Update on 30/30 Poetry project for April

I rashly swore that I’d produce 30 poems in April this year, after going years and years without.  And by my count, I’ve produced and published nineteen. . Here are links to the published ones; you can check if I made an error in tallying them…

1. April Greetings
2. On first reading Avicenna
3. Poem: For a Muse
4. For the Sun in Exaltation
5. For Greenleaf
6. For the Pleiades
7. For Venus
8. For the Moon
9. For Mars
10. For Mercury
11. For Jupiter
12. For The Sun
13. For Saturn
14. Quatrains on Geomancy
15. First of two experimental sonnets
16. Second of two experimental sonnets
17. a Sonnet about Cuba
18. A sonnet about my dad
19. Arrival over South America

There are two others that I’m not sure I like well enough to publish.  So… 24 days into April, and I’ve written 19 “published” poems.  I’m five poems behind, which is not as bad as I thought I was doing (and some of them are rather long, major pieces, like the Quatrains on Geomancy and the Seven Neo-Orphic Hymns).

How are you doing at writing thirty poems in April?

Poem: Airborne Musings

Another poem on the way to Quito:

Away to the east lies Colombia,
Land of the FARC and Medellín cartels
and away to the west lies Panama,
where lies the best of Earth’s great canals,
lying north-south to join east and west.
Yet clouds obscure the ground: I will not see
that world wonder on this journey of rest—
and is it fit subject for poetry,
if I but view it from narrowed window
in the skin of an aluminum goose?
Ocean ships look like ants in a meadow
from this height, but that simile’s too loose.
Now into a strange wall of cloud we go;
it must be South America below.

Poems: on the Way to Quito

I wrote these on the plane to Quito, but I hadn’t had a chance to type it up until today:

And now a journey to Quito begins:
the plane is moving and the runway’s near’
but news is full of economic sins,
and all Dad’s health complaints fill me with fear.
He looks FINE, of course, else we wouldn’t go;
but my stomach is all tied up in knots,
for even if he’s sick, I might not know.
He might choose silence while his body rots
from the inside-out.  Yet we will do fine:
There will be good food and conversation,
and remembrances of the past over wine,
an aging banker’s prognostication
on misplaced investments and lucky breaks,
Ponzi governments and arthritis aches.

Dad, of course, IS fine. He’s in great health, and this was just my way of getting through some of the panic that always accompanies my anxieties at the start of a trip.  Why it should be that I get all worked up about these things, I don’t know.  But the first part of the poem is all about the panics at the start of the trip, and the resulting de-stressifying as we got underway.

The second one is titled Cuba

Looking downward, through two layers of cloud,
I have a view which angels might proclaim
(were they known for being boastful or loud)
of an island, long of infamous name,
Cuba — ill-ruled by the faithless Fidel,
“Communist tyrant reviled by all”.
Yet teenage fury in my chest I quell,
and a Cold War invective I forestall.
With angel eyes, I look on fields and farms,
red dirt roads, brown swamps, and lonely beaches.
It’s hard not to dream of its bygone charms,
or walking those contrabanded reaches.
As ocean reappears beneath the plane,
I laugh: no Mordor have I seen.

Follow-Up on Teaching Sonnets

I wrote both of these sonnets using the methods I advocated in this post, namely,

1. Choose the rhyming words first,
2. then count syllables to fit, and
3. wait for the iambic pentameter to emerge on future efforts.

My kids today wanted more practice, so they gave me these words:

Fly
So
Guy
Dough
Real
Cheek
Appeal
Weak
Ran
Bumpy
Can
Lumpy
Fat
Cat.

