[Jim Moonan]

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N — My only thought on the subject is wether or not a reader from back in the time would detect something askew about it; sense something they couldn't put their finger on; be unable to match up the indelible yet changeable fingerprint of language in the context of evolution. That's really my only thought. As a rule, I don't enjoy a poem I can't connect with on a linguistic level.

I'm curious, though — do you ever write poetry in a more contemporary tongue? I'd like to read it. It's obvious you have a poet's soul.

Welcome N!

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[Mark McDonnell]

Hi N,

You are clearly sincere in your attachment to the verse and voice of the past, so it seems pointless and churlish, I suppose, to keep telling you that you are misguided. A person likes what they like. I wonder, though, if your poems have to be quite so stuck in the past to the point where your word choices are so archaic, and sometimes incorrect as has been pointed out, that the result sounds like bad pastiche. I had a quick go at modernising some of the language here. The result is still very old-fashioned sounding but, to my ear, it sounds at least more sincere. I couldn't help but get rid of those initial caps too. As Jim says, you are not lacking in some talent. It seems a shame, to me, to be quite so chained to the language of several centuries ago. I feel like I'm staging an intervention ha.


If I were born to years before my own,
and nursed on accents before the vulgar now,
when y'all was sounded ye, and you was thou,
and ancient stars, their fledgling lustre shone

upon the solemn tongues of the English voice,
I’d count myself amongst my kith and kin;
but Time arrested, before I might begin,
and destiny denied me every choice.

Those selfsame stars, once bright with blinding beams,
have waned and faded, faint with feeble fire
like embers of enraptured lights that fade.

Now infant wailings turn to bygone screams
and youthful bliss concedes to withered ire
where all these transient things are dust and shade.

original

Were but I born to years before mine own,
Been nursed on accents ere this vulgar plea,
When you wert thou, and y’all were reckoned ye,
And antique stars, their fledgling lustre shone

Upon the mewling tongues of th’ English voice,
I’d count myself amongst my kith and kin;
Yet Time brought endings ere I might begin,
And destiny denies me ev’ry choice.

Those selfsame stars, once bright with lusty beams,
Hath waned and welked till faint with feeble fire
As th’ embers of those raptured lights did fade.

Now infant wailings turn to bygone screams,
And youthful bliss concedes to withered ire,
Where all these transient things are dust and shade.