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  #11  
Unread 03-15-2023, 06:04 PM
Maryann Corbett's Avatar
Maryann Corbett Maryann Corbett is offline
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It took me all day, but I've found Rhina's sapphics: "Invocation," in the book Where Horizons Go.

Goddess, mother, mentor of those who live to
scribble verses, now in my seventh decade
reaping scanty laurels for minor triumphs,
Muse, I entreat you:

Do not slight me, Lady who never failed me
then, in youth when, stolen from mop and bucket,
merest seconds spent in your rites once brought me
sound of your timbrels.

Image, music, memory, mind's reflection:
let these now, as then, in the freight of each day
seem enough to treasure without betraying
moment to meaning.

Keep me truthful, grant that I never sing it
trendy, bending messages to their hearers,
louder, higher, stranger than speech would have it,
pitching for pennies.

Slap my hand hard, goddess, if once you catch me
reaching out for glory and those Big Prizes;
spare me, after reading the list of winners,
poisonous envy,

rage, excuses, rancorous grief and sniping.
Teach me you are singing in all those voices,
not in this or that one more than another's.
Teach me my one voice;

Teach me to work keeping it just my measure,
narrow, rooted, bound to the gift you lent me,
simple as dirt, useful as broom and ladle,
needle and trowel.
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  #12  
Unread 03-17-2023, 09:50 AM
Julie Steiner Julie Steiner is offline
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Thank you very much for both of these, Maryann. I somehow don't yet have that book of Rick's, so I'll rectify that!

I failed to mention your humorous riff on Timothy Steele's "Sapphics Against Anger," which might be particularly appreciated by anyone reading this thread for inspiration:

Anger Against Sapphics

               with apologies to Timothy Steele

Dammit. Why is everything always harder
every time I try to use other meters,
striking ones, not regular, plain old iambs?
What is my problem??!!

Iambs flow like cream into morning coffee,
roll like rills of metrical maple syrup.
Why does this feel clotted and unpoetic,
lumpy as oatmeal?

Clomping like a polka with oompah-oompahs,
bumping, banging: That's what a sapphic sounds like,
blaring on and off like a warning buzzer,
never relaxing—

What? You think I'm whining? You think it's easy?
All I have to say to you then is, try it.
There. What's that? You're not having any trouble?
Dammit. I hate you.

Published in Poemeleon


[Julie again:]
BTW, I've published three, but it's very bad form to post one's own work to "Musing on Mastery," so I'll just hastily sneak in these links for those interested:

Terra Firma (please note that I have since become disaffected with this venue)
On Noticing How Many Pro-Life Men Are Smokers
Calendar Girls

I wonder why there's no question about capitalizing Shakespearean and Petrarchan and Spenserian, but Sapphic goes so often uncapitalized. It seems as if what's good for the ganders should be good for the goose.

Last edited by Julie Steiner; 03-17-2023 at 08:01 PM.
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  #13  
Unread 03-17-2023, 06:20 PM
Catherine Chandler's Avatar
Catherine Chandler Catherine Chandler is offline
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Default Sapphics

Hi Julie,
Below are four poems in Sapphics that have appeared in three of my books:
From Lines of Flight: Shadow Fish and sub rosa
From Glad and Sorry Seasons: To a Minor Goddess (Poem II from "Two Poems of the Sea"

From Pointing Home: Lessons at Fall Kill Creek


Shadow Fish
Great hoarfrost starsarrive with the shadow fishclearing the path to dawn. – Federico García Lorca, from “Romance sonámbulo”

For the mothers of the disappeared

Here they come, the ravenous sharks of morning,
feasting on the moon and the stars and planets,
swallowing the glimmer of light that’s rising
green in the distance.

Barn owls blink in tacit approval. Cold and
unconcerned, the crickets and frogs keep singing.
Soon the cock will crow, and the fox will charm a
hare from the woodlot.

