The trouble was exhaustion, especially for the men. Somehow women seemed immune, stronger. But the worst time came in the war. Up to there was something to eat, if only dried potatoes. But in there was famine all over Russia, and the labour and hunger killed very many. She is laughing, as if from a great distance. Then a workteam dug a long trench and threw the bodies in, and that was it.
And after whole echelons of Ukrainians, Belorussians and Germans poured in. Then we knew it must be over. Of course there were all sorts of people there, blatnye too, and different things happened. The women suffered peculiarly. Once two brigades of convalescent women were mass-raped by blatnye.
And were the guards cruel, I ask, or only callous? I want her to be angry. Her thinning hair silvers her neck in lank curls. But they kept their distance from us. Was it imposed by a fear of contamination, of some treason spreading like the camp typhus? Or by the complex danger of feeling sympathy?
And the great terror, 45 in siberia of course, was suppressed, unthinkable: that these people were all innocent. You do what you have to. The questioning or torture of each suspect, of course, produced a scream of new names. Often the charges were ludicrous. The very illogic of the accusations said: You have no rights, no mind.
Logic is ours. And each confession, however absurd, subtly exculpated the inquisitor, secured him in some perverted illusion of rightness. It seemed to sanction the suffering of a whole people. Nor did the others with me. I spent another two years in the camps. Then they told me that I was against the people. But I was a Party member, and the Party was for the people, and the Power. I accuse. In some misty hierarchy, she has selected a scapegoat. She has displaced blame upward, until it all but fades away.
She will not indict the whole system. Only somewhere, she knew, something had gone terribly wrong. She sighs harshly. Were it not for this accident, all would have been well. Instead, paradise slipped away. I notice her thick, working wrists. The hands on them are like delicate afterthoughts, just as her facial features look petite on the barrel of her neck.
It is as if years of labour had bulked out a woman once frailer, more high-strung, and almost subsumed her. Perhaps she thinks she has misheard. In the oval of her mouth only three or four teeth remain, one hanging by a wisp of root.
Then she looks back at the television, where a Mexican socialite pouts and tinkles a cocktail stick. How we smiled a little, danced and sang a little. Because people must live in hope. So write this too. Write this too.
To so much suffering. She glances away again. Suffering had once had meaning. Her eyes are brimming, so that I feel ashamed of what I have asked.
Her hand alights on mine. We hoped for so much better. Look at what a city was founded here! Schools have been demolished, libraries closed down, workers have gone months and years without pay. Can you trust a government which allows that?
Now people just want to make money. I have not told you everything that happened, but you can imagine. If there was a blizzard, if there was cold, we still had to work. We had no pulleys, and it was only in that they sent down draught-horses. It was very heavy, very. And to remember how many fell down, how they succumbed just like that, hauling the wagons, and then how we dragged them out by the legs. I think: perhaps the dead have taken away the sense of reality with them.
Nothing so strong, so sad, had happened since. Meaning has predeceased her. Yet she gets up and surfs through the television channels with grunts of discontent, then switches it off. In this immense sameness, isolated things — a duckpond, a well, a horse-cart — took on a lonely piquancy.
I gazed with relief at terrain empty of coal or ruins, whose mounds were natural. A luxurious sense of freedom welled up. At any little town where I stopped, I might alight and disappear, nursing my business visa — a scruffy paper inscribed with pro forma destinations — against police intrusion.
The exhilaration of this freedom never quite left me. Whenever I pulled out my map and imagined entering the mountains abutting Mongolia, or taking ship up the Yenisei river to the Arctic, I would be hit by euphoria, then disbelief. Something, or someone, would surely prevent me.
That was how Russia had always been. My train followed a wavering belt of dark-earthed steppeland towards Omsk. The retreat of the last Ice Age was enacted visibly beside it. At the rate of a mile a year the steppes were edging northwards into the taiga, which was encroaching at the same rate on the Arctic. From its inception in the Trans-Siberian was built here in a hurry, with poor steel and untreated timbers. In these western stretches it was pushed across swamps and peat-bogs at the rate 49 in siberia of a mile a day, behind a vanguard of improvised dykes and artesian wells: within a few years the sagging ballast and buckled steel had turned the track to a roller-coaster where the passenger trains never exceeded 13 m.
The faintly clownish name of Omsk precedes the city with a lighthearted expectation. It lies where the railway crosses the Irtysh on a massive cantilever bridge, and you see the curve of the river under a line of stooping derricks as it heads out among sandy islets and meadows, touching the city with an illusion of peace.
They sprawl for miles above the river. Marx Prospect, Lenin Square, Partisan Street: the veteran names follow one another in relentless procession. Yet the city keeps a modest distinction.
Whereas the Second World War razed western Russian towns to the ground, here in Siberia, untouched, they often attain a formal grandeur or rustic exuberance, and seem older than they are. I wandered the streets in surprise. The air in the parks clattered with pop music. Clusters of miniskirted girls paraded their irregular beauty, and children strolled with their parents in sleepy obedience; but their jeans and T-shirts were stamped with stars-and-stripes or Donald Duck.
Every other pair of shoes or trousers sported a pirated Western logo. Fast-food restaurants had arrived, offering instant pelmeni — the Siberian ravioli — or anonymous steaks with stale mash, and 50 The Flight from Science a rash of small shops and kiosks had appeared, selling the same things.
Yet a feeling of boredom, or of waiting, pervaded the city. All style and music, the new paths to paradise, seemed synthetic, borrowed. Real life remained on hold. The pop songs had the scuttling vitality of streams. Agatha Christie! The Prodigy! I fucked the bitch! Communists are all buggers. The point of life is to ponder the cross on your grave.
Scarce jobs and high prices were the new slavemasters. The pavements were dotted with the new poor. The air was seductively still.
Naked children were splashing in the polluted river. I walked over the headland where the old fort had spread, but trees and terraces had blurred away the lines traced by its stockade, and only a stout, whitewashed gate remained. For four years Dostoevsky had languished here in a wooden prison, condemned to hard labour for activities in a naively revolutionary circle in St Petersburg.
Sometimes he would gaze yearningly across the Irtysh at the nomad herdsmen, and would walk round the stockade every evening, counting off its stakes one by one as his sentence expired. His home has been turned into a museum to the writer he hated. He and his fellow prisoners were interned in a vaulted stone dungeon whose single window opened from a deep shaft above them.
