Long Enjambment Poems
Long Enjambment Poems. Below are the most popular long Enjambment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Enjambment poems by poem length and keyword.
3
Pay attention!
Important chicken poetry coming up,
though no binary fantasies shall deconstruct
into raucous biddy enjambment.
4
Grandfatber always kicked Grandmother's chickens away
while he sat whittling under the Oak,
Those ruddy, Cherokee cheeks sweating even in the shade
as sweltering Carolina summers and bifocaled
old women melted him away in his seventies;
(Nothing heard by telephone,
cackling when he put the speaker to his mouth
or laid down to rest from the planting or harvesting,
On the flowered sofa
fussing with him to take off this boots,
putting The Liberty News under his feet);
But watching was Grandma's joy,
Haystack Calhoun and the Nature Boy,
wrestling on Saturday night
on the Philco black and white,
jumping up and jumping down
fists flying with each takedown;
Her fussing when he kicked her chickens--
He was a man of the Land not of the Leghorn;
Course he still cut off their heads for
Sunday dinners
with a whistle of his axe,
quick and clean;
So much better than Grandmother's
Flung blood and feathers,
The live body's flight
After wringing its neck.
(You really
Must take chickens seriously.)
5
Jesus,
my brother and I hated that rooster!
Mean!
I'll give you Mean!
Why that Leghorn from hell,
with the perfidious, featherless rear,
That wily old bastard,
laid for us kids from under the porch
flying at us spurs first
when we snuck out to play.
You had to admire his fierce
Protecting his brood
or just plain crazed for children's blood
maybe.
Therefore, I must insist
That you take chickens seriously.
6
The greatest chicken lit will not be televised,
but written by neurotic poultry
flirting with free verse
or thrown helplessly into concrete idioms,
wallowing in dirt-poor sentience;
Dissertations
on the identity crises of Rhode Island Reds
and the propensity of White Leghorns
to transfer insecurities of undifferentiated
consciousness
as violence enacted on certain small children
will be written but will probably not help chicken poetry endure.
7
Yet,
I pledge allegiance to the celebration of chicken poetry,
And the underappreciated poultry for which it stands,
One species, flightless but enduring,
With free range and corn for all.
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like Vellum, blank and pale. Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence. He scans the room as he would a poem, looking for an Indent that leads to a quiet corner. A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, (ink stained)! He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head in hand scribbling while listening for a new word. A muse sings, emanating an un-heard Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead... frustration at the loss of an adjective, the Half-Rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain...
Frustration runs high as Enjambment slips off the stage and gathers in reflective pools. The Lady Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life, ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lantern for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.
At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Womans Quarterly. The Epulaeryu's compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest 'form' something to do with A.E.I.O.U...Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank Verse remains silent. They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted look a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense, Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired Senryu, the Haiku has little to say on the matter...
A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku's ( no ice ) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sits the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, (Metaphorically speaking). On stage the hottest group in town, Chant Royal and the Syllables...singing their latest Sestina, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor, congealing into a Poet-tree fountain, they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his Ballad, the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap, the club is Epic...
1. The story started in sunshine on the sea shore
2. in reminiscent ambience like the French Riviera
3. where the colors of sunset were painting horizon.
4. When twilight merged with descending darkness of dusk
5. I saw your flashing figure, a fleeting deer, on the beach,
6. hair on air making charming lace on your face
7. blushing in serene grace in setting sun’s hued embrace.
8. The lasting picture I made into dream, I knew it could break.
9. That’s how my heart weaved love, and you … amorous tapestry
10. your sweet arms laid on an ardent pathway for me.
11. I saw it wind toward you as you paced in the wind,
12. a scene I’d seen in the mist of dream … I hadn’t missed.
13. The reverie came true when I slowly strode near you,
14. you let me hold your hands supple, how alluring they were
15. my mind felt … your love wasn’t the farthest one
16. for you were keen to lend your hand usher it in
17. from the waxing waves with the whispering wind
18. that broke the deafening silence between you and me
19. for we heard melody of romance in the air, in the heart
20. repeated again and again like the breaking waves,
21. the crests crowned by pearls pristine of the dancing sea.
