To Moliere
Unequaled genius, whose warm fancy knows
No rhyming labor, no poetic throes;
To whom Apollo has unlocked his store;
Whose coin is struck from pure Parnassian ore;
Thou, dextrous master, teach thy skill to me,
And tell me, Moliere, how to1 rhyme like thee!
You never falter when the close comes round,
Or leave the substance to preserve the sound;
You never wander after words that fly,
For all the words you need before you lie.
But I, who--smarting for my sins of late--
With itch of rhyme am visited by fate,
Expend on air my unavailing force,
And, hunting sounds, am sweated like a horse.
In vain I often muse from dawn till night:
When I mean black, my stubborn verse says white;
If I should paint a coxcomb's flippant mien,
I scarcely can forbear to name the Dean;
If asked to tell the strains that purest flow,
My heart says Virgil, but my pen Quinault;
In short, whatever I attempt to say,
Mischance conducts me quite the other way.
At times, fatigued and fretted with the pain,
When every effort for relief is vain,
The fruitless chase I peevishly give o'er,
And swear a thousand times to write no more:
But, after thousand vows, perhaps by chance,
Before my careless eyes the couplets dance.
Then with new force my flame bursts out again,
Pleased I resume the paper and the pen;
And, all my anger and my oaths forgot,
I calmly muse and resolutely blot.
Yet, if my eager hand, in haste to rhyme,
Should tack an empty couplet at a time,
Great names who do the same I might adduce;
Nay, some who keep such hirelings for their use.
Need blooming Phyllis be described in prose
By any lover who has seen a _rose?_
Who can forget heaven's masterpiece, her eye,
Where, within call, the Loves and Graces lie?
Who can forget her smile, devoid of art,
Her heavenly sweetness and her frozen heart?
How easy thus forever to compound,
And ring new changes on recurring sound;
How easy, with a reasonable store
Of useful epithets repeated o'er,
Verb, substantive, and pronoun, to transpose,
And into tinkling metre hitch dull prose.
But I--who tremble o'er each word I use,
And all that do not aid the sense refuse,
Who cannot bear those phrases out of place
Which rhymers stuff into a vacant space--Ponder
my scrupulous verses o'er and o'er,
And when I write five words, oft blot out four.
Plague on the fool who taught us to confine
The swelling thought within a measured line;
Who first in narrow thraldom fancy pent,
And chained in rhyme each pinioned sentiment.
Without this toil, contentment's soothing balm
Might lull my languid soul in listless calm:
Like the smooth prebend how might I recline,
And loiter life in mirth and song and wine!
Roused by no labor, with no care opprest,
Pass all my nights in sleep, my days in rest.
My passions and desires obey the rein;
No mad ambition fires my temperate vein;
The schemes of busy greatness I decline,
Nor kneel in palaces at Fortune's shrine.
In short, my life had been supremely blest
If envious rhyme had not disturbed my rest:
But since this freakish fiend began to roll
His idle vapors o'er my troubled soul,
Since first I longed in polished verse to please,
And wrote with labor to be read with ease,
Nailed to my chair, day after day I pore
On what I write and what I wrote before;
Retouch each line, each epithet review,
Or burn the paper and begin anew.
While thus my labors lengthen into years,
I envy all the race of sonneteers.
Hail, happy Scudere! whose prolific brain
Brings forth a monthly volume without pain;
What though thy works, offending every rule,
Proclaim their author an insipid fool;
Still have they found, whate'er the critic says,
Traders to buy and emptier fools to praise.
And, truly, if in rhymes the couplets close,
What should it matter that the rest is prose?
Who stickles now for antiquated saws,
Or cramps his verses with pedantic laws?
The fool can welcome every word he meets,
With placid joy contemplating his feats;
And while each stanza swells his wondering breast
Admires them all, yet thinks the last the best.
But towering Genius, hopeless to attain
That unknown summit which he pants to gain,
Displeased himself, enchanting all beside,
Scorns each past effort that his strength supplied,
And filling every reader with delight,
Repents the hour when he began to write.
To you, who know how justly I complain,
To you I turn for medicine to my pain!
Grant me your talent, and impart your store,
Or teach me, Moliere, how to rhyme no more.
poem by Nicholas Boileau-Despreaux
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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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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Writing Frustrations I've Known
-It would seem, I've run out of words.
Nothing left to say.
I have lost my inner voice.
It's gone, completely astray.
Perhaps I should lay down pen and pad.