The plaster falls in chunks from its corridor walls, and from the Stalinist mouldings of the ceiling. The night is close and humid. I cannot sleep. The sweat leaks from my chest and forehead. And this is Siberia. They welcomed me on board. The monastic foundations were only just being laid, they said, and they were going to attend the blessing of its waters. As our bus bowled through ramshackle villages, the pilgrims 52 The Flight from Science relayed the story with murmurs of motherly pity.
We reached a birch grove on the Rechnoi farm. It was one of those ordinary rural spots whose particular darkness you would never guess. As the women disembarked, still singing, the strains of other chanting echoed from a chapel beyond the trees. Inside, a white-veiled choir was lilting the sad divisions of the Liturgy. So only the painted garments of the disciples semaphored their grief, while their hands and features were empty silhouettes in the plaster: here a face uplifted in dismay, there a blank caress on the unpainted body of Christ — which remained a ghostly void, like something the onlookers had imagined.
Sometimes, whimsically, I felt as if this scene were echoed in the nave where I stood, where around the great silence left by God the worshippers lifted their heads and hands, crossed themselves, and wept a little. They were smoothing the earth of the labour camps into monastery foundations. I strained to catch the sounds, but our singing drowned them in the mournful decrescendos of the Russian rite.
The sanctuary curtains parted on an incense-clouded region inhabited by a very small priest. His hair shimmered down in a phantasmal jumble, like a Restoration wig, and melted into a droop of violet-clad shoulders.
Occasionally, feebly, one of his arms swung a censer; in the stillness between responses its coals made a noise like suppressed laughter. As he intoned the prayers he constantly forgot or lost his place, until his chanting dithered into confusion, and three deacons in raspberry robes prompted his responses with slips of paper.
He would peer at these through enormous spectacles stranded in his hair like the eyes of a lemur, and try again. But the cause of his panic was plain to see. Enthroned beside him, giant and motionless, sat Feodosy, Archbishop of Omsk.
Towards noon a procession unwound from the church and started across the pasturelands towards the unblessed waters. Behind its uplifted cross, whose gilded plaques wobbled unhinged, the Archbishop advanced in a blaze of turquoise and crimson, his globular crown webbed in jewels.
He marked off each stride with the stab of a dragon-headed stave, and his chest glinted with purple- and goldembossed frontlets, and a clash of enamelled crosses.
He looked huge. Beside him went the quaint, dishevelled celebrant, and behind tripped a huddle of young priests in mauve, and the trio of raspberry-silk deacons. I fell in line with the pilgrims following. It was oddly comforting. An agnostic among believers, I felt close to them. I too wanted their waters blessed. I wanted that tormented earth quietened, the past acknowledged and shriven.
I helped the old woman beside me carry her bottles. This wandering ceremonial, I felt, sprang not from an evangelical revolution but from a simple cultural relapse into the timeless personality of the motherland — the hierarchical, half-magic trust of its forefathers, the natural way to be.
I had already seen it. Every other market, airport or bus station was staked out by a babushka selling prints of icons and religious pamphlets, and nursing an offertory for the restoration of the local church or cathedral.
God had re-entered the vocabulary, the home, the gestures of beggars blessing themselves in the streets. Far away in Moscow the Church was growing fat on concessions to import tax-free alcohol and cigarettes; while here in Siberia, traditionally independent but conservative, this corrupting embrace of Church and State was paying I imagined for our monastery.
Authority, as always here, was salvation. It gave peace in place of thought. Yet after the Communist hiatus, what had God become? Was he not now very old? On a road beyond the trees a troop of young men and girls were watching us from their parked cars, without expression, as tourists look at something strange. How had these devotees survived? For sixty years scarcely a church was open in Siberia; the priests had been dispossessed, exiled, or shot.
Even the oldest pilgrims trudging through these meadows could scarcely have remembered the Liturgy from childhood. How had they kept faith? He had joined the procession late. God calls you out. The unkempt celebrant, clutching a jewelled cross, was ordered to wade in.
From time to time he glanced up pathetically at Feodosy, who gave no signal for him to stop. Deeper and deeper he went, while his vestments fanned out over the surface, their mauve silk waterlogged to indigo, until he was spread below us like an outlandish bird over the pool.
Then, with a ghostly frown, he traced a trembling cross beneath the water. A deep, collective sigh seemed to escape the pilgrims. Again the cavalcade unfurled around the pool, while the archbishop, grasping a silver chalice, sprinkled the surface with its own water, and the wobbly cross led the way back towards the noise of the bulldozers.
But the babushkas stayed put. As the procession glimmered and died through the darkness of the trees, and the archbishop went safely out of sight, a new excitement brewed up. They were all ready. They tugged empty bottles labelled Fanta or CocaCola from their bags.
Then they clambered and slid down the muddy banks and waded into the newly blessed water. It was mineral water, muddied and warm. They drank in deep gulps from their cupped hands, and winched themselves back to stow the bottles on shore. Then it all went to their heads. All inhibition was lost. Their massive legs, welted in varicose veins, carried them juddering down the banks.
Their thighs tapered to small, rather delicate feet. Little gold crosses were lost between their breasts. They plunged moun56 The Flight from Science tainously in. I stood above them in astonishment, wondering if I was meant to be here.
But they were shouting and jubilant. They cradled the water in their hands and dashed it over their faces. Holiness had turned liquid, palpable. Two of the boldest women — cheery, barrel-chested ancients — made for the gushing silver pipe and thrust their heads under it.
They sloshed its torrent exultantly over one another, then submerged in it and drank it wholesale. They shouted at their friends still on land, until one or two even of the young girls lifted their skirts and edged in. But it was the young, not the old, who hesitated. The old were in high spirits. One of them shouted at me to join them, but I was caught between laughter and tears.
These were women who had survived all the Stalin years, the deprivation, the institutional suffering, into a life of widowhood and breadline pensions, and their exuberance struck me dumb. I caught up with the remaining pilgrims clustered in the big meadows, beside the ghost-cathedral. Sometimes I wondered if the past were being laid too easily to sleep, forgotten.
But the monastery would countermand this, said the shy priest. In future years people would ask: Why is it here? This was being done for the dead. The procession moved on. I fell behind with a war veteran hobbling on a stick, and found myself wondering aloud again: why, why had this faith resurrected out of nothing, as if a guillotined head had been stuck back on its body?
Some vital artery had 57 in siberia preserved it. We lived in a remote region near Voronezh — not in a town at all, you understand, just a country village. No church for hundreds of miles. My mother was illiterate, but she remembered all the prayers from the old days, and taught me them. A dust of hair was still brown over his scalp. And nobody knew it. The bullet had opened up a inch wound, and now he had this trouble walking. When it hit me, it exploded and shattered the leg bones. Now I try to walk like this.
