Sweet and Low

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

* * *

I sang this lulluby to my little sister, and managed to get her down for a nap. When "All the Pretty Little Horses" fails, it's time to go back to the old masters. I sing it to a tune which is half "Eidelweiss" and half my own ad-libbing, but the baby likes it.

I've always liked this poem, though. The images of the wind blowing from the dying moon, the rolling waters, and the silver sails all out of the west (very Tolkienesque) give a dreamlike tone. It makes me miss people who aren't with me.

(I translated this poem into Sindarin once. It fits, wouldn't you say?)

If anyone has any more votes for the triolets, submit them now, because I'll be announcing the winners in a day or two.

The Other Triolets

In response to popular demand, here are the triolets that were not posted as finalists. You can see what a hard choice I had to narrow things down at all -- they're all so good.

* * *

"Swing Triolet"

Istanbul
Was Constantinople
Istanbul
Went all uncool:
From Byzantine jewel
To Mohammedan opal.
Istanbul
Was Constantinople.

(by Meredith)

"She Ponders An Unexpected Love"

I love you and not less because
You're not the one I thought I'd love
(What eyes see not, blind Cupid does.)
I love you and not less because
You were in love before I was,
You saw it coming like a dove.
I love you and not less because
You're not the one I thought I'd love.

(by Leah)

Oh, come, oh come, oh enneagram
And save us from His precious love
We pimp ourselves for Fraud and Sham
Oh, come, oh, come, oh enneagram
We sell our birthright for flim-flam
Who needs the Father, Son, and Dove?
Oh, come, oh come, oh enneagram
And save us from His precious love.

Let's chase from every single parish
Hell and sin and Holy Fear
Let's make our architecture barish.
Let's chase from every single parish
God almighty. Then let's cherish
Moods and feelings, vague, unclear -
Let's chase from every single parish
Hell and sin and Holy Fear.

If music be the food of love
Then this will make for indigestion
A pinch of pop, some dreck a dash of.
If music be the food of love,
Throw out the manna from above,
Get “Glory and Praise”, for without question,
If music be the food of love
Then this will make for indigestion.

(all by Kevin O.)

The poor and lonely Kraken
Lives more friendless than the moon.
No friends come by for snackin'...
The poor and lonely Kraken
(They'd keep him from attackin'
If they'd come to visit soon.)
The poor and lonely Kraken
Lives more friendless than the moon.

I'll try a triolet on cheese
(Brie or Cheddar, Stilton, Swiss)
Such flavors may repel or please
I'll try a triolet on cheese
Though crumbs are falling on the keys -
Another glass of wine, please, miss?
I'll try a triolet on cheese:
Brie or Cheddar, Stilton, Swiss...

The Latin on the keyboard coded
Still proclaims our debt to Rome.
The Q of quaestio eroded?
(The Latin on the keyboard coded)
And to Io is io devoted!
In ampersand e.t. phones home...
The Latin on the keyboard coded
Still proclaims our debt to Rome.

A shower long I long to take
As now I have begun to itch
Beneath the sun I had to bake
A shower long I long to take
The yard is whacked, I did not rake
(I'd pay some kids if I were rich)
A shower long I long to take
As now I have begun to itch.

(all by Dr. Thursday)

"The Buzzard"

The buzzard is a two-faced schnook
Who cannot either hunt or fight.
He hovers 'round his rocky nook;
The buzzard is a two-faced schnook.
He likes to eat, but not to cook,
And rushes in to take a bite.
The buzzard is a two-faced schnook
Who cannot either hunt or fight.

(by Charlemagne)

* * *

There were also a few submissions that were actually not triolets at all. I'm not sure what confusion gave rise to those -- I guess my instructions must have been unclear. I probably should have written the poets and said something, but I never managed to do that. Mea culpa. Anyway, I didn't include them here.

Triolet Contest Finalists

*drum roll please*

I had originally intended to post all the entries and let people vote. But I got 23 different poems, and it would be prohibitive to post them all, so I picked out finalists and everyone can vote on those. (Special congratulations to Dr. Thursday for seven triolets, and to Kevin O. [don't know if I may print your last name, so I won't] for five. All in one sitting, I suppose.) Anyway, I wanted to warn everyone that not every good poem could be posted. The competition was stiff, because so many people turned out and wrote some really good poems.

All right, here goes: the finalists!

* * *

I am a girl quite simple,
A wife at home with children young.
My daughter has a dimple.
I am a girl quite simple.
I do not wear a wimple,
God said instead, "Here, have three sons."
I am a girl quite simple,
A wife at home with children young.

(by Candlestring)

I asked for heaven for my dog,
I thought it not unreas'nable-
Although I would were he a frog.
I asked for heaven for my dog,
Who never fell in sinful bog,
With sort-of-soul all loveable.
I asked for heaven for my dog,
I thought it not unreas'nable.