Far away the five o’clock whistle blasts its
warning at the desolate crossing. Aspens
shiver. Shadow fish are retreating, silver,
dragging you with them.




sub rosa


There were two: shy “Emilie”, quiet “Ellis”.
One assumed a masculine name to mask it;
one dropped sweets and messages in a basket
over the trellis.

Boy or bee, the Belle would take rules and bend them
with her slant on rhythm and rhyme and nectar.
As for Ellis, no one would dare respect her
should she offend them

with a tale of blustering heights of passion
written by a maidenly preacher’s daughter.
One despaired of finding an imprimatur,
wearing an ashen

wardrobe, watching, stitching her words together.
Dreams of Gondal! Dreams of a secret lover!
Still the skittish poet(ess) runs for cover:
birds of a feather

may in mortal fear of the prejudicial,
even now, when tempted to seek admission,
approbation, countenance, recognition,
use the initial.





I. To a Minor Goddess

Wave on wave all heaving and arch and spillage;
blue and green and grey overlaid with silver.
Christmas Day — my saviour the South Atlantic.
Triumph. Surrender.

All my gods have failed me, yet Achelois,
you have watched me wavering in the billows;
you have heard me weeping the wail of seagulls,
and you have answered:

Do not look for eyes in the dancing diamonds;
do not long for lullabies in the breakers;
do not lend more tears to the salt of oceans’
flotsam and jetsam.

Listen for the crash. See the string of seafoam
lace that hems the sand with a hush and whisper.
Silence. Nothing. Everything. Constellations.
Guardian angels.









Lessons at Fall Kill Creek

Altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi.
—Quintus Curtius Rufus, Historiae Alexandri Magni


I was only five, but I’ve not forgotten.
You and I set off as we do each morning.
Hand in hand, we walk in the April sunshine,
father and first-born.

Halfway to the Samuel Morse School, we would
sometimes stop to see how the creek was faring—
Fall Kill Creek that runs through Poughkeepsie, draining
into the Hudson.

Rain from upstate wetlands and marshes—seeping,
racing southward, coursing through stonewall channels—
forms a perfect habitat for the bluegill,
darter and minnow.

Now we’re at the Catharine Street and Mansion
crossing, looking over the iron railing
at the water, higher than ever, flowing
steady and silent.

Then your quiet words—how it is that stillness
mustn’t be confused with a lack of passion;
why it is that rivulets lead to rivers,
rivers to oceans.






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  #14  
Unread 03-17-2023, 06:23 PM
Catherine Chandler's Avatar
Catherine Chandler Catherine Chandler is offline
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Julie, I copied these from old MS files. I can't seem to get into Edit mode here to correct (1) the missing spaces between words in the epigraphs and the indentation of the fourth line in each stanza. Don't know why I can't edit . . .
Cheers,
Cathy


PS OOPS! Just noted Maryann's calling out as "very bad form" the posting of one's own poems in Musing on Mastery. Boo-hoo. Links aren't any better, IMHO. So, you may delete if you wish.

Last edited by Catherine Chandler; 03-17-2023 at 06:30 PM.
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  #15  
Unread 03-17-2023, 07:56 PM
Julie Steiner Julie Steiner is offline
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Hi, Catherine! I don't mind your saving me the trouble of typing these. I'll rebaptize them here, if you want to delete them above, and I will include the note on "To a Minor Goddess." (I've also edited above to indicate that Maryann hadn't made the ungenerous comment about posting one's own work. That was...um...someone else.) A quick PM to Jane Osborn can make your posts above disappear completely, if you like.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Four poems in Sapphics
by Catherine Chandler

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Shadow Fish


     Great hoarfrost stars
     arrive with the shadow fish
     clearing the path to dawn.
     —Federico García Lorca, from “Romance sonámbulo”


     For the mothers of the disappeared


Here they come, the ravenous sharks of morning,
feasting on the moon and the stars and planets,
swallowing the glimmer of light that’s rising
     green in the distance.

Barn owls blink in tacit approval. Cold and
unconcerned, the crickets and frogs keep singing.
Soon the cock will crow, and the fox will charm a
     hare from the woodlot.