And here’s the resulting 15-minute sonnet:

I had a dream once where I was a Fly
with six small legs and wings angled just So
and in this dream I landed on a Guy.
he worked in kitchens all covered in Dough
He hit me. I survived. Was this dream Real
I bit him when I landed on his Cheek
I tast of his flesh had such sweet Appeal
but the blow from his hand made me feel Weak
I buzzed around his head and off he Ran
This dream I had was crazy and Bumpy
He tried to catch me in a small tin Can
the old man’s cheek was hairy and Lumpy
I bit him again and then I got Fat
Suddenly I was eaten by a Cat.

And if you read this poem out loud, it will become immediately obvious which lines are definitely NOT in iambic pentameter.  It’s also clear that there’s a story that sort of emerges, but that story is compromised (I think) by the fact that the words were chosen first, before the subject of the poem was chosen.

Here’s the second set of rhyming words I was given:  doors, walls, floors, calls, pencil, two, smencil (a kind of scented pencil, apparently), blue, horses, monk, forces, funk, cheese, please.

And here’s the 15-minute poem that resulted:

I dreamed that I could walk through maple doors,
dark portals piercing through sweating stone walls.
My feet do not echo on pale pine floors.
But off in the distance I hear the calls
of laughing students writing in pencil,
counting syllables out loud, two by tow.
Strawberry scent — someone has a smencil,
and new colors also, yellow and blue.
From through a window, grass-smell and horses;
from up the stairs, the chanting of a monk,
and all these symbols represent forces
of my mind alone. Students in a funk
expect great sonnets; but first write the cheese—
for the form must be learned, ere it can please.

And this is one of the core concepts of the form, really — one must start with the rules of the form, and work backwards to a completed poem a few times, even if the poem doesn’t make ANY SENSE AT ALL , before the capacities of one’s brain readjusts to writing poetry that makes sense.  It takes time.  It did for me, and it did for anyone else that’s ever learned to write a sonnet — the first few are terrible, and then suddenly the brain adjusts.  It says, “Oh, is this what you were trying to do?”  And then it does it.

It’s magic.

How to Teach Writing Sonnets

Today was Shakespeare’s Birthday. It’s possible that you did something fun with your classes to celebrate. I taught mine to write sonnets. Everyone is under the impression that sonnets are hard. But if they’re so hard, then why was everyone in Elizabethan England absolutely mad for writing them? The trick is to learn the form first. Accordingly, go get a sheet of paper and a pen. Write sonnets in pen. Be ambitious! Along the right side of the page, write this on successive lines: A B A B C D C D E F E F G G Ok. Now go back through the list, and choose rhyming words. Lines with an A on them, rhyme with each other, lines with B on them rhyme with each other, and so on. But D lines only rhyme with D, not with E or F.

Keep your rhyming words simple. Don’t get fancy. One kid suggested ”mahagony” for a D-rhyme, and what rhymes with that?? Now… Count syllables.

Sonnets basically follow three rules:

1. each Shakespearean sonnet has 14 lines;
2. they rhyme according to the scheme shown above;
3. each line has ten syllables in it;
4. each line follows this complex “iambic pentamer” rule.

I’ve been doing this a long time. Rule 4 does not come instantly, but it does  come with practice. And kids will learn to HEAR it on their own,
but first they need to learn the three core rules, i.e., 14 lines, weird rhyming pattern, ten syllables in a line. So count syllables, like Shakespeare. You have ten fingertips. Your rhyme word is probably one syllable, so… find the nine syllables at lead up to that word. Is it a two-syllable word like “pencil”?So, then find the eight syllables leading up to it. Don’t change the words that you chose for your rhyme pattern. You’re not trying to write a perfect sonnet on the first go-round — you’re teaching your mind to learn a formal poetic style. And you won’t do that if you concentrate on content, that
is, the poem’s meaning. Insist that your brain conform to the form alone.

I’ve seen kids write (terrible) sonnets in twelve minutes using this method. You have to convince them that the quality of the poem doesn’t matter. (and it must NOT matter.. Extra super bonus points for really crappy sonnets that follow the form exactly, but get really weird around line 5 because the rhymes are odd. [save the meaningful poetry for the ninth or tenth run-through of the sonnet form].

