ALEXANDRINE VERSE APPRECIATION THREAD

To those of us whose main language is one of the Romance Languages (Spanish, Portuguese, French, Italian, Romanian), what do you think of the 12 syllable metrical verse, usually called the Alexandrine Verse?

I tended to use the ten-syllable line verse in my poetry and drama (the Decasyllable), but I will change to the 12 syllable line, because it offers more space and allows one to express generally the same as a line of iambic pentameter.

Since English is mostly monosyllabic, the metrical poetry of the English speaking poets tends to be more complex than ours – or at least more detailed and flexible -, mostly because of the space they have to work with. One need but to compare single lines from Dante and Camões and Ariosto to those of Shakespeare to see what I am talking about.

Now, the Alexandrine is quite well-respected in France, but not so much in Portugal, Spain and Brazil. I was willing to contradict the tradition of my country and abandon the 10-syllable verse for the Alexandrine.

So I would like to ask what are your experiences with this particular verse?

The Decasyllable is my thing, but I feel comfortable with Alexandrines too.

I have just translated Yeats using Alexandrines:

A ILHA DO LAGO DE INNISFREE

Agora eu vou partir, partir para Inisfree
Onde, em vime e argila, uma casa erguerei,
Com meus pés-de-feijão e uma colmeia, ali
Só zunidos, sozinho, ouvirei.

E a paz terei então, a paz que asperge lenta
Das mantilhas da aurora até onde o grilo soa;
A noite ali é vislumbre, o dia roxo e alenta,
E, de tarde, o pintarroxo voa.

Agora eu vou partir, pois dia e noite escuto,
Escuto a água do lago a pular pela praia;
Se eu piso pavimento em seu chão cinza e bruto,
Escuto-a, e o coração desmaia.

(Gonna make a few changes to it, though.)

>The Decasyllable is my thing, but I feel comfortable with Alexandrines too.

Would it bother you to specify why do you prefer the decasyllable? Do you think that Alexandrines are not as sonorous? Too similar to prose?

Also, nice translation.

Test

Who else /ottave/ masterrace here?

Be decent, PT anons, is there a good portuguese tragic Poet?

I believe it has more to do with tradition than anything else: Camões and Dante are my masters. As a result, it comes more naturally to me. In fact, I often think in decasyllables, even when I am not writing poetry.

However, had I been born in France, I would probably be writing Alexandrines.

Other than that, I believe it depends a lot on what you are writing, and which language you're using. Alexandrine verses are not usually seen in Portuguese or Italian epic poetry, for instance, but in France there is Voltaire's Henriade. (In Brazil, Haroldo de Campos did it when translating Homer, but it's very recent, and Olavo Bilac tried one hundred years ago, but did it badly).

I just finished a tragedy in 5 acts, written in blank verse (mostly decasyllables, but with some Alexandrines too), rhymed verse, prose and with songs.

Unfortunately, I have constructed it not too well, so the result ended up being a play of 700 pages, and unactable – a closet drama.

But I will take care with the next works and will strive to make them actable.

That it may be worth! But you haven't answered my question, user.

Ottava rima? It's been some time since I've been thinking of writing an epic in ottava rima, but I never find the energy to finally choose a proper historical subject and delve deeply into it.

I've considered doing it with the life of Lope de Aguirre, but I suppose a subject as bleak as that would probably be best written in Dante's meter rather than in the more flamboyant 'oitavas camonianas' (which is how we call them in Brazil).

Tragic? Oh, dear... Our theatrical tradition is a little on the poorer side of things. Gil Vicente is where it's at, but he was a comedian. You can try Almeida Garret, but I haven't read any of his plays, so I cannot comment on it. They were well-received in his days.

I really dont think there is a good Tragic poet either in Portugal or Brazil, no. I would love to have a teacher, but so far I have not found one.

>That it may be worth!

I posted some excerpts:

Among other stuff I translated (forgive the bad translation - my English isn't very good)

Sorry, I forgot about Antonio Ferreira's play about Inês de Castro. I haven't read it either, but I've read most of his lyric poetry and he was a great master of the language. His talent certainly rose much above his Petrarchism.