22. In my own heart I could feel that you became only mine
23. so … together we could fly in the limpid sky of longing life.
24. At sundown hour like birds to the astral nest we’d return.
September 13, 2018
Poetic devices used in lines : 1. Alliteration, 2. Allusion, 3. Ambiguity, 4. Antithesis (also Alliteration), 5. Apposition (also Alliteration), 6. Assonance (also Consonance and Enjambment), 7. Consonance, 8. Dissonance (also Metaphor), 9. Ellipsis (also Enjambment), 10. Euphony (also Enjambment), 11. Homograph, 12. Homophone (also Ellipsis), 13. Internal Rhyme, 14. Inversion (also Enjambment), 15, Litote (also Ellipsis), 16. Metonymy (also Internal Rhyme), 17. Onomatopoeia (also Alliteration and Personification), 18. Oxymoron, 19. Parallelism (also Enjambment), 20. Tautology (also Simile), 21. Personification, 22. Pleonasm, 23. Metaphor (also Ellipsis and Alliteration), 24. Simile.
No twilight concerto to sway not yet
as zigzag street lights pound upon
heavy fog clutching iced flakes on rooftops
like hushed matte from night's gale
pouring bitter ovules to a past in need of relief.
While in her vein is a constant downpour
of Bach's untenable requiem
as hands pound on ivory keys,
immersing in the fever of the moment
until fingers carve a solemn journey
into wiry trails of insolent rain.
How she summons the goddess of morn
to cure thistles of wait and pang,
sifting each beat, each note without interludes
until this child- woman shifts her face against breezes,
tasting madness rawness on lapping winds…
In disheveled lingering she cuddles
unspoken words, her own song
on panels of cut-glass-------with acceptance
the world could still breathe despite a torment:
just then...in a twirl of air's cadence
the night shuts off.
.............
1/18/2016
Jamie Pan's How Long Can A Poetry Go
This poetic attempt is a cross between existential expression
and stream of consciousness technique. The former highlights
contemporary man's response to anguish, isolation,uncertainty
of life in the midst of change.Thus, this poet explores
the outpouring born from inner annihilation-- being
absent from the self- YET allowing space to exhale for a new
awareness to surface.
Dovetailing this language of despair to the stream-of consciousness
technique allows the spontaneous, raw float of thoughts without
the pleasure of edit, like journaling and ' writing down the bones.'
I feel that literary devices ( from metaphors, enjambment to alliteration)
come into play , well, quite instinctively.
In my creative writing class as a college professor, I ask my students
to write with their less dominant hand to discover the 'heart of the matter.'
Then again, that's beside the point. This author will leave this piece to assault your senses, and then, softly break all defenses. Thanks!
He loves me utterly and
Embraces me unconditionally.
His tender touch flushes away
All my pains and fears and insecurities.
His smile enlightens the universe within me,
And picks my broken heart from that sad sea
That no one ever longs, we all want to flee.
His Spirit has an amazingly fresh scent,
That diffuses in my soul and makes
Breathing come with a lot of ease.
His eyes are filled with love
That’s oh so great and divine,
And fulfils my deepest longing of
Living a life of definite contentment.
In me he lets hope flow by creating an enjambment
In those life phases that I encounter,
And feel as though living is just blunter.
I look at my dictionary, its great a composition,
Someone inconsiderate can even tear a page,
And I, never even note it’s actually no longer there.
Only on a day of great need
Shall it be that I would have such great resentment!
But then who will I blame?
Ones around us can hurt us sometimes.
People's capabilities I never under look.
Those triggered shots they can fire at us,
Calibrated from rifles and many other guns,
Loaded with bullets that have been coated
With unfair judgement and painful exclusion.
It is even better to have grandeur delusions,
Than to feel like your existence does not exist.
That’s a heavy feeling, and it’s that hard to resist!
My King' words however depart not
From my mind and heart's pages.
Even in powerful life storm surges,
They’re always were my real hope emerges.
I thank Jesus for being my refuge,
In him I know I’m always rescued.
I mean when the tempests of life arise,
My eyes remain glued to the skies,
And my soul anticipates for that noble price,
To see my saviour wholly one day.
