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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Life's Karma's given light, our dream here gleams

Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests.

Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition
Acrostics to be found below – in alphabetical order:

Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written
with earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.

I: plain text - in black
II: Complete acrostic palimpsests highlighted

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Birthday Sonnet - Entered is Diary

Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests.
.
Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition
Acrostics to be found below – in alphabetical order:
His hand her hand [twice vertically]
Entered in diary [twice vertically]
Tend a nice heart [3 times vertically] – hopefully not an ice heart
Tender is her heart [4 times diagonally]

Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written
with earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.

Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Birthday Sonnet - Entered is Diary

Toast verse! Oh birthday sonnet that strings true
E'er stanza knit free style, link in tress kind.
None letters scan - no need since star none find -
Deeds reader here disdains, nor head dreams cue.
Art secret exam, chart, restore rare value
Nowhere shrine is named, rich tune ornate designed,
Indeed is hidden within, bis gladdening behind
Covers is meshed, scored, missed, hid, scudding through
End verse. Here lines share where none spot the clue.
Hope endowed, read Heaven's clear. Add here's signed
Erudition's rheme eked out blur, he ideas twined.
Annals are read as announced Dear, a part eschew.
Reward - roses near - reveals her in mirror bright.
To show you ardour triumphs in today's top write.

Toastverseohbirthdaysonnetthatstringstrue
Eerstanzaknitfreestylelinkintresskind
None lettersscannoneedsincestarnonefind
Deedsreader heredisdainsnorheaddreamscue
Artsecretexamchar trestorerarevalue
Nowhereshrineisnamedrichtune ornatedesigned
Indeedishiddenwithinbisgladdeni ngbehind
Coversismeshedscoredmissedhidscudding through
Endverseherelinessharewheresofewspotcl ue
HopeendowedreadheavensclearaddheressignedEruditionsrhemeekedoutblurheideastwined
Anna lsarereadasannounceddearaparteschew.
Rewardros esnearrevealsherinmirrorbright
Toshowyouardour triumphsintodaystopwrite

© Jonathan Robin polyacrostic palimpsest sonnet written 20081126 see also Birthday Mirror Below

Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests.
.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - What Will Follow?

Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests

Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition;

Acrostics to be found below:
What will follow - external
Name an Acrostic - vertical from middle
Robin Jonathan - double diagonal from middle

Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written
with earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.

Enjoy!

3 versions below:
4 March 2009
6 January 2007
2 January 1992 [Jonathan Wrobel]

What Will Follow?

Who knows what in our future lies ahead,
How will man's banana skin unpeel,
And thus show him what follows on, reveal
Tomorrow's stated story. Living dead,
We wait and ask vain sages why we're led
In ignorance to never-never's wheel.
Life is lost as man sets out, why steal
Little joys in scheming, joys gainsaid:
Fond intention ropes soon ties instead
Of painting scroll whose links naught need conceal.
Let be all fears, shine out as beacon real.
Look forward to trial met book open, read,
Or is all error, nightmares' terrors where
We puppets find chance rules us? Judgements spare!

© Jonathan Robin polyacrostic palimpsest sonnet written 2 January 1992 revised 4 March 2009

What Will Follow?

Who knows what in our future lies ahead,
How will man's banana skin unpeel,
And thus show him what follows on, reveal

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - All Things Enjoy

Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests.

Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition
Acrostics to be found below – in alphabetical order:

Aim at less today
All things enjoy
Amorous Anorexy
Amorous Ecstasy

Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written
with earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.

I: plain text - in black
II: Complete acrostic palimpsests highlighted

All Things Enjoy

As tastes oft change, some shy stay, some shine new
Minds may be calm, like springtime's settling dew,
Or may life's flood lose, under moonlight drowned.
Regard here, there, stares, reader, may be crowned
O see though now our thread too poor seems, through
Underlay is strung twine link pure and true,
So sentence sense seek near the surface bound
Each cog spins easy, runs glad wheel round, round
craft, sense seen not as missing clue by you?
Spleen hunting out, strong ever scans verse too.
Then think! soon row on row is neatly bound,
As Jane might dread whatever Jean feels sound,
Some sonnets wax and some are lost to song -
Yet through the years my work may still shine on.