The next five or six sonnets you write, choose the rhyme scheme first, then fill the fourteen lines with the correct number of syllables to match. In other words, build the poem in reverse — choose the ending words of the lines first, and then write the stanzas to obey the rhyme scheme. Around Sonnet 8 or 9, the process will reverse — your brain will find the line first, and then begin constructing the rhyme scheme. Around Sonnet 15 or 25, your brain and ear will start rejecting lines that aren’t iambic pentameter, or at least rejecting the ones which are obviously NOT iambic or pentameter.

And around the time that you write your fiftieth sonnet, some of them will be good enough to memorize. And you will no longer be the sort of person who can say, “oh, I could never write a sonnet.” And neither will your students.

But from a time management perspective, let’s break that down just a bit more. I’m guessing that it takes the time needed to write 50 sonnets for the form to become truly ingrained as a recognizable brain pattern. But let’s say you’re from Lake Woebegone, and you’re a bit above average (I assume all my blog readers are). In that case, you only need to write thirty sonnets. One a day for the next month. At fifteen minutes a pop, you’re talking seven and a half hours of writing effort to learn the base writing style of William Shakespeare.

The Bard of Avon. Happy Birthday, Billy.

The Full Neo-Orphic Hymns

I’ve gathered together all seven of these Neo-Orphic Hymns that I’ve written, to the seven planets as they’re understood in the Hermetic philosophy.  And they’re now available on a single page for your reference and readability.  If you do make use of them, please let me know!

Poem: For the Sun

I have it in mind to write seven planetary odes— hymns for the seven classical planets of the ancient world, and the principal divine forces of the “seven heavens” as laid out in classical Hellenistic/Roman philosophy, and as later used by Medieval Christians, and as later used by Renaissance humanists.

Today being Sunday, the hymn in question is for the Sun.  This is the last of the seven!

Great golden titan, lord of light and heat,
agile and vital, our great king, the Sun—
only from your warmth, does our life stay sweet,
and when you bless our work, it’s well-begun.
When your golden chariot mounts the sky
at break of day with four stallions of flame
you fill the world with harmony divine!
Not even the darkest cloud can deny
that it is day, and worthy of your name!
Yet lend an ear, and to my prayer incline

For all of earth and sky receive your light
and you rule each season in its turn.
The wicked fear you, but you guide the kind,
for all things bend toward justice in your sight.
Throughout all ages you are doomed to burn
ripening both grape and creative mind,
rising and setting in your ordered way—
father of night and the sower of stars,
teach us to quit the night and seek the day:
for you bring an ending to baseless fears.

Come, valiant Sun, and to my prayer take heed:
awake your noble influence in me!
For nothing lives or does that does not need
your glorious golden divinity:
Bright source of all existence, lord of noon,
whose golden lyre holds the melody
that joins as one the music of the spheres,
Phoebus almighty, brother of the Moon,
help me to play with the great harmony,
that psalm eternal which gladdens all ears!

I’ve had this poem kicking around for a couple of weeks, and I’ve made a few edits along the way.  But I wanted to release it on a Sunday, because, you know — it’s the Sun and the energies of the Higher Self which the Sun represents.   You don’t want to release those sorts of powers casually into the world.  You want to make them happen on the right day!

Poem: Quatrains on Geomancy

Like the Digital Ambler, I’m pretty interested in Geomancy. Geomancy is one of the divination systems of uncertain origin, although Ron Eglash and others believe it originated in west Africa, possibly among the kingdom of Mali, Ghana and the like.  It eventually became part of medieval European lore by translation through Dar al-Islam and Caliphate-era Spain.  Thanks to Alphonso the Wise and other medieval royal patrons, it entered the Western magical vocabulary, and was in use frequently from Spain to Slovenia up through the mid-1500s, when its use began to decline. There was a brief revival in the mid and late 1800s, but now it seems to be making a genuine comeback.

