Saturday, August 22, 2009

Two Triolets And a Limerick

I recently found Evelyn N. Alfred's blog Evelyn N. Alfred, where she writes some poems in a form called a triolet. It's a very musical form with several refrains, which I failed to do in my first attempt because I didn't follow the example that closely, and so made a second. The meter is in iambic tetrameter with an ABaAabAB rhyme scheme (the capitals are the refrain). But memorizing terms like those is probably what killed poetry. Instead, find a poem that you consider a full expression of the art and directly imitate it. Lack of imitation and severing all influence is probably what killed poetry.

Did you kill poetry? To see if you did, answer correctly this trivia: Example #2 still deviates from being a true triolet, why is this?

Please be sure to let me know if you enjoyed these, how you feel about the forms, if they're worthwhile, if poetry's worthwhile, or anything else you're thinking in the comments. Enjoy.

Last Night Dream

My dream last night was more than real,
You felt me wrap my sheets around,
Yet pain was none nor fear did feel,
The land I dwelt was too ideal:
All troubles first did quickly heal
Then all bright sights and sounds were wound
In sense so free without a seal,
I weep to know it won't be found.


The leaves today go all a twirl,
My house, it seems, will blow away!
They come, unite in berry swirl,
The leaves today go all a twirl.
Come join us, neighbors, in the whirl,
Your home might not survive this day,
The leaves today go all a twirl,
My house, I hope, will blow away!

My Limerick:

There Once Was a Girl . . .

There once was a girl with more hair
Than's contained in circumferenced air.
She would grab all her lovers,
Under those strands for covers,
So they'd know her clothes weren't there.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Selected Haiku

The ruby I bought
Now sits beside everything
Else I've discarded.

Rain taps on roof tops,
Impatiently wait for it
To stop already.

The food is ready,
Prepared without much money
Yet nothing's better.

Water trickling down
A brook also carries a
Way the day's effects.

The lifting bee knows
How to use and find nectar,
Nice to know purpose!

She wants to find 'it'
Near the 'thing' by the 'doo-dad.'
I'm not gonna help.

Though young I've grown old,
Staring too long at the clock
To move a little.

I see my finger
Pointing at everyone now,
At least I'm still safe.

Let's go for days sounds,
The streams of roads and people
Caught in their whirlpools.

This land was desert
Before people brought in green
Water and gardens.

There are many paths
And they say none are wrong but
I have to choose one.

Raising a boulder
Takes many heroes drudging
In the day to day.

Bacchus is no name
Any sober person sings,
That's why he's called that.

He carries his bat
Inside the ice cream parlor,
Smiles at the girl.

The deadline is near
So I'll cram, finish maybe
With buckets of sweat.

Though impossible,
It must be done and done well,
And so is worthwhile.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

All Their Forgotten Names

All the gods and their forgotten names escaped
Off our bloated land, jaws dropping as they flew.
I suspect the sight of junk's what did them in,
I suspect the shout of a vendor's so-old!
How long's it been since one caught a shining glimpse?
Nope--they're gone--and plastic pieces pump our pipes.
But I called these junk that work perfectly well,
Let me try and make up this apology:
The pressed-out wax cups lining every highway
Work as well as when the fat kid sucked down juice,
Bums who love nothing else quickly pick them up.
Red as makes one wish blood colors plastics through,
Sturdy as when pumped out. How like a bullet,
We're covered in soup straight out of China's bowels
Moulded into trinkets old women collect.
All this is going on a hundred years now,
A hundred years of backed-up houses spraying
Incontinent over their porches and yards,
A hundred years of withered blocks pricking land
That lie waiting for rust or to get so-old.
Kick it in with your toe and it's no wonder
All the gods and their forgotten names escaped.