Nos Ipsos Servamus

I’ve been writing a lot more lately, and submitting pieces to different places. One of the places I’ve started submitting to is the Rattle “Poets Respond” – a weekly call to write something topical, inspired by the news. Since these are going to go out of date very quickly, I’ve decided that, when they’re rejected, they’ll get posted on my Patreon (and, a few days later, here).

I’ve been ill again recently, so only properly clocked the time with a couple of hours to spare before the deadline for this… On Monday, I was all set to talk scathingly about entertainment news and then… over the last few days several famous people died who had hoards of devoted fans and some terrible views and actions to their names (as well as the less celebrated who appear thoroughly blameless, even worthy). We keep being told not to speak ill of especially the freshly dead, but, even when it’s family or friends, I’ve always found it difficult not to look at every aspect of who they were, the full layers of their legacy. In the UK, it took nearly a year after his death for people to be allowed to reveal the full monstrosity of Jimmy Savile, and I think that fetishisation of celebrities for whom we develop parasocial feelings is still very much a problem.

Nos Ipsos Servamus translates roughly as “we save ourselves”, and the poem is in the form of a rondo redoublé.

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In solemn tones we mark them: blessèd souls;
the ones who go before us, bear the tales,
while we, in turn, must choose to shoulder roles
until it’s time for us to test the scales.

But God forbid that on the night they sail
we dare to run adrift on bitter shoals.
(We must not speak aloud of any ‘fails’!)
In solemn tones we mark them: blessèd souls.

Bring down the flags, so they divide the poles,
and let the heavens ring with sacred wails,
as, in our hearts, we guard the tight-bound scrolls:
the ones who went before us bear the tales…

But later? Well, now common sense prevails,
permitting heels to turn and check the soles
of those departed (now it won’t hurt sales…)
while we, in turn, must choose to shoulder roles.

To pass the test of time? a solid goal.
It’s best to keep the buck and carry pails
of our own crap and pay the debts we owe
until it’s time for us to test the scales.

Entitlement talks loudly, posts the bails
for those who live above us foolish proles.
The ones who fight to tell their honest tales?
Now they’re the folks to whom we owe our souls.
In solemn tones we mark them.

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If you fancy having a go at writing one of these Rondeaux Redoublé yourself, why not try my handy-dandy tool here? Let me know how you get on!

Transfer of ashes of Voltaire to the Pantheon (1791) via Wikipedia

The words under the title of the picture read: “Il est digne de recevoir les honneurs décernée aux grands hommes. La Cérémonie du Triomphe de Voltaire a eu lieu le Lundi 11 Juillet 1791. Cet hommage rendu aux talents d’un grand Homme, a l’Autour de la Henriade.” which translates to “He is worthy of receiving the honors bestowed upon great men. The Ceremony of Voltaire’s Triumph took place on Monday, July 11, 1791. This tribute was paid to the talents of a great man, the author of the Henriade.”

Physician, Heal Thyself...

I’ve been writing a lot more lately, and submitting pieces to different places. One of the places I’ve started submitting to is the Rattle “Poets Respond” – a weekly call to write something topical, inspired by the news. Since these are going to go out of date very quickly, I’ve decided that, when they’re rejected, they’ll get posted on my Patreon (and, a few days later, here).

Too depressed to write about the ongoing Are We All Gonna Die This Month? situation this week, I’ve been looking in the less front-page articles, and was struck by one entitled “AI advised someone to stick garlic where the sun don’t shine”. The article is actually more wide-ranging, more alarming, and more clinical than the headline suggests, but the initial premise triggered this two-part triolet, tongue tucked firmly in cheek:

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I can’t believe that, in this day and age,
we must debunk this kind of wild advice…
Sure, I’m no kind of therapeutic sage,
but I can’t believe that, in this day and age,
you would assume a robot is a mage!
(though I won’t judge, in case that’s just a vice)
I can’t believe that, in this day and age,
we must unkink this kind of wild advice.

Its sources are the loudest shouts around;
the best you can expect: an eggy face.
These tropes are fundamentally unsound:
its sources are the loudest shouts around.
(Please don’t wedge garlic somewhere so profound!)
I wonder at the runners in this race...
Their sources are the loudest shouts around –
the best you can expect: an eggy face.

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If you'd like to have a go at writing your own triolet, you can get support from my totally handcrafted, no-ai-involved spreadsheet for repeating and concrete forms.

Have fun!

Picture of garlic courtesy of picryl.com

Sunk Cost

I’ve been writing a lot more lately, and submitting pieces to different places. One of the places I’ve started submitting to is the Rattle “Poets Respond” – a weekly call to write something topical, inspired by the news. Since these are going to go out of date very quickly, I’ve decided that, when they’re rejected, they’ll get posted on my Patreon (and, a few days later, here).

The inspirations for this glosa are outlined below the poem.

Palimpsest for the end of February

I’ve been writing a lot more lately, and submitting pieces to different places. One of the places I’ve started submitting to is the Rattle “Poets Respond” – a weekly call to write something topical, inspired by the news. Since these are going to go out of date very quickly, I’ve decided that, when they’re rejected, they’ll get posted on my Patreon (and, a few days later, here).

This is the first one! A sestina for the repetitive nature of the news cycle and social media right now:

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The sins of men these days seem… uncountable,
and we petition the mighty to conduct
us – they signed on to drive
this vessel, after all.
And they tell us being powerful is hard!
Don’t scupper the ship, we need them; don’t pull the trigger!

We’ve turned, we’ve pointed – we’ve seen the rigger
of the system; the evidence is countable
but so, so hard,
while we try to keep eyes on the conduct
of them all –
every single one, from birth, was taught to rive.

And yet, now we’re asking them to drive
forth the sinners, snip the strings of riggers,
their rigour’s suddenly forgotten in the calls
for clemency; we’re begging those accountable
to ditch excuses, conduct
proper searches, come down hard.

But even getting drip-fed poison is hard,
a larger world emerging under our feet, as we drive
home the messages, the revelations of misconduct
abducting our attention, while trigger after trigger
is pulled, and sins litter our screens, uncountable,
undoubtable – big and small.

No wonder, for some, reality begins to pall:
it’s all too hard,
and here’s a game, a way to keep from feeling accountable,
just trust the voice of the virtual, it’ll drive
the hurt away, let’s play ArtIst, while the downrigger
trawls the spoils of others’ talents to reconduct.

What’s the score? Who’s conducting?
The product is ready, laid out on the stall
don’t stop – you can’t let these spriggers
rob us of everything you’ve worked for, so hard.
Words are malleable – libido doesn’t just mean sex drive
it’s an appetite for living, would you deprive us, The Accountable?

It just takes a touch to trigger a witch hunt – gold is a great conductor,
locked in virtual stocks – unaccountable? Maybe not all…
If you can’t take it with you, burn everything – especially the hard drive…

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If you’d like to write your own sestina, you can access the tool I created here. let me know how you got on if you do!

Image made clumsily with CorelDraw and MS PowerPoint (because fuck AI)