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Introduction
As a poet and scholar of poetry, it is my honour to present this brief paper on the poetry tradition of the other species of our galaxy. This is only an overview, and in some cases nothing more than a criminal simplification, but a fuller exploration of the question will be available when my book is published next year.
Firstly, let me explain my position, with the appropriate caveats and warnings. I am a human, working mainly within a small subset of the myriad and somewhat chaotic traditions of English-language poetry. I therefore use human terms and similes to define non-human art in this extract. Furthermore, I do not feel entirely qualified to discuss the traditional forms of other human cultures, let alone those of aliens, but I am emboldened because I feel this is truly necessary for mutual understanding, and nobody else has yet stepped up to do it.
Why is it necessary? We have come from very different worlds, finding each other in the wide starswept plains between them. Our words have no more in common than do our bloods and proteins, our shapes and systems; what is life for one is death to another. We are very different... and yet, so alike. We all breathe, we eat and breed. We dream and think and wonder. We live.
And almost every culture yet discovered, every species, has an art form composed of carefully-patterned communication, distinct from everyday speech. Poetry is practically universal, and allowing for our different natures, so are its themes. The poems of other races may be different to ours, but they are not truly alien.
Translation, nevertheless, remains a problematic process; even the best software available offers only the most basic and obvious parallels. This may serve for common speech, but poetry demands more. I have studied many of the original languages of the poems I have translated here and sought assistance from linguists and poets of the appropriate races, striving to restore rhyme, stress and syllable where possible; I am confident that my work is the best currently available. However, it still falls far short of the originals, and therefore I humbly beg your pardon.
Asari
Asari poetry is one of the oldest and most complex traditions in the galaxy. Its forms are generally casual, similar to free verse; the asari poet chooses her own rules and how closely they bind her. In general, however, asari poetry is long and heavily ornamented – a filigree of rhymes and imagery, words and ideas tumbling over each other in fanciful chaos. Regular meter is rare, as most asari poetry is stressed rather than syllabic, with the beats few and far between. Many poems are written by the matriarchs, in reflection upon their long lives, the galaxy and their small contribution to it, but composition is by no means an uncommon avocation among younger asari.
Its detractors call asari poems airy and frivolous, with little weight or lasting emotion to recommend them. The common criticism is that the asari take a great many words to say very little - but this is a superficial reading. Those with the patience to read beneath the obvious glitter and brilliance of asari poetry find a slow development of serious argument and theme, and a subtle blend of pride and sorrow. This is perhaps inevitable, given the asari’s technological achievement and long life-span, and the ineluctable loss of their friends among the shorter-lived.
The following example of asari poetry was translated from the work of Matriarch Liyena, who was among the party of commandos who first discovered the Citadel. It is a excerpt from a much longer work, detailing all her observations and reflections of the historic event. This particular excerpt, with the heavy alliteration and apparently random rhymes characteristic of asari poetry, describes her first encounter with a Keeper.
... legion-limbed, limned in lurid light, bright
strange the sight, slowly shifting, scuttling through corridors
it ignores invaders, its intelligence inner, if insight
it might mutter; maybe its mouth’s meaningless, still, silent
as is its absent cerebrations. Celebrations we withhold, cold
and cautious: is it cousin, competition, cattle? Do we walk
the wide-wandering worlds, and witness the endless
empyrean empty? Are asari alone awake?...
Salarian
Poetry is not particularly prized among the salarians; the poet is of much lesser social status than the scientist. There is nevertheless a well-established salarian poetic tradition, consisting of short poems of set syllable counts – similar to the Japanese haiku form – themed around paradox, reversal, contrast and irony. In contrast to the intricate asari forms, the salarian poetry is sharp and focused, its point made in as few words as possible.