Far away the five o’clock whistle blasts its
warning at the desolate crossing. Aspens
shiver. Shadow fish are retreating, silver,
     dragging you with them.


From Lines of Flight (Able Muse Press, 2011), p. 5


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


sub rosa


There were two: shy “Emilie”, quiet “Ellis”.
One assumed a masculine name to mask it;
one dropped sweets and messages in a basket
     over the trellis.

Boy or bee, the Belle would take rules and bend them
with her slant on rhythm and rhyme and nectar.
As for Ellis, no one would dare respect her
     should she offend them

with a tale of blustering heights of passion
written by a maidenly preacher’s daughter.
One despaired of finding an imprimatur,
     wearing an ashen

wardrobe, watching, stitching her words together.
Dreams of Gondal! Dreams of a secret lover!
Still the skittish poet(ess) runs for cover:
     birds of a feather

may in mortal fear of the prejudicial,
even now, when tempted to seek admission,
approbation, countenance, recognition,
     use the initial.


From Lines of Flight (Able Muse Press, 2011), p. 37


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


To a Minor Goddess

(Poem ii from "Two Poems of the Sea")


Wave on wave all heaving and arch and spillage;
blue and green and grey overlaid with silver.
Christmas Day — my saviour the South Atlantic.
     Triumph. Surrender.

All my gods have failed me, yet Achelois,
you have watched me wavering in the billows;
you have heard me weeping the wail of seagulls,
     and you have answered:

Do not look for eyes in the dancing diamonds;
do not long for lullabies in the breakers;
do not lend more tears to the salt of oceans’
     flotsam and jetsam.

Listen for the crash. See the string of seafoam
lace that hems the sand with a hush and whisper.
Silence. Nothing. Everything. Constellations.
     Guardian angels.


Note: Achelois is a minor Greek moon goddess whose name, translated into English, means "she who washes away pain."


From Glad and Sorry Seasons (Biblioasis, 2014), p. 12


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Lessons at Fall Kill Creek


     Altissima quaeque flumina minimo sono labi.
     —Quintus Curtius Rufus, Historiae Alexandri Magni


I was only five, but I’ve not forgotten.
You and I set off as we do each morning.
Hand in hand, we walk in the April sunshine,
     father and first-born.

Halfway to the Samuel Morse School, we would
sometimes stop to see how the creek was faring—
Fall Kill Creek that runs through Poughkeepsie, draining
     into the Hudson.

Rain from upstate wetlands and marshes—seeping,
racing southward, coursing through stonewall channels—
forms a perfect habitat for the bluegill,
     darter and minnow.

Now we’re at the Catharine Street and Mansion
crossing, looking over the iron railing
at the water, higher than ever, flowing
     steady and silent.

Then your quiet words—how it is that stillness
mustn’t be confused with a lack of passion;
why it is that rivulets lead to rivers,
     rivers to oceans.


From Pointing Home (Kelsay Books, 2019), p. 23

Last edited by Julie Steiner; 03-17-2023 at 08:05 PM.
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  #16  
Unread 03-18-2023, 04:35 AM
Matt Q Matt Q is offline
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Here's a Sapphic sonnet by former Sphere member Ray Briggs which was published by Able Muse and appeared in the 2015 Best American Poetry anthology.

Interestingly, the dactyl is sometimes at the 3rd foot, sometimes the 4th.



in the hall of the ruby-throated warbler


Jenny, sunny Jenny, beige-honey Jenny
sings the parsley up from the topsoil, Jenny,
cool tabouleh, hot apple crumble Jenny
alchemy Jenny

please, I whispered, teach me the secret whistle
help me coax the thistledown from the thistle
perch me on the branch where the goldfinch rustles
heedless of bristles

so she bore my heart to the eagle’s aerie
folded me like down in a twig-tight nestle
kissed me till my sinews leapt up cat’s cradle
brain like a beehive

Jenny, downy Jenny, my treetop lover
weave me in your goose feather arms forever
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  #17  
Unread 03-18-2023, 04:48 AM
Matt Q Matt Q is offline
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And on the subject of moving dactyls, here's William Meredith's poem, Effort at Speech. Here the dactyl appears anywhere from the first to the fourth foot.