Post the Portuguese excerpts in this thread.

Kumori: Meus deleites se encontram todos mortos.
Meu cacho de amanhãs, meus sóis ainda
Não nascidos, já são todos abortos
De tédio, ansiedade e violência
No útero sangrento do futuro:
Meu horizonte hiberna em podre vinho,
De tal forma que bebo minha vida
À força, cada gole uma pequena náusea.
De naufrágio em naufrágio arrasto o espírito;
Forço minha carcaça a mastigar
Cada minuto e ignoro a azia de existir.
Eu vago num anêmico deserto
E procissão sem fim de sóis raquíticos.
O tempo coagula em desbotado
Caminhar de cadáveres (meus dias),
Pois dias mortos chocam dias mortos,
E dias mortos chocam dias mortos,
Numa marcha sem fim na qual torturas
Frescas, suando sangue ainda quente,
Caminham sobre os fósseis de agonias
Ancestrais, e essa grande e podre pústula
Aberta que é meu reino jamais cala
Seu cântico sangrento, que haverá
De fluir até a quebra da ampulheta
Misteriosa que chamamos tempo.
Minha vida é também minha prisão;
Levantar-me do leito é uma tortura:
A remelenta luz da aurora invade-me
Com repulsa, a tal ponto que desejo
Que a noite se coroe eterna e o sol,
Com seu sorrir, não mais corroa as trevas,
Mas que nelas se afogue a humanidade
E que cada botão de vida seja
Sufocado em silêncio. A vida, que é ela?
A vida é um sonho breve e sombra suja,
Pesadelo que cria carne e, por
Um grão de pó e efêmera faísca
Do tempo, guincha, uiva e se contorce
No ninho poluído da existência
Até que um simples sopro o solve em fumo:
O hálito do morrer derrete a chama
E no pavio da vela resta o eclipse.
A vida é uma doença que ferroa
O espantalho grosseiro da matéria
Inanimada e faz com que perceba
O próprio absurdo e ausência de sentido;
Relâmpago que ruge o estrondo e caos
Fugaz de sua voz e então mergulha
Novamente no eterno pântano das trevas
E infinito silêncio do vazio;
É uma frenética fagulha e tocha
Confusa, um chimpanzé de fogo fátuo
Ilhado em selva escura, que o reabsorve
Antes mesmo que a pobre besta invente
Algum sentido para o clarão súbito
Do ser, sua existência: a caravela
De bolha de sabão que, sem destino,
Navega por um mar de insossa névoa;
Nau de nada, que o nada concebeu
E que no nada se afoga.

Sorry, just realized you posted a lot of Portuguese stuff in that thread.

Masatoyo: Eu tenho aqui cartas ainda úmidas
De espiões que enviei para cidades
Costeiras que relatam maremotos,
Ondas gigantes e tremor de terra.
Dizem que a salgada fertilidade
Do mar franziu-se em caldo de ódio, azia
E convulsão, que o cio da água e do vento
Berrou uma ninhada de titânicos
Leviatãs, montanhas cavalgantes
Cujas cristas de espuma mordiam as nuvens,
Como se desejassem estripá-las,
Chegando até o pomar de velas das estrelas
E, uma vez lá, drená-las como balas,
Sugando o mel e açúcar prateado
Da luz, calando o fogo e condenando
O mundo à noite eterna. Contra a costa
Esporearam os tufões seus corcéis verdes,
Colossais hipocampos a rugir tsunamis.
As cartas dizem que anciões que em vilas
Pesqueiras e cidades portuárias
Moraram toda a vida jamais viram
O mar jogar-se com tamanha fúria
Contra o litoral, contra rocha e praia;
Que jamais tantas algas, tanta espuma,
Tanto catarro e bile dos abismos
As águas vomitaram pela costa.
É como se o oceano desejasse
Devorar o Japão, desintegrando,
Com saliva salgada e espumejante
Mastigação, as vértebras de pedra
Deste arquipélago onde o sol tem ninho.

