En.Citatepedia^®.ro

0338 Just couldn't hack it

A hard writing I had of it;
the words clumsy, the sense banal...

escaping from rhyme isn't easy;
half a lifetime to work up to it
then like skirt length, that's it,
the line's short this season,
and rhyme is, so, like, so last year...

(and must be insincere
if you have to work at it
or even want to)

so there I was in the
midst of getting the
hang of cutting the line at the
best place for the
sense, to avoid the
artificial on the
one hand and the
banal on the
other -the
art that conceals the
art -

and scenting euphony, when suddenly -
a crash - and in there lumbered - 'woodenly'...

I twigged instantly that it wouldn't
go without a struggle;
and called in Suddenly for questioning -
had they some sort of pact in the recesses of my mind -
kissin' cousins, blood brothers, partners in rhyme?

Suddenly denied this vigorously -
never been asked such a question before,
wouldn't want to associate etc.;
a word only used by theatre critics...

So I sighed and threw out my neatly chopped prose,
spontaneity, jokes, and anything goes;
and returned to meaningful old-fashioned verse
so woodenly crafted - well, poets have done worse.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Line By Line

Writing line by line
Can i capture the truth in rhyme
You tell me okay its fine
Whats fine my writings or the rhymes
Have you read enough this time
Rhyme line rhyme
Am i wasting my time
Do i even comprehend
The thoughts the static static
Inside my head
I send a piece to a friend
Or are they scared to offend
I need to know if its rubbish
Putting it out there to be published
Rhyme line verse
Do you speak the truth or were you coerced
So im taking you at your word
You have listened you heard
Line by line
Rhyme by rhyme
Can i be convicted of poetry crimes
For writing dribble
About nothing as long as it rhymes
Well thank you my friend
Here is another i am about to send
Read it and read it again
Maybe you can send on to a friend
Okay time to go
I have more pieces of dribble you know

poem by GJC boyle
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The Moderns

To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of 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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Lines And Tied Ends

Lines they say
Go on for, forever and a day
When I was but a youth I would say ok
But not today
For an expression comes to mind... how fey
For with this expression I must inveigh
For I have heard 'This is the end of the line'
But this defies logic and math
Maybe the end of a path
But not a line
Interesting it would take some time
To understand this, so I use this concept in a rhyme
This rhyme baleful in nature and maybe vile
Ugly like bile
Yet I need to tell
This story to stay well
The ends are tied, they are done, the ends are tied
Those parts of me have already partialy died
This is the end of the line, it will end
This is all there is
It's over my dear, my heart it seems, I will have to mend
Though the end is not mine
Though it seems
It is from you, you will cause it, no matter how fine
You will be the one to say the word 'no'
And then after that answer
I will never be the same, I'll die suddenly as if from a once dormant cancer
I promise you this end will be the halcyon end, the sleep i desired

poem by David Knox
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The Everlasting Throes of Those

The Everlasting Throes
Of Those
Who Argue about Poetry versus Prose
And about the Propriety or Crime
Of Meter and Rhyme
In Poetry:

as I see it, it’s back to the ancient Greek idea
of three near-absolutes – Truth, Beauty and Goodness
and although they’re all absolute in their aim,
and therefore theoretically equal,
most of us, I suspect, have our personal order for this list

those who put Truth first at all costs are more likely
to write prose; but if they love beauty in words
and have the urge to write something beautiful in words
they may try poetry; but to them,
rhyme is untruthful, dishonest, because
looking for a rhyme
becomes a crime:
and leads your mind away from the strict Truth.

while those who put Beauty first don’t have
a fixed attitude – they may, as children do,
love the formal music of hearing about
A certain Mrs Dhutti
Who was very slightly nutty
She wouldn’t wear a saree
As her arms and legs were hairy
And thought it was much better
To wear trousers and a sweater
etc.
or they may feel that their response to the world
is so full of love, of awe, of wonder
(of which Aristotle said the second and third
are shared by philosophers, that is, lovers - note the word - of wisdom,
and poets – though a poet
may not know it…)
where was I oh yes, their response to the world
is most truly - note the word - expressed
in free verse
which may be better poetry
or worse

and what about Goodness – oh let’s not
get into that: the poetry Forums are full of the emptiness
(though it’s a necessary evil, looked at in a way)
of poets and readers and critics saying
what’s good poetry and what’s bad
according to them and feeling
they’ve made a contribution to
Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, in that order
by pronouncing this.

some few, some worthy few, and I’ll mention no names
for reasons not unconnected as Milton might put it
with the previous stanza,
whose brilliance of that servant mind which we all share,
manages to juggle Beauty, Goodness and Truth,
in that order in this instance, and not only juggle but
remain faithful to them all; we could call them
The Absolutely Great – they speak straight from heart to heart
and they don’t worry about prosaic considerations like the above
because they’ve got it all, all this, within their art; within
their constant heart.