Effort At Speech
For Muriel Rukeyser

Climbing the stairway gray with urban midnight,
Cheerful, venial, ruminating pleasure,
Darkness takes me, an arm around my throat and
Give me your wallet.

Fearing cowardice more than other terrors,
Angry I wrestle with my unseen partner,
Caught in a ritual not of our making,
panting like spaniels.

Bold with adrenaline, mindless, shaking,
God damn it, no! I rasp at him behind me,
Wrenching the leather from his grasp. It
breaks like a wishbone,

So that departing (routed by my shouting,
not by my strength or inadvertent courage)
Half the papers lending me a name are
gone with him nameless.

Only now turning, I see a tall boy running,
Fifteen, sixteen, dressed thinly for the weather.
Reaching the streetlight he turns a brown face briefly
phrased like a question.

I like a questioner watch him turn the corner
Taking the answer with him, or his half of it.
Loneliness, not a sensible emotion,
breathes hard on the stairway.

Walking homeward I fraternize with shadows,
Zigzagging with them where they flee the streetlights,
Asking for trouble, asking for the message
trouble had sent me.

All fall down has been scribbled on the street in
Garbage and excrement: so much for the vision
Others taunt me with, my untimely humor,
so much for cheerfulness.

Next time don't wrangle, give the boy the money,
Call across chasms what the world you know is.
Luckless and lied to, how can a child master
human decorum?

Next time a switchblade
, somewhere he is thinking,
I should have killed him and took the lousy wallet.
Reading my cards he feels a surge of anger
blind as my shame.

Error from Babel mutters in the places,
Cities apart, where now we word our failures:
Hatred and guilt have left us without language
that might have led to discourse
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  #18  
Unread 03-24-2023, 01:00 PM
Julie Steiner Julie Steiner is offline
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Thank you for these, Matt, and I apologize for not saying so sooner. Very helpful to have your observations on those traveling dactyls.

This is by Geoffrey Hill, from many Sapphics to choose from in this part of his sequence "The Daybooks" (Odi Barbare, 2012). I find it hilarious (Hillarious?) that in S2L1 he mentions Google, since I had already resorted to it twice by then in this section.

XXXI

Ghelderode's price here or the cost of Ensor.
Bloated Eros, your pain-extended body,
Jerked abroad scar-angry, a coarse cadaver
          Wired to a fine art.

Google my old blind of Platonics with Mc-
Taggart's mystic corpulence deemed endearing.
Sentiment grown wholly at one with logic,
          Durance feints passes.

Nobbled rhetor cleared but as aberration,
Scarcely gauge what skin I would have you shed here.
Rhetor not slave killer with net and trident
          Though it could well be.

So Petrarca, prego Madonna prego;
Wear dark glasses we must protect the sun. This
When in some sense naked desire's upon us
          Let us defer to.

Beggars' clay bowls ample for what was given,
I remember also Tagore's ecstatic
Mornings, all that rhapsody tuned by rapt strings,
          Shantineketan.

Given your pledge I would commute to service
Vessels once fit only for salvage bear my,
Our, libations fructile towards the altar
          Stone of this strophe.

Last edited by Julie Steiner; 03-24-2023 at 01:28 PM.
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  #19  
Unread 03-25-2023, 11:07 AM
Duncan Gillies MacLaurin's Avatar
Duncan Gillies MacLaurin Duncan Gillies MacLaurin is offline
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My translation of Catullus 51 and Sappho 31

Duncan
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  #20  
Unread 09-04-2023, 07:57 AM
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Maryann Corbett Maryann Corbett is offline
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Default Sara Teasdale

Apologies if this has been posted above, and also if it's not kosher to revive this thread, but this poem is new to me this morning: "September Midnight" by Sara Teasdale. Lots of variation from the metrical standard!

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
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