Nobukado: Ouvi relatos semelhantes. Pânico
Se espalha em muitas áreas da nação.
A natureza e o caos acasalaram,
Assim crocitam pelos vilarejos
Os mendigos, os loucos e os profetas
Que, na arte de injetar sabedoria,
Lógica contorcida e insânia iluminada
Por meio de palavras rudes, que nos mordem,
Costumam ser irmãos. Alguns fanáticos
Dizem que o Japão, podre e corrompido,
Qual imenso cadáver, no oceano
Vai naufragar, e nossa amada Terra
Jamais verá as bochechas cristalinas,
O rosto violeta e o sorridente
Olhar dos céus serenos novamente.
Templos, castelos, torres e palácios:
A colméia marmórea e os jardins pétreos
Da civilização, vão dissolver-se
Em limo, a abóboda celeste e os ventos
– Ninhada de raposas acrobáticas
De brisa – em solidão, silêncio e noite
Perpétuos haverão de congelar,
E todos nossos clãs, o império, o sol,
Vão, no desértico país das conchas,
Ancorar em colapso e esquecimento.

Kumori: Eu só queria lhe dizer que aquilo
Que desbota e dilui sua beleza
– Talvez não aos olhos do mundo, apenas
Na sua própria mente – é a tristeza.
Existe um animal cuja beleza
É tão lendária quanto é ele esquivo:
O leopardo das neves do Nepal.
É um espectro palpável com pelagem
Cor de luar, fantasma tricotado
Com lã de neve e névoa. É o diamante
De carne das montanhas; coração
E orgânica entidade das geleiras;
O esquivo fauno dos jardins aéreos
Do Himalaia; senhor de inacessíveis
Hortas rochosas e pomares pálidos;
Rei dos gramados brancos; felino indomável.
Hipnotizadas por tal majestade
As estrelas fizeram cafuné no gato
E em seu pelo as galáxias estamparam
A fria digital de inatingíveis
Incêndios que do abismo nos observam.
Ventos polinizados pelo pó
Do gelo temperaram com esporos
De cristal seus pulmões; o hálito alpino
Mordeu seu sangue e inoculou nevascas
Na prata de seus músculos potentes.
É essa a glória descrita por aqueles
Que viram o animal na natureza,
Que em seu próprio habitat e nicho o espreitaram.
Quando criança também eu o vi,
Porém estava preso e encoleirado:
Um patife o arrastava de cidade
Em cidade, o expondo por moedas.
Bichano cabisbaixo, eis o que vi:
Magro, careca, sujo, com costelas
À mostra, uma estalagem para pulgas,
Ilha de moscas, um farrapo: a mera sombra
Da safira carnívora que reina
Nos picos do Himalaia. O cativeiro
O corroera em sarnenta ruína,
Mas tal destroço, caso retornasse
Às montanhas, iria florescer
Novamente em barão do eterno inverno.
Você não reconhece a milagrosa
Beleza que possui, princesa, por
Também estar presa, e a prisão que a esmaga
É a mais negra e profunda que há no mundo:
A depressão, supremo calabouço,
Masmorra das masmorras. Mesmo tendo
Todo o planeta por jardim privado
No próprio crânio temos a gaiola
Se estamos deprimidos: carregamos
Em todos os lugares nossas grades
E, enroladas nas veias, as correntes.
A tristeza e o sofrer pelo marido
Doente são as cordas e mordaças
Que silenciam parte de você,
Mas mesmo assim você rasga a neblina
Que quer asfixiar sua beleza,
Pois não há nuvem que sufoque o sol
Nem cerração que tranque inteiramente
O oceano de luz que o astro canta,
O eterno cintilar de seus gorjeios.

I can post here, no problem

Yaegaki: Claro que posso, Yuki. Trata-se de um cântico cantado por uma coruja. O pai de Nobukatsu até mudava de voz para tentar interpretar a coruja. Era tão engraçadinho vê-lo embalando o bebê, cantando e fazendo caretas, quase sem perceber que suas feições tentavam imitar as de uma coruja. A canção era assim:

(Canta)

Ru, ru, ru! Não tema, ru!
Não tema, bebezinho, ru!
Eu vou guardar seu soninho,
Ru, Ru! Serei seu anjinho.