Salarian poets revel in a forced change of perspective or the baffling of expectation. Their saying is “no tongue sharper than a poet’s”, and they compose to fit the reputation. It’s not uncommon to see salarian poetry written to criticise or lampoon another, or even offered as a trenchant eulogy to a deceased rival. While offering a constant source of incisive commentary, salarian poetry tends to sound detached and unemotional to other races – indeed, the association of romance and poetry is completely baffling to salarians.
‘No Doubt’, the following verse, was composed by the poet Nasurn Karanen Aegohr Dos Paleon Mard. Observe the classical kepot syllabic pattern of 3-7-3-5-3-7-3 and the sarcastic tone. It is one of the few salarian protests recorded in immediate response to the genophage and was widely popular about that time. Contemporary salarians continue to discuss whether Mard Paleon’s death shortly after its writing was due to his advanced age or to the actions of the Special Task Group.
Yesterday
the krogan were our heroes
and today
we kill their children.
I’m certain
tomorrow’s sunrise will see
us best friends.
Turian
It may seem at odds with the usual idea of the turians – militaristic, practical, unsentimental – but the average turian is as comfortable with a poem as with a gun. While few turians may describe themselves as poets, poetry composition is considered an essential part of a turian’s education, and most turians have at least a few verses to their name.
The turian tendency toward hierarchy and order is no less evident in their poetry. There are one hundred distinct forms, which were codified by the illustrious Vaske Arynos long before the turians discovered the mass relays. All of these forms possess a strict trochaic catalectic rhythm – that is, the lines begin and end on a beat - but vary in details such as the rhyme scheme, length and, most importantly, theme. The subject matter of the poem dictates the form; a turian writing an erotic love poem (for which the turians are justly famed in certain circles) will choose one form, and a turian writing an appeal to the spirit of her cabal quite another. In any form, there is limited use of metaphor, but the language is extraordinarily forceful and vivid, and clarity of expression is highly valued.
It is worth noting that turian poetry has changed very little over the millennia. They do not borrow from other traditions, and additional forms have never been proposed. Instead, scholars decide in which form modern developments should be included. For example, the mass relays are now considered part of the spalus form, which deals with danger and opportunity.
The following untitled poem of Vaske Arynos is considered the archetype of the perihex form. As such, its subject is the interplay of duty and love, and it is comprised of sixteen lines arranged in four verses. Each line is in trochaic catalectic tetrameter – four beats and three off-beats. Each line rhymes with its counterparts in each verse; in a perfect perihex, the rhyming lines may be read in turn to form verses of their own. The tale of Vaske and her dishonoured son Nyrex is a popular one for adaptation and retellings, but any turian will tell you that they prefer it in its original and purest form.
Steady hands, unready soul
Clear my order: you must die.
Nyrex, son, you know this too,
Turn and face our shared hearts’ break.
Blood of blood, and once a whole
Words are empty, but you sigh
Knowing what I’ve come to do
Gazes meet. My hand you take.
Final touches don’t console.
You’re resigned, you’re calm, and I
Raise my gun for love of you
Bullets fly for honour’s sake.
Torn away, you leave a hole.
All the world is where you lie:
Blood has dyed the grasses blue
I’m at peace, and yet I ache.
Krogan
For the krogan, poetry is the traditional art of the shaman. The shaman makes poems of all the clan’s history, their battle songs and teaching tales, and chants them for the clan alone. The oldest clans thus have the most ancient poems and treasure them fiercely. The shamans’ recitals are very private, possessing a dimension almost sacred or magical; clans have gone to war over eavesdroppers and the ‘theft’ of a poem. The forms, however, are universal, since shaman traditionally belong to the krogan as a whole.
It is not uncommon for other krogan to compose verse, but these attempts are certainly never called poetry. They are shared with one’s krantt alone and do not endure beyond one performance or so. If you have seen the viral extranet vid of a krogan on Illium trying to woo his asari girlfriend with romantic poetry, you have probably laughed – but from a scholar’s perspective, his work was quite extraordinary. He was trying to adapt this particular krogan tradition to that of asari love poetry, and given the innate differences between the two, succeeding to a degree that borders on genius. Unfortunately, I have been unable to trace him for further comment.
