Apostrophe
An apostrophe is verse written, not about a person, but to a person or a thing or a concept. “O Death, where is they sting?” is written by the apostle Paul in I Corinthians or more recently “Hello darkness, my old friend / I’ve come to talk with you again” Keats wrote “Ode to a Grecian Urn”, not on or about the urn, but to it – addressing it. This is a strength of poetry, that it can address anything or anyone real or unreal, dead or alive. The apostrophe isn’t a form like a villanelle or a sestina with a repetition or rhyme scheme. It’s more along the line of an occasional poem that could be any form; it’s the topic that matters. The name comes from Greek and refers to “turning away” like an actor making an aside addressing the audience or something else on the stage. It does not have anything to do with the punctuation mark, the one in my last name.
You can write a contemporary apostrophe
to nearly any topic. Your car, the tree in your yard. the neighbors you can’t
stand and/or the ones you love. It could be serious to honor victims of the
pandemic or it can be a view at a favorite vacation spot. Use imagery or set up
some rhythm by repetition to keep it poetic. Enjoy.
Here are some time honored examples:
This first one covers a lot. It’s an ekphrastic
poem (about another work of art) and it’s an example of ars poetica (the urn
stands in for poetry and all the arts) as well as being an apostrophe.
Ode to a Grecian Urn John Keats
Thou
still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan
historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What
leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In
Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What
mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What
pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard
melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to
the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair
youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold
Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though
winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For
ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah,
happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your
leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And,
happy melodist, unwearied,
For
ever piping songs for ever new;
More
happy love! more happy, happy love!
For
ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All
breathing human passion far above,
That
leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who
are these coming to the sacrifice?
To
what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st
thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And
all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What
little town by river or sea shore,
Or
mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And,
little town, thy streets for evermore
Will
silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O
Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of
marble men and maidens overwrought,
With
forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou,
silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As
doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When
old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than
ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty
is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
The Author to Her
Book Anne Bradstreet
Thou
ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.
From Edgar Allan Poe we have a poem that includes an address to a dead woman.
The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I
stand beneath the mystic moon.
An
opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales
from out her golden rim,
And
softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon
the quiet mountain top,
Steals
drowsily and musically
Into
the universal valley.
The
rosemary nods upon the grave;
The
lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping
the fog about its breast,
The
ruin moulders into rest;
Looking
like Lethe, see! the lake
A
conscious slumber seems to take,
And
would not, for the world, awake.
All
Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
Irene,
with her Destinies!
Oh,
lady bright! can it be right—
This
window open to the night?
The
wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly
through the lattice drop—
The
bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit
through thy chamber in and out,
And
wave the curtain canopy
So
fitfully—so fearfully—
Above
the closed and fringéd lid
’Neath
which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That,
o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like
ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh,
lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why
and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure
thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A
wonder to these garden trees!
Strange
is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange,
above all, thy length of tress,
And
this all solemn silentness!
The
lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which
is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven
have her in its sacred keep!
This
chamber changed for one more holy,
This
bed for one more melancholy,
I pray
to God that she may lie
Forever
with unopened eye,
While
the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My
love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it
is lasting, so be deep!
Soft
may the worms about her creep!
Far in
the forest, dim and old,
For
her may some tall vault unfold—
Some
vault that oft hath flung its black
And
wingéd pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant,
o’er the crested palls
Of her
grand family funerals—
Some
sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against
whose portals she hath thrown,
In
childhood, many an idle stone—
Some
tomb from out whose sounding door
She
ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling
to think, poor child of sin!
It was
the dead who groaned within.
Source: The
Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe (1946)
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