Best Meter Poems
I have a friend I’ve never met.
She lives real far away and yet,
For her I have a great affection;
There’s an absolute connection.
If I passed her on the street,
We likely wouldn’t get to meet
For how she looks, I have no clue;
Her avatar will have to do.
And since that is a dragonfly,
It won’t help me identify
This poet from the Isle of Man
I’ve come to treasure, dear sweet Jan.
Her verses are a joy to read,
The humour almost guaranteed
And many on the Soup receive
Supportive comments she does leave.
We Soupers are a lucky crew
But if you’re in the favored few
Who call Jan Allison a friend,
You’ll understand the poem I’ve penned.
(for the "Pick a Friend on Poetry Soup contest
sponsored by Bobby May)
Today I feel iambic! I would say
of all the meters, I like it the best.
An iamb starts with some soft sound to say
then ev'ry second syllable is stressed.
Trochees likewise, alternate their stresses;
even-numbered syllables are muted.
Nowhere near as popular (my guess is) -
Trochee fans, though, fervently dispute it.
Feet are the units of meter - such fun!
Dactyls have syllables STRESSED/, un-/, and un-.
"T'was the Night Before Christmas" is in Anapest:
that's a foot with three syllables: un-/, un-/, and
STRESSED.
The meter is the pattern of the beats within a line
"Iambic" and "Heptameter" describe this line just fine.
Anapestic Tetrameter: four anapests;
and the best part of THIS lecture series? No tests!
Trimeter has three feet
Tetrameter has just four feet
Pentameter adds one foot, making five
Hexameter adds one: six feet in this beehive
Heptameter has seven feet, but now it's getting late;
and so I'll close with this (you may have guessed):
Octameter has eight!
written 1 July 2023
If my meter were sweeter could I be the star of the show
I struggle with getting it right – I know I’ve a long way to go
I sound out the syllables but where is the stress
Apart from in my brain - oh I make such a mess
'Foot’ or ‘feet’ aren’t the limbs that I see
Iambic pentameter – its French and Greek to me!
Da DAH Da Da DAH ... it’s ringing in my head
Oh I’ve had enough so I’m going back to bed
10th April 2015
Iamb, Trochee, Spondee, Pyrrhic. Do those words have meaning for you? If not, you may find it handy as a poet to learn how to employ at least a few of them. They are names for the most common of the two-syllable feet used in classic poetry forms and many rhymed forms of today (there are other metrical feet used for 3 syllables). Poets can practice to become skilled at any one of them, but often poets are drawn to just a few when they write naturally. Iamb is the one that I prefer. When your words rise and fall in an unstressed to stressed rhythmic pattern, you are using iambic meter. Five feet of these unstressed-stressed syllables is called pentameter. That is why a sonnet is written in Iambic Pentameter. The traditonal sonnet writer uses ten syllables which are divided into five feet of unstressed/stressed syllables.
Here is the way Iamb looks if I show just two-syllable examples: de/TEST, un/LOVED, a/ WORD, go/ HOME. It would sound unnatural to say DEtest, UNloved, A word or GO home. The poet chooses his metrical foot and simply goes with the flow! If I choose to write a triolet, I would use Iambic Tetrameter (8 syllables with 4 feet of Iamb). When you consider all the different combinations of feet and meter, there is much to be learned! You can even mix up types of meter or use them unrhymed! To some poets it comes naturally -no textbook required. I have known free verse poets to say, "I just don't 'hear' it." But a few of those poets practiced and practiced; with time I saw them grow!
For those who want to practice poetry
in such a way to make their poems sing,
Iambic meter is one way to go.
Unstressed, then stressed creates a pleasant flow.
So give your words some musicality.
Keep practicing, and then your skills will grow.
Aug. 5, 2018
A street meter thief, Peter Jeter
Would saw off the head of one meter,
Take it home in his sack,
Keep the coins, bring it back,
Which was pointless by that time, of course, having
completely destroyed the meter.
Written 27 Feb 2022
Cadence
Nature dances in the cadence of grace
In hypnotic snows descending
Or raindrops steady patter
In symphonies of metered tides
That match the rhythmic heartbeat
Drawing spindrift of the heart into fusion.
Grace never slumbers in hibernation,
Nor does the pulse of consecrated mercy sleep
Abiding in the orbit of the seasons
Harmonic vibrations of celestial seeds
Flow from the eternal’s pulsing passion
In steady beats of melodic call and respond.
Grace breathes in measured breaths of compassion
In the tempo of prevailing winds
In sync with chirping poetry of avian songs
Like forgiveness breathing in then out
In even patterns of enduring peace
Nature dances in the cadence of grace.
