‘H’ the marginal letter. Vowel or Consonant?

Consider this:

As perfect, thee, thine image, as thou art;
Sublime, as sculpture’s ideation, see;
Though, only in my thought, ideals exist,
Mine hands believe perfection thus to be.

Do not I trust this truth mine hands impart?
When next they touch conviction wrought of fire.
This certitude of which mine eyes insist?
When they confirm withal mine hands acquire.

Wherefore our brothers, hath He given heart?
That, for the other, petuous, doth burn.
For she, from whom our brothers’ ribs consist,
Do all of us, so undespoilt, yearn.

For one, with art, we praise His strength thereof;
The other, doth enlist with us, His love.

Proper grammar in the archaic sense. In cases wherein ‘my’ or ‘a’ precede a word beginning with ‘h’ this is what is generally done. This differs in more modern times between British English and American, wherein ‘h’ is treated more like a consonant, eg. ‘an hotel’ rather than ‘a’ hotel. Possibly this is because most American dialects are harsher, or rather use more air. British English is more like Spanish in that it reserves breath more–particularly in the upper class dialects. Speak Spanish or upper class British or even upper class Bostonian with a candle flame in front of your mouth and in all three cases the flame will not dance. Where as with some dialects the flame will dance about. There are even some dialects before which the flame will not survive at all.

So consider the same offering thus:

As perfect, thee, thine image, as thou art;
Sublime, as sculpture’s ideation, see;
Though, only in my thought, ideals exist,
My hands believe perfection thus to be.

Do not I trust this truth my hands impart?
When next they touch conviction wrought of fire.
This certitude of which mine eyes insist?
When they confirm withal my hands acquire.

Wherefore our brothers, hath He given heart?
That, for the other, petuous, doth burn.
For she, from whom our brothers’ ribs consist,
Do all of us, so undespoilt, yearn.

For one, with art, we praise His strength thereof;
The other, doth enlist with us, His love.

The question is: Do I follow British convention. I am using British spell-check after all, giving a certain colour to my writing (as opposed to ‘color,’ heh!) I do this because I feel it would generally help me match the flavour of the mostly archaic style of writing I enjoy to write–and which my sweetheart enjoys to read.

The problem arises, at least for me, because I might like the sound of ‘my hand’ instead of ‘mine hand.’ It is a small distinction, sound is more important to poetry than to other forms of writing, so it is something to think about.

Yet I do observe other traditional conventions, such as capitalising pronouns dealing with the God of Abraham or of the Christians or even other mythologies, so perhaps I shouldn’t quibble over this one.  There are those cases where I do like the sound of ‘my’ better than ‘mine.’  with other vowels, I always use ‘mine’ and ‘an,’ because the sound is almost always more fluid sounding if I do.  But when dealing with ‘h,’ it can be an either-or proposition.   Even in cases where I think ‘my’ is better than ‘mine,’ I can speak the phrase aloud a few times and feel I can get used to it either way.

What sparked this latest curiosity is that I noticed after my sweetheart posted a comment about the above, that I had not been consistent.  This indicates that, for the three occurrences, at least subconciously, I chose one or the other based on the sound I liked best.  Because in general, where there is no contest, as in the case of other vowels, I use ‘mine’ and ‘an’ pretty automatically these days.

Advertisements

Love Torn | Lyrical Love

Velvet night and obsidian bliss
Velvet touch, your biting kiss
Softly feel your breath upon my skin
An urgent begging, a withhold, a deep breath in
I listen as you whisper my name is surging sighs
I listen has you pant back needing cries
I look into the depths of your eyes…
Passion dripping, wrapped in velvet thighs
Feel your body against my fleshen soul
The caress, the touch, the overthrow…
Tongues that trace like silken lace
Fingers that slide with lustful grace
Stubble roughly on delicate homes
Sighs and trembles and lustful moans
Feel the pull of full restraint
Feel the push, the pause, the faint
Feel you hold back from losing all control
As I urge you to motion, smooth and slow
Feel the explosion of soul within soul
A need, a desire, a letting go
With deep paths of unheld lust
Eagerly meeting and matching thrust
Cushioning and grasping within a nestled place
I watch as you let go, your exquisite face
With a collision of stars, planets, a milky way thread of light
As your soul explodes with mine in the night
Feeling you fully undone to the center of your core
I feel the want, the need, all that plus so much more…
I feel myself fall and land into your embrace
A soft smile of love, on each of our love torn face.

via Love Torn | Lyrical Love.

Love Torn | Lyrical Love

I wrote the following in response to RL King (Lady Day) , not intended it to be poetry, but with the intention of subverting my penchant for wordiness:

Anyone can write.
Anyone can show reality.
Or even bend it to the surreal.
Or to the abstract.
Even bend it to the romantic with your will.
Not everyone can see like this.

Not everyone can see
The romantic in reality.
Not everyone understands.
That to be romantic.
You do not have to bend reality.
You only have to see what is there.
And not ignore the romantic in it.

Just remember–
Just not forget to remember–
Remember not to forget–
Or pretend not to see–
Or pretend you don’t know–
Or deliberately deny–
Or malevolently distort–
What is actually there.

This is what you do when you write.
You see.
You see how it is all there.
If you are not sure it is real.
Because you do not know it directly.
If you simply are sure.
Like there is an instinct telling you.
An intuition.
You believe it.
Sometimes shyly
Sometimes boldly.

When you do this.
Others will see.
They will step forward.
Some will deny it.
But more will say:
“Yes. I see that too.
“I was afraid to tell anyone.
“How beautiful I thought it was.”

via Love Torn | Lyrical Love.

Today’s pair, and other stories….

This one probably cannot be analysed outside of the context of its accompanying sonnet.  Still it would be a difficult task for anyone but Browning.  Or God.

Oddly though, there are many ways in which these both may be read; and yet, the intended meaning might be more difficult to divine than such as I more usually write.

On another note:  I believe I shall not move sonnets around, except in rare circumstances.  I think it will make things simpler.   If I write sonnets in sequences that are interspersed with others, I can simply link them with a unique tag.  This will make it seem less futile to insert the “next” links.  Which, when I move things around, are rather a chore to fix, because they are not automatically generated.  I suppose that would be the advantage of ftp access, or at least a professional theme.  We shall see.

William Shakespeare…

…wrote, I believe all, or most, of his sonnets while unable to perform his plays during an outbreak of the plague.  There was,at this time, a moratorium placed on most public activities; therefore, concerts and plays of all kinds were, for a time, proscribed.  So Shakespeare had little to do but confine himself to his rooms and write.  I do not know why he chose to write sonnets at this time, however his chosen form–much simpler, and some might say elegant or sublime–was of his own devising.

His first sequence is some 127 sonnets long and deals with one subject only.  Although I am far from an expert on these matters, I do rather feel that the young man  to which he is speaking metaphorically in these works is more likely himself than any other, nor do I feel that he was speaking metaphorically to young men in general–although certainly there is a level on which this certainly is the case.

Although I have now written as many sonnets as did Shakespeare at that time, I have certainly not written a sequence much over 10 sonnets in length.  There are too many subjects upon which I ponder, to keep to one subject for such a length of time.  On the other hand, When I write of love–such sonnets could be taken as a sequence, since they explore different aspects of my love for my sweetheart.  Such things as I have felt–and over so many years.  I have not counted how many of these are specifically directed to my beloved; however it is bound to be quite a large share, I should think.  Possibly more than half?  Truly, I am not sure, but perhaps such an accounting would be a worthy pursuit.