The Condem - Tinnitus (6) - Gehenna (Vinyl) had returned. Their hands were ready beside their soup plates in two ranks of sun-cracked knuckles and broken nails.
Feodosy pounded the table with a bottle. It cures everything! Liver ailments! All gastric problems! Non-cancerous stomach ulcers! Duodenal ulcers. Nobody would have guessed that half an hour before they had been ducking one another half-naked in a water-hole. Yet under the benches their bags bulged with bottles of holy water and they were sitting becalmed, almost smug, in the warmth of their success.
On his far side the celebrant appeared to be defensively asleep. His beard, I noticed, was fringed with white but auburn at the roots, as if it had turned white after some shock and was getting over it now. Only Feodosy survived proximity, and still looked formidable. His black eyes and aquiline nose broke imperiously through the gush of grey hair and beard which swamped his pectoral crosses and lapped at his nape. He hammered out commands at the nuns who had appeared from nowhere to serve us, or shouted down the table.
Pass the mineral water round! Sisters, bring on the kasha. A burst of jet-black eyebrows lent him the glamour of a converted Mephistopheles. Nobody dared ask him questions. He addressed me in explosions of German which I could rarely understand. Where is the bread? It was like being back at school.
The monastery will gather information on them, and the monks will pray for their souls. Nothing but roses! As the meal broke up, one of the women tapped my arm and held out a thin blue sash stamped with prayers. They shall bear thee up in their hands. I must have grown thinner, because my trousers were loose. So I knotted it round my waist. A light intoxication, something welcome and unexpected for we had drunk only water descended on me out of the half-healed land.
A priest was tolling a carillon of bells on a makeshift scaffold near the chapel, but softly perhaps he was practising as if to lay to rest the spirits, and the pilgrims, by twos and threes, were returning to the coach. I climbed in among them. For a moment I wanted to believe that everything was as they believed. I was thankful for their stubborn needs and passions. I sat squashed between two babushkas there was a shortage of seats and they began to sing.
We will abrogate reason and love one another. Perhaps monastic water will turn us near-immortal. The past will forgive us, and the earth will bear roses. Half-way to Novosibirsk, the Baraba steppe was once a place of exiles and Tartar nomads, crossed by a string of Cossack forts.
Here and there the 60 The Flight from Science old collectives spread long white barns, but they looked uninhabited. The villages, too, were empty. In four hundred miles we stopped only three times. I stared out to a faint, light horizon where the forest made charcoal lines. More often, for mile after mile, the late summer haze turned this into looking-glass country. Its water-smeared earth wobbled against the sky. All matter looked temporary and dissoluble, all liquid so silted that it was half-way to being earth.
Yet a farmer beside me said that the summer rains had been too few, and I noticed how low the rivers dawdled in their banks, and how the shrubs were already taking on the burnish of autumn. In those days the bone-crunching journey — by horse-cart or sleigh — might take a year.
Now, as we rumbled towards Novosibirsk, the largest city in Siberia, trains passed us every three minutes on the busiest freight line in the world, bringing coal from the Kuzbas basin to the smelting furnaces of the Urals. Space is the sterile luxury of Novosibirsk. In winter it starts to move, and howls between the islanded buildings and across the squares. Its roads sweep empty between miles of apartment-blocks and Stalinist hulks moaning with prefabricated pilasters and cornices.
As for the people, there are one and a half million of them, but they seem lost in space. They trickle along 61 in siberia the pavements to work. You become one of them, reduced. Longing for intimacy, you avoid the room Hotel Novosibirsk. Then you are turned away. It is closed in August.
You wait, as visitors wait in Times Square or Piccadilly Circus, expecting something to happen. But nothing does, of course. And you are alone. The streets reel away on either side. Space, in the end, may be all you remember of Novosibirsk. Railway stations, whose tracks and sidings multiply ten or fourteen abreast, lie far from their town centres. And the rivers wind in enigmatically from nowhere like sky-coloured lakes, and curl out again to nowhere.
The eye is met by eternal sameness. It begins to glaze. The embodiment of this awesome concept was planned twenty miles south of Novosibirsk in the Golden Valley by the Ob river. Here in the taiga, far from the watchful Party apparatus in Moscow, a brief, intoxicating freedom sprang up.
Akademgorodok became the brain of Russia. It attracted a host of young, sometimes maverick, scientists, many from Siberia. The Institutes of Nuclear Physics and Economics, of Hydrodynamics and Catalysis, shared the forest with academies devoted to geology, automation, thermophysics for the tapping of volcanic energy beneath permafrost and a Physiological Institute working on the adaptation of animals and plants to the Siberian climate.
There were breakthroughs in physics, biology and computer studies. Then, with the fall of Khrushchev, ideological controls began to tighten. Science became yoked to industry and was commandeered to show direct economic returns. The heart went out of 63 in siberia things. But in a sense the clampdown came too late. There were people working in Akademgorodok — the economist Aganbegyan, the sociologist Zaslavskaya — whose thought became seminal to perestroika.
They rose in mixed styles, prefabricated, sometimes handsome, recessed among their trees along irregular avenues. I scanned it in bewilderment.
This one featured the smallest bakery and cafe. But the institutes had become nameless ghosts. Were they too important to divulge, I wondered, or were they just forgotten? I wandered them in ignorance, staring at their nameboards. Cytology and Genetics. Institute of Chemical Kinetics. In between, woodland paths wended among silver birch and pine trees, their trunks intermingled like confused regiments.
The earth sent up a damp fragrance. It was obscurely comforting. A few professors strolled between institutes, carrying shapeless bags and satchels, and fell pleasantly into conversation.
One of these chance meetings landed me unprepared in the Akademgorodok Praesidium. I thought I knew these interviews. From the far side of his desk a sterile apparatchik would tell me that all was well. But I waited with suppressed hope.
I was still wearing my Orthodox prayer-belt, and one of my climbing boots had developed a foolish squeak. He 64 The Flight from Science loomed big and surly behind his desk, in shirtsleeves.
His features were obscure oases in the blank of his face: pin-prick eyes, a tiny, pouting mouth. I squeaked across the room to shake his hand.
It was soft and wary. It motioned me to sit down. Where could I tactfully begin? He was gazing at me in passive suspicion. He went on staring. All his answers came slowly, pronounced in the gravelly bass of authority.
Progress had been made in the climatic adaptation of livestock, especially sheep, he said, and in a biochemical substance to stimulate the growth of wheat and rice.
