written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label Kyrielle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kyrielle. Show all posts

Saturday, 10 May 2025

Kýrie Elé...

Kyrielle: a poetic form (which is why it's getting the treatment on this week's blog), originating in 15th century France out of that country's troubadour tradition. It was written to be sung or declaimed in octosyllabic rhyming couplets, usually paired in four line stanzas. There was no prescribed limit to the number of stanzas. That was determined by the stamina of poet (if extemporised) and audience. And in practice, although eight beats to a line was essential, the end rhymes were not necessarily paired, though the fourth line of each stanza was usually repeated throughout as a refrain.

As has been pointed out by a couple of my fellow bloggers on theme, the root of the word kyrielle lies in Christian liturgy and the prayer known as the Kyrie Eleison, from the
 Ancient Greek: Κύριε, ἐλέησον (Lord, have mercy...), one of the most repeated phrases in eastern Orthodox and western Catholic litanies in particular.


Early kyrielles are thought to have had mainly religious or spiritual themes, which should come as no great surprise given the root of the word and the hymn-like structure, but over time more secular concepts and concerns, such as courtly love, were introduced into the tradition. Modern kyrielles, it seems, can be about pretty much any damned thing.

Although I've searched doggedly for some early examples of the form, it has not proved a very fruitful undertaking, and most of the samples I tracked down broke nearly every rule of kyrielle composition. Poetry, it's a funny old world, makes you wonder why we bother.😕

However, bother I did, though maybe I shouldn't have, and produced this, mostly to the strict conventions of the structure. It was not easy, believe me. It strikes me it must be hard to produce anything other than rather trite verse within such limited confines. I decided to take a swipe at the bad we do to children... it's a work in progress and it's extensible. I suspect I'm trying to make it do things that it was never designed to do. I may return to the kyrielle, though right now I doubt it.

Bloody Hell, Kyrielle, Boom Boom
Dripping the sweet sacramental 
syrup of evil onto each
innocent tongue, sentimental
addiction in the very young.

Given tablets to pacify
instead of attention leaves them
craving screentime to satisfy
addiction in the very young.

A nation of overweight kids
speaking emoji on mobiles
what kind of future? God forbid
addiction in the very young.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Tuesday, 6 May 2025

Kyrielle

From Wikipedia,

“The Kyrielle is a poetic form that originated in 15th century French troubadour poetry.”

The lines of a kyrielle are octosyllabic, rhyming couplets in quatrains with a refrain final line of each stanza. There is no limit to the number of stanzas, but there should be at least three. The name ‘Kyrielle’ derives from the Kyrie, which is part of some Christian liturgies, and would include the phrase ‘Lord, have mercy’, or similar.

“An English Baptist pastor, Cornelius Elven, wrote this hymn for a series of special services for his congregation in 1852. The text expresses the penitence of the Publican in the parable in Luke 18:9-14

1. With broken heart and contrite sigh
a trembling sinner, Lord, I cry:
thy pardoning grace is rich and free
O God, be merciful to me.

2. I smite upon my troubled breast,
with deep and conscience guilt oppressed;
Christ and his cross my only plea:
O God, be merciful to me.

3. Far off I stand with tearful eyes,
nor dare uplift them to the skies;
but thou dost all my anguish see:
O God, be merciful to me.

4. Nor alms, nor deeds that I have done,
can for a single sin atone;
to Calvary alone I flee:
O God, be merciful to me.

5. And when, redeemed from sin and hell,
with all the ransomed throng I dwell,
my raptured song shall ever be,
God has been merciful to me.

And mine,

Fam’ly photos in fancy frames,
Smiling faces and party games.
Treasured and happy times to hold
But her story cannot be told.

When all she had was torn apart
A fleeting moment held her heart,
Worth more than tons of solid gold
But her story cannot be told.

Joyful squeals of fun and laughter,
Yet no happy ever after
For those like her, left in the cold,
But her story cannot be told.

The tears that mingle with the rain,
A lonely sign of inward pain.
Her hopes and dreams may soon unfold
But her story cannot be told.

PMW July 2012

Thanks for reading, Pam x