Sou Ferrugem, a coruja,
O guardião da floresta,
Por ter na noite o meu ninho
Os monstros não fazem festa.

Veja estas fadas carnívoras,
Meus olhos, faiscantes feras:
Fantasmas malvados temem
Essas douradas panteras.

Ru, ru, ru! Não tema, ru!
Não tema, bebezinho, ru!

Dragão com baba de lava;
Lobo atroz, a morte cinza;
Orquídeas negras, morcegos;
Urso e javali ranzinza;

Raposa de nove caudas;
Ratos; macacos traquinas;
Lesmas; sapos; salamandras;
Rãs suadas com toxinas;

Cobras com ruína por dentes;
Tarântulas cabeludas:
Não os tema, bebê, durma,
Durma o doce sono dos Budas.

Eu vou guardar seu soninho,
Ru, Ru! Serei seu anjinho.

Sou rei quando o sol se afoga,
Sou senhor dos animais,
Eu vigio os bosques negros,
Sendo assim, não chore mais.

Ru, ru, ru! Não tema, ru!
Não tema, bebezinho, ru!
Eu vou guardar seu soninho,
Ru, Ru! Serei seu anjinho.

Yuki: (Canta)

Não chore, meu bebê, não chore,
Que a babá o ama: me aceite.
Eu sei, meus seios são só amoras,
Meus seios não produzem leite.

Sou só menina, não sou moça;
Pra comprar chá, pra comprar pão,
Eu fui vendida por papai
Ao seu papai, ao meu patrão.

Bebê, se a lua fosse minha,
Com a alva argila eu moldaria
Cem mil bolinhos de arroz doce
E aos bebês do mundo os daria.

Faria um cervo cor de leite
Para escalar os céus, qual gato,
Pois sonho tanto em ir pra casa
Que a mente pisa e seca o mato.

Bebê, não chore, seus pais o amam.
Mas, se eu morrer, quem vai chorar?
Só o corvo, só a gralha e a cigarra
Vão com seus gritos lamentar.

Morta, me enterrem junto à estrada
Para os passantes dar-me flores.
Qual flor? Camélias, sim, camélias!
Camélias de todas as cores.

Que todos meus medos pereçam.
Que as dores do viver me esqueçam.
Sono, silêncio e breu me aqueçam.
Mas você, meu bebê, forte os anos o teçam.

Kumori: Adeus, queridos filhos.

(Saem todos, menos Yami Kumori)

As estrelas voltaram a sorrir
Nos céus, romperam sua greve e agora
Zombam de minha ruína, de meu fim.
Carregam tochas, vestem suas máscaras
De eternidade gélida e serena,
Pulam fogueira e invocam carnavais
Onde as constelações dançam ciranda:
Queria socar em breu todos os seus olhos.
Para mim as estrelas são só traças
Luminosas roendo o cobertor
Negro da noite. O que eu não daria para
Que meus dedos pudessem esmagá-las
E que o frio insensível dos abismos,
Do vazio universal, devorasse
A Terra. O sol também ousa brilhar
E acaricia o mundo com calor
Uma vez mais: nascendo ele saúda
Meu poente; beija com seu rosto
Dourado a terra devastada em honra
Ao meu crepúsculo. Maldito deus
Do trigo, do vinhedo e da oliveira!
Quisera que ficasse tão deserto e estéril
Quanto a verruga fria e acinzentada
Da lua, ou que meu corpo, ao decompor-se,
Contaminasse o cosmo inteiro com tristeza.
Bem que a existência poderia ser o sonho
De um monstro, e, como para mim o sonho
Apodreceu em pesadelo, então
Que a besta despertasse, que a bolha estourasse
E todos nós com ela: que o meu nada
Fosse também o nada para todos.
No entanto basta de vãs fantasias.
Com minha espada, minha companheira,
Hei de de invocar um micro-apocalipse.
Eles vêm me caçar, creem num fácil abate.
Vou mostrar quem sou em meu último combate.