But he did not enlarge on this. I thought he looked faintly angry. Then I hunted for projects safely past, and alighted on the perilous Soviet scheme for steering Siberian rivers away from the Arctic to irrigate Central Asia and replenish the Aral Sea. It would have been an ecological disaster for both Siberia and Kazakhstan. Our scientists here were categorically against it, and the project was scrapped.
It had something to do with the effect of the retina on the pituitary gland, I remembered, and sounded faintly repellent; but the General Secretary might approve. Any colour. I felt grateful for this honesty. But the voices of the old enthusiasts went on clamouring in me. It was impossible. His eyes were ice-pale. I imagined they had no pupils. I felt at sea. I hid it with my arm. I was unsure what a cockatrice was, but the General Secretary might know. By now my questions, his answers, and the voices from the still-recent past seemed to be interlocked in a formal dance.
I lit despairingly on an old success story. The principle is now used only to press matter, not cut it open. The cannon could only drill a small hole. It was I who was believing in a future, it seemed, and he who was denying it.
Twenty years ago plans were afoot for a whole Arctic town enjoying its own micro-climate. It had been promised within ten years. The voices of the failed future mewed faintly, faded away. Suddenly the Secretary leant forward. Guns L. Lazarus A. CD Ariettes Oubliees Myself Where I Am But Who's Buying? So What! And Well? Beast CD. Big Mr. Bungle Mr. Bungle California CD Mr. Death Unearthing 7'' 7 Inch Mr. Death Detached From Life ltd. LP CM 1 Ltd. Saana Sabaton Sabaton Sabaton. Legend Pt. Version CD Evolution 4.
Free Fall Into Fear Ltd. Vampires Everywhere! CD A5-size digi ed. CD Digi Ed. Who's Next? Slipcase CD Neverworld's End ltd. Malmsteen Yngwie J. Open navigation menu. Close suggestions Search Search. Their thickened tongues were dumb, 3 The pretty words of star-lore undelivered, 2 The pretty words that found no breath would come. Note here also that the use of some feminine or double rhymes with single or masculine rhymes is effective. This is especially effective in a Shakespearean sonnet.
Ottava rima is an Italian stanza adopted in English by many poets. It is an eight-line stanza, composed of a sestet rhymed alternately, followed by a terminal rhyming couplet. The Italians use their heroic meter, eleven syllables to the line, in it; the English prefer iambic five-foot measure. But "why then publish? Why read? Again note the use of double and single rhymes in the same stanza, quite often effective. The Spenserian stanza was invented by Edmund Spenser, and has long been used in serious dignified verse.
The eight opening five-foot iambic lines are terminated by an Alexandrine, or six-foot iambic line; the pattern may be seen in this opening of Keats's poem, which uses the stanza throughout: St.
Agnes' Eve—ah, bitter chill it was! Agnes, John Keats. Terza rima is an iambic rhythm, usually of five feet to the line. It is usually written continuously, and not in stanzas. It consists of groups of three lines, rhymed 1, 2, 1; but the rhyming sound of the middle line, 2, becomes the first and third line of the next group; and so on. The end of the canto or poem is a couplet, tying up the rhyme sound left loose as the central line terminal sound in the preceding triplet.
Thus it is a sort of chain verse, its rhyme scheme proceeding: 1,2, 1; 2, 3, 2; 3, 4, 3; 4, 5, 4; n-1, n, n-1; n, n. Shelley, in his Ode to the West Wind, used this in fourteen-line groups, separating the triplets and concluding couplet as if they were separate stanzas. It is advisable for the poet or versifier to spend some time in the.
Scansion will indicate the meter employed; and the numeral system 1, 1, 2, 2 will mark for you the rhyming pattern. Let your attention be directed especially to ingenious devices for securing variety within a formal pattern.
The sonnet, which will be reached in the study of lyric poetry, has been used often and successfully as a stanza. In polyrhythmic or free verse, the stanza division follows the poet's inner mandate of where each group of lines should end, as if it were a paragraph in prose. Sapphics and Other Classic Forms Elegiac verse, according to the classical models, consists of lines alternately dactylic hexameter and dactylic pentamenter; and then this difference is explained away by saying that the shorter lines have six accents, but omit the unaccented syllables in the third and sixth feet.
Coleridge indicates the method: In the hexameter rises the fountain's all-silvery radiance; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
Translation from Schiller, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It is significant that none of the five greatest examples of elegiac poetry—that based upon death, or reflections upon Condem - Tinnitus (6) - Gehenna (Vinyl) the English language, use this form. The Greek dactylic hexameter, the classic model as the iambic five-foot line is in English, is far more complicated, according to the prosodists, than it sounds. There are six feet. The fifst four are dactyls or spondees. The fifth must be a dactyl; otherwise, if a spondee appears here, the verse is called spondaic.
The last is a spondee or a trochee. A diagram makes this clearer. This may be written in English, with an accent basis instead of a quantity basis that is, long and short syllables. Hendecasyllabics were eleven-syllabled lines composed of a spondee, a dactyl, and trochees.
Alcaics, named from the lyric poet Alcaeus, a contemporary of Sappho, are of several kinds. The first variety has a five-foot line, consisting of a spondee or iamb, an iamb, a long syllable, and two dactyls. Here is the pattern:. What are the names of these feet? The first is an epitrite first, second, third or fourth epitrite, depending upon the Jocation of the short syllable ; two choriambi or choriambs as above; and a bacchius. This technique does not often produce poetry in English; more often, it produces prosody or verse.
For an Alcaic ode, each strophe consists of four lines. The first two are eleven-syllabled Alcaics of the first kind; the third an especial form of iambic two-foot of nine syllables, described as hypercatalectic; and the fourth a ten-syllabled Alcaic of the second kind.
Tennyson tried to catch it in: O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of time or eternity. Milton, Alfred Tennyson. Sapphics are named after the poet Sappho, who is said to have used the form with high skill. A sapphic line consists of five equal beats, its central one of three syllables, and the rest of two each. Certain English poets have essayed this meter. In the examples given, the accent sign means a syllable described as long; the other symbol means one described as short.
A choriambic line consists of a spondee, three choriambi and an iamb. A galliambic line is composed of iambs, one of which drops its final syllable, the next foot to the last being an anapest.
Indentation The purpose of indentation is primarily to indicate the rhyme scheme. Indenting a line means sinking it inward by an increased blank space in the left-hand margin. Every paragraph in prose is indented at its beginning. An early indentation of poetry was similar to this, and consisted in indenting only the first line of each stanza.
