beginners guide to the changling genre and q&a
pregenerated characters
downtime report form
player contributions
game history
people
places
escheats and codes
banality weather report
Duelling Poets
Ethan the Scribe vs Beowulf Beowulf:A Poem Inspired by Last Sunday's Events
I’ve loved her from the second that we met
I’ve loved her for her strength
The moment that I first laid eyes on her
I saw the power, the might within her heart,
Her soul, I saw
Her grandeur and her fire.
But Sunday, when the virus ripped through town
And all of our Kanberry was aflame,
I saw her sick and close to death,
I saw her in her weakness and her pain.
And seeing one whose soul, so strong, I’d loved
Reduced to this, I was brought to confront,
Just how completely have my heart, my soul,
Been made her property.
I watched her there, so weak, so frail,
So close to death, and I was filled with love
The likes of which I’d never known before
And once again, my heart I consecrated to
Her service forever and forever more.
With respect, my good and worthy scribe, the poem I posted was in free verse, not blank verse. Free verse, has neither rhyme nor regular metre, which, as you quite correctly point out, was the case with this offering.
Ethan the Scribe:
A magnificent effort, well done.
...does no one understand rhyme or rhythm any more? *grumble*
what are the young fae of today coming to? Bloody blank verse
*mumble*
Well done, indeed. ...for a redcap.
Beowulf:
Blank verse, by contrast, has no rhyme, but does have a regular metre, iambic pentametre to be precice, but no rhyme. My last ode to the same unnammed female shide was in blank verse.
As to rhyme, I would point out that it is verse without rhyme that is older and more traditional, rhyme being entirly unknown to the ancient greeks or romans, as well as to the early medievals. The works of Homer, Virgil, Horace, Pindar and Catulus all use no rhyme, as does the great poem after whose hero I have the honour of being named, as do all the poems of
the Jewish scriptures.
The plays of Christopher Marlowes are all in blank verse, as are most of the great speeches of Shakespear as is John Milton's great Rennaisance epic, Paradise Lost. Indeed, I would suggest that if you worthy scribe regards blank verse as some kind of regression he should read Mr. Milton's introduction to his great epic in which the case for the superiority of verse
with out rhyme is made with an eloquence that only that great master of classical verse and classical learning could rise to.
Ethan:
Of
Free Verse
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
...unless the tree is burnt and black...
I guess I'll take that statement back.
In truth, there's little to compare
To chosen words of beauty rare.
And such a joy it brings to me
To read well-crafted poetry.
But some there are, who claim that rhyme
Has shot its bolt, and passed its prime
And rhythm, too--outmoded, quaint!
It makes the modern poet faint.
So why should we, the reader, thank,
The poet's verse that's always blank?
And things could go from bad to worse:
The horror that they call "Free Verse..."
With rhythm gone, and rhyme bereft
Scansion scorned, what have we left?
What can it be, do you suppose?
Why glory be! It must be... prose?
When Redcap poets find their muse
And from their pens love verses ooze
Sincerity from every line
I must admit it's very fine.
But...
However truly scholarly
Or deeply heartfelt it may be...
I still maintain, though ages pass:
I still want rhyme. Free verse, my arse!
I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
...unless the tree is burnt and black...
I guess I'll take that statement back.
In truth, there's little to compare
To chosen words of beauty rare.
And such a joy it brings to me
To read well-crafted poetry.
But some there are, who claim that rhyme
Has shot its bolt, and passed its prime
And rhythm, too--outmoded, quaint!
It makes the modern poet faint.
So why should we, the reader, thank,
The poet's verse that's always blank?
And things could go from bad to worse:
The horror that they call "Free Verse..."
With rhythm gone, and rhyme bereft
Scansion scorned, what have we left?
What can it be, do you suppose?
Why glory be! It must be... prose?
When Redcap poets find their muse
And from their pens love verses ooze
Sincerity from every line
I must admit it's very fine.
But...
However truly scholarly
Or deeply heartfelt it may be...
I still maintain, though ages pass:
I still want rhyme. Free verse, my arse!
An Unnamed Clurichaun:
Aye, laddie, but ye forget the perfection of the poetic form, from a wee
town in the homeland.
Yon 'cappy chappy does woo
With verse, free, blank and true
The scribe, he objects:
Free verse, it upsets!
'Tis pure rhyme which is standard Eshu!
With verse, free, blank and true
The scribe, he objects:
Free verse, it upsets!
'Tis pure rhyme which is standard Eshu!
And:
Ah, but what of our redcappy swain?
She demures, that much is plain
Your heart has been toss'd
But all is not lost:
There's more girls - start over again!
She demures, that much is plain
Your heart has been toss'd
But all is not lost:
There's more girls - start over again!
Ethan:
An impressive example this morn
Of this truly remarkable form
Though some claim it's sick
This bold Limerick
Came from a brave Clurichaun.
Beowulf:Of this truly remarkable form
Though some claim it's sick
This bold Limerick
Came from a brave Clurichaun.
