Poet's Corner: Ubi Sunt

The phrase ubi sunt means "where are" and is used to describe a type of poetry that evokes a sense of nostalgia but also transience and fleeting nature of life. There are some very good examples of this in early poetry, especially in Anglo-Saxon* and Medieval literature. Some of these poems have made their way into other works; for instance, the line où sont les neiges d'antan! makes its way into The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. Go to the wikipedia article for more information on this.

Last week I was in the process of moving houses. When you finally close the door of a house, having left your key behind, there is a strange eeriness. I think it's those sort of moments that ubi sunt poems capture.

Aberdeen Road

Where have the faces gone, between the walls?
Where are scolding mothers and teasing brothers,
the kettle hissing, the couple kissing?
Where are builders who put your bricks in place,
Where are the feet that first trod your creaking stairs?
Where are the men that went to war?
Where are the women that waited at the door
for news from the fields of France?
Where are the tears of infancy, of trips and bruises,
of loves lost and dreams fulfilled?
Where are the slumberers, the wakers,
the gorgers grabbing at the salt shakers?
Where is the man, who gave a last parting look,
closed the door, and as the lock clicked, sighed goodbye?

Give it a go yourself! Write your own ubi sunt poem.

*I wrote my own translations of some of them for a piece of university coursework. If you're interested, I'll see if I can fish them out.

Poet's Corner: the Villanelle

The villanelle is a seldom-used poetic form, and one that I really love. It's really rigid and somewhat constricting, even more so than the likes of the sonnet or even, perhaps, haiku. It is really hard to get right, as well, as it could end up being really repetitive and boring as the first and third lines of the first stanza are repeated throughout. It also has only two rhyming sounds. If done effectively it can create a rhythmic poem that rises to a climax in the rhyming couplet at the end. If done badly, it's, well, bad.

The form goes like this

Refrain 1 (A1)
Line 2 (b)
Refrain 2 (A2)

Line 4 (a)
Line 5 (b)
Refrain 1 (A1)

Line 7 (a)
Line 8 (b)
Refrain 2 (A2)

[etc. until...]

Line 16 (a)
Line 17 (b)
Refrain 1 (A1)
Refrain 2 (A2)

One of the best examples is Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas. It is a poem about his dying father, and Thomas' reaction to it. The repetition creates a really passionate plea to his father to not accept death easily.

I thought I'd give it a go myself. I really like the theme of wanderlust, and I thought that this poetic form would give a sense of the relentless yearning to travel.

The wind, it rattles on my door,
In the depths a soulless night,
Calling me to some distant shore.

It comes howling over marsh and moor,
Sweeping like a flock in flight;
The wind, it rattles on my door.

The groans rise in a sudden roar,
As a beast in wild delight,
Calling me to some distant shore.

Day breaks but it cannot restore
The stillness with its timid light;
The wind, it rattles on my door.

Swelling as a symphonic score,
Peaking at its passion's height,
Calling me to some distant shore.

But I, a prisoner in this dull war,
Must stay to forever yearn despite
The wind: it rattles on my door,
Calling me to some distant shore.

I'll end with a rather humorous villanelle that mocks its restrictive form at the Cat and Girl comic: Sandwiches Cheap

Perhaps give it a go yourself and put a link in the comments below.

Breathe

Phew! With only 26 hours until this week's end I nearly failed my target before I had begun. I'd also like to point out that I almost wrote I will write a blog every week until 2010, but realised my typo and decided it too ambitious given my track record.

I have just returned from a Creative Writing and Art exhibition, of which I helped organise, set up and host. I also submitted three pieces of poetry. My favourite one, which I wrote today is here.

Bibliotheca

Between the lines of words on pages
Captured between the leaves
That brown with age yet do not drop
Except into obscurity,
Are lives and faces Giuseppe Arcimboldo
And Melvil Dewey caught,
Made of paper and ribbons.

All are equal there, pressed and penned-
Bataille, Caroll, and Proust-
By bibliothecal desires, until a hand
Reaches up and is pulled in,
And in a sudden plume of dust
The Word becomes flesh.

So it has been a very busy week, I wrote a 4000 word essay, organised this exhibition, wrote three poems and I still have a lot of work to do.

I nearly had a disaster earlier. I was ironing my synthetic pin-striped trousers, and went to turn the iron down, but I turned it up instead. Yes, they got ruined. But I had a spare pair.

But I am tired, which leads to the logical response of sleep. (S-->R and all that)

Thomas