Never more write a rhyme.
On this poetry that I love
I shall spend no further time.
... not that I was ever truly a poet anyway
... it's just that, well, I did love it so;
... still, it feels the well is dry
... time to just let it go.
- So now, what of me shall be
Feeling empty in heart and head?
What purpose-without a word-shall be heard
With no way to express both hope and dread?
Where have the words gone
Must they ever stay away?
Who has taken my spirit's song
Why has the music of my soul nothing more to say?
... I try... seems of no use...
My mind torn asunder, literary abuse.
(this next part wrote a couple months later)
Listen, what do I hear?
Something is knocking at my gate!
A few months later now
But, not altogether too late.
A lonesome thought comes strolling in
From whence I cannot declare,
Just that it has arrived
With this simple message to share:
' What's a dime
To a lover of verse and rhyme,
And what's to fear
Of criticism drawing near?
For to write only for income
Would soon turn quite burdensome,
As surely as to not write for fear of ridicule
Would be to deny the voice within you.
The words may never turn a single head
But, don't dare believe they'll ever be dead!
God gives meaning to what he wants
Whether anyone else listens or not.
The way it is all spoke
By darling bards, or simple country folk,
Is well worth hearing
And so oft more than a bit endearing.
Don't worry about the rhyme
The perfect place or time,
Just give your soul in words as best you can
And those who should, will understand.
Those who don't
Just won't,
And that's o.k.
God speaks to them in other ways.
Trust his Spirit in all you do
Yes, this includes writing too,
Remember he promised he'd never leave you alone
Even in the simple words of your poems. '
-Pondering it over
I suppose this I've known all along,
Though thoughts may wander
True words are never gone.
Well, ya know what:
I believe I just might pick up paper and pen,
Good or bad, right or wrong...
Give it a go, once again!
poem by Smoky Hoss
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A Passing Voice
'Turn me a rhyme,' said Fate,
'Turn me a rhyme:
A swift and deadly hate
Blows headlong towards thee in the teeth of Time.
Write! or thy words will fall too late.'
'Write me a fold,' said Fate,
'Write me a fold,
Life to conciliate,
Of words red with thine heart's blood, hotly told.
Then, kings may envy thine estate!'
'Make thee a fame,' said Fate,
'Make thee a fame
To storm the heaven-hung gate,
Unbarred alone to the victorious name
Which has Art's conquerors to mate.'
'Die in thy shame,' said Fate,
'Die in thy shame!
Naught here can compensate
But the proud radiance of that glorious flame,
Genius: fade, thou, unconsecrate!'
poem by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
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Sonnet- Sonnet Needs Rhymes
Can you a Sonnet write without its rhyme?
Now people want the modern verse that's free;
As ideas get stuck and cramped with time,
A Sonnet's like leafless branches of tree!
A Sonnet's great for men who rhyme too well;
Its beauty lives in metre, rhythm, rhyme;
Yet, it can never run into 'pel-mel';
The sonneteer can write in any clime.
Why abhor rhymes and not a Sonnet write?
Each genre has its rules to comply with;
Why sleep all day and stay awake all night?
Rhyme-play is done by Kindergarden kith!
Why ridicule something you can't do well,
Much things are done by practice, Sonnets tell.
poem by John Celes
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I write because I want to
I write because I want to,
I am going to wear my hair short in a military style
practise disciple to jog every day
to keep my life fit and balanced
and will write verses according to my beliefs
putting the government
and everyone that oppress my people
in their place
and if it wants to rhyme, I will let it rhyme,
I will use free verse if it wants to
and I will tell what is hurting me,
what is having disconcert,
what brings happiness to my life,
what I see as beautiful
and of everything
that leads to destruction or to a greater experience
and even in the darkness I will dig.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On Being Told That There Is No Rhyme For The Word “Limerick”
After I heard Harry’s limerick,
I found that my mind set to simmer. “Rick, ”
I said to myself,
“One might write it itself, ”
But I answered, “You’re chances are slimmer, Rick! ”
So I can’t find a good rhyme for Limerick.
Told myself, “ You are just a beginner, Rick
And though there’s no reason
You can’t write something decent,
I fancy your chances get grimmer, Rick! ”
He said that it might rhyme with turmeric
But I thought, “You’re not that fast a learner, Rick:
Ditch your thoughts wasting time
Finding suitable rhyme;
Let your plans, man, stand on the back burner, Rick.”