Urdnot Bakara – a name that needs no introduction for those familiar with current krogan affairs - offered me the high privilege of sharing in the performance of her chant. Moreover, I was requested to record her poem, and after her scrutiny, to publish a translation for the galaxy to read. “It is time,” Urdnot Bakara says, “that the galaxy hears the true voice of the krogan.” A full account will be included in my book – as well as certain of the poems I wrote in response to the event – but without hyperbole, it was one of the most extraordinary things I have ever witnessed.
At midnight we gathered in the ruins of an amphitheatre – the krogan in their hundreds, a handful of humans (including Commander Shepard), and a smattering of other races. All was silent and dark, save for the ring of fire that roared at the centre of the space. Urdnot Bakara stood within it, the flames reflected in her eyes, her drummers making another ring outside it. Then they began to beat the drums in perfect unison, sending forth the low, doubled beats of krogan hearts. The rhythm built, and then Urdnot Bakara began to chant.
More than any other tradition, krogan poetry is communal. Bereft of the atmosphere, the drumming, and her voice, the words seem simple, almost banal – but there... they were visceral, passionate, more felt than heard. The shaman leads, but it is not truly a performance to an audience so much as a shared experience. Often she called to the gathered krogan: as one, they roared back, and few of their eyes were dry. She, too, wept as she chanted, and dawn came before she was finished, before the fire burnt down, but her voice never faltered.
Here is the beginning of her chant that long night. I have marked the krogan response in bold.
Listen, Tuchanka! Listen, my people! Listen, honoured dead, children unborn!
Listen, so that you may remember! Listen, so that you may never forget!
Listen, so that the memory seeps into your bones and fills your blood!
Listen, so that your hearts beat to his name! Listen and remember! Mordin!
Mordin!
He was salarian, small and soft and single-hearted, but now in death, he is krogan!
He is krogan!
For the thunder of our children’s feet on the bones-made-dust of the unborn, he is krogan!
He is krogan!
For the end to mothers’ mourning, for the fierceness of the future, for hope that burns like his pyre, he is krogan!
He is krogan!
Listen, Tuchanka! Listen, my people! Listen, honoured dead, children unborn!
Listen, for he was our foe! Listen, for he was my friend! Listen, for he gave us back our pride!
Listen, for Tuchanka was barren, but I have seen green growth in the halls of our ancestors!
Listen, so all ages shall know what I teach you! Listen and remember! Mordin!
Mordin!
Quarian
Quarian poetry is perhaps the most widely appreciated in the galaxy. The cynical say this is because the quarians have scavenged from other poetic traditions as they scavenge materials, and that they have no more tradition of their own than they have a homeworld. This, needless to say, is unnecessarily harsh. The developmental path from the Rannoch-era poetry to modern-day demonstrates that while quarian poetry borrows characteristics of many other cultures, these are integrated with their own graceful, fluid base form; the result is art of a high order, and certainly no mere pastiche.
Quarian poets are much rarer than those of other cultures, and their output is typically very low indeed. This is not surprising, given the busy and practical nature of quarian daily life. What may surprise is that they are highly treasured. The quarians are a close-knit race who cherish their shared culture; poetry is therefore shared through all the Migrant Fleet and known by all quarians. Every quarian child can recite all the poems of their people – a feat of memory equivalent to every six-year old human child knowing the complete works of Shakespeare by heart – nor do they readily forget as adults. Thus, a young quarian may return from their Pilgrimage with a poem to offer and be accepted as an adult. It is expected that they will still work for the good of the Flotilla, but they are primarily a poet. Kami’Xura vas Qwib-Qwib, one of my correspondents, tells me that this has happened only thrice since the quarians left Rannoch.
