An excellent ponified Prufrock, and two rules of poetry · 5:01pm Aug 2nd, 2022
I found this poem by Frith, buried deep inside the VIII August entry of Twilight's Blog. I'd never have found it if he hadn't posted about it in the Poetry group; and even then it took a bit of searching to find it. So I'm copy-pasting it here, so even the lazy among you can enjoy it.
Frith's feet stumble twice in the first stanza, but trust me, it gets better.
But those two fumbling feet present a problem I see practically every new poet make, and most go on making it all their lives. I know someone with a master's in English literature who still does this when she writes poetry. Many people just can't hear it until it's pointed out to them. So I'll shine a light on that first (sorry, Frith). Does anything in these lines sound discordant to you?
Of uneven ground hiding pitfall wells
And grazing soured by wood sorrels:
Errant trees with branches bent
On shade making commitment
Here's what bothers me:
Of uneven ground hiding pitfall wells
And grazing soured by wood sorrels:
Errant trees with branches bent
On shade making commitment
Stressed syllables are in italics, bugs are bolded. You can't rhyme a stressed syllable with an unstressed syllable. Ever. Even Emily Dickinson doesn't1. If you do, I guarantee2 the reader will stop after the second line, go back, and sound out each line again, forcing the stresses to match. The forced matching is bad enough; the stopping and repeating stops your poem dead. We say "there are no rules", but this is a rule, even more of a rule than "don't rhyme a word with itself", which is still an awful thing to do, but at least doesn't make the reader stop and go back. It's better just to punt and not rhyme at all than to rhyme a stressed syllable with an unstressed one.
1. IIRC, some hack named Shakespeare did it in his plays, a lot, centuries ago. That's why you've never heard of him. He'd never get published today. But even he never did it in his poems AFAIK.
Also, I'm absurdly proud of the line "Even Emily Dickinson doesn't". Let me have my small victories.
2. Not an actual guarantee. Comments appreciated: Did you, or didn't you, stop and re-read those lines?
I'd even extend this to the second-to-last syllables, even if they aren't part of the rhyme, if either of the second-last syllables are part of the last foot. (That's fall/sor and ches/mit above. sor and mit are each part of the last trochee (trochaic foot) in their line.)
[UPDATE: Frith pronounces "sorrel" differently than I do, and changed "commitment" to the version now in the poem below.]
Speaking of "don't rhyme a word with itself", there's a simple trick to solve that problem. Remember these lines from Mary Poppins (the movie)?
If you don't scold and dominate us,
we will never give you cause to hate us
If you find you've rhymed a word with itself, just go back and rhyme the syllable before that word, and that makes the whole rhyme count!
Now here's Frith's pony poem. I especially appreciate that it's a "complete" ponification of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", in that Frith took Prufrock's neurotic, modernist social anxiety, and replaced it with an Equestrian anxiety about herd status.
The Hayloft Song of J. Alfalfafed Poolrock By T.S. Celerybit
Let us gallop, you and I,
When evening has spread over Celestia's sky
Like a salt-drunk pinto sprawled on a table;
Let us trot, to where pastures and forest meet,
Grass whispering at our feet
Of uneven ground hiding pitfall wells
And grazing soured by wood sorrels:
Errant trees with branches bent
On encumbrances meant
To shape doubt and your hesitation...
Neigh, do not shy or fidget
Through the brambles let's go visit.
Into the clearing the stallions go
Talking of Mare. E. Angelo.
The yellow itch that lands uninvited upon your mane,
The yellow puff that trills uninhibited on your mane
Licked the brambles to judge their seasoning,
Lingered over flowers still wet from the rains,
Carried the dust that falls from the cones of evergreen trees,
Slipped from the forest, just for a small peek,
And seeing the night sky where the stars sparkle bright,
Nestled in behind your ear, so small and meek.
And indeed there will be room
For the yellow sprite that seems so sweet,
Trilling quietly deep in your mane;
There will be room, there will be room
To graze the grasses and choose the grasses you can eat;
There will be room to bite and to bait,
And room for bridles, bits and rope
That lead you blinkered toward your fate;
Room for you and room for me,
And room yet for jostling for position,
And for incursions and recursions,
Before rejoining the company.
Into the clearing the stallions go
Talking of Mare E. Angelo.
And indeed there will be room
To wander, a little here, a little there
Backing away from too dominant a mare,
With an eye twitch and an ear droop from her stare--
(They will nicker: "She will never fit in!")
