Of Scottish Literature

Braveheart was an excellent movie, and for the most part was well directed by Mel Gibson. For those of you who have not seen the movie, it's about the Scottish hero and warrior William Wallace and the struggle he and his people underwent while at war with England in the 14th century. Though the movie itself was one of the best that I've seen, being one of my favorites, some of the historical claims that it made were modestly inaccurate.

One such claim was that prior to Wallace the Scots had no country of their own, hence the conflict with England and their struggle for independence. Wallace proclaims in Braveheart that (referring to the conflicts the Scots were undergoing with the English), "Now is our chance. Now. If we join we can win. If we win, well then we'll have what none of us has ever had before: a country of our own."

In fact, Scotland had been a country of their own since 843 AD- 427 years prior to Wallace. What the movie failed to mention was that prior to the Scottish Wars of Independence there had been a long succession of kings; and that it wasn't until 1286, when Alexander III died without a rightful heir to take the throne (his 3-year-old granddaughter, Margaret the Maid of Norway, died before she could take it up), that Scotland slipped into a dire state of internal chaos which the English took aggressive advantage of.

That said, it was through the course of studying the events that led up to the Scottish Wars of Independence that I came across a poem that is considered "the oldest fragment of Scottish literature" that has survived to date. The poem is a lament over Alexander's death and a plea to Christ to prevent the motherland from succumbing to her troubled state without a king. Not only is it beautifully written, it was also written in dialect.

It was on the night of March 19th, 1286, that Alexander III, traveling horseback along the coast of Fife, near Kinghorn, was tossed from his steed and died there from wounds that he sustained. Scotland, without her righteous king and a rightful heir, would soon find herself plunged into some dark days to come ... hence the poem below (followed by one of many modern rendering of the old dialect).



The Original Fragment

Quhen Alysandyr oure Kyng wes dede,
That Scotland led in luwe and le,
Away wes sons off ale and brede,
Off wyne and wax, off gamyn, and gle:
Oure gold wes changyd in to lede.
Cryst, borne into Vyrgynte,
Succoure Scotland and Remede
That stad perplexyte.


Modern Translation

When Alexander our King was dead
That Scotland led in love and loyalty
Away were son[g]s of ale and bread
Of wine and success(?), of gaming and glee
Our gold was changed into lead.
Christ, born into Virginity,
Succor Scotland and remedy
That state['s] perplexity.

 

 

Lamentfully beautiful, right? Moreover, interesting both because of the dialect infused into it (led in luwe and le) and also because of the choice spelling of words (Vyrgynte). Anyhow, I hope you liked the poem and the brief story behind it. And about the movie, Braveheart, I highly recommend checking it out- it's an intense movie riddled with war and struggle and infused with romance and notions of freedom. Good flick ...

Sweet Disdain

Diogenes

Diogenes was quite himself
When Alexander came-
In fact, the Cynic hardly cared
For Alexander's fame.

When Alexander asked the rogue

How he might help his plight,

The Cynic said with sweet disdain:
Depart, you're in my light.

-jwm


Of the Poem

The poem is based on an encounter that occurred between Alexander the Great and Diogenes of Sinope. There are a few varying accounts that elaborate on that meeting, and all of them are quite amusing. According to Plutarch's rendering, on a visit to Corinth, Alexander found himself thronged the entire time by its philosophers and statesmen. To his curiosity, all but one sought his presence, the philosopher who he had heard so much about ... Diogenes of Sinope. The story goes as follows:

"Thereupon many statesmen and philosophers came to Alexander with their congratulations, and he expected that Diogenes of Sinope also, who was tarrying in Corinth, would do likewise. But since that philosopher took not the slightest notice of Alexander, and continued to enjoy his leisure in the suburb Craneion, Alexander went in person to see him; and he found him lying in the sun. Diogenes raised himself up a little when he saw so many people coming towards him, and fixed his eyes upon Alexander. And when that monarch addressed him with greetings, and asked if he wanted anything, "Yes," said Diogenes, "stand a little out of my sun."It is said that Alexander was so struck by this, and admired so much the haughtiness and grandeur of the man who had nothing but scorn for him, that he said to his followers, who were laughing and jesting about the philosopher as they went away, "But truly, if I were not Alexander, I would be Diogenes."

