#alliterative verse

[regexkind]

Hwæt! Hear me well, high-born poaster,

Four-and-twenty winters, fully told,

By Frige's craft we ken it well,

Some nine moons ere the newborn's star

Thy sire and dam in darkness met,

Tossed and tumbled in twisting bower-dance

Steel struck on steel, the stair-proud towers;

Fire fanned aloft, flame on the morning;

Albion's offspring, that after-Rome,

Turned from triumph, tasting the pall.

[amoebasareverysmall]

Comparing Pearl (verse) translations

Original

Israel Gollancz (1891)

Sophie Jewett (1908)

Sister Mary Vincent Hillmann (1961)

John Gardner (1965)

Margaret Williams (1967)

Marie Borroff (1967)

Brian Stone (1971)

J.R.R. Tolkien (1975)

William Vantuono (1984)

Casey Finch (1993)

Simon Armitage (2016)

[rhunedhel]

Today is Tolkien Reading Day. If you like Tolkien's alliterative poetry, here's your reading guide ...

http://alliteration.net/poets/jrrtolkien/

[bottleofwater000]

why fish like that. shiny. scary. scaly. alliteration wow

[thaliarchus]

[extremely has been reading Maxims I voice]: I have been reading Maxims I.

One goal here: try to use this character's maxims to prod at what is normal to them and (rightly!) not normal to us.

Think it's going to take some tuning.

[vkcorduroy]

I've been working on a long poem that's been difficult to write. So while I put a pause on that, I took the structure of it and wrote this.

My Willow Blossom

The sad sapling bloomed an early, lonesome blossom. It was fitting seeing that the sunny season was nearing. And swiftly, the weeping willow was told, “spring will not be here shortly.”

Only one because it hopped too soon and realized too late that winter was yet to end—that the groundhog had saw its shadow. So its beautiful blossom had to brave the next blizzard by itself. The willow willed, but still watched it whither without peace while winter wrecked it without remorse. And the sad sapling learned to lose something so dear.

The cool snap, the next cold spell rather, came as the flower exposed itself to see the sun—it didn’t. Instead, it opened to dark rolling clouds that roared ripe rain. And through the night, the temperature fell as if it only knew gravity. 

The morning rose with the sun and with the sun, light to show the willow what was done. The flower was frozen and fixed and still the only one. The sun melted the ice on the cold and bluing blossom. And warned the willow that the weather was not done. 

Soon snow showered as assured, advised, and alerted. The willow wept, washed with woe, as it watched the blossom fall below. And it was eventually covered with snow.

Read more poetry on my page and even more on my Substack!

💜🖤

Corduroy's Corner | V. K. Corduroy | Substack

Click to read Corduroy's Corner, by V. K. Corduroy, a Substack publication.

[oraclesofouromens]

Liminal Lament

The synthetic sublimity of sparse signals sublimates into the silent suicide of sick souls.

The veil of oblivion will vanquish the veneer of the daring deceit,

Leaving a languid legacy of lacerated shallow shells.

Will our voices violently vie for a sprightly serendipity?

[hounds-and-stars]

Dust Sceawung, a Warhammer poem

Summary: An experimental poem about a group of Space Wolves who defected from their Legion following the Burning of Prospero.

Tags: Poetry, Alliterative Poetry, Space Wolves, Thousand Sons, Angst, Homebrew, Canon-typical violence

Notes: As this was inspired by Anglo-Saxon poetry, there's a lot of kennings; reader beware.

Full link here, and I've included a preview below the cutaway. Thanks to @squishyowl for the divider.

Enjoy.

I say it now, and I say it shameless,

We betrayed Russ,

Betrayed he who brought us upon the blameless!

We turned to Magnus, mighty in his arcane aspect,

And offered our heads, our were-gild for our war-madness,

But he cast us out, 

As we cast away from the Wolf-King,

Refusing our red presence under his wing.

Thus are we twice-damned as we wander,

Scornful of our kin, unrepentent of their blunders,

And scorned by the Sons, for reasons we need not ponder.

And yet, some would have us by their fire,

We, who turned Prospero to a pyre,

Accepting us in this age of swords blood-rusted

For we share their knowledge,

Revealed by destruction of those we distrusted.