Which means that it’s the perfect time to launch a poem about the sixteen signs of Geomancy, this Double-Quatrains on Geomancy.  Each of the unrhymed stanzas deals with one of the sixteen signs of Geomancy, and serves as a way of encapsulating the lore and information about each sign.  Enjoy.

BOY more strong than good,  beardless sword-swinger
acting before thinking: heading for trouble.
Fire-headed ram: martial, heady, rash,
blood-spattered white-head, questing here and there.

LOSS — escaping wealth, purse emptying fast;
transience and loss, all things pass away…
Earthy-throated bull, loving yet losing.
yellowing white-neck: all beyond your grasp.

WHITE chalice upright, mind’s peaceful wisdom,
favors intellect, rarely works alone.
Twins of strong shoulders, stable quicksilver,
pure white spotted red, mystical madness

PEOPLE mill in crowds: multitude muddles
without goal or plan: stable inertia.
Crab full of sweet milk: watery full moon:
unfocused sea-green — no real direction.

GREAT FORTUNE coming: fair river valley!
inner strength achieved; stabilized glory.
Great-hearted Lion noble in Sunlight:
green, yellow and gold…press onward: succeed!

CROSSROADS diverging: multiplied choices,
ranges of options, many paths open.
Virginal belly — Mercury’s swiftness
honest purple earth: temperance restored.

GIRL of bright beauty: desire’s mirror,
fickle happiness, impermanent joy.
kidneys on the scales, breath born of Venus —
white and bright greenness: impermanent joy.

RED and hot-tempered, shot-glass upside-down
passion, pleasure, sex: drunk on life and love.
big-cocked scorpion: wild-running Mars
red, for town-painting — hard-partying star!

GAIN, the full wallet: fat purse of bounty,
successful prudence, profitable care.
Hips of the archer, Jove upon firey throne;
red, yellow and green, material gain.

PRISON, cold jail cell: lonely enclosure.
binding, restriction, impairment, delay:
the kneeling sea-goat beached on Saturn’s lead;
fixed russet and dun: focused work alone.

SORROW, in the pit: illness or failure,
grudging permanence — woe, pain and trouble.
hobbled water-man breathing Saturn’s myrrh:
dirty, tawny, dark, grounded in mourning.

JOY, singing, laughing, raw vitality,
creative genius, health and inner light,
koi swimming ’round feet — Jove swimming in pond,
glittering emerald — health, success and smiles.

DRAGON’S TAIL — endings, completed efforts,
concluded cycles, and finished labors.
Left-handed archer, Moon in south station
robed in dark crimson, endings wreathed in flame.

DRAGON’S HEAD — blessings, beginnings, grand starts,
benefic outset, change for the better.
Virgin on her throne, Moon in north station.
pure white with citrine: well-made beginnings.

SMALL FORTUNE — lucky, happy accidents
man on mountain-top, luck comes from outside.
Fast-leaping Lion, breezes of summer,
yellow fickleness, unstable success.

ROAD — Journey begins, change can’t help coming,
travel and motion, nothing stays the same.
Crab swims in Ocean, Moon has full stomach.
White flecked with azure, Pilgrim walks alone.

This piece bears more in common with the Rune Poem than most of the poetry I’ve ever written.  It’s a mnemonic device more than it is a poem, although the sound of the lines being read aloud is kind of cool.  And I suppose that it could be turned into a mini-book of sorts.  I may have to work on that.  A note on the text: in English, it’s customary for the Geomantic signs to be given their Latin names, e.g. Puer, Amissio, Albus, Populus, Fortuna Major, Conjunctio, Puella, Rubeus, Aquisitio, Carcer, Tristitia, Laetitia, Cauda Draconis, Caput Draconis, Fortuna Minor, and Via.  I belong to the Druidical Order of the Golden Dawn, and we learn the Welsh names of the signs: Mab, Colled, Gwyn, Pobl, Bendith Fath, Cyswllt, Merch, _____, Gyr, Carchar, _____, ______ , Bendith Fach, and Ffordd.  I was tempted to work those names in.  But something John Michael Greer said recently in a private list made me realize how much of this lore is hidden behind the

