Get O'er it

[Sienna]

I Wandered Ghostly as a Shroud
Edna St Vincent Millay

I hovered ghostly, like a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a shroud
Descend and cloak the daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Smothering, choking every breeze.

Continuous as dead 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
Dear, once alive - now perished plants.

The waves beside them danced, but where
Had skipped these sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but despair
In such discordant company:
I gazed - and gazed and thought - and thought
How sweet the bloom Death's soldiers bought.

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 piercing dread
Grows still as daffodils, quite dead.

YES! YES! YES!... what a brilliant parody of Wordsworth... and modern?

Thankyou Tzara! ... (( huggss ))

 

[TheRainMan]

. . . and modern?

she died in 1950.

 

[Tzara]

Ms. Kumin is not dead yet. Does she count?

Death Etc.
Maxine Kumin

I have lived my whole life with death, said William Maxwell,

aetat 91, and haven't we all. Amen to that.
It's all right to gutter out like a candle but the odds are better

for succumbing to a stroke or pancreatic cancer.
I'm not being gloomy, this bright September
when everything around me shines with being:

hummingbirds still raptured in the jewelweed,
puffballs humping up out of the forest duff
and the whole voluptuous garden still putting forth

bright yellow pole beans, deep-pleated purple cauliflowers,
to say nothing of regal white corn that feeds us
night after gluttonous night, with a slobber of butter.

Nevertheless, what Maxwell said speaks to my body's core,
this old body I trouble to keep up the way
I keep up my two old horses, wiping insect deterrent

on their ears, cleaning the corners of their eyes,
spraying their legs to defeat the gnats, currying burrs
out of their thickening coats. They go on grazing thoughtlessly

while winter is gathering in the wings. But it is not given
to us to travel blindly, all the pasture bars down,
to seek out the juiciest grasses, nor to predict

which of these two will predecease the other or to anticipate
the desperate whinnies for the missing that will ensue.
Which of us will go down first is also not given,

a subject that hangs unspoken between us
as with Oedipus, who begs Jocasta not to inquire further.
Meanwhile, it is pleasant to share opinions and mealtimes,

to swim together daily, I with my long slow back and forths,
he with his hundred freestyle strokes that wind him alarmingly.
A sinker, he would drown if he did not flail like this.


We have put behind us the State Department tour
of Egypt, Israel, Thailand, Japan that ended badly
as we leapt down the yellow chutes to safety after a botched takeoff.

We have been made at home in Belgium, Holland, and Switzerland,
narrow, xenophobic Switzerland of clean bathrooms and much butter.
We have travelled by Tube and Metro o'er the realms of gold

paid obeisance to the Wingèd Victory and the dreaded Tower,
but now it is time to settle as the earth itself settles
in season, exhaling, dozing a little before the fall rains come.

Every August when the family gathers, we pose
under the ancient willow for a series of snapshots,
the same willow, its lumpish trunk sheathed in winking aluminum

that so perplexed us forty years ago, before we understood
the voracity of porcupines. Now hollowed by age and marauders,
its aluminum girdle painted dull brown, it is still leafing

out at the top, still housing a tumult of goldfinches. We try to hold still
and smile, squinting into the brilliance, the middleaged children,
the grown grandsons, the dogs of each era, always a pair

of grinning shelter dogs whose long lives are but as grasshoppers
compared to our own. We try to live gracefully
and at peace with our imagined deaths but in truth we go forward

stumbling, afraid of the dark,
of the cold, and of the great overwhelming
loneliness of being last.

 

[TheRainMan]

Death Etc.
Maxine Kumin

I have lived my whole life with death, said William Maxwell,

aetat 91, and haven't we all. Amen to that.
It's all right to gutter out like a candle but the odds are better

for succumbing to a stroke or pancreatic cancer.
I'm not being gloomy, this bright September
when everything around me shines with being:

hummingbirds still raptured in the jewelweed,
puffballs humping up out of the forest duff
and the whole voluptuous garden still putting forth

bright yellow pole beans, deep-pleated purple cauliflowers,
to say nothing of regal white corn that feeds us
night after gluttonous night, with a slobber of butter.

Nevertheless, what Maxwell said speaks to my body's core,
this old body I trouble to keep up the way
I keep up my two old horses, wiping insect deterrent

on their ears, cleaning the corners of their eyes,
spraying their legs to defeat the gnats, currying burrs
out of their thickening coats. They go on grazing thoughtlessly

while winter is gathering in the wings. But it is not given
to us to travel blindly, all the pasture bars down,
to seek out the juiciest grasses, nor to predict

which of these two will predecease the other or to anticipate
the desperate whinnies for the missing that will ensue.
Which of us will go down first is also not given,

a subject that hangs unspoken between us
as with Oedipus, who begs Jocasta not to inquire further.
Meanwhile, it is pleasant to share opinions and mealtimes,

to swim together daily, I with my long slow back and forths,
he with his hundred freestyle strokes that wind him alarmingly.
A sinker, he would drown if he did not flail like this.


