in this case, a quatrain with a couplet).
Meter: apart from lines 1 and 3, all of the lines are done in tetrameter (i.e. eight syllables); lines 1 and 3 are a nine syllable count.
The rhyme scheme is pretty obvious: a.b.a.b.c.c.

Notice that Bach extends lines 1 and 3 by ending, what would otherwise be a tetrameter, the lines with multi-syllable words. Cool stuff … and the content of the poem- wow.

On Jagged Heights

On Jagged Heights

When black infernal smoke ascends
To amber skies ablaze
And thousands fall by warfare cruel
And death brings crueler days

When bombs fall hard upon the earth
Obliterating life
When winter from the fallout comes
And suffering is rife

To craggy cliffs and jagged heights
Determined I will flee
And live, persist, on mountain tops
Alone, alive, and free

-jwm