Poem: For Saturn

I have it in mind to write seven planetary odes— hymns for the seven classical planets of the ancient world, and the principal divine forces of the “seven heavens” as laid out in classical Hellenistic/Roman philosophy, and as later used by Medieval Christians, and as later used by Renaissance humanists.

Today being Saturday, the hymn in question is for Saturn.  Funny, that:

 Ethereal Titan, Time’s own father,
Ancient of Days, through eternities vast:
carry our spirits, as light as feather,
joining our present with future and past.
You govern all perfection and decline—
the seed in furrow, and the harvest scythe,
life’s final stages, and the gaping grave.
With trudging step, you walk the outmost line
of seven heavens, where abysses writhe
and tremble — fear stalks the steps of the brave

who venture to walk in your silent hall,
and only ghosts dance in your groaning tomb.
For everything that lives, must have its fall;
nothing last forever which leaves the womb.
Yet all that dies must in due course renew
what now begins, and moves toward completion.
Each generation in turn goes to dust,
as heat from the fire goes up the flue,
and fuel becomes ashen dissolution.
Even iron stoves crack and turn to rust.

Always in like manner does Time beat down
every growing and every shrinking thing;
forgotten solitude follows renown,
like cables unraveled to tangled string.
Rhea’s husband and Prometheus wise,
who binds obstetric nature in his chains:
propitious hear these prayers at sacred rites,
Lord Saturn, make our blameless lives the prize,
and come, peaceful death — reuse our remains,
as fuel for future lives, and future lights.

Not much re-writing here — the last six lines of the last stanza needed some fixing, but in general it was the same poem beginning to end.  Saturn and I have always had a bit of a complex relationship — I’ve had the experience of coming into a hospital room where a relative lay dying, and had them die in the room right then and there, to be entirely comfortable with my relationship with the powers of death and endings. At the same time, though, I don’t think it’s possible to completely ignore the presence of these powers in the world, and the result was that I had an easier time writing this poem than some of the others.

Poem: for Jupiter

I have it in mind to write seven planetary odes— hymns for the seven classical planets of the ancient world, and the principal divine forces of the “seven heavens” as laid out in classical Hellenistic/Roman philosophy, and as later used by Medieval Christians, and as later used by Renaissance humanists.

Today being Thursday, the hymn in question is for Jupiter:

O Jove enthroned in lightning and in cloud,
And ruling over heaven, earth and sea;
Imperial, magnanimous, and proud,
Fountain of abundance, and fatherly:
Give ear to your disciple and attend,
For every mountain and each court of law,
And any place where lightning touches down
Becomes a realm that your decree can bend
To fulfill your aim, sure and without flaw—
Thus in majesty you wear heaven’s crown.

Yet loving kindness spills forth from your hand:
Your magnanimity respects no bounds,
And though Earth trembles at your mighty nod,
All kinds of heroes join your royal band —
That hidden chivalry whose grace astounds,
When they act for you, great Jovial god.
Your fatherly kindness extends to all,
And our first being finds its source in you —
You offer a feast, and we heed that call,
To take up life abundantly, anew.

These sacred rites of purity and health,
O thundering Jove, in mercy take part:
Grant to me an increase of needful wealth,
Yet lead me to act with generous heart.
Forge me as a link in the golden chain
By which heaven’s mercies descend to earth,
And all of life’s diversities expand:
Swans, bulls, and eagles, even Danae’s rain,
Or fecund grapes of Bacchus in his mirth —
All born of the lightning of your command.

This one came through much more easily than the Hermes/Mercury text… But even Jove demanded a second draft.