One part dVerse poetics prompt, one part Edna St. Vincent Millay (shamelessly pilfered rhyme from “First Fig”), and one part Dorothy Parker-inspired sass: this is the result. I’m generally not fond of most ballades, aside from Francois Villon’s in the original Middle French, but I think I’ve only written one in my life, so it’s a form that it was important to come back to. And since the prompt dragged it out of me, here’s the result. (It’s been a slow morning at work, and all I can think about is how February is already a third over. Where has all the dancing time gone?) This will be an eventful weekend, methinks.
Here’s a tip for rhyme poems, like these or villanelles, or anything else that requires many variations on the same ending: the four easiest ones that I’ve found are -ay, -ight, -ow (as in glow, not now), and -air, and their variations. You can get ten solid, different, and interesting words out of each of those, easy. Just don’t overdo them, or all your rhymey poems will sound the same. An honorable mention is -ee, but people usually take it too far (rhyming extraordinarily with bee or something doesn’t work).
Leap Year
The qualities of February
rankle us: everything in grey-white,
metallic, static. And the very
notion of losing a misspent night
(or three) is offensive in our sight.
Time’s already short enough, my friends,
so from temptation’s apple, we bite:
we’re burning the candle at both ends.
No angel nor devil nor fairy
dare cross our delirium tonight.
We are making a mad sort of merry,
racing the hourglass in mortal fright
and defiance. Our future’s not so bright:
whether the present is all depends
how it’s spent. What is that doubled light?
We’re burning the candle at both ends.
‘Tis the season to be contrary,
damning the dark season with delight.
And we’ll rush on, heedless, unwary.
We gather what scraps we can of might,
locked up in these skins set to ignite.
When winter’s heart contracts and extends,
always the next dance while we recite,
“We’re burning the candle at both ends.”
Come, prince and peasant, king and knight:
the transient body folds and bends.
We’ll crack our ice with an earthbound flight:
we’re burning our candle at both ends.
So much GOOD Good good here to comment on. Well first kudos to you, (even though I never mentioned its classic use) you were the only poet to address the prince in the first line of the envoie! So WOW.
Then the clever use of nine syllables gives it such a conversational feel, even though staying very strict to your syllable count. Also glad you paid a little tribute to Parker’s sass. She’s always been a favorite of mine. I think I would have liked to have known her although her life was, after all, a little sad. She had that bravura and that “sass” with all her wit and quickness. I wanted to discuss the poets I highlighted but I can always go on and on and I try to keep it close to 1000 words (though often failing). Glad you mentioned Millay. If I have read that poem, I’ve forgotten it, so I’d have missed that homage.
The content so apt. This time of year the rush of everything starts to happen. I’m having my house repaired, there’s taxes to do, I have a paying job, I’m trying to read my friends work and also find inspiration to write, doctor’s appointments, meeting up with old friends, and the rest of the day to day routines. Then there’s getting older and moving slower to factor in (for me). So while it seems I don’t get everything done, paradoxically time seems to fly. You captured all that in the poem with humor and a classic refrain line. Especially liked:
“‘Tis the season to be contrary,
damning the dark season with delight.
And we’ll rush on, heedless, unwary.”
Well done, you!
A gather ye rosebuds kind of poem: perfect in form, and enticing in message: I could do with a bit of a mad sort of merry,
One of the things ! enjoy most about reading your poetry that follows a form is sometimes catching echoes of poets from older times. I was trying to figure out who parts of your poem reminded me of, when I read Gay’s comment, where she mentions Millay [one of my absolute favourites -- way ahead of her time period]. I must have read through your introduction too quickly, because there she is and that is who some of the echoes remind me of. Thank you for this and the hint on sounds that work.
margo
Ahhh, you are a true poet. I must admit that, unlike you, I love good ballads, especially ones that effectively tell a story. I am particularly fond of a couple of Robert Graves’ work that he wrote early in his career. February is the month when time contracts, even in a leap year, so this poem is entirely appropriate. It is, again–when commenting on your poetry I am a broken record–really well done. There is fresh language here:
No angel nor devil nor fairy
dare cross our delirium tonight.
We are making a mad sort of merry,
racing the hourglass in mortal fright
and defiance….
rhyming that escapes the deadliness of sing-song with great effectiveness, partially because you are not afraid to run a thought over into the next line and partially because you have the skill to use two or more syllables for a line ending, and the theme echoes back into time, gathering up meanings as the references flow.
Gay: I know my ballades. ;) And I wish I’d known Dorothy Parker as well. As for the content: January went at a crawl, and now February is HALF over. What gives, Months! The dilation and contraction of time fascinates me, but not when I’m trying to consider myself a productive individual.
Viv: I should have re-read that one too, it could have informed some of the shameless borrowing. And yes: a mad sort of merry there shall be. (Even if we have to wait until the weather warms.)
Margo: I love Millay (see sidebar!), and her sonnets are (in my opinion) on par with Shakespeare’s for their quality. She was a lady unafraid to be a lady poet, and knew how to balance traditional form with modern sensibility perfectly.
Thomas: thank you! I should say that although I’m not fond of ballades with an E, I quite like the ballads with no E, especially the old British folk ones. I know my share of them, and am as like as not to be singing one quietly whenever I’m walking down the street.
Despite having read the sidebar numerous times, I shall probably ask you several more times whether you have read a Millay poem. Sadly, I can’t attribute that to age. I have always been forgetful of things my brain deems not -needed-now. Hope lies in this exchange. There is, now, every chance the brain will give up a cell to remembering. Poor brain :-)