‘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.

Intro 10: Will I See?

Things I have not seen…
But wish that someday I shall…
In another life…

In another time…
Although my faith is lacking…
I want the next life…

So I may see you…
Dance for me, and play for me…
As never I’ve known….


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.

For Shore, for sure!

The following was so lengthy I thought to bring it along from here.

December 9, 2012 at 9:18 pm

Hiya David, long time no correspondance, hey?

To be brutally (and perhaps refreshingly) honest, I don’t actually read that much, or rather, I can definitely say I’m not a bookworm. A few authors who I do enjoy reading when I get the chance include Scott Westerfeld and Terry Pratchett. They have quite different styles of writing, but both manage to include some subtle humour, something I’m quite big on. Other than that, I read the newspaper most days, especially the opinion section (although I’m not quite sure this counts!)

On a related note, I’m pretty confident I learnt to read playing Pokémon when I was about 3 or 4. If not, it definitely bettered my vocabulary!

I just want to say thanks, David. It’s really great to have such a worldly advocate liking what I do. Hopefully with exams now finished, I’ll be back to churning out quality material on a regular basis!

Wonderful to hear from you! I shall take the above from bottom to top (rather than from the centre out, as those who know me well have so jibed.)

You are quite welcome, I am looking forward to seeing more. As well, do pop by my site here and there as time might permit. (You are, after all, my very first commenter, except for my sweetheart of course.)

Regarding Pokémon, I have not seen (nor played) much, perhaps just enough to know that I am not prone to seizures (Is that joke/reference too old for you?) And regarding animé in general, I do enjoy it greatly–particularly that sub-genre termed ‘shonen,’ a favourite of my sweet wife as well, for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that little western heroic fiction written after 1914 is truly heroic–not reliably heroic, in any case; not without vetting it first. Whereas such as I have above mentioned is virtually guaranteed to be so, although why I think this is so, is too long a topic for this already bloated post.

Regarding your learning to read, I find your explanation not at all surprising, as you strike me as quite precocious. This seems a very familiar scenario to me, as such proclivities as I may possess also appeared at a very early age–those of my sweetheart as well, although in a sense, the method with which she learned to read as a very young girl involved sitting on her grandfather’s knee while he read his bible–among other things–and pointed out words for her to read or learn. My way was… quite honestly it must have been very haphazard and random, because I cannot remember ever not being able to read.

When I started writing poetry, I had only read science fiction–which continues to be my favourite–though by this time I have read quite a lot of other types of literature. Poetry… I suppose one might term it my “gateway drug” to the humanities. It was a way in which I could understand my sweetheart’s world of the humanities without having to read huge works of literature (none at all containing spaceships of any form, by the way) which, no doubt would have bored me quite to death at your age.

And regarding the selections you did mention, I have not read anything as of yet by Mr. Westerfield, (what do you recommend as my first?) however not long ago, (in dog years, perhaps) around the turn of the century (yes, this one, young man, not the last) I was introduced to Mr Pratchett’s work and have read nearly all of it. I believe there are a few Discworld offerings–the newest ones–which I have not yet read, but no doubt soon will.

Perhaps, although you have answered my question partially–albeit very graciously–I still wonder regarding the nature of such poetry as you have read, or in what way you were first introduced to its various forms, particularly sonnets, because I do sense some artefacts in some of your wording which to me suggest some influence or other.

I had only read a few sonnets early on in my sojourn into poetry, and fell in love with the form, and started writing them almost from the the first day of my studies–so perhaps, I’m more like you than I had at first imagined; and perhaps also, as my sweetheart continues to insist, my humanities connexions are “more along” than I realise or am willing to admit. In any case, yours may be an example of what, in heuristics, we might term “early synthesis,” as, clearly, is mine.

Also pardon my schizophrenic spelling, as, although I am from the US–though my sweetheart is very English–I recently changed my spell-check to British English. (Believe me when I say I very much need one! And for two reasons, the second of which is my lightning fast typing that does not always produce the desired result, and the first of which is obvious.) I did this because I thought that such UK spellings with which it would prompt me, would be more in keeping with the King James English which (however imperfectly) I often employ in my sonnets, and which my sweetheart so loves (because as such, it reminds her warmly of her early education.) In any case, some US spellings are also considered acceptable to such dictionaries, as those of the UK, and, as a result, the dictionary I am currently using (in Firefox) will not always engage in the type of “Brittpicking” that I should like it do perform. There is, no doubt, a more stodgy one available somewhere that more strongly ‘favours’ UK spellings, because I can see such a thing as being an extremely useful tool for writers.

It seems that this rarefied territory as…

…such of us who maintain our rather anonymous, low volume blogs enjoy will be sorely missed when, at some point, one finds one has crossed the line into some higher level of recognition.   Most of us here at this level–if not all, which truly has been my experience–seem not to offer harsh judgement, but simply a neighbourly kind of support.   I myself, have never been, in such a way, too critical; and although from some of my writings, one might infer that I might be found rather particular as regards my likes and dislikes, I have a number of reasons why–even pre-blogging–this is my general way of approaching such things.  One might, for example read elsewhere in this blog, that I feel an aspiring writer is too odd a duck to give the kind of advice that another aspiring writer may need–unless that writer is deliberately targeting other aspiring writers; a thing which may or may not be the case.  This is not the least of my reasons, such as they are; however I will leave it to the reader to ferret out my other such reasons.

In any case, crossing the boundary brings into ones world, flaming, trolling, and other elemental denizens.  Some trolls are even paid assassins meant to break the spirit of those who do not, as it were, “tow the line” in whatever way some shadowy foundation might have decided needs towing.  Of this I have seen many examples, and read about a great deal more.  As I  myself am a technically savvy fellow, I am not as concerned with such things.  They will be met with the appropriate countermeasures.  Some of which my more technically savvy readers will, no doubt find very entertaining.

However, such a moment carries with it, like it or not, a feeling of “childhood’s end,” as one might term it.  A bit sad in some undefinable way.  I remember very well, my first such moment–rather trivial by comparison–being the very first comment I received from someone other than my sweet wife.  I remember it giving me pause.  Not sure, I remember I felt, as to whether I should acknowledge it myself, or just pretend it never happened.

As it turned out, responding in kind opened up a whole new world to me; and this is a thing for which I am most appreciative.  Although I have not seen many new posts from my first follower–as he was rather young, and, I am most certain, has other priorities besides maintaining a blog.  Still my exchanges with this young man remain quite significant in my memory.  And, he is, as, of this date, his most recent post will show, a very talented young man.  (This, by the way, is a quite beautiful tribute to a lighthouse, if I am not mistaken)

In any case….   Childhood’s end?  We should not fear it.  We should not regret it, except to look back upon it fondly and with gilding such as only nostalgic recollection may bring.  But, certainly we should look it straight in the face and bravely yell:  “Bring it on!”