We have put behind us the State Department tour
of Egypt, Israel, Thailand, Japan that ended badly
as we leapt down the yellow chutes to safety after a botched takeoff.

We have been made at home in Belgium, Holland, and Switzerland,
narrow, xenophobic Switzerland of clean bathrooms and much butter.
We have travelled by Tube and Metro o'er the realms of gold

paid obeisance to the Wingèd Victory and the dreaded Tower,
but now it is time to settle as the earth itself settles
in season, exhaling, dozing a little before the fall rains come.

Every August when the family gathers, we pose
under the ancient willow for a series of snapshots,
the same willow, its lumpish trunk sheathed in winking aluminum

that so perplexed us forty years ago, before we understood
the voracity of porcupines. Now hollowed by age and marauders,
its aluminum girdle painted dull brown, it is still leafing

out at the top, still housing a tumult of goldfinches. We try to hold still
and smile, squinting into the brilliance, the middleaged children,
the grown grandsons, the dogs of each era, always a pair

of grinning shelter dogs whose long lives are but as grasshoppers
compared to our own. We try to live gracefully
and at peace with our imagined deaths but in truth we go forward

stumbling, afraid of the dark,
of the cold, and of the great overwhelming
loneliness of being last.

all the poems you listed count.

do you think they establish contemporary trend? (or just use that word, and some, structures which might be called 'archaic' by many, just for particular effect, whether that be metrical or otherwise?)

i think MNS's point, which i agree with, is that, words like that and styles, have "gone out with Hopkins" -- meaning to use them now, and not have them feel affectatious, is quite a chore.

 

[Gaia_Lorraine]

all the poems you listed count.

do you think they establish contemporary trend? (or just use that word, and some, structures which might be called 'archaic' by many, just for particular effect, whether that be metrical or otherwise?)

i think MNS's point, which i agree with, is that, words like that and styles, have "gone out with Hopkins" -- meaning to use them now, and not have them feel affectatious, is quite a chore.

Three little letters create such a fuss, much ado about nothing

 

[champagne1982]

all the poems you listed count.

do you think they establish contemporary trend? (or just use that word, and some, structures which might be called 'archaic' by many, just for particular effect, whether that be metrical or otherwise?)

i think MNS's point, which i agree with, is that, words like that and styles, have "gone out with Hopkins" -- meaning to use them now, and not have them feel affectatious, is quite a chore.

I think it would be up to the individual reader to decide if a contemporary poet is using "formality" as an affectation or if the style fits the piece.

Language is beautiful no matter when it is written.

I am in concurrence though, to use it is a chore and I imagine just as arduous as Shakespeare is to read, at first glance

 

[wildsweetone]

I think it would be up to the individual reader to decide if a contemporary poet is using "formality" as an affectation or if the style fits the piece.

Language is beautiful no matter when it is written.

I am in concurrence though, to use it is a chore and I imagine just as arduous as Shakespeare is to read, at first glance

good grief, people GLANCE at Shakespeare?

 

[TheRainMan]

Three little letters create such a fuss, much ado about nothing

it's not a fuss, just a discussion.

i find the use of such words and the meters/structures/rhymes associated with them, when writing poetry today, hard to understand, motivationally.

but being a free verse fanatic, i have a major bias against them, and i'm the first one to admit it.

 

[champagne1982]

good grief, people GLANCE at Shakespeare?

and then close the book...

 

[Tzara]

all the poems you listed count.

do you think they establish contemporary trend? (or just use that word, and some, structures which might be called 'archaic' by many, just for particular effect, whether that be metrical or otherwise?)

i think MNS's point, which i agree with, is that, words like that and styles, have "gone out with Hopkins" -- meaning to use them now, and not have them feel affectatious, is quite a chore.

Of course, I generally agree with you both. I just like being contrary.

That said, I think there are instances where you would use archaisms in poetry. Certainly novelists use them (think postmodernists like Barth and Pynchon, both of whom have written mock-historical fiction full of dialect and archaisms), so I would not be surprised for poets to use them sometimes as well. I used the word "shewing" in a poem once, for example, but I was quoting Blake.

I would be surprised at someone using that kind of word unironically, but the examples I think show that it can be done. But as with all words, you have to examine why it is there--why the artist chose that word.

The traditional use of o'er was, I think, as a contraction for metrical reasons. Almost no one writes evenly metrical verse nowadays, so if you use the word, it is likely because of some other reason.