(Readers, please note,
that last line’s a quote.)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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Rhyme

Poets rhyme from time to time
They don’t find rhyme a crime
It’s no sin, their using rhyme
Inspired rhyme is so sublime
Can often form a perfect line

ROTMS

poem by Ray Lucero
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I Am Tired Of The Rhyme I Am Tired Of The Rhyme

i am tired of the rhyme
and rhyme just to rhyme with you
at the expense of my thoughts
at the loss of my spirit
at the defeat of my spontaneity
my streams flowing and stopping looking for the proper word that sounds
like the previous word
until i am drowned by the rage and upsurge of my emotions
just let me be myself
let me flow like a river without the banks restraining me

in the canalization of my dreams
i will be nothing
but a line
parallel
to yours and they do not really look and sound right
i am afraid to say i am sorry
i will not be beautiful with you
i will be beautiful alone so alone in my own solitude.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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For Me Far Too Much Foofaraw

For me far too much foofaraw
Your own conclusions on them and their work draw
Though modern poets and their poems in poetry the in thing
And their praises the literary critics sing.

I am not an up with the times man
And of them and their work I am not a fan
For I do love old fashioned rhyme
And my love for it goes back some time.

It gives me joy to sing along
With the singer of the old ballad or song
The sort the travellers at the horse fairs sung
Decades ago when I was young.

A beautiful memory I recall
Of the Millstreet Town horse fair in the Fall
An ageing Irish Traveller sung Burns 'Afton water' what a joy
For a nine year old country boy.

In the poems of modern poets too much foofaraw for me
Though with that many would disagree
I love the music in the rhyme
The poetry of another time.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Pooh Bear learns about Enjambment

Pooh liked Autumn. Autumn means walking with a scarf round your neck and sometimes seeing your breath in the air like a silent conversation, and wet leaves underfoot and twigs going crackle or sometimes crack! which can be scary if you aren't holding CR's hand.

So here they are, walking together paw-in-hand down the path in Hundred-Acre Wood, and Pooh is humming a happy hum with words looking for it, rather like inquisitive flies that don't quite land on you, wondering if they should stay or not, and how the other flies feel if two of them land together...

'CR..' said Pooh, 'What's en-jamb-ment? ' It sounded like what happens when a wasp gets stuck in a honey jar, or perhaps a marmalade jar.

'That's a long word, Pooh...' said CR, wondering how to explain to a Bear Of Little Brain Yet Poetically Gifted, in the easiest way, when you're not too sure yourself...

'Well...' said CR at last, 'you don't really need it, Pooh, because your Hums all finish each line with a rhyme - so everyone knows just where they are....but suppose you get to the end of a line, and the line looks around like Eeyore does after a big mouthful of juicy autumn grass, and it can't see another line that wants to pair with it in a friendly rhyme.... then if you let it just go on being by itself - like Eeyore - and it's happy to be that way, if occasionally grumbly about it - that's called 'free verse'.

'So then you can just go on and on without thinking about when to stop... but then if you write it down so that other people can read it without getting out of breath, what 'free verse poets' do is like turning over the page of a book and wondering what's coming - like, is there a scary illustration on the next page, or a Surprise, or only a few lines and THE END - what these poets do, is to treat the lines the same way as pages, so that at the end of each line, you wonder a little bit more than usual, what's coming in the next line... instead of yawning and wondering if it's time for A Little Something...'

'I see..' said Pooh, in the way you do when you're a Very Polite Bear but don't really see, not yet anyway...

Then he remembered that poem by Rupert Somebody that CR had told him was an Extended Metaphor, which had that memorable line which the Poetic Bear could have written himself: '...and is there hunny still for tea? ...' though of course Pooh was always careful, himself, to have a line of hunnypots up there where you could see that the future was golden and hunny-coloured...

'CR...' said Pooh in that happy feeling when the brain seems to sorting things out for you, '...so if you wrote carefully in a book, '... and is there hunny still for tea? ...' you could write it with the first line

...and is there...

and people would wonder what you were going to ask them... or

...and is there hunny...

and they'd wonder, what you were asking about hunny; or

... and is there hunny still...

and they might be suddenly worried that the hunny had run out; or just

...and is there hunny still for tea?

which tells them exactly what you're thinking without making them think too much? '

'Exactly! ' said CR (though it sounded more 'exackly' because he was happy and excited) ' You really are a Poetic Bear, Pooh! '

And he squeezed Pooh's paw in a Specially Friendly fashion, and a hunny-coloured glow filled Pooh, as one more Useful Thing about Poetry was put into place...

And as they returned home for a Little Something, Pooh was humming a hum with words flying curiously around it, which would be his first Free Verse Hum With Enjambment which grown-up poets would read with that little extra interest, as they came to the end of each line, and know that it was written by W.Edward Bear Esquire, Poet...

