Must Rhyme Draw Blank..et Criticism?
It’s sad to see that rhyming‘s thought redundant
by those who’s bark can’t steer poetic star,
who grudge, shout out, doubt scope, spout words abundant,
seek validation they’d from others bar.
‘Free verse’ disperse if this your fancy tickles
to jar the winter of your discontent,
with fallen leaves, sheaves garnered, unhoned sickles,
with [f]lagging letters, jagged sentiment.
Rhyme carries more than meaning: music, timing,
pattern, play, holistic core explore,
link sense to ‘whither’, ‘whence’, nor mummer’s miming,
nor lead tread led astray by crow’s harsh caw.
‘Rich rhyme’ or ‘prose’ debate is academic
when eight in ten can’t read three thousand words,
what counts is sense and sentiments – polemic
remains the province of small minds in herds
where wherewithal is lacking for expression,
where envy, laziness, or both hold sway,
where turn of phrase is tacky, where aggression
replaces g[r]ace to interface p[l]ace play
with music, sounds send pulses through wave spectrum,
or melt souls’ polar icecaps with accord,
twin chords to cords aligned through playful plectrum
with formal training going by the board.
So be it coral strand or fair complexion,
dire prophesy or cornet candyfloss,
womb, doom and gloom, or in-depth introspection,
imagination's never at a loss.
Thus formal sonnet, couplets rhyming gaily,
with sunny disposition to the fore,
should mirror music, method, context daily
evolving outside all one's writ before.
In pictogram or beaded decoration
in Roman font, linguistic interplay
wed words’ harmonic melody’s elation
responds to tune the key no words may weigh.
To underline, the savant English written
retains both [s]cope and [s]pace for verbal tricks,
like Skelton take the Rap, as playful kitten
re[th]ink link frames for Caxton’s twenty-six.
Where feet and metre merry dance may caper
from poets Lake to Blake, have Don[n]e, imPound
who’d underscore square thoughts – recycled paper!
can hack’s slack style replace paced silver sound?
Each line when spun ends up with tails or faces,
where tale replaces touch much of the time,
such is the paradox which interlaces
arguments around repeated rhyme.
When fish flew, forests walked, alliteration
best impressed stressed message – few could read –
mnemonics reinforced the iteration
recalling legend, fairy-tale or creed. remember
Now pigs think they have wings above their station
maintaining rhyme no R[h]APsody retains
while ‘thinaccessible’ becomes negation
to mask task’s challenge failed, spite p[r]ose fee pains.
If attic muse can ante antic up, wise,
prefer cold garret’s ‘ashes and a crust’
rehearse blank verse predictions s[l]ick, applies
remorseless morse to dash dot hoarse course dust.
For formal frameworks offer waft and weft which
the poet threads with frugal concentration –
as filtered light through prism rainbow span stitch
hues limitless whose wavelength condensation
upon cones, rods, retinal flash achieving,
imagination infinite invites,
refines mind’s focus, - hocus-pocus leaving -
versatile, both stimulates excites.
Of course this discourse could continue weaving
until the cows come home from lea poetic,
winged leeway granting Pegasus, conceiving
examples prosy, - rosy or pathetic.
Our arguement is: structure, sense, in motion
may catalyze emotions more than prose,
in multi-mode dimensions, flowing ocean
flexible, reflexible, that grows
crescendo bringing mind and matter’s code a
springboard from which rich images may bloom,
concluding on note elegant a coda
whose aftertaste no waste-land texts assume.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Song Of A Rhyming Man
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.
I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.
You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme
poem by Francis Duggan
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0007: 2007 - Year Of Revolting Poets
2007, he said, was a memorable year for poetry.
A world conference of poets held
somewhere NewMex way, came to the view
that the rhyming dictionary put altogether too
great a stricture on the structure
of verse, and worse;
it was time, for rhyme
(which came back into fashion
that year with a passion)
to be more relevant,
less of a white elephant;
so
all poets who
wrote in English
(including Strine)
were asked to define
what words should be allowed appropriately to rhyme.
It took a little time;
since they couldn’t agree about basic words
(some felt that ‘ words’ shouldn’t even rhyme with ‘turds’,
they thought that any such ditty
would be shitty;
some thought that such a possibility of rhyme was crap,
and would lead to poetic mishap)
So, first things first, what would be appropriate
to rhyme with love?