(by Leah)

As I was looking for a Church
That was not made of sinful men
Where false believers did not perch -
As I was looking for a Church
I realized, amidst my search,
That there I'd find myself again,
As I was looking for a Church
That was not made of sinful men.

Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinner,
My Lenten vows I'm not observing.
I say this grace tonight at dinner,
“Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinner!"
I break my fast and grow no thinner
For I have had a second serving.
Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinner,
My Lenten vows I'm not observing.

(both by Kevin O.)

I will not write a triolet;
As poems go, they leave me dry.
Not for the Pope, or on a bet,
I will not write a triolet.
And so with some profound regret,
I must your fervent hopes deny:
I will not write a triolet;
As poems go, they leave me dry.

"You'd better write a triolet,
Or else, at least, consent to try.
You find it dry? Then make it wet!
You'd better write a triolet
To satisfy the girl you met
Else she descend in tears and cry.
You'd better write a triolet,
Or else, at least, consent to try."

Alright, I'll write a triolet;
I'll do the thing, don't ask me why;
For the girl on the Internet,
Alright, I'll write a triolet.
In fact, I'll write a tree-part set
To show I'm a determined guy;
Alright, I'll write a triolet;
I'll do the thing, don't ask me why.

(I'm counting these three as one since it's a set, by Furor)

It's called Subsidiarity,
It was invented by a Pope.
It is the only way to be,
It's called Subsidiarity,
With it our spots played on TV:
It will do something more, I hope...
It's called Subsidiarity,
It was invented by a Pope.

I left my verse out in the sun
This triolet is all that's left.
In fading rhymes my lines did run
I left my verse out in the sun
Like cheese too near to Chesterton
My treasure (ah) reduced by theft...
I left my verse out in the sun
This triolet is all that's left.

At ChesterCon I met some friends:
A foretaste of eternity.
A wedding which the wine portends
At ChesterCon I met some friends,
There in the Inn that never ends,
God grant that there we all may be!
At ChesterCon I met some friends:
A foretaste of eternity.

(all three by Dr. Thursday)

* * *

Here's how we'll vote. One vote each seemed a little rough with so many contestants. So, each person may vote for one person for first place, one for second, and one for third. Your vote will go like this in my comment box:

First place - "Have mercy on me, Lord, a sinner"
Second place - Furor's triolet threesome
Third place - "At ChesterCon I met some friends"

Or whatever your taste may be. (My votes are just an example: I don't mean I'd actually vote that way.) But please do call the poems by a title I will be able to understand. First lines are good. Also, everyone vote once for each place (first, second, and third). I'm allowing anonymous comments, in case you don't want people to know you're voting for yourself, but it's on the honor system -- you may still only vote once.

Oh, and by the way, sorry it took so long. I had two very long work days Thursday and Friday.

Little Boy Blue

by Eugene Field

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
      But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
      And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
      And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
      Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
      "And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
      He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
      Awakened our Little Boy Blue---
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
      But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
      Each in the same old place---
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
      The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
      In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
      Since he kissed them and put them there.

* * *

This is the first poem I ever learned by heart, at four years old. I still have a tape of me reciting it in a little lisping voice.

But the reason I post it today is in honor of Joshua, the 4-year-old son of a family I know. He died recently in a car accident. Please pray for his family.

On second thought...

I'm sure it's bad form to do this after the deadline has already passed . . . but I think I'm going to extend the contest by another week. A couple people I was really hoping would write, and who I knew wanted to participate, still haven't done so (ahem, ahem, Dr. Thursday, Nancy Brown). And at least one person needs a second chance to write the triolet they really meant to. So I'm putting the deadline off to next Wednesday, which should be the nineteenth. I hope that doesn't disappoint anyone who's been waiting eagerly for the results.

Notices

Two things:

1. Sorry about the scanty posting lately. It's going to get worse before it gets better. I'm currently between jobs -- that is, my time is being divided between two jobs. I had to start the new one before I was quite finished with the old one, so that when I'm done working 12-hour days for one lady, I go work 7-hour days (or so -- tomorrow will probably be more) for another lady. And I'm having few ideas, because the one thing I really want to write about right now needs a lot more development, which means time I don't have. All shall be well in a couple of weeks.

2. It occurs to me that some of you will never write a triolet unless you're given a deadline. I've gotten a good number of submissions, but I want to give everyone a chance to try, even procrastinators. So: July 12th. It is quite arbitrary. But my dad always says he has to be in the right mood before he can write anything -- last minute panic! So, maybe that will help.

The Kraken

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

* * *

Furor likes this one, so maybe he could explain it better than I. It seems like a sonnet, but its rhyme scheme is unusual, as though Tennyson couldn't quite decide whether to make it Shakespearean or Petrarchan. It has a very deep (no pun intended) tone, like Ulmo's trumpets, if you've read The Silmarillion. The deep secret places of the sea are, scientists and poets tell us alike, more of a mystery than the surface of the moon.

It also reminds me of Lepanto:

They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl.

And the reference to the end of the world, when all these things shall be laid bare, puts a perfect closure on the poem, too.