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Hi! Do you know what type of poem/meter is used in William Vaughn Moody's "Pandora's Song"? I'm obsessed with it so not knowing is driving me nuts. Thank you!

"Of wounds and sore defeat I made my battle stay; Winged sandals for my feet I wove of my delay; Of weariness and fear I made my shouting spear; Of loss, and doubt, and dread, And swift oncoming doom I made a helmet for my head And a floating plume. From the shutting mist of death, From the failure of the breath, I made a battle-horn to blow Across the vales of overthrow. O hearken, love, the battle-horn! The triumph clear, the silver scorn! O hearken where the echoes bring, Down the grey disastrous morn, Laughter and rallying."

Scansion:

"Of wounds / and sore / defeat [3] I made / my bat/tle stay; [3] Winged san/dals for / my feet [3] I wove / of my / delay; [3] Of wea/riness / and fear [3] I made / my shou/ting spear; [3] Of loss, / and doubt, / and dread, [3] And swift / oncom/ing doom [3] I made / a hel/met for / my head [4] And / a floa/ting plume. [3 acephalous] From / the shut/ting mist / of death, [4 acephalous] From / the fail/ure of / the breath, [4 acephalous] I made / a bat/tle-horn / to blow [4] Across / the vales / of o/verthrow. [4] O hear/ken, love, / the bat/tle-horn! [4] The tri/umph clear, / the sil/ver scorn! [4] O hear/ken where / the e/choes bring, [4] Down / the grey / disas/trous morn, [4 acephalous] Laughter / and ral/lying." [3]

Metrical form: It starts out in iambic trimeter (with some trochaic inversions) and moves into mostly iambic tetrameter.

Rhyme scheme: ABAB CC DEDE FFGG HHIHI

Notes: The lines I've marked as acephalous are a bit ambiguous; the first syllable in each of them could be either stressed or unstressed depending on how you emphasize the phrase, in my opinion. So "From the shutting mist of death" could be either acephalous tetrameter, – / ◡ – / ◡ – / ◡ –, or it could be trimeter, ◡ ◡ – / ◡ – / ◡ –.

Now I'm a little obsessed with this poem too! What a cool piece! And what a cool sound: clearly metrical, but switching up the number of feet per line, and always rhyming but repeatedly switching up the rhyme scheme.

#iambic trimeter #iambic tetrameter #iambic #trimeter #tetrameter #William Vaughn Moody #anonymous #requested #Of wounds and sore defeat

I am the violet, fervent flower;

The bruise in silent bloom.

The purple nightshade, dark tulip.

Twisted limbs and choking skin.

I am the violet, swollen hue;

The scream of cosmos deep.

The more i am myself,

The less i can be seen.

#abstract #absurdist #liminal #writing #surreal #desolate #poetry #midnight confessional #violet #colour spectrum #flowers #invisible woman #invisible #trans #iambic quadrameter #iambic trimeter

Don't hide it from me, Man— I know that you've got horns like Pan; I know that you've got cloven feet; I hear you blow your pipes and pluck your lyre— I'm not the little maid who heard that foolish music played and fell for something mortal-sweet, began to learn the stripes of fond desire. I know this: Swampscott borders Lynn; Lynn lies from Boston by a ride a horse could take without chagrin, four miles up North. Did you know, on my father's side, my ancestor from Cork was exiled forth to Massachusetts, spared from being hide? He stole a horse. It's true as rhyme— God save us crime, God save us sin, God save us Massachusetts—even Lynn. I have this fear, sometimes, that you're in Hell— though I know well the Christian devil has no hold on you. You're not in Hell; it's only Lynn (that's different by an inch or two)— enacting Dionysian performances—I know it, you. The women gather in your room, and you eviscerate each womb— I know it, you. Don't lie to me. You always smell too much of wine and ecstasy that follows you through eglantine. Apollo's poetry, appalling though it be, you seek it, or it seeks you, or I've merely worn myself out sore in searching for the symmetry. My Man— take off the mortal guise and show me your enchanted form. I saw the charm glow in your eyes— those flames you fan have kept me warm too many winters now. It's time to learn the god, the spirit and the rod who would have all New England burn. Don't leave me to insist— I'll twist your tail. I'm fine should my good soul derail... It was a shoddy one to start; my body and my heart don't have the shine of that your gold and that your wine. Your silver blood is going cold. Take me, or else the Devil will— he's followed me to Rockingham, he's stranded me on Hampton Beach. It is not Fate I damn, but still, if I should fall from Jesus' reach, I think I'm owed the thrill to pick my breach. I think my great-grandmothers did this, too, and chose witchcraft, instead, for health— but fuck that. Wealth of supernatural power swarms in you: I'll take my chance at stingeing my grave's due.

"Spell on the North Shore" - a poem written 3/07/2025

The People cheered and bowed

their heads in anxious awe,

as gods decreed that now!

with eighteen centuries passed,

no more the need to sit

in rows by rows be bound,

henceforth the iron hand

go soft on wills of man

to lure the dark side’s fiends

across the universe —

with pockets lined with gold.

#poetry #spilled ink #iambic trimeter #ios 18 #me? cynical?

On the Minotaur

Anthologia Planudea 126 (author and date unknown) The child who is also a bull, the finished-in-no-respect, The denouncer of his mother’s lust, the human-mixed-with-beast, The double nature, the bull-skulled, the confusion of two bodies, Who was born neither as a cow nor as a man altogether. ὁ παῖς ὁ ταῦρος, ὁ κατὰ μηδὲν ἐντελής, ὁ τῆς τεκούσης τοῦ πάθους κατήγορος, ὁ μιξόθηρ ἄνθρωπος, ἡ διπλῆ φύσις, ὁ ταυρόκρανος, ἡ πλάνη τῶν σωμάτων, ὃς οὔτε βοῦς πέφυκεν, οὔτ᾽ ἀνὴρ ὅλως.

The Minotaur, from a statue group representing his combat with Theseus. Roman copy after a lost Greek original by the sculptor Myron that was located on the Acropolis. Now in the National Archaeological Museum, Athens. Photo credit: Marsyas/Wikimedia Commons.