 I had been recently reflecting on this encounter and thought it would be fun to put it into verse ... hence the poem. Let me know what you think ...

Final Jeopardy!

Last night's Final Jeopardy question was: American Poetry. I blogged on this in July of 2010. Do you know the answer?

I Walk Alone

"I walk alone, absorbed in my fantastic play, —
Fencing with rhymes, which, parrying nimbly, back away;
Tripping on words, as on rough paving in the street,
Or bumping into verses I long had dreamed to meet."

Charles Baudelaire

Daffodils

William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge (my favorite of the two) ushered in the English period of the Romantic movement in poetry and literature with their publication of Lyrical Ballads in 1798.

The simplicity of their poetic diction, the enduring imagery and vividness that permeates their works, along with the mystical and sometimes ominous subjects their musings revolve around, has made their poetry both incredible and incredibly accessible and relatable to the layperson. These two poets have produced works that are not only beautiful and mesmerizing, but also honest and bold enough so as to reach out and touched gently on the Woeful and Dreadful in ways that are, in literary terms, beyond reproach. These poets are, in short, Homeric monuments.

Wordsworth, who was born on this day in 1770, was the first poet of the Romantic period in England that I read, and I was drawn to him immediately! His Lucy poems are eerily intriguing, steeped in total mystery and riddled with an acute sense of melancholy and lament (far from the mere pastoral musings of a naturalist poet that many have predicated upon him). His poem, Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802, which describes the beauty of a serene London morning from the quite perspective of the Westminster Bridge, is one of my favorite poems of all time- and probably one of his more popular ones.

Of his more popular works, I find it remarkable (and very embarrassing the more I contemplate it) that though I'm a fan of the works of Wordsworth, I only recently became acquainted with what's deemed one of his finest poems, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, also simply known as Daffodils.

To commemorate his date of birth, I'd like to share that poem with you. The rhyme scheme is simple: ababcc per stanza; the meter, a smooth eight syllables per line (iambic tetrameter); and the imagery, sublime. Trust me, you'll dig it. Let me know what you think.


Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

25 Fun Poetry Puns

25 Puns That Will Satisfy All Poetry Nerds

Time and Memory

If Only ...

If only we could meet again
And curse the days of yore
Forget them and anew begin
And love, and love restore

 

If only we could change the past
And meet again in love
And shun our former ills at last
And all the pain thereof

Our hearts renewed could reunite
And one, and one could be
And we could live in love's dear light
Through all eternity

But time will not assuage the pain
That memory holds dear
And though reunion I might fain
I fain it false, I fear

-jwm

Publius Ovidius Naso

“When he, whoever of the gods it was, had thus arranged in order and resolved that chaotic mass, and reduced it, thus resolved, to cosmic parts, he first moulded the Earth into the form of a mighty ball so that it might be of like form on every side … And, that no region might be without its own forms of animate life, the stars and divine forms occupied the floor of heaven, the sea fell to the shining fishes for their home, Earth received the beasts, and the mobile air the birds … Then Man was born:… though all other animals are prone, and fix their gaze upon the earth, he gave to Man an uplifted face and bade him stand erect and turn his eyes to heaven.”

Ovid, born this day in 43 BC

Happy Friday the 13th!