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poetic Licence

I've got Poetic Licence
Applied the other day
I took a little test you see
They said I was OK.

With this Poetic Licence
I now talk just in verse
But sometimes when out shopping
It feels like quite a curse.

Where some would say
'Tomatoes'
I find myself in rhyme
I ask for things at length you see
It sure eats up the time.

Not 'tomatoes' do I ask for
Nor a kilo and a half
I come out with some poem
I do get lots of laughs.

The other day was dreadful
I wanted some roast duck
But try and try as I might do
The rhyme came quite unstuck
The only word that came to me
Was really very rude
It rhymed with duck quite well you know
But didn't fit with food.

I stumbled and I stumbled
Said 'errrr' a hundred times
And ended up with sausages
For the 57th time.

'Why sausages? '
I hear you ask
It doesn't rhyme with much
But I've got into a habit that simplifies my task
I just say to the butcher
'Do you think I am a bore?
Can I have the very same
That I bought here before? '

Each day it's getting worse and worse
You see I like my beer
But try and try as I might do
It only rhymes with 'queer'.

I've given up on sandwiches
That really is too hard
And trying to buy Panadol
Would foil just any Bard.

I often think of Shakespeare
Wordsworth, Tennyson and Donne
When they went out shopping
Did they just go on and on?

Or were they simply better
And quicker on their toes
Did they just point somewhere
And ask for 'one of those'?

My Licence is provisional
I've only got P plates
I must get in more practice
And not procrastinate.

I should read up on some poets
Using more contemporary words
Maybe those guys from the West Coast
Like that howling man Ginsberg.

They didn't see the need to rhyme
Now that would free me up
They wrote in lower case as well
Now that's a bit of luck.

Their style's just right for emails
In this computer age
So I could buy my goods on line
And dissipate my rage.

Let's have a go with this right now
Now what shall I purchase
A pizza or a hamburger
Delivered to my place.

My God this is fantastic
This is going to be fun
I'll download lots of music
Buy some books from Amazon.

Now will there be some problems?
It doesn't seem that hard
Oh dear for now I've hit one
Using my credit card.

It has such a long number
That doesn't seem to rhyme
No wait I think I've got it
It will simply take more time.

Let's look at that long number now
It ends with 649
Now what on earth could rhyme with that?
Be quick and be on time?

I think this is a breakthrough
I've really cracked it mate
Maybe order some champagne
So I can celebrate.

Suddenly I'm feeling lonely
Well that’s fixed up real quick
I'll go to on-line dating
And chat up some nice chick.

This virtual life suits me
It suits my poetry
I'll never move outside my house
Live electronically.

What's that?
You find me boring?
My talking just in verse?
You think I find it easy?
You think I can't converse
In ordinary language
Well let me tell you straight
It's my total dedication
And desire to innovate
That drives me ever onwards
And makes me play with words
What's that I hear you say to me
You find me quite absurd?
Well let me tell you sunshine
This special and new craft
It marks me out from others
At whom you have to laugh.

It's my artistic mission
To boldly go to where
Wordsworth may have trifled
But I shall bravely dare
To turn this thing called poetry
Into a living tongue
Make other talk seem boring
And find that I belong
In the world of art and culture
Intellect and song.

Combin-ed with the internet
I'll let my message reach
All those happy surfers
Replacing normal speech.

Now, what shall I have for dinner?
Damn those delivery men
The fridge is almost empty
Oh dear, sausages again.

12 May 2004

poem by David Keig
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The Woman Of Rhyme

She is not what you'd call beautiful though still in her prime
And to those who know her she is known as The Woman of Rhyme
In Local Literary circles not even one of note
As she does not fit the bill of the Modern Poet.

But the rhyme from her gushes and it races along
And in five minutes flat she can pen you a song
And though not classified as a poet her verse is not doggerel
And with her gift of rhyme one might say she does well.

Some fifty years ago she would have known fame
And her's would have been a great Literary name
But rhyme it would seem has passed it's use by date
And what's now seen as old fashioned was once seen as great.

Even the best of the Local modern poets seem strangers to renown
But then such is life in a football mad Town
In the pubs the names of famed poets and artists they never recall
Their small talk mostly of sports, footballers and football.