(which of course some pronounced luv,
others, lurve) :
some felt that rhyming it with ‘above’
had just a smidgen
of politically inappropriate reference to religion…
* * *
The whole idea was well meant
but you can see just how it went –
it took until 3006
even just to fix
after long debate upon it,
fourteen rhyming words to cover one suitable sonnet
by which time
those celebrated poets who did or didn’t rhyme,
while English tended to vanish,
were writing in Spanish
or Chinese;
bringing American-language poetry to its knees.
then vowelless txt
became the nxt
style
for a while
(which left poetry weakened,
bcs t cdnt b spknd) …
* * *
But I’ll have to cease this sorry tale;
I’ve a Hallmark card I need to mail.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Most Of The So Called Literary Experts
Most of the so called literary experts are dismissive of rhyme
They say 'tis the poetry of a long gone time
Yet the poets that they laud the poems they do write
Cannot be put to music and are hard to read and recite
The rhymer of today is not looked on as a poet
Or is not seen as one worthy of literary note
By the so called literary experts with literary degrees
Though their judgement on what is or is not poetry not everyone does please
They never will convince the old style rhyme buff
To him or her well written rhyme is not throw away stuff
In well written rhyme are the words to a song
And good rhyming poetry to music belong
Yet the degreed literary experts who on poetry like to have their say
Dismiss rhyming poets and their poetry as of yesterday.
poem by Francis Duggan
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An Amateur Penner Is All I Can Be
An amateur penner is all I can be and my worth as a rhymer I doubt
But when you tell me there's music in blank verse I wonder what you are on about
I've always thought music has rhythm and rhyme and is married to rhyming song
But of literature and music I am not a judge and maybe I do have it wrong
The music in good rhyming poetry one sense at least that's how it does seem to me
But I'm leaving room for an argument here and some with me may not agree
But that's my opinion make of it what you may we all look at things differently
If we all looked at life in the very same way how dull and boring we would be
Some will tell you a songwriter is not a poet their opinion on that is different to mine
Like some are very happy to welcome the rain and some want the day warm and fine
You tell me that there is music in blank verse though I cannot see it that way
But your opinion on the matter is as good as mine and with me that is quite okay
Oh give me a song that is built of good rhyme that to music is easy to sing
With such I am happy for to sing along and I find it such a joyful thing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poetic Instrumentation & Orthographic Aptitudes
Poetry beats time with rhyme in motion.
Pulse vibrates and impulse stimulates
pen which explores, redraws, accentuates,
excites the mind, can catalyze emotion
to seize degrees. Thoughts harmonize at rates
ecstatic as imagination’s ocean
synaptic swirls, and, touching, contemplates,
sees the light, s[w]ings fancy’s flight. Thought’s potion
magic expands bright insight, oscillates,
collides, oh scope, with wave-tune vibe commotion
and thus invents, interprets or translates
transforms, what started as an idle notion
as inner ear hears and reverberates
chromatic context, feelings for[u]mulates.
8 March 2005 revised 17 August 2008
robi03_1073_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX
Poetic Instrumentation Poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
ORTHOGRAPHIC APTITUDES
Orthographic aptitudes imply
Reasoned thought, well taught, but this may mean
Too much rigour, narrow mind though clean,
Heavy hand which all loose ends would tie.
Originality is worth a try -
Granting poetic licence in between
Rhyming lines on paper, on the screen,
Answers find with mind both “how” and “why”
Phasing, phrasing, which need nought deny.
Have, therefore, patience for the soul should glean
Inner meanings far from surface sheen
Creating an osmosis by and by.
Communication spelling's rules transcends,
Music tunes [p]runes all true creation t[r]ends...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Emphasis - Does Prose Satisfy?
Do rhyme and structure strangle sense,
Or emphasize emotions which
Eclectic rhythms render rich?
Stress reinforces verse, intense
Pleasure may be felt, with scents
Recalled from seasons past. Why stitch
On prose per prose that joy, its switch
So seldom magic supplements.
Excessive style is sterile, whence
Some seem to say that those who ditch
A long tradition feel the itch
To sense in rhyme mime or pretence.
It could be this misrepresents
So much which should be shared, keyed pitch.
Facts dry may well define a rose,
Yet can its scent pour through poor prose?
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Fashions are a passing phase for friend Jon London
I read your words with greatest care
and try to see your point of view
Although sometimes I must declare
I find it difficult to do.
I hesitate to criticise.
Aware the fault may lie with me.
Nor dare I offer you advice.
You might resent it bitterly.
The messages you try to send
to me lack simple clarity
I cannot see what you intend.
It makes no sense at all to me.
Your random thoughts lack coherence
They’re neither poetry nor prose.
An unintended consequence
of fashions changing I suppose.
The way that poetry is taught
in schools and colleges today.
They do not know although they ought.