Where the poet desires to impress the reader with his rhyme scheme, indenting of lines rhymed is proper: Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore: I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more. The following indentation is improper and essentially illiterate: That which her slender waist confined Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his crown His arms might do what this has done. On a Girdle, Edmund Waller.
Needless to say, the poet set this up without indentation. The motive for such misindentation seems to be the following foggy thinking on the part of the versifier: a Some poems by great poets are indented. Once the motive for indentation is learned—to show the similarity of rhyme sounds terminating lines indented to the same point—this error will be avoided. A second purpose of indentation is to center short lines in the. Though diligent and zealous, he Became a slave to jealousy.
Considering her beauty, 'Twas his duty To be that! Here the first, third, fourth and sixth indentations indicate rhyming changes; the second and fifth are to center briefer rhyming lines. The object is to make the poem appear as presentable as possible, considering the rhyme scheme and length of line. Recall the indentation of Shelley's To a Skylark, already given. As to sonnets, there are only two proper ways to present them: indenting for rhyme and omitting indentation.
The Italian and Shakespearean form would then have the following indentation, if this is used to indicate the rhyme scheme: Italian Sonnet 1 2 2 1 1 2 2 1 3 4 5 3 4 5 Shakespearean Sonnet 1 2 1 2 3 4 3 4 5 6 5 6 7 7. It is more usual to set up sonnets without indentation. The original method of indenting the Shakespearean sonnet consisted of twelve lines without indentation and an identation for the concluding couplet.
All this assumes that the poet wishes to impress on the reader the rhyming scheme and the poet's fidelity in following it. But this is initiating the reader into the irrelevant laboratory work of the poet, and has its many disadvantages, since the reader primarily wishes to know what the poet has to say, not the devices by which he increases his effectiveness.
The modern tendency is to eliminate the indentation in all poems. If poems are printed similarly to prose, the indentation will be the same as prose, to indicate paragraph openings, or to insert a quotation. These, like all definitions, define from the centers, not from the boundaries. A long-winded narrative in the first person, telling the poet's own adventures, might be classed with reason as any of the three: narrative poetry because it tells a story; dramatic, like a long dramatic monologue; and lyric, because the poet himself is speaking.
This attitude classification is not of primary importance. A fourth division, didactic poetry, that which teaches or points a moral, was once popular and is still encountered. It is regarded at best as a low flight of poetry. Epic, Metrical Romance, Tale An epic is a long narrative poem, dealing with heroic events, usually with supernatural guidance and participation in the action. Epics are divided into natural or folk epics, and literary epics.
There is a suggested theory that folk epics are preceded by and composed of folk ballads. The earliest known epics exhibit little or no trace of any welding or amalgamating process.
The earliest literary remains in Greece are of the epic type, of three varieties. Epics of personal romance and war center around the semimythical blind bard Homer, with his Iliad—the story of the flight of Helen of Sparta with her Trojan lover, Paris; the war of Greeks against Trojans to avenge this; the anger of Greek Achilles and its effects; the defeat of Troy—and the Odyssey, telling the world wanderings of Grecian Odysseus after the sack of Troy, and of his return to his native Ithaca.
Epics dealing with the mysteries of religion center around the mythical singer Orpheus. Epics of a didactic nature center around the name of Hesiod. Scholars state that many lost epics in all three fields preceded the epics now remaining. They originated before the invention of writing and were transmitted orally, with inevitable changes and additions from time to time.
Literary epics are a later attempt to catch the charm of the ancient epics; and as a rule they are a lower flight. Spenser's Faerie Queene has lost most of its charm for many modern English readers; even Milton's Paradise Lost, which sought to express English Puritanism as Dante had sought to express medieval Catholicism, is largely dull to modern readers.
Stories in verse preceded stories in prose. Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the narrative metrical romances and tales of Scott, Byron and others, preceded the novel and the short story in English. But prose has become the popular medium, as it is the more natural one, and the long poetic narrative today usually seems artificial.
Ballad The ballad, the brief story in verse, alone retains some general popularity. The name meant first a folk song-and-dance, like the. It came to mean the folksong that tells a brief story—at first to be sung, later to be said or read. The Germanic bards or scalds, the gleemen, harpers, minstrels, troubadours, and minnesingersrs were a distinguished lot—the oral literature and music of races in the pre-bookish age. The chief figures in the ballads at first were noble, since nobles were the patrons of the singers.
Later on, the lower classes became vocal—the oppressed Saxons in the Robin Hood ballads, and many early ballads in which a commoner ends by marrying one of noble lineage. The technique at first was simple, often with a simple refrain that the hearers might chorus. In English, the first ballad meter was seven-foot iambic lines, rhymed in couplets. A variant of this is the Scottish ballad Edward, Edward, with a pause between the invoked names taking the place of a foot in alternate lines: "Quhy does zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, Edward, Edward?
Quhy does zour brand sae drop wi' bluid, and quhy sae sad gang zee, O? If modern poetry gave us more of such red meat instead of caviar canapes, it would hold a wider popularity than it now has. The rhythm is much freer than centuries of later iambic versification.
The modern versifier can learn much of the way to sprinkle anapests in an iambic pattern, and of more important devices in versification, from old English folk ballads, as from that other depository of English folk verse, Mother Goose.
Folk ballads originate among people largely pre-bookish; certain American mountaineers and certain Negroes still commemorate thrilling events with folk ballads, like the one within our memory on The Sinking of the Titantic. Literary ballads are more successful than literary epics. The stanza form is almost invariably simple.
Yet it is worthwhile to study the slight elaborations of the ballad meter that Coleridge employed—with stanzas ranging from four to nine ballad half-lines. There are many more successful literary ballads. Dramatic Poetry Like storytelling, drama is largely a lost field to poetry, purely because of the unnaturalness of poetic drama as usually written. There is a field for drama in natural free verse, which may yet be widely used.
Classic drama was divided into tragedy, a play ending in death, and comedy, a play not ending in death. This division was unworkable and has been abandoned today. Thespis, reputed father of Grecian drama, never permitted more than one actor on the stage at one time, with a chorus to interpret the action to the audience. This rigid convention was shattered by Aeschylus, who added a second actor.
Sophocles added a third; but classic Greek drama never permitted a fourth. The typical Shakespearean play had five acts, the climax occurring during the third act, the solution at the end. This usually meant a dragging fourth act, which only Othello among the great tragedies avoided.
Shakespeare and most other English verse dramatists used a five-foot iambic line, most often in blank or unrhymed verse. None of these conventions are more sacred than the one-actor convention of Thespis.
