Metrical Romance

    metrical romance
  • As a literary genre of high culture, romance or chivalric romance is a style of heroic prose and verse narrative that was popular in the aristocratic circles of High Medieval and Early Modern Europe.
metrical romance
metrical romance - Metrical Romances
Metrical Romances
Metrical Romances
This book was originally published prior to 1923, and represents a reproduction of an important historical work, maintaining the same format as the original work. While some publishers have opted to apply OCR (optical character recognition) technology to the process, we believe this leads to sub-optimal results (frequent typographical errors, strange characters and confusing formatting) and does not adequately preserve the historical character of the original artifact. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as blurred or missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work or the scanning process itself. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy seeing the book in a format as close as possible to that intended by the original publisher.

Cannibal & the head hunters...... praying mantis
Cannibal & the head hunters...... praying mantis
Mister Munch-a-bunch-for-lunch was perusing the insect buffet this afternoon..... A Familiar Letter Yes, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying, If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold. Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies, As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; Just think! all the poems and plays and romances Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool! You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, And take all you want, not a copper they cost,-- What is there to hinder your picking out phrases For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"? Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero, Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine. There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavor of which we're afraid, There is "lush"is a good one, and "swirl" is another,-- Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made. With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!" Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions For winning the laurels to which you aspire, By docking the tails of the two prepositions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire. As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes. Let me show you a picture--'t is far from irrelevant-- By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 'T is only a photographed sketch of an elephant,-- The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine. How easy! no troublesome colors to lay on, It can't have fatigued him,-- no, not in the least,-- A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast. Just so with your verse,-- 't is as easy as sketching,-- You can reel off a song without knitting your brow, As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching; It is nothing at all, if you only know how. Well; imagine you've printed your volume of verses: Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame, Your poems the eloquent school-boy rehearses, Her album the school-girl presents for your name; Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; You'll answer them promptly,-- an hour isn't much For the honor of sharing a page with your betters, With magistrates, members of Congress, and such. Of course you're delighted to serve the committees That come with requests from the country all round, You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties When they've got a new schoolhouse, or poorhouse, or pound. With a hymn for the saints and a song for the sinners, You go and are welcome wherever you please; You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners, You've a seat on the platform among the grandees. At length your mere presence becomes a sensation, Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration, As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That's him!" But remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us, The ovum was human from which you were hatched. No will of your own with its puny compulsion Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre; It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's convulsion And touches the brain with a finger of fire. So perhaps, after all, it's as well to he quiet If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose, As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet To the critics, by publishing, as you propose. But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written,-- I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself. --Oliver Wendell Holmes
"de olhos brancos no ar,como quem dorme/na romba lamina de um canivete." "with my blank eyes looking up,as if sleeping/on the dull blade of a jack-knife."
"de olhos brancos no ar,como quem dorme/na romba lamina de um canivete."  "with my blank eyes looking up,as if sleeping/on the dull blade of a jack-knife."
Terceiras Moradas (9) E poderia dar-te um chao de celofane, onde desliza a onda em noite fresca; quatro paredes, pintadas de gaiola, e o implacavel marmore dos dentes. Amor viria de asas cegas no recorte, e o mel, as moscas, tudo nos seria maneira de afastar a morte. E cresceriam aves no lugar dos frutos, enganados pela continua exaltacao da rima; e saberia, acaso, ate como ser triste sem proverbio nem cao, de olhos brancos no ar, como quem dorme na romba lamina de um canivete. © 1996, Antonio Franco Alexandre From: Poemas Publisher: Assirio & Alvim, 1996 _________________________________________ Dwelling Places III (9) And I could give you a cellophane floor where waves would slide on cool nights, four cage-coloured walls, and flawless marble teeth. Love would enter the scene on blind wings, and honey, houseflies and the rest would all be ways for us to stave off death. Birds would grow in the place of fruits, fooled by the relentless exaltation of rhyme, and I might even know how to be sad without a dog or proverbs, with my blank eyes looking up, as if sleeping on the dull blade of a jack-knife. © Translation: Richard Zenith ________________________________________________ Nuno Judice was born in 1949 in the village of Mexilhoeira Grande in the Algarve. He studied in Lisbon, where he received a Master’s degree in Romance Languages and Literature and in 1989 a PhD, with a dissertation on medieval literature. A professor at Lisbon’s Universidade Nova, he served from 1997 to 2004 as the cultural attache of the Portuguese Embassy in Paris. His poetry has garnered various prizes and is widely translated. A literary critic, essayist, and writer of fiction with various titles to his credit, Judice is best known as a poet, with some twenty collections of verse to his credit. His poetry is conversational in tone, without any evident laboring over the right word here, the special metrical or sound effect there. But we find, lightly embedded in his verses, a profound theoretical reflection on life and on individual lives – lives he has perhaps lived, or dreamt, or witnessed. Some of the poems read like parables or allegories, but what do the symbols mean? Maybe they don’t mean anything, and maybe that doesn’t matter. Judice’s poetry is a journey through memories, visions, real and imagined experiences, ideas and hypotheses, without any hope – or concern – to arrive at a conclusion. Richard Zenith
metrical romance
Morien: A Metrical Romance Rendered Into English Prose From The Mediaeval Dutch...
This is a reproduction of a book published before 1923. This book may have occasional imperfections
such as missing or blurred pages, poor pictures, errant marks, etc. that were either part of the original artifact,
or were introduced by the scanning process. We believe this work is culturally important, and despite the imperfections,
have elected to bring it back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works
worldwide. We appreciate your understanding of the imperfections in the preservation process, and hope you enjoy this valuable book.



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