Tag Archives: Ottava rima

“Sailing to Byzantium” by William Butler Yeats [w/ Audio]

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I

That is no country for old men. The young
 In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
 -- Those dying generations - at their song,
 The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
 Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
 Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
   Caught in that sensual music all neglect
   Monuments of unageing intellect.

II

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
 A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
 Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
 For every tatter in its mortal dress,
 Nor is there singing school but studying
 Monuments of its own magnificence;
   And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
   To the holy city of Byzantium.

III

O sages standing in God's holy fire
 As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
 Come from the holy fire, perne a gyre,
 And be the singing-masters of my soul.
 Consume my heart away; sick with desire
 And fastened to a dying animal
   It knows not what it is; and gather me
   Into the artifice of eternity.

IV

Once out of nature I shall never take
 My bodily form from any natural thing,
 But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
 Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
 To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
 Or set upon a golden bough to sing
   To lords and ladies of Byzantium
   Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

POEM: Escaping Isolation [PoMo Day 17 – Ottava Rima]

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In isolation, I took to story,
and traipsed through worlds impossible yet true,
living life from infantile thru hoary,
under skies: gunmetal to deepest blue,
in lands where trucks were known to be lorries,
and ancient cities breathed as though brand new.
Where neither time nor bars could imprison,
I found my phoenix had now arisen.

POEM: Color in the Scrublands [Ottava Rima]

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Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.

The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.

POEM: Harvest on the Farm [Ottava Rima]

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My memories of autumn are clearest —
the harvest time, when fields had turned amber,
with desiccated stalks – devoid of spirits.
And in the grain, we children would clamber,
’cause cleaning out wagons was time cherished.
Those short days are now brighter and grander.
It was an age of colossal machines,
and kernels of corn and tiny soybeans.

POEM: What Country for Old Men? [Ottava Rima]

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There’s more than one undiscovered country.
Hamlet’s is no place for old men to aim.
I urge a fight for foreign shores, bluntly.
Don’t let false gods go staking early claims.
They’ll have one sitting on the couch, glumly —
the fast-path shortcut to the pyre’s fierce flames.
If you can feel the breath expand your chest,
then pick up your pack, and start stepping West.

POEM: The Unblemished & the Indelible [Day 22 NaPoMo: Ottava Rima]

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[Ottava Rima is an open form of Italian origin. It uses 8-line stanzas with a rhyme scheme of abababcc. English language ottava rima are frequently, but not necessarily, written in iambic pentameter. Historically, this form was most often used for long heroic narratives.]

The savior stained in service washes clean.
She needn’t worry that blood will mark for life.
The crimson blot doesn’t equally demean.
It’s unkind to those unjust with the knife.
The spotless mind doesn’t glow from good hygiene.
We are told tales: Orpheus and Lot’s Wife —
that tell us, to remain naïve is bliss
and you can’t escape thoughts you can’t dismiss.