Stylistically, quarian poetry is flowing and relatively unstructured. For the most part, it is what humans term ‘free verse’; alliteration is preferred to rhyme, and regular meter (usually an appropriation from turian poetry) occurs in only a fraction of poems. Thematically, like the asari, quarian poets tends to reflect on their lives and upon the sights they’ve seen. Occasionally they offer poems as gifts to commemorate events in the lives of their friends, which is considered a high honour for the recipient. According to Kami’Xura, it is something of a racial tragedy that there are no poets currently among the quarian population; the Reaper War, peace with the geth and home-coming to Rannoch will not be immortalised in verse by any quarian who lived to see them.
The following was composed on Pilgrimage by Kel’Shanna vas Revay nar Teris. She was the first quarian who returned to the Migrant Fleet as a poet – although, by contemporary accounts, she served primarily as a mercenary during her Pilgrimage. This was her first work – entitled only ‘Pilgrimage’ - and while most critics agree it is much clumsier than her later verses, it remains perhaps the most beloved poem of the quarians’ most beloved poet.
After leaving
the ship of my ancestors, the home
and safety of my childhood
I will venture
past the limits of my life.
After family
the voices I may echo, the babble
of strangers and alien silhouettes
I will find
uncertain and exciting.
After walking
on living ground, where insects
hum and electronics are silent
I will remember
the homeworld I hope to see.
After proving
that who I am is worthy
of home, of a place among family
I will return
to the cradle of worlds.
After time adrift
among open stars, along tides
of light and through shoals of dust
I will return
to where I began.
Elcor
Elcor speech is nuanced by emitting pheromones, by extremely subtle body language, and by subvocalised ultrasound; so too is their poetry. In some ways, then, it more closely resembles dance to the human mind – indeed, it is perhaps the closest art to dance that the elcor have developed. Unfortunately, there are barriers that prevent it being shared with non-elcor.
Firstly, the translations provided by elcor voice processing software serve well enough for everyday communication, but cannot handle the shifting layers of meaning, subtlety and ambiguity of elcor poetry. They tend to stutter, trying to offer at least five prefacing statements to any given line.
Secondly, elcor poetry has no written form, and recording it is unthinkable by elcor cultural mores. Poetry is considered an individual’s art – only the poet truly knows what was intended by a poem, and therefore only the poet has the ability to perform his work. This means that no poem, however great, outlives its creator. This ephemeral quality, the elcor say, is central to the beauty of poetry. (Incidentally, it is also the reason that many elcor found the production of Elcor Hamlet somewhat baffling.) Many elcor will travel a long distance to attend a recital by a famed poet, especially if he or she is reaching the end of her life and it may be the last chance to hear them.
I cannot, then, offer an example of elcor poetry to be translated and read – all I can give you is what the elcor have told me, and my own experiences attending elcor recitals. The forms of elcor poetry have changed very little over their history – passed orally from one poet to another - although there are definite trends that come and go. Rhyme and rhythm are not the tools of elcor poetry, except where newer poets have experimented with asari or turian traditions. In these cases they are borrowing from the poems of hundreds of years ago, since it takes time for the conservative elcor to adapt to new developments. There are instead seven widely accepted ‘stances’, and infinite permutations thereof allowed by the non-verbal components of elcor speech. The poems are, without exception, of epic-length, with recitations taking about three hours at their shortest. Non-elcor audience members are graciously welcomed, but the experience may be dull for even the most avid poetry enthusiast. The verbal component is all that other species can hear, and it is the least important element of elcor poetry. I hope that one day we shall do better.
Batarian
The batarian culture is heavily shrouded in secrecy, and we know little of it, save for the claim that slavery of other races is apparently integral. If the batarians have any art form close to poetry, they appear unlikely to share it.
Drell
Drell poetry has the galactic reputation of being impossible to understand. It is too fragmentary, many argue, usually in tones of bitter frustration. It’s impossible to work out exactly what the poet is talking about at any particular time.