Anything goes is not the way.
Most modern so called poetry
can only be poetic prose
Although it’s written beautifully
Opinions differ I suppose.
I’ll stick to formal poetry
Perhaps I need the discipline
that rhyme and meter gives to me.
And free form verse I will decline.
2-Feb-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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In Pursuit of a Poetry Prize
I’m constructing a poem in a strategic new way.
So they won’t comprehend what I’m trying to say.
For a poetry contest with a fabulous prize,
I studied what seems to attract judges’ eyes.
I was reading the ones recognized in the past,
seeking form and design for the words I will cast,
when I noticed a pattern, a key to their prose,
illogical thoughts in unorganized rows.
The first verse confuses, that’s part of the game.
The second verse vague, just more of the same.
Like, “In the beginning the ending was near, ”
or, “We basked in an ardent recollection of fear.”
They conclude with some incomprehensible phrase,
like, “The prolific embrace of our foregone days.”
Ideas aren't finished in these literary events,
and it seems they avoid any words that make sense.
When they don’t understand, it becomes a deep thought.
In depth they will ponder what meaning was sought.
They'll scoff if you've written a limerick or rhyme,
then cast it aside as a waste of their time.
I'll likely be banned, or be forced to concede,
but I'm sharing the secret it takes to succeed;
Don't stress over structure or fret about flow,
use thoughts you don’t have and words you don’t know.
poem by Kevin Pace
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Weigh Words’ Worth
Weigh well worth of wide vocabulary
Empowering experiences rich,
Intense at times, at times with playful pitch -
Gambol space to trace thoughts fair and free.
However, weight and size of words may be
Wor[l]ds apart when into sense we’d stitch
Or knit together floating concepts which
Represent the seed the knowledge tree
Dreams roots need to reach maturity.
Sage phrases softly shaded may bewitch,
Where letters lengthy linked lose touch, so hitch
Onto emotion’s star, provide true key.
Read and rehearse more than verse second hand, -
THoughts flow through words which share tuned hearts’ wave band.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Above the Poets Station
You’re a poet, as they say
All you write is poetically full of art
Wince when you read your stuff
As from literacy you stand apart
Such great depiction, fiction
wordplay and poet structures
Diction, contradiction, dead
good words and writing such as
Ballads, salads and other kinds
of verses with great meaning
Acrostic, Agnostic and all other
words that see you preening
Rhyming, timing and all the stuff
that makes you look artistic
Hard to read and nothing
really makes your stuff simplistic
Excreta, meter, rhyming
All about your brother Peter
Verses with great timing
all with just a single rhyme repeater
Arty words but never farty
Dressed up in a dictionary ‘bonnet’
Time for wordsmith party
Can you find a rhyme for this – yes Sonnet!
Who was it that wandered
all around as lonely as a cloud?
Are clouds lonely? Verily it’s pondered
Do they seek your friendship in a crowd?
I.Q, Haiku, do your readers even like you?
Tanka w****er, you’re so on the ball
So pretentious’ does that saying ever strike you
Jack of all trades master of sod all
You’re a poet, as they say
and all you say is poetically full ofshit
Read up or down, I’m pretty sure
you’ll never find much sense in it
Though some was meant!
poem by Stephen Stirk
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What Mission Now?
What mission may the poet still retain
Here in this day and age, which sees the world
As lost as ever, while mankind is whirled
Too fast, and at a pace few can sustain.
Most mask their feelings, shield themselves from pain,
In hope that though no psalms are skywards skirled
Some light can filter through cocoons which, curled,
Shut out most aspirations, which remain
Ideals Man thinks he ought to seek. In vain
Or so it seems, the flag of hope unfurled
Now braves the insults philistine which, hurled,
Nor spare nor temper the poetic vein.
One voice, when clear, will break the glass of Time,
What matter if in free-verse or in rhyme?
Whenever rhyme is crafted on ideas
Heart tunes to rhythm, can effect enhance
Allowing invitation to a dance
That adds dimensions in way that clears
Muddy waters - often verse appears
In ways which heighten, lighten, help advance
Subtle emphasis where words through Chance
Seem to stream together. Inner ears
Intuitive may key to song that steers
Over prose bound limits, elegance
Neat meanings adding through rhyme's happenstance
No forms need hamper thought where heart heart cheers.
Open mind behind the [t]racing pen
Will channel words creating worlds again...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Rule of Free Rhyme
Rhyme echoes time as creativity
Unreels threads which sense and rich feelings skein,
Lends to life’s scheme light beam which bends prose plain,
Extracts its pith with sensitivity,
Outreaching limits, spurning gravity, -
Finding behind mind’s veil tone, scale, refrain.