But the cogwheels had started to turn a bit
As I guessed I had started to learn a bit
And I might find a line
That rhymes Limerick fine
And might win me a prize, so I earn a bit.
But I thought, “Though there was just a glimmer, Rick.
You will think till you’re needing a zimmer, Rick,
Since the muse isn’t kind,
I am sure you’ll will find
Not a word that will rhyme fine with Limerick.”
poem by C. Richard Miles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To A Lady Who Commanded Me To Send Her An Account In Verse
How I succeed, you kindly ask;
Yet set me on a grievous Task,
When you oblige me to rehearse,
The Censures past upon my Verse.
Tho' I with Pleasure may relate,
That many, truly good, and great,
With candid Eye my Lines survey,
And smile upon the artless Lay;
To those with grateful Heart I bend --
But your Commands I must attend.
SERVILLA cries, I hate a Wit;
Women should to their Fate submit,
Should in the Needle take Delight;
'Tis out of Character to write:
She may succeed among the Men;
They tell me, Swift subscribes for Ten;
And some say, Dorset does the same;
But she shall never have my Name:
Her Poetry has cost me dear;
When Lady Carteret was here,
The Widow Gordon got my Guinea;
For which I own myself a Ninny.
OLIVIA loses oft at Play;
So will not throw her Gold away.
Thus Silvia, of the haughty Tribe:
She never ask'd me to subscribe,
Nor ever wrote a Line on me,
I was no Theme for Poetry!
She rightly judg'd; I have no Taste --
For Womens Poetry, at least.
Then Fulvia made this sage Reply;
(And look'd with self--sufficient Eye
I oft have said, and say again,
Verses are only writ by Men;
I know a Woman cannot write;
I do not say this out of Spite;
Nor shall be thought, by those who know me,
To envy one so much below me.
SABINA, fam'd in Wisdom's School,
Allows I write--but am a Fool:
``What!--must our Sons be form'd by Rhyme?
``A fine Way to employ one's Time!''
ALBINO has no gold to waste,
Far gone in the Italian Taste:
He vows he must subscribe this Year,
To keep dear Carestini here;
Not from a narrow Party View;
He doats on Senesino too;
By Turns their Int'rest he'll espouse;
He's for the public Good, he vows;
A gen'rous Ardor fires his Breast.
Hail, Britain, in such Patriots blest!
Says Belvidera, Since a Wit
Or Friend or Foe alike will hit,
Deliver me from Wits, I say;
Grant Heav'n, they ne'er may cross my Way!
Besides, I oft have heard it hinted,
Her Poems never will be printed:
Her Sickness is a Feint, no doubt,
To keep her Book from coming out.
Of Wit, says Celia, I'll acquit her;
Then archly fell into a Titter.
A Female Bard! Pulvillio cries;
'Tis possible she may be wise;
But I could never find it yet,
Tho' oft in Company we met:
She talks just in the common Way:
Sure Wits their Talents should display;
Their Language surely should be bright,
Before they should pretend to write:
I'll ne'er subscribe for Books, says he;
'Fore Gad, it looks like Pedantry.
High--born Belinda loves to blame;
On Criticism founds her Fame:
When--e'er she thinks a Fault she spies
How Pleasure sparkles in her Eyes!
Call it not Poetry, she says;
No -- Call it Rhyming, if you please:
Her Numbers might adorn a Ring,
Or serve along the Streets to sing:
Stella and Flavia's well enough;
What else I saw, was stupid Stuff;
Nor Love nor Satire in her Lays,
Insipid! neither pain nor please:
I promis'd once to patronize her;
But on Reflection, I was wiser:
Yet I subscrib'd among the rest;
I love to carry on a Jest.
BELINDA thus her Anger shows,
Nor tells the World, from whence it flows:
With more Success to wound my Lays,
She gilds the Dart with other Praise:
To her own Breast I leave the Fair
Convinc'd I stand acquitted there.
AMANDA, your Commands, you see,
Tho' grievous, are obey'd by me.
What my Friends told me had been said,
Just as it came into my Head,
No matter for the Place or Time,
To shew your Pow'r, I tag with Rhyme.
Now let some News salute your Ear,
Tho' I have weary'd you, I fear:
Know, --- has Vengeance vow'd,
And in the Furies Temple bow'd:
He but suspends his Wrath, he says,
Till he can criticise my Lays.