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Care is Our Dream

Kindly refer to Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests

.

Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written with earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.

For further examples see the link to Polyacrostic list below.

..

.

The text appears twice here:

.

I: plain text - in black
II: Complete acrostic palimpsests.

Care is our dream Care: a core value

Text II is formatted to show letter progression hidden in Text I. Punctuation, spacing, are absent, highlighting

palimpsest phrases invisible in the first version for the sake of clarity... Enjoy!

see formatted version http: //allpoetry.com/poem/4239749

(c) Jonathan Robin polyacrostic palimpsest sonnet written 17 May 2008

Care is Our Dream

I

Care, a core value, can't be traded, each
At risk may put heart if mistrust dare feed.
Rare welcome marry, ease bring, carry, speed,
Eve, night, day, select ideals free, teach,
Ideas shared as light shines fair. Impeach
Snow frost, ice, or snap cold, back zest's strong seed!
Order true open joys, shrug doubts off, lead
Urge on through summer's sorrow stumped, find speech,
Reveal tender thread to wed bliss reach.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi

Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Ses Mots Sont Ici II

Notes on Polyacrostic Palimpsests

Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition
Acrostics to be found below
Ses mots sont ici [vertical acrostic from 1st Line S of has] [French – his/her words are here]
Susan Sellers SS [1 vertical external and 2 diagonal bottom up acrostics keyed as above to the 1st line S of has]

Palimpsest:
A manuscript on which more than one text is written with
earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible.

Ses Mots Sont Ici II

Sweet friend has Time Time conquered in your heart,
used no successes’ superficial glow
somehow as jest so settle life as though
all fades, - a dream's drawn ready to depart?
Not in the years of age should these thoughts start!
So often sleep steals laughter, ends Time’s flow,
expels old love, sends slight grace, - then we go.
life dies away as cold evenings chart
Life is a song whose chorus sings: Depart!
Even now cause and effect knock, so
reward each instant, Time shan't wait, you know.
So seek within, till safe your soul, then part.
Surrender true choice not, return trust's song
Sure to evolve, find Way, may soul stay strong...

16 May 2005 revised 6 January 2007
robi3_1254_robi3_0000 BQS_DZX

for alternative version see

Susan Sellers

Sweet friend has Time Time conquered in your heart.
Used no successes’ superficial glow
Somehow as jest so swift adopted though
A glued remora’s maw right hard to part.
Not in the years of freedom should one start!
So often sleep steals laughter, and, Time’s flow,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

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poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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A Letter From Li Po

Fanfare of northwest wind, a bluejay wind
announces autumn, and the equinox
rolls back blue bays to a far afternoon.
Somewhere beyond the Gorge Li Po is gone,
looking for friendship or an old love's sleeve
or writing letters to his children, lost,
and to his children's children, and to us.
What was his light? of lamp or moon or sun?
Say that it changed, for better or for worse,
sifted by leaves, sifted by snow; on mulberry silk
a slant of witch-light; on the pure text
a slant of genius; emptying mind and heart
for winecups and more winecups and more words.
What was his time? Say that it was a change,
but constant as a changing thing may be,
from chicory's moon-dark blue down the taut scale
to chicory's tenderest pink, in a pink field
such as imagination dreams of thought.
But of the heart beneath the winecup moon
the tears that fell beneath the winecup moon
for children lost, lost lovers, and lost friends,
what can we say but that it never ends?
Even for us it never ends, only begins.
Yet to spell down the poem on her page,
margining her phrases, parsing forth
the sevenfold prism of meaning, up the scale
from chicory pink to blue, is to assume
Li Po himself: as he before assumed
the poets and the sages who were his.
Like him, we too have eaten of the word:
with him are somewhere lost beyond the Gorge:
and write, in rain, a letter to lost children,
a letter long as time and brief as love.