 

[Tzara]

I am in concurrence though, to use it is a chore and I imagine just as arduous as Shakespeare is to read, at first glance

Bill gets easier to read with practice, dearie. He more or less sounds like regular speech to me now, but I've been going to see his plays for 30 years.

 

[MyNecroticSnail]

Oh Sigh

Here is your poem
Little Greek Houses
by Gaia_Lorraine ©

Two small white houses are perched on a hilltop
A Greek Sistine chapel of painted windows
Huddled together like safety in harness
Look out oe’r the white onyx snow
No one has seen a priest coming or going
Nor small congregation to kneel down and pray
No one has told them about the great furnace
While they sit in their houses alone

Across the red cauldron with beads of desire
A vista of tranquility
Wiping the dust from their doorsteps of fire
Trying so hard to be clean…

Mudded and lonesome and sat upon haunches
A small squatting hippo of black pumice stone
Posing forever as snapped on safari
Sinks in to the white onyx snow
No one has seen him roll over or wallow
Nor stand and be counted, no tear in his eye
No one has told him about Serengeti
As he lies upon haunches alone

Surrounded by candles of fine jasmine scent
An odour of tranquility
Wiping his eyes with the flames of torment
Trying so hard to be seen…

Perched on the clifftop live three little puffins
Nurturing eggshells while one stands on stone
Watching and waiting the clowns of their faces
Look out oe’r the vista below
No one has seen them fly out from their eerie
Nor dive in the water, no fish to bring home
No one has told them of Atlantic places
As they perch on the clifftop alone

Little Greek houses and hippos of stone
Majestic birds of the seas
Serenely with beauty I look at them now
The objects, on my mantlepiece.

From MyNecroticSnail...
an aha moment at the end, not quite enuff ride in the middle to get there.
it is "eyre" not "eerie" if you use the right word, it is play enuff.
Why "oe’r"?
and probably needs a few commas.
That's enuff nits for now.

From the author...
Replace oe'r with over and insert a few commas then the beat disintegrates. The poem is pure rythm, feel it in your soul as it was written.
Enough nits for now implies more to come. Keep 'em coming O great master of poets.
Words are both a joy and a toy to me, read "Spine of a Penis" or "Fetus" and you will see. I will choose the words, the reader can choose the meaning.

Here are the two comments


Show me either the scansion, or the beat, explain with specifics what I am missing. What exactly I am supposed to feel in my soul as it written.
ONE, two, three
Now should I go write something concerning eerie. Your response, looks, shall I say a little sarcastic, pretentious.
You now have a least three excellent people in this thread.
Probably 34 others that want to see my throat slit. Go For It.

 

[Sienna]

...You now have atleast three excellent people in this thread.
Probably 34 others that want to see my throat slit. Go For It.

Oh MNS, nobody, I'm sure, wants to see your throat cut.

Personally, I'm finding this thread interesting. A learning experience as I know very little about poetry and the criticism of it thereof...

Thankyou

 

[Gaia_Lorraine]

So did we reach an agreement over the use of Oe'r or did we just simply agree to disagree?

Ere we venture oe'r yonder poetic hills why don't we vote on it?

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Can one of you tell me how "o'er" is supposed to be read? Is it one syllable or two?

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Can one of you tell me how "o'er" is supposed to be read? Is it one syllable or two?

OK, nevermind. Merriam-Webster says one syllable, pronounced the same way as "whore".

Personally, if the justification for its use is merely to fit a pre-determined rhythm, I think it's as weak an excuse as using Yoda-talk to hammer-in rhymes.

 

[Sienna]

OK, nevermind. Merriam-Webster says one syllable, pronounced the same way as "whore".

Personally, if the justification for its use is merely to fit a pre-determined rhythm, I think it's as weak an excuse as using Yoda-talk to hammer-in rhymes.

Again , depending on accent, it can vary, especially in northern regions of England.

Where I live, many of the "die-hard" diallectic oldies pronounce it as...

Ooooer... a much more lengthened and highly intensified version of the similar "whore" sound as you mention.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

Ooooer... a much more lengthened and highly intensified version of the similar "whore" sound as you mention.

So, what you're saying is that the sound is lengthened as if it were two syllables long? That would mean that using it as a substitute of "over" for rhythm purposes wouldn't even make sense, because they'd be rhythmic equivalents...

 

[Sienna]

So, what you're saying is that the sound is lengthened as if it were two syllables long? That would mean that using it as a substitute of "over" for rhythm purposes wouldn't even make sense, because they'd be rhythmic equivalents...

Yes. Again, where I live, even the word "over" is now two syllables long... often pronounced... "o-ver" by modern regional accent, obviously replacing the earlier "Oo-er" or O'er as the case may be.