(Sai)

I've read some of your excerpts, and I particularly enjoyed the owl song. Weirdly enough, I think your English translation actually sounded as good, if not better, than the original. Must be because the English language has more of a 'mysterious' (not the proper word) feeling to it...

As for this speech by 'Kumori', I think you write a little bit more than you should. There's good stuff in it, but there's also stuff which only repeats what has already been said and doesn't see to me to be particularly impressive, such as: 'um chimpanzé de fogo fátuo ilhado em selva escura'. I don't think that comparison was necessary.

Other than that, I must say I am impressed. You are the best PT poet I've seen here yet. Do you post often? I had never read your verses here. May I ask what you play is about? Also, have you published anything yet?

I myself am still very much beginner. I wish I had the power and dedication to write 700 pages of verse.

Vislumbro a sombra de Calderón

>As for this speech by 'Kumori', I think you write a little bit more than you should. There's good stuff in it, but there's also stuff which only repeats what has already been said and doesn't see to me to be particularly impressive, such as: 'um chimpanzé de fogo fátuo ilhado em selva escura'. I don't think that comparison was necessary.

You are spot on that. I have a problem to control myself; I keep sprawling and throwing metaphor on top of metaphor up to the point of saturation.

The greatest challenge I will face in my next works is concision. Less is more might be a cliché, but damn, it is a true one.

>I myself am still very much beginner.

Your perceptions are very good, much better than my own when I was a begginer.

>I wish I had the power and dedication to write 700 pages of verse.

In a certain way is more of a lack of control and self-criticism than anything else. If you were the one writing, you would probably create a play that could be acted and enjoyed, instead of a 700 pages work that nobody reads and was more of an exercise of self-satisfaction than of real artistic creation.

>Vislumbro a sombra de Calderón

I confess I never read him. But I suppose that to echo him is a good thing, since he is considered one of the greatest poets – drama in verse, in my eyes, is certainly poetry – of the Spanish language. I know his famous “Life is a Dream” speech, though.

What I have read and reread and imitated shamelessly is Shakespeare.

>Other than that, I must say I am impressed. You are the best PT poet I've seen here yet. Do you post often?

I posted more before, have been just observing the critic threads in the last months. But I am here on Veeky Forums since at least 2012-2013, so probably we just never happen to post in a same critic thread.

I have published two plays (one by a Portuguese Publishing house, the other self-published by Amazon):none of them was even remotely successful. The only person who has read my first play entirely is my brother – and I don’t blame people, I have many flaws I must correct.

>You are spot on that. I have a problem to control myself; I keep sprawling and throwing metaphor on top of metaphor up to the point of saturation.

That's a common problem. TS Eliot mentions - I think it's in one of his essays - that whenever he was writing a play he always tended to start mindlessly sprouting endless series of very bad iambic pentameters, simply because he couldn't contain himself. Of course, he ended up learning how to control this problem very well (in the case of the Waste Land, he needed some help from Pound), and the result was an oeuvre which is comparatively small. His (six) plays are of average length, and his complete poetry is no larger than 250 pages in most editions.

>In a certain way is more of a lack of control and self-criticism than anything else. If you were the one writing, you would probably create a play that could be acted and enjoyed, instead of a 700 pages work that nobody reads and was more of an exercise of self-satisfaction than of real artistic creation.

True, but at least you know you're up to the challenge. It's more of a question of cutting rather than creating. Cutting is very difficult, but creation, I think, is probably harder. If I were you, I would probably write a new play and limit myself to a definite number of verses per act. Whenever you see that you are exaggerating, just cut it off before you become too entangled in it. Maybe you could try to just imitate some other play, 'renovating' the characters and the scenes in order to fit your personal view - Shakespeare did that.

>I have published two plays (one by a Portuguese Publishing house,

That's interesting. Do you live in Portugal? Unfortunately we must remain anonymous here, otherwise I would ask for the name of that publishing house. Is it well-known?

I myself have considered writing plays, but I am probably going to translate a few before I actually do that. It's quite different from writing lyric, or even epic poetry, so I would certainly need some training. As for publishing, I'm still young (22), and I don't really intend to do that before I'm 30. I have some fear of rejection and what effects it might have upon my urge to keep writing - Italo Svevo spent some 20 years without writing after his first novels received bad reviews -, so I should be better-prepared for it when it happens.