The drell themselves typically express polite confusion at this criticism; their poetry is perfectly transparent to them. The many interwoven lines of narrative, argument or imagery characteristic of drell poetry reflects how they think and their tendency to solipsism. When the past is as clear and vivid as the present and any chance word may summon up a perfect memory, the ability to keep track of several simultaneous trains of thought is surely a necessity.
The drell thus draw less distinction between poetry and prose than most races – alternatively, one could say that poetic expression comes naturally to them. Poetry is not particularly revered, because every drell is a poet. Some merely choose to share their thoughts with others.
The following poem – a relatively simple one, with approximately five lines of thought - was shared with me by a drell who prefers to remain nameless, his reasons for the gift unexplained. Nevertheless, I am profoundly grateful for his generosity in allowing me to translate his work and share the expression of something that obviously affected him profoundly with the galaxy. You may also notice something of a quarian influence in its structure; this is not uncommon among the poetry of younger drell.
Sunset-coloured eyes, defiant
in the scope. Her lips
move: “How dare you?” –
Father speaks the memory
and Mother smiles – her curved lips
are bloodstained and still.
“Guide this one
to where the traveller never tires, the lover
never leaves,” Father speaks the prayer
and falls silent. He cannot
fire, he lays down his gun.
She watches. Her eyes
are the colour of the sky
when the sun dies to darkness.
I take up the recitation. Kalahira
walks through our home. Mother falls
silent, as they laugh. Father’s breath rattles
and ceases.
We danced crazy, laughed. I ran
and hid. Little air in the closet
and I cannot breathe. Only listen.
Father finds me there
in the locked room and we embrace. Silvered,
the light on her blade, on his rifle,
on the gun cold in my hands.
Father’s hand, heavy
on my shoulder. Cooling in mine.
Sunset-coloured eyes, forever defiant
the sky their reflection
as she sinks beneath.
Hanar
Like the hanar’s speech, their poetry is also, of course, coded patterns of emitted light. For the observer without a translator, the effect is either subtly beautiful, or – as the crude put it – a bunch of jellyfish flickering at each other. With a translator, sadly, it is still a sonorous, polite confusion. It is only through the drell that we have garnered any understanding of hanar poetry. What they have translated for us probably reveals more about drell poetry than hanar.
If the finer nuances of hanar poetry escape us, still, there is much we do know. The poetry of most other races is individual: that is, many races recite poetry to an audience, and krogan ‘audiences’ are participants, but the poems are composed by a single poet. Hanar poetry, conversely, is more choral: the hanar both compose and recite in groups. It is not a true hanar poem if less than three poets are involved in it, and the hanar still speak with awe of the legendary poem of the thirteenth Nyahir, which was the work of almost two hundred hanar.
Nyahir, for those unfamiliar with hanar culture, is the celebration of the Enkindlers’ gift of speech to the hanar, and poetry is its traditional centre. Apart from the usual performances of hanar poetry, where poets may speak in turn or in unison, the hanar also engage in poetry duels. Teams improvise poems, which the opposing hanar must answer without rehearsal or time to compose, and such debates may last for days – in perfect iambic meter and varying rhyme schemes - before one side falters. The winners are rightly lauded by the hanar.
The following poem – a short, simple work, featuring the poet triad known collectively as Shining Words – was translated by my drell correspondent. It is a short formal composition rather than an improvised work, drawing comparisons between oceanic trenches, the sky, and space, which are all visualised as oceans – not an uncommon metaphor among the hanar, just as any pull may be described as a tide or current. I have made use of separated columns to indicate the three different speakers – words on the same line are spoken at the same time.
Beneath the depths, where light
is lost, the endless night.
Above, the distant sky
Its foaming clouds break high.
Beyond the darkest sea
The stranger-worlds float free.
And all is silent there. And all is storming there. And all’s surprising there.
One cannot swim in air
The darkest sea is death
The abyss crushes breath.