A Reply
When first Calliope, the great and fair,
The Muse of epic poetry, who is
By ancient tradition, crowned as the chief
Of all the sacred muses, when she first
Came from the lands eternal down to earth
And called her mighty priest, blind Homer, he
Of whom we know so little, yet whose voice
Resounds throughout the ages, showing us,
>From all these centuries removed, the grace
The beauty and the holy power of that
Great epic form, where then was rhyme?
When dark Melpomene, the tragic muse
First taught the melancholic Aeschylus
To weave his webs of sorrows, which have held
The hearts of men for ages beyond count.
When Pindar raised the heroes of his ages
Into high immortality with just
The power of his song, when Virgil launched
The mythic tale of how the final seed
Of long lost Troy had founded mighty Rome,
In those great days, was rhyme then even know?
Now, I am anxious none should read me wrong.
Against sweet rhyme I will not say a word.
And I doubt not, the poets’ heaven is,
With many stars who used rhyme now arrayed.
But when some folk who think they know it all,
(Though ignorance with each word they betray)
Suggest our unrhymed poems are to theirs
Less worthy citizens of that fair realm
Beyond the clouds, where Muses reign enthroned,
And what is more, when these folk paint themselves
Defenders of tradition and suggest
That we, who cling to the path Homer trod
Are somehow new and wandering from the ways,
Then must we summon up Fathers of
Our ancient heritage, let Homer, blind
And noble, he from ancient mists of times
Now lost, let him raise up the cry, to war,
To war to fight against the modernists,
To war to fight to hold and to defend
Our Ancient ways.
When first Calliope, the great and fair,
The Muse of epic poetry, who is
By ancient tradition, crowned as the chief
Of all the sacred muses, when she first
Came from the lands eternal down to earth
And called her mighty priest, blind Homer, he
Of whom we know so little, yet whose voice
Resounds throughout the ages, showing us,
>From all these centuries removed, the grace
The beauty and the holy power of that
Great epic form, where then was rhyme?
When dark Melpomene, the tragic muse
First taught the melancholic Aeschylus
To weave his webs of sorrows, which have held
The hearts of men for ages beyond count.
When Pindar raised the heroes of his ages
Into high immortality with just
The power of his song, when Virgil launched
The mythic tale of how the final seed
Of long lost Troy had founded mighty Rome,
In those great days, was rhyme then even know?
Now, I am anxious none should read me wrong.
Against sweet rhyme I will not say a word.
And I doubt not, the poets’ heaven is,
With many stars who used rhyme now arrayed.
But when some folk who think they know it all,
(Though ignorance with each word they betray)
Suggest our unrhymed poems are to theirs
Less worthy citizens of that fair realm
Beyond the clouds, where Muses reign enthroned,
And what is more, when these folk paint themselves
Defenders of tradition and suggest
That we, who cling to the path Homer trod
Are somehow new and wandering from the ways,
Then must we summon up Fathers of
Our ancient heritage, let Homer, blind
And noble, he from ancient mists of times
Now lost, let him raise up the cry, to war,
To war to fight against the modernists,
To war to fight to hold and to defend
Our Ancient ways.
Ethan:
A worthy note
The Redcap wrote.
A scholar I freely admit.
I can clearly tell
It was researched well
With not inconsiderable wit.
We may just agree
To disagree
At the risk of being terse:
A well made rhyme's
Good all the time
While you prefer free verse!
The Redcap wrote.
A scholar I freely admit.
I can clearly tell
It was researched well
With not inconsiderable wit.
We may just agree
To disagree
At the risk of being terse:
A well made rhyme's
Good all the time
While you prefer free verse!
Beowulf:
(lengthy response paraphrased)
In battles with swords there is a code of honour. In battles of words there should be too. The case I made was that poetry without rhyme is older and more traditional than poetry with rhyme.
You attempt to make it seem that I argued rhyme was old fashioned, ie you represent me as arguing the exact opposite of what I actually argued. This a lie, plain and simple. It also shows that youy know you cannot win this debate without resorting to
dishonourable methods.
Also, please note, I have said nothing against rhyme. Many of my favourite poems do rhyme. I have never
claimed that poetry with rhyme is inferiour to those without....
While point one may be open to debate, point two is a simple matter of fact. Your attempt to cast yourself as the defender of tradition in this debate and to cast me as the young modernist is so blatently dishonest as to leave me wondering if I should not be adressing you as Ethan ap Alil.......
If, my good scribe, you are unable to discern rhythum, and a strong rhythum at that, in the free-verse of such masters as Pound and Eliot then you truly are a dullard who would be better served helping Mrs. McReady with her dishes than engaging in debate with serious scholars......
You are entitled to your personal preference, of course. For mine, I am able to enjoy all forms of verse, rhyme or no rhyme, metre or no metre, I wish you would simarlarly broaden your mind. But perhaps a broad mind is too much to ask of an Eshu.
Ethan:
Such vehemence against a mild jest:
Are you really so insecure?
So I'll phrase this the way you'll understand best:
Two fingers to you, Sir!
Are you really so insecure?
So I'll phrase this the way you'll understand best:
Two fingers to you, Sir!