The dramatic monologue, or dramatic lyric, sprung from the speeches of Thespis's actor and the unnatural soliloquy of classic and English drama, is the one form of drama in verse which preserves considerable popularity.
Robert Browning made this field peculiarly his own, with such magnificent dramatic vignettes as My Last Duchess, Andrea del Sarto, Caliban upon Setebos and so many more. His tremendous The Ring and the Book is, within a brief framework, ten immense dramatic monologues: the same group of facts, as seen through the eyes of ten differing personalities. Such dramatic monologues may be in any rhythm, any line length, and with or without rhyme. Success comes in proportion to the naturalness of the speech, the universality and depth of the emotion displayed, and the accuracy in character drawing.
Lyric Poetry: Ode, Elegy, Pastoral Perhaps the earliest, and certainly the most enduringly popular type of poetry, is the lyric.
As the name indicates, it meant originally poetry to be sung to the lyre—a dance at first accompanying this. The ode, the most exalted form of lyric poetry, had strict rules. The Greek Pindaric ode had three movements: a strophe, in which the chorus moved from a given spot toward the right; the antistrophe, following the same versification pattern, and to the same tune, in which the chorus moved correspondingly to the left; and the concluding epode, different in structure, sung to a different tune, and with the chorus standing still.
Efforts to revive this form in English have not succeeded. In English, the ode is a dignified lyric on some high theme, with constant progress in its stanzas toward its conclusion. Familiar odes in English include Wordsworth's: Our birth is but a sleep and- a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood and also the great odes by Shelley and Keats already referred to. An elegy is a formal expression of the poet's grief at death, whether general or centered about the death of an individual.
It has no more definite a pattern in English than the ode. Milton, in Lycidas, uses an iambic measure, with lines of differing lengths, and a f luidic rhyme scheme. Shelley, in Adonais, chose the Spenserian stanza. Tennyson, in In Memoriam, selected the quatrain pattern already encountered. Whitman, in his major Lincoln threnody, "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed, wrote in magnificent polyrhythmic verse.
Gray's familiar Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, alone among these a meditation upon death in general, used alternate-rhymed five-foot iambic lines. There are many familiar short elegies in the language. The pastoral is a reflective lyric upon some aspect of nature, formerly concerned with shepherd life, whence its name. As city living increasingly replaces country living, some form of city lyric may supplant the pastoral, if it does not die without offspring.
It is best to reserve the word for a lyric intended to be set to music. This calls for a knowledge, on the part of the poet, of the human voice in music, and the ease or difficulty with which the various sounds are produced. Certain consonants and combinations of consonants are singable only with great difficulty. A line like: The gross-sized much-touched scratch will itch is not easily singable.
The terminal consonants m, n, I, r are sung with ease; s, z, ch, sh, as terminals, with difficulty. Of the vowels, broad a, long o, long a, ou are easiest to sing, though no vowel is really difficult. The words chosen should always end, and as far as possible include, only sounds which open the mouth, instead of closing it. Simple words are to be preferred to complicated ones; definite precise words to indefinite abstract ones; emotion-evoking words to intellectualized ones.
The lyric canon in English is one of the glories of its literature. After the dawn-hour lyrics before the Elizabethan age, the golden song of Campion— Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee, When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feigned let?
Thomas Campion. The themes and treatments of the lyric may vary as widely as the desires and visions of the poets. A lyric may have any chosen form of rhythm, with or without rhyme. It is often natural and effective in free verse or polyrhythmic poetry, since in this form the precise emotion. Here is an example from the chief American user of the form, in a lyric called Reconciliation: Word over all, beautiful as the sky, Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage must in time be utterly lost, That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again, and ever again, this soil'd world; For my enemy is dead, a man divine as myself is dead, I look where he lies white-faced and still in the coffin—I draw near, Bend down and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.
Reconciliation, Walt Whitman. Modern users of polyrhythmic poetry as a rule use less eloquence than Whitman and less of the expansive cosmic note, and tend instead toward the tense and gripping emotional appeal usual in rhymed and metric lyrics. Much shorter line division is also common. The Sonnet The sonnet is the most popular fixed form in English. It is a lyric of fourteen iambic five-foot lines, with a defined and definite rhyme scheme.
There are two forms of it widely used in English, the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet, and the Shakespearean sonnet. The rhyme scheme of the Italian sonnet appears from the following example: The world is Condem - Tinnitus (6) - Gehenna (Vinyl) much with us; late and soon; 1 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 2 Little we see in Nature that is ours; 2 We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 1 It moves us not. I'd rather be 3 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 4 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 3 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 4 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 3 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
The first eight lines of any sonnet are called the octave. In the Italian sonnet, the rhyme scheme is rigid and may not be departed from. The octave consists of two quatrains rhymed 1,2,2, 1, the In Memonam rhyming pattern made familiar by Tennyson's use of it. The entire octave then rhymes 1, 2, 2, 1; 1, 2, 2, 1. It is not permitted to vary the rhymes in the second half of the octave, by using 1, 2, 2, 1; 3, 2, 2, 3, or a form too commonly encountered, 1, 2, 2, 1; 3, 4, 4,3.
The concluding six lines of any sonnet are called the sestet. The two permissible rhyme schemes for the sestet of an Italian sonnet are 3,4, 3,4, 3,4, and 3,4, 5, 3,4, 5. It will be noted that the sonnet by Wordsworth, quoted above, uses the proper octave rhyme scheme and the first of these two sestet arrangements.
As to treatment, the octave must be end-stopped—that is, the eighth line must mark the termination of a sentence. Even the halves of the octave should be end-stopped.
The first quatrain should introduce the theme and develop it in a certain direction; the second should continue this development in the same direction. The sestet introduces a new development in a different direction, with the first tercet carrying this new direction to a definite point; and the final tercet bringing the theme to a conclusion.
The actual movement of the strict Italian sonnet may be expressed as a flow in the octave and an ebb in the sestet—so Theodore Watts-Dunton phrased it in his sonnet The Sonnet's Voice.
This does not mean, of course, that the inspiration or the emotional effect should ebb. Wordsworth's sonnet, emotionally effective as it is, violates several of these strict rules. The octave movement does not end with the eighth line, but trespasses into the ninth. There is no break in thought between the two tercets that together comprise the sestet. We will find constantly among the masters violations of the rules, at times in the nature of experiments; none of these has as yet established its popularity in English poetry.
