Lovely meters and meter
Clunky mechanical beasts and the most sublime poetry share the same noun
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Nature is magic
This quotation is from War and Peace (the Maude translation):
When water is spilt on dry ground both the dry ground and the water disappear and mud results.
I had not thought of rain and dirt in that way, as an alchemical change. The dryness goes away, but the water and earth are still there. Just transformed. I marvel at this image.
Charmed
On a sunny day, a parking strip along Southeast Stephens was filled with tall cosmos in bright, brave colors. I decided not to take a photo; I have plenty of beauty shots of pretty flowers. Plus, cosmos are leggy and hard to capture.
So I just sat there, drinking in the reality of those cheerful blooms, enjoying my moment with them. And then I saw it. Attached to a stem, maybe five feet off the ground, a little brass figure. Not a cat, no—a coati, I think.
Meters
I’m fascinated by the ranks of electric and gas meters I find about town. I’ve been collecting photos and want to share some of them with you. But last week, when I was tooling down Southeast 11th Avenue in the late afternoon, I was arrested by the light. Of course, it illumined the electric meters and the wall behind them. But it also captured the shadow of a tree in a way that moved me.
I didn’t manipulate that photo for color. My iPhone camera captured it in monotone. Maybe I poked some unknown button.
Just a few feet farther down the street, I captured gas meters and a shadow of me snapping the photo. And this one is saturated with early-evening color.
Meters are everywhere. Gas and electric. They fascinate with their knobby connections and sinuous curves. Here are some others I particularly like.
Poetry meter
Another use of the term “meter” is for the footfall of poetry. Even though I’m good at music, I remember some early problems with understanding how meter worked.
As a teen, I couldn’t crack the first line of Longfellow’s epic poem “Evangeline”:
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
I thought it was in iambs, that is da-DUM, da-DUM. “This IS the FORest PRIME-eval” —but then the rest of the line wouldn’t scan.
Of course the rhythm is supposed to be “THIS is the FORest primEVal,” which I would have gotten if I had known how to pronounce “primeval.” According to the Poetry Foundation, “Evangeline” is in dactylic hexameter, six dactylic (DUM-da-da) feet to a line. Not many poets have tried writing in that tough rhyme scheme.
And indeed, I still find Longfellow’s poem unapproachable.
Pattern nonrecognition
For a long time, I avoided the movie “The Sound of Music” because I could not imagine how the words, “The hills are alive with the sound of music. . . .” could fit into a rhyme scheme. There is no beat pattern; it’s irregular. Of course, once you hear Richard Rogers’s score, it’s obvious.
Other meters
I write a fair amount of poetry. Most of it is rhythmic. I don’t remember the last time I wrote free verse.
I do try to vary the rhythm.
Dactyls
Many of my poems come out naturally in dactylic meter: DUM-da-da DUM-da-da. . . .
This example plays with the rhythm.
I often write using dactyls, Flinging bouquets of words to the void. Breaking the rhythm, too often For convenience, or for effect.
Anapests
Anapestic rhythm is the opposite of dactylic. It goes da-da-DUM, da-da-DUM.
Rhythm propels us, it pushes us forward, Riding the river along to the sea, Shielding our senses, flipping a new card Tarot for our future, wherever we be.
Iambs
An iamb is a two-stroke foot: da-DUM. Writers at The Poetry Foundation point out that this meter is the closest to natural English speech.
The great English poetic meter is iambic pentameter, five of those little guys in a line. Shakespeare wrote plays in it. Emily Wilson uses it in her breathtaking recent translations of Homer.
I wrote a sonnet in iambic pentameter.
The story behind it: I hadn’t seen any recent postings by my sister Catherine, who adds a new drawing almost daily to Instagram under the name Corkturtle. I was also missing the daily Substack offerings known as Trish Tails, posted by Dish Kitty. Trish’ lost her mom early this month, so she has not been writing. Catherine hadn’t written because she and her wife were on vacation in Sardinia. She’s back now, and posting.
Missing sisters
For Dish Kitty and Catherine
Hello, are you okay? I miss your postings. You two are artists who display your work Making the mundane special with your toasting Of life’s small moments: pop that Champagne cork! I always love your drawings washed in color. I wonder, would you ever draw a meter? Its quirky angles, knobby joints seem fuller— The more you look, the more your pen may teeter. Or would you rather draw a coffee maker Or pen the popcorn just before you eat it? I love your lives, your drawings. You’re the shakers, Birthing anew and bringing me to meet it. I miss you, sisters, and your talent, too. Meanwhile, my thoughts, as ever, are with you.
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Breakfast at the laptop
I have a bowl of hazelnuts (remember when these were filberts?) and fresh raspberries and a single date. The textures don’t work, but the flavors are nice. A pour-over coffee, with cream. The beans are from the Colombian Jorge Rojas plantation, roasted by Cosmopolis. I bought them at Tōv Coffee.
What’s with writing
I haven’t been writing about writing, but that doesn’t mean I’m not doing it. Seriously, folks, the more you write, the easier it is. The better it is. And you are better for it.
I aim to do a 20-minute writing exercise every day. In September I did it every single day. In October I let it slide. And as soon as I did that, my writing started to suffer. In just a day.
I sit at the keyboard every morning, seeking for something to write, a stream of words, images, visions, thoughts. I bat ideas around, drop some, pick up others. Then the twenty minutes are up, my writing sinews are stretched and I’m ready to tackle the day.
Check out poem
Here is one final effort. It’s the first time I’ve worked with internal rhyme, where the end of the phrase rhymes with a word in the middle.
Autumn dressing
The days are tending shorter. The nights are creeping long. The trees undress. I must confess This seems to be a song. Sing a song of autumn The turning of the year From warm to cold. Let me be bold And say I have no fear. No fear of rain, no fear of snow, Bare branches scratch the sky. My woolly hat, I’m wearing that My seasonal supply. Come winter, come, cut short the days. And make the weather chilly. Let’s move inside and still abide— Watch TV, have sex, get silly!
Check out photo
I went from not knowing what an amaranth plant looked like to seeing them everywhere. This one has a certain attitude.
One more
November came early for this little tree at the North Lombard Transit Center. It was only October 14, but it was as bare as Thanksgiving while the other trees were just starting to undress.
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Made me want to listen to the Beatles sing about "Lovely Rita, Meter Maid."
That fifth photo ... the hydrant leading a chorus of meters ... suggests a mystery. What did those stairs once lead to? Was there a doorway there at one time? While the brickwork looks neat and tidy, all the same color, in some places, it looks suspicious.