Poetry as Science Fiction and Science Fiction Ancient

+ Poetry as Science, Fiction, and Science Fiction

+ Ancient Poetry n Science Fiction Poetry has a prehistory from before the genre of Science Fiction was established. n Poetry was at one time the language of philosophy, science, and all serious thought. n Pythagoras identified music with mathematics. n Aristotle distinguished Poetry from Rhetoric, and poetry began to separate from science. n Rhetoric: the art of effective or persuasive speaking or writing, especially the use of figures of speech and other compositional techniques.

+ Aristotle’s Poetics n "For even they who compose treatises of medicine or natural philosophy in verse are denominated poets: yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common except their metre; the former, therefore, justly merits the name of the poet; while the other should rather be called a physiologist than a poet"

+ Aristotle’s thoughts on Poetry as Science Fiction n Aristotle has begun the split between "high art" and mere science or science fiction in verse. Aristotle goes on to comment that: "poetry demands either a great natural quickness of parts, or an enthusiasm allied to madness. By the first of these we mould ourselves with facility to the imitation of every form; by the other, transported out of ourselves, we become what we imagine" n The enthusiasm allied to madness -- recalled by Shakespeare as "the lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact" -- leads to Coleridge's emphasis on imagination, and on the science fiction fan scene, since "fan" is an abbreviation of "fanatic. "

+ Aristotle’s Final Thoughts n Aristotle concludes that: "the surprising is necessary in tragedy; but the epic poem goes further and admits even the improbable and incredible, from which the highest degree of the surprising results [III: 4]. . The poet should prefer impossibilities which appear probable to such things as, though possible, appear improbable [III. 6]. " n This lays out the key to science fiction poetry: that it verge on improbable, incredible, and impossible in order to provoke surprise.

+ “The Migration of Darkness, ” Peter Payack Each evening, shortly after sunset, darkness covers the land. Having mystified thinkers for millennia, the mechanism for this occurrence has now been identified: migration. Darkness, it has been found, is composed of an almost infinite number of particles, which roost and reproduce up north where they have fewer natural enemies: Forest fires, lampposts, lasers, blazing sunlight, torches, candles, lighthouses, limelight, and electricity are relatively rare in the polar regions

+ n Payack’s poem, written in a documentary style, posits that darkness is an organism, and an active one at that. Despite the head-tilting premise, there’s something so beautiful about the idea that our world is alive, and that even the most commonplace occurrences—like nightfall—happen purposefully. What would happen if the darkness decided not to migrate? It’s a good poem that stays with you long after you’ve read it.

+ “Space Oddity, ” David Bowie This is ground control to major Tom, you've really made the grade And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare This is major Tom to ground control, I'm stepping through the door And I'm floating in a most peculiar way And the stars look very different today Here am I sitting in a tin can far above the world Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do.

+ n Pop songs count as poetry, okay? Or at least Bowie’s beautiful ode to a space travel tragedy does. Bringing new meaning to the phrase “Houston, we have a problem, ” Major Tom has very little time left after his ship fails. It’s how he deals with his impending demise that is truly heart wrenching, and if science fiction doesn’t make us wonder how we’d react in extreme situations—thereby shedding some light on our own humanity —the genre isn’t doing its job.

+ “The Quiet World” by Jeffrey Mc. Daniel In an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you. When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.

+ n There’s something very current about Mc. Daniel’s 1998 poem. Perhaps it’s our bite-sized, Twitterified modern communication, or the recent popularity of films like Her, but the idea of a government stepping in to make human relationships more meaningful seems tailor made for a young adult novel.

+ Fantasy Poetry n Fantasy Poetry is an anti-modern or para-modern genre that turns away from natural philosophy (science) to exploit the realm of the supernatural. n Fantasy Poetry draws from systematic myth, folklore and the dream vision.

+ “Goblin Market” by Christina Rosetti Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close, ” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots? ” “Come buy, ” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen.

+ n Sure the Goblin Men represent carnal sin, but sometimes it’s fun to take things at face value. In this case Rossetti’s cautionary tale—intended as a warning for young maidens tempted to relinquish their virtue—turns into a fierce battle between a pair of siblings and some truly terrifying, animalhuman hybrid monsters. Lizzie gets infected by the Goblin Men (zombie plague anyone? ) and it’s up to her sister Laura to save her from a horrible, brain-craving fate.

+ “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by John Keats O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild eyes With kisses four. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!’ I made a garland for head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

+ “Fantasy” by Gwendolyn Bennett I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night Where you were the dusk-eyed queen, And there in the pallor of moon-veiled light The loveliest things were seen. . . A slim-necked peacock sauntered there In a garden of lavender hues, And you were strange with your purple hair As you sat in your amethyst chair With your feet in your hyacinth shoes. Oh, the moon gave a bluish light Through the trees in the land of dreams and night. I stood behind a bush of yellow-green And whistled a song to the dark-haired queen. . .