Fools find form forced, restricting fancy’s reign,
Repressed, or lacking sense acuity.
Emotions may be stressed with clarity
Expressive through rhyme time and time again,
Revealing style while from the chaff the grain
Has space to trace with receptivity
Youth’s aspirations, age’s fears, and more, -
MEanings multivalent, truth may store.
14 February 2005
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Rhyming Flu
It’s 1: 15 A.M.
I’m sitting here in bed;
I want to go to sleep,
But rhymes are in my head.
I just came upstairs;
I was just on the com,
Working out a poem;
For Ainaa to recite in the morn.
The problem with rhyme and I;
Is that it starts and never stops,
Remember it’s one o’clock;
But rhymes still pulse my thoughts.
So I’m writing this very rhyme;
Hoping my rhyme runs out,
But such a hope’s impossible;
When my rhymes are as abundant as trout.
I know what you all are thinking:
“This rhyme is simply a gimmick;
This boy’s not really sleepy,
He’s wide awake with this limerick.”
“This story of sleep is really;
Just some tricky plot,
To make you think he flows out rhyme;
Like water from a cracked pot.”
But, nay, it is true;
I’ve got the rhyming flu,
I’m hoping that by writing this rhyme;
All my rhymes shall be through.
Aha, I know the cure;
The medicine’s no longer obscure!
To end this awful rhyme;
I need a word that does NOT rhyme!
I’ve heard of the word before;
It’s like English’s Achilles heel,
No matter how hard you rhyme;
Its un-rhyming-ness is an iron veil.
Touché now rhyming flu;
This word I give to you!
Try rhyming the word ‘month’
…Ha-ha, you can’t now, can you! ?
The rhyming flu has left me…
I can feel it leaving my mind…
Ahhh… I am so relieved…
The clock says it’s now sleepy time...
…zZzZZZ
poem by Warren Chan
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Poets Of A Feather
From a circle of inner circumstance i came into being-
From many light years ago of time-
Revolved and returned-hopeful-yet concerned...
I set forth on my mission of rhyme;
So many have inspired my writing...
For many and multiple reasons...
Catching my breath and my very words-
I extend them-as a poet for all seasons;
Come read me in the Dead of Winter...
Come pore over my Springtime Prose...
Peruse me in the Heated Summer...
Or read me as the Fall time grows;
All nestled in the fallen leaves...
Blown crisp through Autumns Northern air...
Burnished-Gold influence emulates...
In poetic verse that my muse dares to bare;
From a circle of inner circumstance i came into being-
From many light years ago of time...
Written and erased-edited and chased-
My words are not hidden in mime;
I am a mover and a shaker by nature...
But age and ill health have had their way with me...
Writing now comes from the positive and negative...
That shapes and forms my entirity;
So welcome fellow poets and laureates...
Lets celebrate this occasion most grand...
Coming together as birds of one feather-
With paper and quill in our hands;
poem by Theodora Onken
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A Liking For Rhyme
My literary tastes have not changed with the passing of time
I have always been one with a liking for rhyme
To rhyme is so easy as some like to say
Though rhymers seem so out of fashion today
But I am a lover of ballad and song
And rhymes with a lilt that just jingle along
I loved reading the old rhyming verse as a boy
Something to this day I do thoroughly enjoy
Some literary dons refer to a rhymer as a doggerel poet
As not anyone worthy of literary note
From the Poets Club with their words rhymers they exclude
For educated people they seem rather rude
But I am a fan of good old rhyming stuff
And for many years now I have been a rhyme buff.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Prismatic Appraisal
Stop, look, and listen, imprint glistens, see
words wire taut, well caught, of themselves require
standards unset, spontaneous, to be -
though goal unsought - far from the crowd's mud mire.
Let dropp by dropp from inspiration's tree
pearl down to crown rhyme, rhythm all admire,
encapsulate amber eternity
to time-trap thoughts, acts, objects, free from ire.
One stores verse story's glory in the mind,
retinal rainbow stimulating each
synaptic link both in and out of reach, -
display whose ray may play before, behind.
Word flow sensations sows and by degree,
can catalyze a metamorphic fire
as empathy extends its energy
incandescent, lends dimensions higher
to time and space and place which, falling free,
rise to surprise and stimulate the lyre.
Time loses its accustomed hierarchy
thus finite frontiers, limits soon expire.
In context crystalline we find outlined
prismatic tones some play, which more may teach
than meets the eye, contact points combined,
with ease - these inner inhibitions breach.