Fairmount

How calm the sound of snow that's falling
Soft upon these lonely stones
As if the north winds now were calling
Sleeping ghosts from restless bones

Some think this yard of graves as eerie
Filled with silence and with woes
Where souls departed wander weary
Chained to earth and seen by crows

I've seen some come with flowers weeping
Doubting God as they lament
While others deemed the dead as sleeping
Waiting for the Lord's advent

And some would do the most appalling
Cracking headstones, tagging hate
Yet still the snow would be there falling
Falling calmly on our fate

-jwm



A Brief Side Note:

I don't know what others think, but for me it's one of the most weirdest reversals that I personally experience in life … attempting to create something that, when brought into being, immediately begins to recreate you! I swear it's astonishing, amazing, and really surprisingly scary-cool.

I'm referring here to writing in general, and poetry writing in particular. Almost every time I begin a poem it takes on a life of its own. I'll even catch myself stuck on a single word that I'm trying to 'force' into the poem, and the poem sits there flintingly resisting me until- and this happens more than not- I give in and go with the poem's momentum.

Anyhow, I had ideas for this poem that went entirely unfulfilled due to the poem's own life, and just thought I'd share that with you. Hope everyone has an awesome Valentine's Day and a great weekend ... happy Friday the 13th.

A Diatribe of Versailles

Obviously war is a terrible enterprise, and the aftermath and repercussions after war are sometimes just as worse. After World War I, in June of 1919, the Treaty of Versailles was signed by the Allied forces who fought against the Central powers. The demands of the treaty were nearly impossible and would reduced Germany to utter ruin, severe poverty and starvation, and bring her reeling society to the brink of civil war. Even among the signers of the treaty there were contentions: Japan felt completely alienated, and promises made to Italy went unfulfilled.

In the end, the Paris Peace Conferences would inspire bitterness and deep resentment from both Japan and Italy (both of whom made terrible sacrifices to the Allied cause), and would fuel the shame and ultimately the anger of a nation, namely Germany, that would come back with a vengeance that the world has never witnessed: Hitler and World War II.

The poem isn't as much about the Treaty of Versailles as it is about the arrogance, the racism, and the harshness of those who were behind it. Indeed, there's little doubt that those countries who would eventually become the Axis Powers in World War II remembered with deep and great contempt the Allied notion of peace when that treaty was being signed.

With regard to the last few lines of the poem, I find it interesting that, historically, those who were affected negatively by the Treaty of Versailles (Germany, Japan, and Italy) joined their forces to wage yet another war on those Western Powers who were responsible for it. 


From the Halls of Versailles

In Paris we will make no plea
Nor talk of peace as Wilson would
But crush our ailing enemy
And break their iron will for good

We'll deem the East inferior
Whose Asian blood with ours was lent
And feign ourselves superior
To Rome where lives were also spent

We'll draft and sign a cruel decree
And seek our reparations dear
Ignore the needs of Italy
And slight Japan without a care

And should Berlin reach deep despair
Remind them of their lavish sin
That they chose war, and that warfare
Will never touch our land again

-jwm


 

 

Of a Web

A Spider's Web

I looked and lo! a spider's web
Whose fragile silver cords were strung
Between the wall and wooden lamp
And from it there a spider hung

But it is winter's eve, and cold
And it hangs gray upon the thread
Should I repine or be relieved
Is it alive, or is it dead

-jwm

An Untitled Fragment

 

Am I, while writing poetry,
Some foreign soul, a diff'rent mind?
When I resign the poet's pen...
Do I another person find?

 

What squalid speech invades my tongue
When all my lovely Muses part!
What morbid use of words and thought
When I have not the poet's heart ...

 

But when I scale her sacred heights,
Those summits where I former dwelt,
I feel like I am born again,
And moved by Muses Homer felt.

 

-jwm

 

 

Of the Poem

 

This is a segment of a larger poem I was working on a while ago, I found it tucked away and almost forgotten. I still plan on completing the larger work, but for now I thought I'd post this portion- a portion that may very well change as I complete the rest of the poem.

 

Anyhow, I hope you like it.