II

And yet not love, not only love. Not caritas
or only that. Nor the pink chicory love,
deep as it may be, even to moon-dark blue,
in which the dragon of his meaning flew
for friends or children lost, or even
for the beloved horse, for Li Po's horse:
not these, in the self's circle so embraced:
too near, too dear, for pure assessment: no,
a letter crammed and creviced, crannied full,
storied and stored as the ripe honeycomb
with other faith than this. As of sole pride
and holy loneliness, the intrinsic face
worn by the always changing shape between
end and beginning, birth and death.

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Gift of Love

Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Gift of Love

Lift glad eye, live lauded, new dream's due destined stream
O I at murky care oil magic eased, view so
Vision is seen all loving, fresh oaths twinned souls sow.
Earth I bless, heed anew, trust to love's lifelong gleam.
Let heart flow free, reap strong emotional shared theme
Yet find mind-share where all is rare, close kin souls grow.
Radiant fair, each may ever forwards free go
As scope one's way could hope to scrap base evil scheme
Remorse steps back. Unroll, dear, your true talents' beam,
Each must share, maid unite for happy future's flow.
May our decree play out, fear old melts, joys gold glow.
As sunny skies, prayers blend to lend hope, past redeem.
Gaudeamus echo if tenderness free sun
I Come to you, sing on, mauled config draw now won.

external acrostic
Lovely Rare Magic

Internal acrostic palimpsests
Girl may care, love
Now won ward gift of love enlivens life's mosaic
Listen to the song of your heart's dream's due destined stream
22 March 2009 robi3_1872_robi3_0000 BQS_KLX
see also below
using essentially the same internal acrostics

Polyacrostic Palimpsest - Laugh, Share Magic

Lift upward drive, laugh to share dream on stream,
Ail not, new dare oils pro-active vast flow.
Unspent talent lilliputians nowhere know
Gut triumph speeds, new light tells growth may gleam.
Hid heart-flow free, reap strong exalting theme.
Shining mind-share, where all rare spirits grow,
He, trustful, teaching, special harvests sow,
As scope one's way shows, hope, no scrappy scheme
Reacts to take back stray heyday insight's beam.
Each must shine, more, unite for talents glow
May offer useful growth, autonomy show
Assuring this, grey past taos to light's dream.
Gauge this echo. If sonnet sets free soul,
I come to you, sing on, heart aspiring whole.

external acrostic

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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III. The Other Half-Rome

Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Lithe Dame's Birthday Toast

The birthday here, toast Terri's heart strings true!
E'er in verse fit free style we'd list, real kind
None threads skain enchanting, seam none unwind,
Deed rare, for heed, dig deep dear, here dream's due.
A dame lithe may read, treasure marriage cue.
Now parts hid new I name, rich link is neat designed
In zeal is laid, chained. This, a nodal find,
Covert, is meshed, scored, gist tight tucked into
Each true hope aired, shared here, tunes sung for two.
His pen rules. Read. Heaven's clear art has signed.
Eye, dear fair, he spell'd glamour. Here entwined,
Annulled dread, as announced, fear, alarms, through.
Reward: lines near revealing winner right,
To show life's doubts dissolve, idyll true, bright.

8 March 2010

notes

Acrostic: Verse in which certain letters form a word or message
Polyacrostic: Several acrostics within the same composition Palimpsest: A manuscript on which more than one text is written th earlier writing, or one level of meaning, partially visible
His hand her hand [Twice vertically]
Terri L Turrell [Twice vertically]
Tend a nice heart [3 x vertically]
Tender is her heart [4 x diagonally]

poem by Jonathan Robin
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Polyacrostic - Jest Gest

PLEASE NOTE:
PH formatting does not permit colour coding the palimpsests thus the different layouts of individual internal acrostics can for the moment only be identified in transposing every letter onto squared paper