In his sonnet On the Extinction of the. Venetian Republic, Wordsworth's octave rhymes 1, 2, 2, 1; 1, 3, 3, 1—another variation. One authority examined 6, Italian sonnets in English and found these variations for the terminal sestet rhymes: 3, 4, 5, 3, 4, 5 3, 4, 3, 4, 5, 5 3,4,4,3,5,5 3,4,5,4,3,5 3, 4, 3, 5, 4, 5 3,4,5,3,5,4 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 4 3, 4, 5, 5, 3, 4 3,4,5,5,4,3 3,4,4,5,3,5 3, 4, 5, 4, 5, 3 3,4,3,5,5,4.
Two of these have terminal couplets, the most regrettable variation of the Italian sonnet. Six others include a couplet somewhere within the sestet. In addition to the above, the following two-rhyme variants are found: 3, 4, 3, 4, 3, 4 3,4,4,3,3,4 3, 4, 4, 3, 4, 3 3, 4, 3, 4, 4, 3 3,4,3,3,4,4 3, 4, 3, 3, 4, 3.
Only the first excludes any couplet rhyming. Shelley's poem Ozymandias had the rhyme scheme 1, 2, 1, 2; 1, 3, 4, 3; 5, 4, 5, 6, 5, 6. Milton led the way in failing to separate clearly the octave and sestet, so much so that his type of sonnet is sometimes called the MiltonicItalian in rhyme pattern, but without the characteristic Italian flow and ebb of theme, broken after the eighth line.
The Shakespearean sonnet is simpler and more natural in rhyming, and is in wider favor among English-using poets. An example is: When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising 1 2 1 2 3 4 3 4 5 6 5.
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; 6 For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings 7 That then I scorn to change my state with kings. This is the accepted Shakespearean indentation for this form: though it may be indented to show rhyming mates, as the Italian also may be. Both types of the sonnet at times are printed with octave and sestet separated, making a poem of two stanzas; or an octave divided into two quatrains, and at times the sestet similarly divided.
The rhyming scheme of the Shakespearean sonnet is three quatrains—1,2,1, 2; 3,4, 3,4; 5, 6, 5, 6—with a concluding couplet, 7, 7. A shrewd interspersing of double or feminine rhymes aids.
Many variations have been tried on this simple rhyming basis. Sir Philip Sidney repeated the rhymes of the first quatrain in the second, giving him a pattern of 1, 2, 1, 2; 1, 2, 1, 2; 3, 4, 3, 4; 5, 5. Spenser, in his sonnets, used a chain-verse device of interlocking rhymes throughout each sonnet, so that his pattern was: 1,2, 1, 2; 2, 3, 2, 3; 3, 4, 3, 4; 5, 5.
Keats, in his second sonnet on Fame, wedded the Shakespearean octave to the Italian sestet, with his rhyme scheme 1, 2, 1, 2; 3, 4, 3,4; 5, 6, 5, 7, 7, 6.
Rupert Brooke, in the first and fifth of his soldier sonnets, used the Shakespearean octave and a straight Italian sestet: 5, 6, 7, 5, 6, 7. The third and fourth of the same series also wander from any strict pattern. The sonnet was invented in Italy in the 13th century, probably by Pier delle Vigne, Secretary of State in the Sicilian court of Frederick.
His sonnet Pero cK amore is the earliest known. His rhyme form—1, 2, 1,2; 1,2, 1, 2; 3, 4, 5, 3, 4, 5—has never become popular in English. The French sonnet prefers the strict Italian octave, with a sestet of three rhymes commencing with a couplet. This also has not become naturalized in English. There are occasional variations in English poetry, such as 1, 2, 1, 2; 2, 1,2, 1; 3, 4, 3, 4, 5, 5; Italian sonnets with sestet 3,4, 3, 4, 5, 5; and so on.
Watts-Dunton points out, in his article on the sonnet in the eleventh edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, that the charm of this and otherfixedforms comes from familiarity in advance with the rhyme scheme to be followed; and that this charm is dissipated when any break in the expected rhyme scheme occurs.
We feel somewhat as if we listened to a limerick with an extra foot or an extra line: a sense of surprise, its pleasure being doubtful. In spite of this, poets continue to vary the rigid forms from time to time and will continue to do so. The sonnet, of either form, is used by many poets as a fourteenline stanza. Many of the Elizabethan sonnet sequences illustrate this; and there are many more recent examples. In writing the sonnet, it will aid to write down the rhyme scheme to the right of the space where your lines are to be written, and thereafter to mark across from each numbered rhyme the initial consonantal sounds used: giving a check against repeating a rhyming sound that is, identitywhich is inexcusable false rhyming.
Thus, by this check, it appears that the poet used, for rhyme 1, OLD, these consonantal sounds: g, h, t, b; for rhyme 2, EN, s, b, m, r; for rhyme 3, IZ, sk, the unconsonanted vowel sound, and m; for rhyme 4, EN, k, m, and the unconsonanted vowel sound.
No identities; rhyme throughout. The sonnet, from a technical rhyming standpoint, has no flaws. When this method is followed during the writing of the sonnet—the first group of columns, that containing the numerals, properly indented, being written down first—this gives a check as the writing of the sonnet proceeds and saves much rewriting. Nor is there any reason for holding the serious poet higher than the comic poet.
Surely Aristophanes, the great Athenian comic dramatist, ranked as high and was doubtless more popular and influential than any of the great serious triad, Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. Shakespeare the comic dramatist, the author of Merry Wives of Windsor, Midsummer Night's Dream, The Taming of the Shrew, is as impressive a figure as the Shakespeare who let the melancholy Dane live and die in Elsinore, the Shakespeare who was the chronicler of Othello's jealousy and Lear's senility.
Cervantes, who jeered knighthood to death, is greater as a writer than any other Spaniard; Racine, Moliere, Voltaire, Anatole France were greatest as satirists; and so the roll continues. Serious writers and poets are more popular and are taken more seriously; but this may be because it is more civilized and difficult to laugh than to weep. Animals can suffer agonies; but they cannot chuckle. Gilbert's The Bab Bollards for any number of closet dramas, ponderous versified essays and odes, or a whole trainload of lyrics to spring and young love.
Fixed forms of poetry tend to become outgrown, like a child's shirt too small to close over a man's heart. They then become relegated to minor versifiers, to light verse writers, and to college and high school exercises.
Prose ages more quickly than poetry: witness such masterpieces, written for adults, as the world's great fairy stories, Aesop's fables, the Arabian Nights, Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver's Travels in the nursery; and the essays and novels of yesterday encountered in school or college. Poetry itself ages: Shakespeare, Milton, Virgil, Horace are more used in the classroom than in the living room today, and so of the rest of them.