Look in Thy Heart

"Foole," said my Muse to me, "Looke in thy heart and write."
—Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella

 

An Autumn Ballad

There's this stage during autumn where, after most of the leaves have fallen and have littered the streets and patios, where Indian summer is a distant memory, and summer barely a memory at all, where an almost imperceptible chill in the air lingers over everything, and tacitly hints at winter's approach.

During this time, and during the orange autumn evenings that this time produces, I always feel a sort of peacefulness that seems to shroud everything in view, as if the sacred presence of antiquity visited earth once again … a very beautiful time of the year.

A coldness in the air also begins to emerge, almost unnoticeable at first, and for me, thankfully so. Not that I have anything at all against winter, but during such a beautiful time of year one wishes winter to be delayed for the time being.

It is of this first vague perception of winter, expressed through the gradual emergence of coldness in the environment, that this poem is about. It is about autumn slumbering away as winter's awakening transpires.

Hope you enjoy ...

Autumn Sleeps

Beneath the naked maple boughs
Astir the autumn leaves
They rustle as the north winds rouse
And swirl below the eaves

Within this swirling there's a dance
Where dying loam gives way
And fills with musk the cold expanse
That hangs upon the day

So too the chimes that gently ring
That fain would autumn keep
Alas! the north winds through them sing
Of autumn's coming sleep

-jwm

Of the Poem (Parameters):

Stanza: Four quatrains in the form of a ballad
 
Meter: First and second line of each stanza are in iambic tetrameter (that is, eight syllables per line); the second and fourth,  iambic trimeter (six syllables per line)

Rhyme scheme: alternating, i.e. abab per stanza

Thank you for coming by and visiting my page. 

An Excellent Resource

It has been about two months since I received The Princetonn Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, and I must say, it really bums me out that I hadn't run into this incredible resource sooner. I've learned so much in the course of these last couple months just by owning it, and highly recommend the ownership of it for any at all interested in poetry, and most especially for anyone who wishes to learn some of the more technical aspects of poetry and it's history.

Angola

 

Pale, and with the most savage breath of rum,
These godlike beasts- with brutal whips in hand-
Drove us to the godless hulls, cramped and glum,
As the night hung timid above our land.

An open secret seemed to loom in grief
On that bleak, unforgiving night of nights:
I swear, even the stars above the thief
Shamefully receded their sovereign lights!

And who would dare to help? None. Not one soul-
Either of ourselves enslaved, or others ...
And so, far from Angola's glinting shoal,
Out they sailed ... with children, men, and mothers.

-jwm

Of Clouds

 

Clouds Within

The clouds, rolling in on that solemn day,
As if to deliver the dire news,
Approached my gray zenith to mourn with me ...
And rained.

And I remembered your most godly ways,
And then loathed myself for our little time;
And as the dreadful clouds within grew dark ...
I wept.

 

-jwm

 

 

 

Dedicated to my grandmother ... miss you.

The Great Fire

 

I stood there, marveling at that great fire,
And began to laugh (silently of course),
Knowing that Nero would now fall to scorn
And that all of Rome, now writhing in flames,
Would add gossip unto gossip and curse
The emperor's belovéd name, or worse ...

-jwm

War Poet Wilfred Owen: A Remembrance Tale

Siegfried Sassoon was the first of the World War I poets that I came to study, but when I discover Wilfred Owen and his poetry I was blown away! He's an incredible writer, employing some of the most vivid and sometimes shocking imagery that I've ever read in a poet.

With that said, and it goes without saying, it pleased me to no end to come across this hour-long documentary about him. If World War I intrigues you, or if you like reading the poetry of poets that endured the unendurable environment and psychological that warfare brings, I absolutely, absolutely recommend checking this documentary out.

Déjà Vu

The roving waves   the white winds

Along the bold beach   the black sea

With humid sands   surf-drench'd sands

Tossed by tides   by trembling tides

and you

Have I, in some lauded past of mine,

Strolled these sandy shores of yore? -

Hearing those gulls, smelling the salty brine …

Have I been here before?