Malice, thy Rancour I expect,
And shall return it--with Neglect:
Go on, display your treasur'd Rage;
Invectives shall not blot my Page:
What real Faults you note, I'll mend:
Proceed, your Efforts I attend;
Taught early, Dryden, by thy Song,
They ne'er forgive, who do the Wrong.
Now to the Muse I bid Adieu;
Nor rail at her, as Poets do:
Protected by the Good and Great,
I'll not repine, but bless my Fate.
You, Madam, who your Sex adorn,
Who Malice and Detraction scorn,
Who with superior Sense are bless'd,
Of ev'ry real Worth possess'd;
With Eye indulgent view my Lays:
You know to blame, but love to praise:
You know my Faults, and know beside,
I want not to be mortify'd.
One Merit I presume to boast,
And dare to plead but one at most:
The Muse I never have debas'd;
My Lays are innocent at least;
Were ever ardently design'd
To mend and to enlarge the Mind.
This must be own'd a virtuous Aim.
The Praise of Wit--let others claim.
poem by Mary Barber
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poets Are Born
Good poets are born, not fashioned.
The masters of sterility
write verses in prose and christen
them in the name of Poetry.
Meters are measured arrangements,
rhyme is correspondence of sound;
But devoid of inspiration
results, if ever, rarely found.
A poem must be a poet’s breath:
On inhalation he creates,
the exhalation, he narrates
Breathing life into words once dead.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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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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Ad Comitissam Rutlandiæ
Madam, so may my verses pleasing be,
So may you laugh at them and not at me,
'Tis something to you gladly I would say;
But how to do't I cannot find the way.
I would avoid the common beaten ways
To women used, which are love or praise:
As for the first, the little wit I have
Is not yet grown so near unto the grave,
But that I can, by that dim fading light,
Perceive of what, or unto whom I write.
Let such as in a hopeless, witless rage,
Can sigh a quire, and read it to a page;
Such is do backs of books and windows fill,
With their too furious diamond or quill;
Such as were well resolved to end their days
With a loud laughter blown beyond the seas;
Who are so mortified that they can live
Contemned of all the world, and yet forgive,
Write love to you: I would not willingly
Be pointed at in every company;
As was that little tailor, who till death
Was hot in love with Queen Elizabeth:
And, for the last, in all my idle days
I never yet did living woman praise
In prose or verse: and when I do begin
I'll pick some woman out as full of sin
As you are full of virtue; with a soul
As black as you are white; a face as foul
As you are beautiful: for it shall be
Out of the rules of physiognomy
So far, that I do fear I must displace
The art a little, to let in her face.
It shall att least four faces be below
The devil's; and her parched corpse shall show
In her loose skill as if some sprite she were
Kept in a bag by some great conjurer.
Her breath shall be as horrible and wild
As every word you speak is sweet and mild;
It shall be such a one as will not be
Covered with any art or policy:
But let her take all powders, fumes, and drink,
She shall make nothing but a dearer stink;
She shall have such a foot and such a nose,
She shall not stand in anything but prose;
If I bestow my praises upon such,
'Tis charity, and I shall merit much.
My praise will come to her like a full bowl,
Bestowed at most need on a thirsty soul;
Where, if I sing your praises in my rhyme,
I lose my ink, my paper, and my time;
And nothing add to your o'erflowing store,
And tell you nought, but what you knew before.
Nor do the virtuous-minded (which I swear,
Madam, I think you are) endure to hear
Their own perfections into questions brought,
But stop their ears at them; for if I thought
You took a pride to have your virtues known,
Pardon me, madam, I should think them none.
To what a length is this strange letter grown,
In seeking of a subject, yet finds none!
But your brave thoughts, which I so much respect
Above your glorious titles, shall accept
These harsh disordered lines. I shall ere long
Dress up your virtues new, in a new song;
Yet far from all base praise and flattery,
Although I know whate'er my verses be,
They will like the most servile flattery shew,
If I write truth, and make the subject you.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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Gnothi Seauton
When Scaliger, whole years of labour past,
Beheld his lexicon complete at last
And weary of his task, with wond'ring eyes,
Saw, from words pil'd on words, a fabric rise,
He curs'd the industry, inertly strong,
In creeping toil that could persist so long;
And if, enrag'd he cried, heav'n meant to shed
Its keenest vengeance on the guilty head,
The drudgery of words the damn'd would know,
Doom'd to write lexicons in endless woe.
Yes, you had cause, great genius, to repent;
'You lost good days, that might be better spent;'
You well might grudge the hours of ling'ring pain,
And view your learned labours with disdain.