Accents have "evolved" in parts of the UK during the past, say, 200 years. This is because people have spread out more during the industrial revolution and having more access to developing transport. More or less the same as in the USA. Also, teaching English as in learning people to read and write their "national" language, has indeed "purified" and "refined" it, making words like "over" one syllable long as spoken in general.

There are still lots of regional diallects. Some preserved as part of their "identity" and this is where I think Gaia_Lorraine is making a point using "O'er" in her recent poem. As it would sound being spoken by her native "Lancastrian" accent, which still exists strongly in parts of northwest england.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

making words like "over" one syllable long as spoken in general

Come again? How does one pronounce "over" in one syllable?

I'm sorry, but this makes no sense at all.

O'er used as a contraction of over in order to make it fit a metric pattern I can understand. It's a lame way of doing it and poetic suicide, but it's at least within the realm of the usage of the English language. And that is what Gaia_Lorraine did. To quote her own words:

"[T]ap your foot to a 3/3 rythm you will discover that the Caps coincide with the first beat of the bar. I did this deliberately so that anyone reading could feel the flow of a poem that would ultimately reveal the exact same beat in Little Greek Houses. And that is precisely why that poem uses oe'r."

You can now try to justify it with regionalisms, with the preservation of cultural identity, whatever you want. That's not what she was doing. She did it for the rhythm - which as I said, is in my opinion as weak an excuse to use that contraction as they come - and to make the language sound "poetic", like the classics, which in my opinion is just sad...

I'm sure there are lots of ways in which o'er can still be effectively used in poetry, but I see none in her poem. It's a cop-out.

 

[Gaia_Lorraine]

Come again? How does one pronounce "over" in one syllable?

I'm sorry, but this makes no sense at all.

O'er used as a contraction of over in order to make it fit a metric pattern I can understand. It's a lame way of doing it and poetic suicide, but it's at least within the realm of the usage of the English language. And that is what Gaia_Lorraine did. To quote her own words:

"[T]ap your foot to a 3/3 rythm you will discover that the Caps coincide with the first beat of the bar. I did this deliberately so that anyone reading could feel the flow of a poem that would ultimately reveal the exact same beat in Little Greek Houses. And that is precisely why that poem uses oe'r."

You can now try to justify it with regionalisms, with the preservation of cultural identity, whatever you want. That's not what she was doing. She did it for the rhythm - which as I said, is in my opinion as weak an excuse to use that contraction as they come - and to make the language sound "poetic", like the classics, which in my opinion is just sad...

I'm sure there are lots of ways in which o'er can still be effectively used in poetry, but I see none in her poem. It's a cop-out.

A cop out?
It's a word and I used it, I see no problem in its usage although others like yourself seemingly do.
I write for the enjoyment not to impress others but, as publicity goes this is the best thread ever created. If I had wanted my name and poetry to be emblazened in LIT I could never have done a better job myself.

Thank You

 

[Sienna]

Come again? How does one pronounce "over" in one syllable?

I'm sorry, but this makes no sense at all...

I agree, but like most dictionaries try to tell us, "over" is supposed to be one syllable. It's two when being spoken "normally"...

 

[My Erotic Trail]

open up your mind's mess
and try a little kindness (~_~)

ya know perhaps em's ar' o'er critical <grin

there is a deep 'cajun' fellow that I frequently run into and his french/american is so gargled that I wouldn't know how to write how he pronounces some of his words.

To make a poem ryhme... I have created words, a 'cop-out'? or experiment... or literary art. Instead of saying a certain way is sad, I would simply say... 'I wouldn't do it that way' and I would..." get o'er it" <grin

have a nice night

 

[Lauren Hynde]

A cop out?
It's a word and I used it, I see no problem in its usage although others like yourself seemingly do.

Well, in my opinion, it's a cop-out. Of course you can use whatever words you want. I see a problem with its usage because it adds nothing to the poem when listened to except confusion, and it adds nothing to the poem when looked at on the page except graphic noise. It's a cop-out because the only reason it is there is because "over" is two-syllables long and you needed a one-syllable word for your beat. Instead of finding the words that would naturally follow that beat throughout the verse, you used an obsolete contraction to artificially reduce the metric count. You look at that word and you don't think "o'er", you think "over". And you know everyone else will think "over" as well. Cop-out.

You don't need to justify yourself to me, though. Write for enjoyment. I enjoy doing the best job I can no matter what that job is, but you obviously don't, even though you say you could. That's your choice.

 

[Lauren Hynde]

I agree, but like most dictionaries try to tell us, "over" is supposed to be one syllable. It's two when being spoken "normally"...

I thought you had said the opposite before.

What "most" dictionaries are you referring to? A quick look at all the ones I have returned only two-syllable pronunciations in all of them.