The surface sonnet is thus online for the record as neither the vertical, diagonal or internal acrostics nor the anagrams are visible. A formatted version is online at http: //allpoetry.com/poem/2479961

The anagrams within the text are Dear dare a red read
other minor acrostic: Jane is found 4 times in adjacent letters in the text
3 Vertical Acrostics Jonathan Robin J
Double diagonal acrostic 1 Just a smile can J offer unto the Jest
Double diagonal acrostic 2 Just a smile can J offer readers Jaunt Jest

Enjoy!
_______________

J to J Jest Gest

Jingle verse to Jane luck's just jaunt jest.
Our expertise? - no orchestra in song,
no signature, as no fit joints run strong
as stars' graced art, for few see game addressed.
The care of each theme's wording to the test
here I spell out. Hark or read each line long.
A web admired, traced true, is set among
No word mixed Janus, your name's inset gest.
Reach soul. Oh dare to free the thread expressed.
Over all sweet sound, ends work to link, belong.
Best, ideas scan by. If thought inbinding's wrong
its warp reread in fairness, shriven guest.
Nut/kernel plan none smirk at, sense contest.
Judge, smile, hid joy glean from a jest red blessed.

26 December 2006
robi03_1529_robi03_0000 BSX_IXX

Jest Gest polyacrostic sonnet poem © Jonathan Robin

poem by Jonathan Robin
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VII. Pompilia

I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.

All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.

Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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David

My thought, on views of admiration hung,
Intently ravish'd and depriv'd of tongue,
Now darts a while on earth, a while in air,
Here mov'd with praise and mov'd with glory there;
The joys entrancing and the mute surprize
Half fix the blood, and dim the moist'ning eyes;
Pleasure and praise on one another break,
And Exclamation longs at heart to speak;
When thus my Genius, on the work design'd
Awaiting closely, guides the wand'ring mind.

If while thy thanks wou'd in thy lays be wrought,
A bright astonishment involve the thought,
If yet thy temper wou'd attempt to sing,
Another's quill shall imp thy feebler wing;
Behold the name of royal David near,
Behold his musick and his measures here,
Whose harp Devotion in a rapture strung,
And left no state of pious souls unsung.

Him to the wond'ring world but newly shewn,
Celestial poetry pronounc'd her own;
A thousand hopes, on clouds adorn'd with rays,
Bent down their little beauteous forms to gaze;
Fair-blooming Innocence with tender years,
And native Sweetness for the ravish'd ears,
Prepar'd to smile within his early song,
And brought their rivers, groves, and plains along;
Majestick Honour at the palace bred,
Enrob'd in white, embroider'd o'er with red,
Reach'd forth the scepter of her royal state,
His forehead touch'd, and bid his lays be great;
Undaunted Courage deck'd with manly charms,
With waving-azure plumes, and gilded arms,
Displaid the glories, and the toils of fight,
Demanded fame, and call'd him forth to write.
To perfect these the sacred spirit came,
By mild infusion of celestial flame,
And mov'd with dove-like candour in his breast,
And breath'd his graces over all the rest.
Ah! where the daring flights of men aspire
To match his numbers with an equal fire;
In vain they strive to make proud Babel rise,
And with an earth-born labour touch the skies.
While I the glitt'ring page resolve to view,
That will the subject of my lines renew;
The Laurel wreath, my fames imagin'd shade,
Around my beating temples fears to fade;
My fainting fancy trembles on the brink,
And David's God must help or else I sink.

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poem by Thomas Parnell
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The Ghost - Book IV

Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;

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poem by Charles Churchill
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English Bards and Scotch Reviewers: A Satire

'I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers'~Shakespeare

'Such shameless bards we have; and yet 'tis true,
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too,'~Pope.

Still must I hear? -- shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse?
Prepare for rhyme -- I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar today, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream
Inspires -- our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway,
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.

Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.

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poem by Byron
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