To you were given the large expanded mind,
The flame of genius, and the taste refin'd.
'Twas yours, on eagle wings, aloft to soar,
And, amidst rolling worlds, the great first cause explore,
To fix the aeras of recorded time,
And live in ev'ry age and ev'ry clime;
Record the chiefs, who propt their country's cause;
Who founded empires, and establish'd laws;
To learn whate'er the sage, with virtue fraught,
Whate'er the muse of moral wisdom taught.
These were your quarry; these to you were known,
And the world's ample volume was your own.
Yet, warn'd by me, ye pigmy wits, beware,
Nor with immortal Scaliger compare.
For me, though his example strike my view,
Oh! not for me his footsteps to pursue.
Whether first nature, unpropitious, cold,
This clay compounded in a ruder mould;
Or the slow current, loit'ring at my heart,
No gleam of wit or fancy can impart;
Whate'er the cause, from me no numbers flow,
No visions warm me, and no raptures glow.
A mind like Scaliger's, superior still,
No grief could conquer, no misfortune chill.
Though, for the maze of words, his native skies
He seem'd to quit, 'twas but again to rise;
To mount, once more, to the bright source of day,
And view the wonders of th' ethereal way.
The love of fame his gen'rous bosom fir'd;
Each science hail'd him, and each muse inspir'd.
For him the sons of learning trimm'd the bays,
And nations grew harmonious in his praise.
My task perform'd, and all my labours o'er,
For me what lot has fortune now in store?
The listless will succeeds, that worst disease,
The rack of indolence, the sluggish ease.
Care grows on care, and o'er my aching brain
Black melancholy pours her morbid train.
No kind relief, no lenitive at hand,
I seek, at midnight clubs, the social band;
But midnight clubs, where wit with noise conspires,
Where Comus revels, and where wine inspires,
Delight no more: I seek my lonely bed,
And call on sleep to sooth my languid head.
But sleep from these sad lids flies far away;
I mourn all night, and dread the coming day.
Exhausted, tir'd, I throw my eyes around,
To find some vacant spot on classic ground;
And soon, vain hope! I form a grand design;
Languor succeeds, and all my pow'rs decline.
If science open not her richest vein,
Without materials all our toil is vain.
A form to rugged stone when Phidias gives--
Beneath his touch a new creation lives.
Remove his marble, and his genius dies:
With nature then no breathing statue vies.
Whate'er I plan, I feel my pow'rs confin'd
By fortune's frown, and penury of mind.
I boast no knowledge, glean'd with toil and strife,
That bright reward of a well acted life.
I view myself, while reason's feeble light
Shoots a pale glimmer through the gloom of night;
While passions, error, phantoms of the brain,
And vain opinions, fill the dark domain;
A dreary void, where fears, with grief combin'd,
Waste all within, and desolate the mind.
What then remains? Must I, in slow decline,
To mute inglorious ease old age resign?
Or, bold ambition kindling in my breast,
Attempt some arduous task? Or, were it best,
Brooding o'er lexicons to pass the day,
And in that labour drudge my life away?
poem by Samuel Johnson
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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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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
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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
My First Sonnet
If I’m to write and form a little song
I’ll choose to use the English code and rules
I’ll learn the laws to lay my bricks along
The roads I build of codes with English tools
Now two will rhyme with four and one with three
I’ll split the rhyme between the stanza breaks
The last two lines will rhyme a final plea
With glee that creeps in hands of codes I make
Iambics boast control as they decide
The words to run as feet conduct the line
I’ll snare the code that hides along and strides
In quatrains forming claims of codes that shine
I’m here alas to weave and write my fun
I’m taught I’ve learned and now my sonnet’s done
poem by Paul Moosberg
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Why the F*#k didn't we think of that?
Why Didn’t we Think Of That!
Guess I got to admit it, I’m past my prime
Not nearly as quick-witted as I used to be
Appears to be a monumental waste of my time
Just tryin’ to write some decent poetry
Maybe I’m overthinking’ the point of rhyme
Maybe I’m trustin’ too much to luck
Hell I’m gonna forget about prose so fine
And start artlessly usin’ that magic word f&%k
The effort involved in finding that perfect phrase
Laboriously working to find that rhyme that feels pat
Hell I could have been usin’ that magic word all these days
So, tell me fellow poets…why didn’t we all think of that?
poem by David Whalen
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