Words flow where none could know they'd go, - no key
is needed where there's no directive spire,
no cue restrictive, new priority
in depth is found, ground falls away, kite flyer
spins toplike, fights against Earth's gravity
reintegrates new levels which aspire
to spread, to wed when seedbed cavity
spores explode, explore, more growth inspire.
Words flow, emotions echo, each assigned
its place to interaction trace where speech
is often too restrictive, predefined, -
thought modes aligned, too taut one must impeach.
Words taught, untaught, exchanged, are vector we
extend from passing trend as minds enquire,
as echoes through blue organ flue flow free
or meanings ancient bend to suit soul's choir
in harmony, or melting melody,
or raven caw reacting to some liar,
cabalist, hermetic, open key,
energy decoding deep desire.
So verse to verse responds spontaneous
to take up arms against a troubled seed,
to laugh with, never at unless some cuss,
to read behind the lines for more to read…
These featured points outline one Poet's view
though points, when featured, comments draw too few
1029 14 November 2003 and 8 August 2007
(28 March 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Pattern Patter Down Pat
Patterns form from harmony as verse
Attempts translation of emotions' span
To teach, to reach, to leach words' worlds, to fan
The essence of poetics and rehearse
Essential feelings crafted in lines terse.
Rare care, share sense, spare no expense to ban
Needless screed as witless also-ran
Empty ego's petty prose, immerse
Depth giving strange change range, fop's sops disperse.
Vantage point: holistic perspective scan,
Empower imagination's dripping pan.
Revise, re-draw, re-edit, intersperse
Strong rhythm, alliteration, stay on track
Expressing ideas ideally, pattern pack.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Who stands with me?
True poets write in meter.
Not because they think it’s neater
but because the flow is sweeter
When their words are read aloud
as they perform before the crowd.
Their poems pass the acid test.
Prose writers do not choose to rhyme.
They see it as a waste of time.
Although their word choice is sublime.
Without meter it is prose,
not poetry as they suppose.
Their definition I contest.
Poetic prose it’s plain to see.
Can not be classed as poetry.
I can accept you disagree.
I know I have a biased view
I think I am entitled to
Decide which one I like the best.
I choose meter every time
Preferably with lines that rhyme.
I find such poetry sublime.
Though I enjoy well written prose.
Each to his own I must suppose
So write the way that suits you best.
I am old fashioned I admit
and not one whit ashamed of it.
I do not find rules inhibit.
Free expression of my views
They merely mean I have to choose
the words that will express them best
Free form, free verse, poetic prose.
Are methods other writers chose
as being fit for their purpose.
To rebel against fixed form.
Which was regarded as the norm.
Just to be different from the rest.
But fashions change and now free form
Must be regarded as the norm.
I see no reason to conform.
I choose to write my poetry
In the old way that pleases me.
A lonely voice raised in protest.
The wheel of fate will slowly turn
Metered poetry will return
and well deserved plaudits earn.
I hope I live to see the day.
when classic poets can display.
That fixed forms can outshine the rest.
Monday,06 December 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Parody Of John Keats 'On The Sonnet
Parody to follow, but first, the real deal sonnet by John Keats,1819...
----------…
John Keats sonnet.....'On the Sonnet'...
If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fettered, in spite of painéd loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrained,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gained
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
----------…
My parody.....'On Rhyme and Money'
If by dull rhyme our fortune's attained,
let us speak, shout, seek, complete with all pain
tomorrow's journey to our bank account.
Ignore that woman chained by wisdom's fount.
Was she not acclaimed in her day and time?
Her eternal beauty bought for a dime
from every passing vendor. How vane!
Her shame, wanting blonde tresses. Brunette's bane!
Forlorn, forsworn, we apply merely base
words, structure, to the poetics of haste.
And, all meaning wanting, we write cheap
nonsensical verse, all rhyming replete.
We of beggars' free verse stand time's testing,
penniless, but with no gods are jesting.
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
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Free Verse or Prose
Sadly, to me
This thing they call Prose
Is naught but just talk,
And often verbose;
I think it's too easy
And honestly, I'm
Just wanting to say
I much prefer rhyme.
And almost the same is the
Form called Free Verse,
It isn't for me, I'm not keen,
And what's worse:
Explaining the differences
Should be a breeze,
But even amongst the 'experts'
No one agrees.
Now I'm no academic
But I won't be fooled
By the 'cleverer' people,
By the so-called, 'well-schooled';
I favour good rhyming
O'er Free Verse or Prose,
And I'm calling to mind now
The Emperor's New Clothes.
poem by John Carter Brown
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