The only part of this thread that's appalling
Is when there are rhymes that always are stalling
That when time after time
They crash at five lines
'Cause at six the pen's too heavy for hauling
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The only part of this thread that's appalling
Is when there are rhymes that always are stalling
That when time after time
They crash at five lines
'Cause at six the pen's too heavy for hauling
Alright Beirut I admit,
From Limericks I rarely quit,
But at least when I write,
My rhythm is quite,
Perfect, while yours is unfit.
But if you wish I'll change my style,
To a speed more of your liking,
And I dare you then to retort me,
'Cause I'll send you off a-hiking.
I can hike forever, dear sir
And I regard you not as a cur
There's no need to change style
(At least not for a while)
But on people's poems please do not slur
Right, you want the rhythm, without the rhyme? So let's try the uneven beat of the flatdrum, shall we?
Tell Them Only What They Want To Hear
Concealed, on timbers perched high above their heads, were intertwined the always watchful sight of Ohum’s subtle threads.
And faintly now, rune-marked here and there on twisted grains denote a cruel hint of this old rogue’s, intent.
Hither, an unstrung bow with jagged darts strode by, and yonder, a knotty club soundly held sauntered just beyond the eye, as amber chains clatter ever after.
If truth, were never spoke, these countless golden ties bond kicking throngs that pulled, begged, and burled each mortal plight, into one distorted cord.
For extended, each treasured link ran back from every ear and in due course, affixed the mighty dulcet ring that pierced Ohum’s silver tongue.
As now it’s often told, that with a steady tug he heaps a never ending queue of human souls, to stave the Otherworld’s infernal cold.
Sent here, to serve as warmth and light, chopped up as kindling, sat upon the hearth, and in the end consumed...
...as firewood stokes the need, and a hellish flame burns bright.
----------------------------------------------------------
Right, I figure that's not quite five lines, but it will do donkey...
...it will do.
Dear me, silly fiend!
Rhythm from the rhyme you've gleaned!
But the latter has been left behind,
Please try to take the two and bind,
them in a verse more kind.
Was that nice enough my dear Beirut?
I've changed my tune and words to boot!
But I doubt if the author has learnt a song,
As I think, it seems he's long since gone..
And I don't want to try and steal the thread,
But I'd love to play with English in his stead,
So if no one minds I'll tag along,
Though you have no choice whilst I do no wrong.
Glenn chip chip old bean, its just the story of Ogmios. Given the topic, I thought it only fitting.
T'is a lovely song you voiceQuote:
Originally Posted by Glenn
You sing it with grace and poise
But let us put it to bed
and just say instead
That if you do no wrong then you've lost your choice
~;p
Quote:
Originally Posted by Glenn
I say, you very nearly had yourself another, Gwyr Harlech, there for a moment?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hz9_ELpil9w
Poetry
Posted on an internet forum
Best Haiku EVAR!
HoreTore
In A Nutshell and By the Numbers
First, get your basic story-line in good order; word for word. Second, arrange your lines within each stanza by deciding on a pattern/patterns of duration therein, which will be considered your rhythmic unit/units and altogether will be your poetic metre. Third, adjust the language of each line, while retaining your intent, according the phonetic value of each word using their; pitch (or tone), degree of stress, and syllabic length, to fit your rhythm. Forth, I think I'm leaving something out or, as is my nature, I'm just trivializing the complex while complicating the mundane?
Hope this may be of some help.
Believe it or not; this thread actually did help me :smash:
I basically followed Adrian and rythmic's advise, with some modification due to me being poeticly challenged... I found a poetry book, and found one who had the rythm I wanted, then I shamelessly borrowed that and wrote in my own words.
Now impatiently awaiting a reaction...
Oh, and as a bonus, I sent it by snail-mail :yes:
No, I won't post what I wrote here, first of all because it's in norwegian and you wouldn't understand it anyway, secondly because I know you're all lovely people.
(Language - Beirut)
Patience, patience.. it's too early to tell, isn't it.Quote:
Originally Posted by HoreTore
Yup. I wouldn't publish such stuff here either. Unless of course it was pornographic in nature.Quote:
[..] I know you're all lovely people.[/SIZE]
It your poem pornographic? :mellow:
(Edited quote - Beirut)
Nah, sorry... Unless you count housewife-porn, I suppose...Quote:
Originally Posted by Adrian II
Got a reaction, she said she was "speechless". Doubt the quality of it mattered at all, it was more of the gesture itself... And whoever says snail-mail is useless these days can take a hike.
And due to the great success, it will be repeated... You wouldn't happen to have some poem-resources online, Adrian?
No. But I seem to remember a line in your other thread where you said:Quote:
Originally Posted by HoreTore
Now I may be mistaken, but I believe there is a lesson in there somewhere. A good subject for your next poem might be your feelings about that situation. I couldn't possibly tell you how to handle that. It's between you and her. Good luck. :bow:Quote:
I have treated her like dirt. It hurts to say that, but it's true.
roses are red violets are blue
sugar is sweet
and i hate dog poo
sorry i had a random moment
Right then, just bored and very tired.
A Stranger at the Feast
The wise are want to say, what a person sees is ruled more, by how they slept the other night, or what was eat the day before. So as a mystery-meat was dropped, into a pot to stew above an open flame, the stranger’s form was boiled down to it’s outline, by every eye in range. Then this stark frame was refilled with designs that only idol minds can crave. Thus, as food for thought the visitor stirred up a course, which seemed to say more than verbs might ever spark. For good or ill was not instilled, exactly what fare this eve would take. Was this shadow-shape holy sent with gift in hand, or a demon bent on plague?
And then he sleeps...