For what she is good at she is not recognized
But having said that I am not really surprised
since rhyme verse has long passed it's glorious time
And none to applaud the young Woman of Rhyme.

poem by Francis Duggan
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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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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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Suddenly

Orbison/melson
Suddenly, my heart stood still
Suddenly, the sight of you gave me a thrill
Suddenly
Suddenly, i see you everywhere
Suddenly, all at once i seem to care for you
Suddenly
So suddenly i found you
To think you were near all the time
I've often been around you
I don't know how i could have been so blind
Suddenly, my world is new
Suddenly, suddenly there's only you
Suddenly
So suddenly i found you
To think you were near all the time
I've often been around you
I don't know how i could have been so blind
Suddenly, suddenly you're my dream come true
Suddenly, suddenly there's only you
So suddenly

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0004 The world has lost the ear for rhyme

The world has lost the ear for rhyme.
It still makes children squirm with pleasure;
and from some witty pens and minds, its fireworks fizz;
so, after all these centuries of rhyme
and all the games of meter, dancing words,
should we now mourn its passing?
Have we lost the music of another world?

Instead, the easy unpretentious discourse,
sober, light, familiar, honest -
the world of daily, homely, shared sharp life,
that's now preferred. Not prose;
much more than 'chopped-up prose' as those may say
who think that poetry should be more visibly hard-earned;
- as if a human life set down in honesty
were not a poem in itself, unwrit;
'prose with enhanced consciousness' it's often now defined;
and consciousness - now that's earned, if you like...

and simile, and imagery, and metaphor - all the repertoire
of glorious poetry - they're all still here
to work their magic; if more played down, now,
unostentatious as T-shirt and jeans;
unostentatious as the beating, bloody heart.

And yet, when years bring tears
and time brings death and dying,
it's time for rhyme, to heal the heart
and charm away the crying.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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Alankar(Decor) -76

Bhaji-(Chain Verse)

Chain Verse is composed in one of three ways:

1 Chain Verse is composed
with the last word or syllable of one line repeated
in the beginning of the next line.

2 Chain Verse can be stanzaic, most often written in any number of quatrains
but any stanza form will do, linked by repeating the last word of a stanza
as the first word of the next stanza.
The repetition of a word from one Verse or stanza to the next creates a chain-like link.
usually rhymed, linking rhyme as well as alternate rhyme.
often syllabic, alternating longer-shorter lines.
One example is alternating 8-7-8-7 syllables the other is alternating 6-5-6-5 syllables per line.

3 Chain Verse can be written
with the last line of the stanza repeated
as the first line of the next stanza.
----

2

Bhaji-(Chain Verse-6-5-6-5 syllables
With linking rhyme only)

I found a guava plant
Silent in a nook
Along my garden stroll
On a rainy day

Day was cool in showers
No wonder taste hyped
Picked some fresh guava leaves
Wishing for bhajis

Bhajis are many types
Of veggies and leaves
Can make tasty bhajis
Guava leaves too used

Used are gram and rice flours
With salt and chilli
Mixed in are leafy bits
And soda a dash

Dashing batter ready
When mixed with water
The center line Strung out
Dipped leaves get coated

Coated leaves then deep fried
Out from deep hot oil
Season's snack was ready
Why wait, munch said I

poem by Indira Renganathan
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Death Of An Unpopular Poet

By: jimmy buffett
1973
I once knew a poet
Who lived before his time
He and his dog spooner
Would listen while hed rhyme
Words to make ya happy
Words to make you cry
Then one day the poet suddenly did die
But he left behind a closet
Filled with verse and rhyme
And through some strange transaction
One was printed in the times
And everybodys searchin
For the king of undergound
Well they found him down in florida
With a tombstone for a crown
Everybody knows a line
From his book that cost four ninety-nine
I wonder if he knows hes doin
Quite this fine
cause his books are all best sellers
And his poems were turned to song
Had his brother on a talk show
Though they never got along
And now hes called immortal
Yes hes even taught in school
They say he used his talents
A most proficient tool
But he left all of his royalties
To spooner his ol hound
Growin old on steak and bacon
In a doghouse ten feet round
And everybody wonders
Did he really lose his mind
No he was just a poet who lived before his time
He was just a poet who lived before his time

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The literary life

We went to the house
of Afrikaans poetry together
on weekends and spent hours there
and listened to the master lecture
and met some poet friends
around a table
with a drink or two.

Sometimes the poetry was Afrikaans,
English, Dutch or even German
and we learnt form poets
around the globe.

We discussed what we had
just learned,
asked about his views
of certain things,
or what people in the group think,
discussed poetry, life,
sometimes even politics
and philosophy
as individuals of a group.

We read our poems,
listened to other poets,
reading their own,
analysed every word, every line
comprehending meaning, impact
and sharpened our art.

Your poetry was really great,
from when I read the very first line,
but mine had still to grow
from rhyme into free verse.

At times I hated comments
that forced me to move,
but realized that it was meant
with great goodwill
and even though I was in pain
I sharpened my verse
and free verse brought
a clearer ear, making it
much easier to write
great rhyme.

Now that I had to leave Pretoria,
weekends I really miss
that great writing school,
new poems from great poets,
learning something there,
experiencing poetry at its core,
lectures from that great master
and verses of his own,
but much more
your poems.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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