>That's interesting. Do you live in Portugal?

No, in Brazil. I published in Portugal because the only Editor-House willing to accept the play was Portuguese: the Chiado Editora. But even so I had to buy some of the volumes myself.

I am currently working in a new play. This time I will cut everything until it is perfect for performance. I don’t know if I will ever find a theater group willing to perform the work, but I will definitely do my best to purify the material into something stage-worthy.

>I myself have considered writing plays, but I am probably going to translate a few before I actually do that. It's quite different from writing lyric, or even epic poetry, so I would certainly need some training.

I think that for those who enjoy poetry the drama is a good option, for it enables you to tell stories and create characters more easily and palpably than in lyric poetry. Also, Epic poetry needs appropriate subject material, and it is not that easy to find plots like that. So if a poet wants to jump outside his own mind and start thinking with the brain of others dramaturgy is a good option.

However, if the writer wants to get known and read, the best think by far is to write novels.

Also, if the playwright wishes to use a common, worldly, day-to-day language, I would advise movie-script writing rather than plays: there is a much greater chance to get your talent appreciated.

>I'm still young (22), and I don't really intend to do that before I'm 30. I have some fear of rejection and what effects it might have upon my urge to keep writing - Italo Svevo spent some 20 years without writing after his first novels received bad reviews -, so I should be better-prepared for it when it happens.

Maybe worse than bad criticism is no criticism at all. My plays are nonentities: it is as if they were never written: not even small newspapers or magazines made reviews of it.

What I would suggest for any playwright and screenwriters is to read the book “Story”, by Robert McKee: he might seem to be a meme, with all that “the great guru os screenwriting” crap, but the fact is that his book is actually extremely good. Had I read it when I was your age I would have produced much more plays – actable plays – by now (I’m 31).

>I don’t know if I will ever find a theater group willing to perform the work, but I will definitely do my best to purify the material into something stage-worthy.

That's good, but not so much because the play is going to be staged, but rather because it might 'force' you to polish the thing until people are willing to read it, memorize it, and spend money performing it. They won't do that if the play is not ready yet.

>However, if the writer wants to get known and read, the best think by far is to write novels.

I have considered doing that too. In fact, I have considered every single literary form, although I know it's extremely difficult to succeed in more than one. I even wrote the first chapter for a novel based on my dad's (very difficult) early life, but I got to the conclusion my prose isn't good enough. Although it left me with the impression that I can write one or two good lines, it also made me realize I cannot structure my thoughts with elegance - my prose doesn't flow. When I read someone like Eça de Queiroz or Antônio Lobo Antunes I simply can't believe how they can do what they do. Reading Flaubert's description of Salome's dance in his Trois Contes was shattering: not a single bit of artifice, not a single word that shouldn't have been there, and yet a scene of such beauty that it matches the highest poetry. That's how I want to write prose, but it's a very long (probably impenetrable) way if one wishes to get there.

>Maybe worse than bad criticism is no criticism at all. My plays are nonentities: it is as if they were never written: not even small newspapers or magazines made reviews of it.

I know. Perhaps I trust too much in my own judgements. I have shown a work of mine (two translations of short English poems) to another person only once. He is very smart, and praised it, but I haven't yet felt the necessity to show more.

If there is more space per line, and that line still remains sonorous, and the accentuation is flexible, then it is fairly obvious that the twelve syllable line is superior to the ten syllable line.

I really don’t know why more poets don’t use it in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Brasil and Latin America: I guess it is probably due to tradition.

The only chance that Romance language sonnets have to compete with those in English is by using twelve syllable line: you will simply fail to insert that much meaning and content in a decasyllable as an English speaker can insert in a line of Iambic Pentameter. That’s the reason why Sonnets in English are better than most sonnets in Portuguese, Spanish and Italian.

As for the French, they should have tried a theater were they would use the twelve syllable line, but without the annoying pattern and suffocating chain of the rhyming couplet.

Bump for thread about metric