Those shells there glistening in the sand?

Look! the peppered surf draws near!

And that wandering crab with crooked hand …

I swear I once was here.

And your soft and sea-wet hazel hair,

And your voice's gentle tone-

And the seductive beauty of your stare

In days remote I've known …

What say you? How could this ever be?

The answer eludes it seems.

But we both were together, by this sea,

In life … and not in dreams.

-jwm

Of the Poem: 
 
The poem was inspired by a poem written by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Sudden Light. His poem was also about déjà vu- a term coined by Emile Boirac, a French psychic researcher, a term that Rossetti was definitely unfamiliar with- hence his poetic description of déjà vu as being 'sudden light.'

Inasmuch as the parameters go, I thought that, for the very first stanza, it would be kind of cool to utilize an alliterative verse structure with caesuras (pauses) within each line to promote the effect of a fragmented recollection of events that that might have happened in the past- events that memory seems to be desperate to puzzle together, and can't help but to believe that these are original memories from another time or life.

For the remaining stanzas (four quatrains altogether) I thought I'd let them take up a cadence of a sorts- a sort of lyrical ballad where each successive stanza culminates into the persuasion that, yes!, this memory comes from an actual time before- it goes from: "Have I been here" to "I swear I once was" to "I've known" and then finally concludes that these events did indeed occur "In life … and not in dreams."

The opening stanza is written with seven syllables in the first and third lines; the second and fourth lines are tetrameters; and of course, the fifth line refers to 'her.' The rest of the structure- the remaining stanzas- have nine syllables for the first line, seven for the second, a pentameter (ten) for the third, and a trimerter (six) for the final line.

The phrase 'crooked hand' in line eleven is a reminiscent phrase from Tennyson's poem, The Eagle.

It was a fun poem to do. I hope it's a decent read for everyone. Peace …

This is too cool ... tell me what you think.

All I’m saying is that Ezra Pound (modernist poet, born 1885) and Edward Norton (modern day actor, born 1969) both share a similarity of physical facial features that are uncanny, amazing, and nearly bordering on creepiness … take a look, tell me what you think.

Ezra Pound

 

Edward Norton

Ezra Pound

 

 

 Edward Norton

Quite Uncanny

Call me a fool- well, okay, don’t call me a fool … but is it me, or would Jeff Goldblum be the perfect actor in a movie portraying the life of one of the founders of the Beat Poets, Allen Ginsberg? Their semblance is quite uncanny- agreed?

 Allen Ginsberg

 Jeff Goldblum

"Had they but courage equal to desire ..."

I cannot begin to articulate the depth of influence that this particular poet has had on my life.

To express internal realities that transcend the mundane through mythological and eschatological writings that defy prose; to deliberately interweave those expressions so as to bring to mind brutal historical events revolving around the loss of love; to be brazenly mystical and a champion of truth via verse, is for me- in light of authenticity and the bravery of creativity- the mark of a poet worthy of historical recognition.

Happy birthday, Yeats (1865-1939). "Had they but courage equal to desire ..."

A Lowly Rose

The clouds are dear, or so to most,
Who stroll the vaulted blue like ghosts …
Drifting free and free of woes-
So calm their gentle, placid host!

But I prefer the lowly rose,
Whose fragrance woos the willing nose …
Tethered there, yet beauty clad,
And much more lovely, I propose.

-jwm

Of the Painting: 

 The painting was done by my absolute favorite artist, John William Waterhouse. He was a part of the later period of the pre-Raphaelites, and the painting is called, My Sweet Rose (or, The Soul of a Rose). This is my daughter's favorite painting of his- or at least it was a long time ago.

Edgar Allan Poe and Words

My daughter asked me what my favorite quote was and I told her I have too many to pick from. She told me to pick one and I did, then I asked her what hers was … without missing a beat she said: “Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.” Wow! She told me these were the words of Edgar Allan Poe. Sweet!