My glossy coat, my mane fixed with a silver pin,
My rich aroma of crushed lavender, freshly rolled in--
(They will nicker: "But her withers are much too thin")
Am I mare
Enough to be adverse?
In a pace there is room
For notions and motions both forward and in reverse.
For I have roamed them all already, roamed them all;
Have roamed the roadways, forest paths, avenues,
My steps wear a rut along the path that I choose;
I roam the scents that crawl to their owners' call
Beyond the leaf curtain with their perfume.
So what rank dare I assume?
And I have roamed the words, roamed them all--
The words that lead you pursed lipped into a maze,
And when I am roped, trapped and penned,
When I am penned and cribbing on my stall,
Then through the yoke how do I tend
To signaling my experience and my worth?
And what rank dare I assume?
And I have known the necks already, known them all--
Necks that are arched and delicate and fair
(But with manes that cascaded with extended hair!)
Is it sight of a braided tress
That wills me to confess?
Necks that lie of home and stable, or drape on one and all.
And a rank dare I then assume?
And whose friendship do I win?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have breathed the musk where grass and forest meets
And watched fireflies rise in blinking flights
On lonely twilight eves, weaving through the shadows?...
I should have been a pair of blue skin wings
Fluttering silently in the night breeze.
. . . . .
And the earth, the soil, beckons so invitingly!
Powdered to dust,
Soft... clingy... or it turns all to rust,
Stamped out in the glade, here beside you and me.
Should I, after teasing and styles and perms,
Kneel down and roll in the castings of worms?
But though I have stamped and mingled and stamped and displayed,
Though I have had my back (sagging slightly) piled high with blather,
I am no mule--and it's not what I'd rather;
I have seen my pace slide behind mares who were quicker,
And I have seen them look back in amusement, and nicker,
And left back, I obeyed.
And would it have been worth it, to stand tall,
After the jostling, the looks, the glee,
Among the fancy hats, who look down long noses at you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have summoned false charm and guile,
To kick down the door to my stall
To fling it toward the court in session,
To say: "I am Equus, the mare in red,
Come back to lead you all, I shall lead you all"
If one, with a dismissive toss of her head,
Should say, "You are not fit to lead at all.
Not fit to lead a herd, at all."
And would it have been worth it, to stand tall,
Would it have been worth while,
After the brambles and the clearing and the woodland meets,
After the baubles, after the gossip, after the long eyelashes that I wore--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to neigh just what I mean!
But as if by magic my desire were laid bare like a Changeling Queen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, with a dismissive toss or in a mocking drawl,
And turning to the meadow, should say:
"You are not fit to lead a herd at all,
Not fit to lead, at all."
. . . . .
No! I am not a Princess aspirant, nor was meant to be;
Am an attentive mare, one that will do
To widen the path, test that what is new
Write to the Princess; clearly, on rule,
Deferential, quill of a goose,
Blue ink, no fuss, and luxurious;
Full of flourish, but not too loose;
Strong, succinct, almost spurious--
Almost, at times, the mule.
I grow old... I grow old...
I shall trim my mane and wear it rolled.
Do I share my mind? Do I dare to teach?
I shall linger in the taller grasses, and sample some of each.
I have seen the pegasi hovering, just out of reach.
I do not think they will land for me.
I have seen them riding clouds toward dawn
Combining the white clouds with the dawn at their back
When one horizon is silver and the other is black.
We have lingered in the wild meadows of the Everfree
By untamed things and giant weeds of red and brown
Till Celestia leads us, back to town.
I admit, I laughed at "Even Emily Dickinson doesn't." I don't think I've committed this particular poetic sin, but thanks for the warning, and for porting the ponified poem to another post.
Admittedly, I don't have the heart of a poet, but I have an empty jar on my desk and lots of patients.... I mean patience.
This is why I prefer alliterative verse.
5677494 I can't think of any way to interpret that statement.
5677501
Probably because it was a half-finished thought. It's hot here, and I don't like it.
Let's see, how do I save this..?
It's about the structure. You've highlighted the two issues that constantly tripe me up with rhyme: the metre, and the line endings. Alliterative verse has its own metric rules, naturally, but they feel like they make more sense to me. It's also not bothered about how you end the line. At least, not in the same way.
I suppose I'm being a bit of a barbarian about it all.
(angry horse noises)
In Equestria, is T.S. Eliot a closeted Changeling, trying to pass as a pony?
In which case, I guess, "Portrait of a Lady" would be about Queen Chrysalis
"You do not know what friendship is, you who hold it in your hooves"
(Slowly twisting the Poison Joke)