In spite of constant insistence that nothing changes. Prose, in the large, must be rephrased every fifty years or less to be enjoyable to living men; poetry survives longer, but the hour will come when the most enduring poem of a Shakespeare or a Sappho will seem ancient, and must be restated or recreated by a living poet, to speak again for the maturing soul of man.
If this is true of the poetry itself, it is truer of the patterns in which poetry has been uttered, and especially of the fixed forms. The sonnet, an emigrant from Italy that became naturalized in English literature, still holds its own as a major method of expressing serious poetry, in the eyes of many poets and readers.
Even at that, it is now regarded as puerile by the extreme advocates of free verse or polyrhythmic poetry, especially since Whitman and the Imagist movement. Numerous other alien verse forms did not fare so well and have established themselves primarily as mediums for light and humorous verse.
These include the ballade, the rondeau, the villanelle, the triolet, and so on. This may be because of theirrigidrules and formal repetitions, which were not acceptable to the living Condem - Tinnitus (6) - Gehenna (Vinyl). And yet they started as seriously as Sapphics, heroic blank verse, or polyrhythms. Of all the forms of verse originating in medieval Provence, among those that failed to acclimatize themselves in English are the vers, canzo, sirvente, tenso, alba, serena, pastorella, breu-doble, an retroensa.
Only the most elaborate of the lot, the intricate sestina, ha survived in English. When religious crusades wiped out this culture, the germs of formalized verse took root in northern France, especially under Charles d'Orleans and Frangois Villon. The ballade appeared. Spenser used 3, of his nine-line Spenserian stanzas in one poem: across the Channel, Eustache Deschamps, a friend of Chaucer's, left no less than 1, complete ballades.
Froissart the chronicler wrote many. Charles d'Orleans is hailed as the early master of the roundel, as Villon is lauded as the prince of ballade-makers. Jean Passerat gave the villanelle its present form in the sixteenth century; Voiture, a century later, perfected therondeau. In the seventeenth century, after the forms had been known for two hundred years in English, Patrick Carey published a series of dignified religious triolets; and the overartificialized forms have repeatedly been revived since.
No syllable once used as a rhyme can be used again in the same poem as a rhyme—not even if it is spelled differently or if the whole word is altered by a prefix. This bars such identities as Ruth, a girl's name, and ruth, pity; bear, an animal, bear, to support, bare, forbear, and so on; sale and sail; claim, reclaim, and disclaim; facility, imbecility; and, if this is taken as a single rhyme, not a triple one, it forbids the use of more than one from this group: tea, manatee, imbecility, impossibility, lenity, and so on.
As to the refrain, an important element in many of these forms: II. The refrain must not be a meaningless repetition of sounds as in many English ballads; it must aid in the progress of the thought; come in naturally; and be repeated in all its sounds, without any change of sound.
Slipshod versifiers alter the refrain by changing the introductory word, as by using an and for a but, a then for an if. This is unforgiveable. But the requirement goes no further than the repetition of all sounds. Punctuation may be changed, spelling may be changed, meaning may be changed: permitting the following— It's meet, this sale; Its meat, this sale. Gray day; Grade aye; Grade A.
The Ballade Family There are two standard forms of the ballade. The more usual one consists of three stanzas of eight lines each; followed by a concluding quatrain, known as the envoy.
It is thus a poem of twenty-eight lines, or twice the length of a sonnet. Each stanza, and the envoy, terminate with a line repeated sound by sound, and called the refrain. The rhyme scheme is 1,2, 1, 2, 2, 3, 2, 3R for each stanza, 3R being the.
The rules of the ballade may be stated as follows: I. The same set of rhyme sounds used in the first stanza, in the same order, must be used in each stanza; and the last half of this scheme must be used in the envoy.
No rhyme sound, once used as a rhyme, may be used again for that purpose anywhere else in the poem. Each stanza and the envoy must close with the refrain line, repeated without any alteration of sound; though its punctuation, meaning and spelling may be altered. The sense of the refrain must be supreme throughout the ballade, the culminating refrain line being always brought in without strain or effort as the natural close of the stanza or envoy.
Formerly the length of the refrain governed the length of the stanza. Thus an eight-syllabled refrain dictated an eight-line stanza, and a ten-syllabled refrain a ten-line stanza. This rule is followed no longer. The stanza should carry an unbroken sense throughout, and not be split in meaning into two quatrains, or any other division.
The needful pauses for punctuation are allowed, but the sense is not to be finished midway of the stanza. The envoy, as used in ballades and the chant royal, was at first addressed to the patron of the poet.
It is thus usual to commence it with some such invocation as Prince! This is at times omitted. The envoy is both a dedication and a culmination, and should be richer in wording and meaning and more stately in imagery than the preceding lines. Here is a well-wrought ballade, in four-foot iambic verse.
The rhyme scheme is indicated by the numerals 1, 2, and 3, the refrain line being designated 3R. And where the tears they made to flow? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, 1 The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the Condem - Tinnitus (6) - Gehenna (Vinyl), the royal show? The cries of youth and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? Into the night go one and all.
The lover's call? As to the two requirements about rhyming, a ballade requires six 1 rhymes. Here the six consonantal sounds, as the checking column establishes, are s, tr, fr, k, pi, and m. A ballade requires fourteen 2 rhymes.
The Woman And The Witch - Genocidio - Under Heaven None (CD, Album), Sepsis - Sirrah (2) - Will Tomorrow Come? (CD, Album), Kamarádi Táborových Ohňů* - River Boat (Říční Člun) / Hombre (Vinyl), Wood, Metal, Bone - Wires Under Tension - Light Science (CD, Album), Skinny Puppy - Skinny Puppy (2) 1988-1990 (CD), Electric S - The Orphans - Electric S (Vinyl), No Quarter - Led Zeppelin - Texas Hurricane Fort Worth 1977 (CD), Disturbance Of The Order - Lady Pank - Drop Everything (Cassette, Album), Get Up And Go - Mike Settle - Pastures Of Plenty (Vinyl, LP, Album), Dont Talk Like That - Various - Shake What You Brought! Soul Treasures From The SSS International La, The Dream - Eric Burdon - I Used To Be An Animal (Vinyl, LP, Album), Satellites - Lili Haydn - Place Between Places (CD, Album), La Nave - Giorgio Gaber - Il Teatro Canzone (CD, Album), Le Torrent - Dalida - Ciao Bambina - Collected Hits (CD)