2-3-23
Contest: C Words
Sponsor: Constance La France
In four and sixty syllables
He strains to squeeze some thoughts profound
Into unyielding manacles
Of 8x8 form, tightly-bound.
He seeks to hand-pick words that sound
Unforced by metric obstacles
That sing and sensibly expound -
In short, do verbal miracles!
Writing poetry is never easy.
Starting has always been hard.
Ideas rarely flow smoothly
Distractions leave the paper marred.
Thoughts confuse the writing
And never let me think.
Contradictions result from this
And drive me to the brink.
Meter and tone must be perfectly right
And rhyme must be even better.
“Proper Form” should be used,
On down to every letter.
The most difficult part of all
As some may quickly see,
Comes when trying to finish.
It is to end my poetry.
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed;
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case
by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene,"
he screamed,
"to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society)
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet.
Just look: his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar!
He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words
or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be
the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster."
The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair,
"Please, let me answer to my peers."
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
***
A well-known poet criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college.
MORE THAN A SIGNIFICANT OTHER - IAMBIC METER!
“Come live / with me / and be / my love.”
I ask of you this because you are my ultimate desire.
I refuse to hide it when you see it in my eyes.
My mind is in a dreamlike state blowing kisses at you all of the time.
You never see this because I am shy.
I write you this poem now.
Before I knew you, you knew me.
You would see me standing outside by the fig tree.
You would come to class by yourself.
How do I know this?
Well, your best friend is my best friend as well.
He told me that you had asked who I am.
You are such a wild orchid never going wild - a beautiful flower all the time.
I love to get to know you and fulfill my ultimate desires.
You and I together laid back chilling and comfortable in life, mutually agreeable to the definition of our beings, and most important, knowing our destiny vivaciously.
“Come live / with me / and be / my love.”
User Name: Verlena
Pseudonym(s): Poethics Oblivion Stareyes of Oblivion Dark Sunshine
Motif: Iambic Meter - Rhyme
MOTHER NATURE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mother nature, dying!
I wish I was lying!
Pollution is killing, believe!
Both flora and fauna!
Sad, both will be gonna!
Unless we help nature succeed.
Recycle, yes, helpful.
Nature would be grateful,
if we started today; yes, please!
Governments must help too,
let us make sure they do!
We must make sure they don't deceive!
Some governments, greedy!
You have to believe me,
of nature, they haven't a care.
Fossil fuels abused,
deforestation used,
whilst leaving the countryside bare!
And all life will suffer,
the air, all life's buffer.
Oxygen for all fauna, yes us!
CO2 for flora!
No flora, all gonna
No fauna, we've all turned to dust
There could be a chance, one!
So let's start, get it done!
Recycle, recycle, do it!
Go all-electric cars,
or end, no life, like Mars!
So come on, yes you, you muppet!
Don't stand around thinking,
the planet is stinking!
You, in fact, all, we must unify!
Clean water for all life!
No wars, or hurt, or strife!
Stop pollution, let us all try!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rhyme: aabccb
In anapestic mode as perceived by Mary Boren Sullivan, aka Meter_Maid on Allpoetry.com.
A link to the guidelines:
http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bushballad-meter/
I would love some feedback please, on the format, (comments as normal).
ancient redwood gleams
softly through the mists of time…
mayfly flitters by
-08 Jun 2014-
Average Lifespan:
Redwood Tree - 600 years
Mayfly - 1 day
The poem that beats and rhymes
must flow with rhythmic time
to the cadence and to the chimes
of ev'ry line right on the dime.
The poem that beats and flows
must move with perfect meter
to the feet of highs and lows
just right and not much fleeter.
My poetry is often personal
But mostly doesn't speak
Of what can be so versatile
Or restrictive... not antique
My 'arud rules through ages strewn:
fa'ulun, fa'ulun, fa'ulun
What do I do during my day?
When I don't write my own?
I make ancient poets say
their rules, hewn in stone
Tafa'il sings such lovely tune:
mutafa'ilun, mustaf'ilun
Every syllable its proper place
Each word a certain rhythm
Wish that life was just as ace
I love a proper system
'Arud, tafa'il, I attune
Fa'ilatun, fa'ilatun, fa'ilatun
***
March 17, 2017
© Darren White
I hope someday to write a perfect sonnet
instead of this absurd excuse for meter,
with gentle touch of elegance upon it
and not insipid rhymes as brain cells peter.
Another time I’ll switch on my computer
then type away to keyboard’s friendly clicks,
I’ll finish with a flourish, a sharpshooter,
no longer this dispenser of old tricks.
But maybe I am still a hapless dreamer
whose trite expressions drone to no effect,
a man without a muse, a hopeless schemer,
still not an ounce of talent to detect.
When scansion throughout does not read well;
pray God, grant freedom from iambic hell.