And yet, that ocean calls And yet, that ocean calls And yet, that ocean calls
A tide that fast enthrals A tide of storms and squalls A tide to make one small
This one will go, and find
This one will go, and find
This one will go, and find
A life beyond its kind. A life beyond its kind. A life beyond its kind.
Vorcha
The poetry of the vorcha is one of the galaxy’s most intriguing literary mysteries. Only five poems are known, all of which were found on an unsigned datapad in a clinic on Omega. Surveillance shows an unidentified vorcha entering the words, then fleeing before the doctor returned. Attempts to trace the writer proved futile, given the number of vorcha on Omega and the blurriness of the footage. Reactions of vorcha, when asked about the subject, range from apathy to suspicion and outright hostility – the latter usually when invited to replicate the feat and express themselves in poetical form. Sadly, no other authentic vorcha poetry has ever been found, although several hoaxes have been attempted.
As one might expect, the five poems (known collectively as the Vorcha Chapbook) display limited vocabulary, heavy repetition, and nothing resembling formal or coherent structure. Nevertheless, experts have agreed that they are poems, and poems of value beyond the mere novelty of being composed by vorcha.
Untitled 1 is the first poem recorded in the Vorcha Chapbook. Composed entirely of fourteen monosyllables – several of which are only grammatical variants of another – it nevertheless makes a very real protest and provides worthwhile insight into the author’s psyche. Whether that author is at all representative of the vorcha species as a whole is an entirely different question.
Hear me. I speak.
My words are real.
Hear my words.
My words are me.
Hear me. Words hurt.
Why hear my hurt?
I am
my words are
my hurt is
me.
Prothean
Archaeologists, thus far, have been more interested in unearthing the technology and biology of this vanished race than their poetry – a sad loss indeed. The Prothean Javik, who would doubtless be able to shed some light on this fascinating subject, has so far refused all fifty of my requests for an interview or correspondence.
Volus
Volus poetry is a close analogue of humanity’s nursery rhymes – simple verses intended to entertain children, with the expectation that the adult will mature out of them. For that reason, most critics dismiss it as easily as the volus do. Nevertheless, in its own way volus poetry is almost as universal in appeal as quarian; the classics of volus poetry will win at least a smile from all but the most hidebound of audiences.
Like nursery rhymes, then, volus poetry features a sing-song rhythm, obvious rhymes and part-rhymes, and tends to be short. It is nonsense verse, full of absurdities and impossibilities. Many feature a semi-legendary volus whose name can be translated as Plenty or Wealth – although Bounty is the most common translation - a sort of folk hero with the strength of a charging krogan, the wisdom of an asari matriarch, the cleverness of a salarian, and the beauty and financial acumen that can only be volus. Although Bounty is officially the sole province of volus children, mentioning him to almost any volus will gain you a fond, nostalgic chuckle – and in some rare cases, a discount.
The following is a fair example of the genre, demonstrating both the typically jaunty and imperfect rhythm and the logical inconsistencies of most of the Bounty poems. Modern scholars are a little puzzled by the theme of ‘rolling’ which is often linked to Bounty; all they can say with certainty is that it first appeared five hundred years ago. I include this particular one not only for its merits as exemplar, but because it was the first piece of volus poetry I ever encountered. It still makes me smile.
Bounty’s rolling up the hill
The more he rolls, the more he’s still.
Bounty’s rolling up the stair
He’s by himself, and he’s a pair.
Bounty’s rolling in the sea
Getting dry and making tea.
Bounty’s rolling on the sun
Getting cool and having fun.
Bounty’s rolling his money away
Getting richer every day
Bounty’s rolling, rolling far
And so should you, whoever you are.
Conclusion
There is much more I could say – and have, in my upcoming book – but in the interests of brevity, I shall keep my conclusion short. I hope that you have enjoyed this brief overview of the different poetry of different species, and that I have piqued your interest in the subject. Anything interesting in my paper is the talent of the original poets shining through my clumsy translations.