After everything has come to pass,
I know all these unnecessary life fuss
Will be no more, I will have that rest,
If with faith I take all now without protest.
1. Kelly Lune:
silk rose under dome
opaque glass
thwarted love preserved
2. Jack Collom Lune:
the faded corsage
under a dusty glass dome—
missed spring ball
NOT FOR CONTEST
POET'S NOTES
The lune (aka American haiku) created by New York-based poet Robert Kelly (1935–) in the 1960s consists of 5-3-5 syllables (the 13 syllables correspond to the 13 lunar months), and the shape resembles a crescent moon hence it is never centred on the page. Later, poet Jack Collom (1931–2017) came up with the word-count-variant, The Lune, that is more popular today, namely, 3-5-3 words per line representing a gibbous moon. No cutting word required (it may employ enjambment); and any subject matter (reference to nature is not a prerequisite). Punctuation, capitalisation, and rhyme is the prerogative of the poet.
The following poetic forms are akin in design to the Lune: Empty Moon, by Alan Mudd (a 9 word poem—3 words per line); Leaf, by Joseph Braun & Marielle Grenade-Willis (The Braun leaf is an eleven syllable couplet: 6-5. The Grenade-Willis leaf is an eleven syllable tercet: 3-5-3); elevenie or elfchen, German meaning little eleven, (1-2-3-4-5 syllables per line with specific structure requirements); and triplet.
The triplet is a three word poem—usually no capital letters or punctuation is used. As a linguistic geometry the triplet may be seen as a triangle in two ways: 1. each word is a leg, or 2. each word is an angle. One of the principle insights one gains when producing triplets is a functional knowledge of how (and under which circumstances) words form especially reliable structural bonds; it often enjoins adjectives to a special noun. A famous triplet by Aldous Huxley:
Brave New World
No Sweat Revisions (Booze Helps)
Poet speaks:
“To write a poem you can easily revise
it’s best to use free verse,
for it requires so little thinking and
besides with thought could come content
revisions just might lose.
Why take any chances?”
Reader speaks:
"Whatever does he mean?
My God this guy is deep!
Most modern stuff is so opaque,
but here the words are clear. Though
purpose perhaps is over my head,
I feel like I’m really hearing it!”
Poet speaks:
"Why write at all," I hear you say,
"If folks can't understand? Well,
because it makes revision work
a snap for any poetry class
where content can be subordinate
to breaking writer’s block.
Why sweat the big stuff?
Free verse must be free!”
The Muse breaks in:
"Why you could spend your life on one poem
and ignore your experience completely,
just writing stuff in stanza form,
an indent here, enjambment there,
here an indent, there enjambment,
everywhere a piggy, piggy, piggy piggy!
Old MacDonald wrote a poem
E-I-E-I-O”
Poet Speaks:
“I’m confused! Without content
what makes the poem mine?
Is my writing it enough?
Though I’ll confess that scanning
published literature seems unlikely
to reveal any plagiarism.
Can writing without content
ever be copyrighted I wonder?”
The Muse muses, ponders philosophical possibilities:
“Well if you have revised the poem
and the new version is clearly no worse
than the original, who cares
if it is no better?
You really tried after all.
You followed instructions.
What’s in a grade?
And no new title needed.”
Brian Johnston
May 26, 2015
1. Today, the weather feels like heaven's bliss!
2. The balmy breeze and beautiful soft blue
3. of sky above so makes me think of love.
4. I feel time's right to write a charming poem
5. alone, together with my thoughtful views;
6. the day's bright glow morphs into sunny smiles
7. as sun speaks out to tell me all's okay.
8. Free gift, true fact, sun is my greatest joy!
9. Oh loveliness of day you melt my heart!
10. The words are humming, coming to my mind...
11. not nasty, snippy ones, evoked by rain,
12. but sweet, melodious, soft, sing-song ones
13. that move what's seen to my poetic scene
14. to paint such happiness when weather's fine.
15. And now...my poem...profound or slight? Oh no!
16. To write with pointless pencil...so pointless!
Poetic Devices Used In Lines 1 through 16: Words in italics help identify them.
1. Simile 2. Alliteration 3. Internal Rhyme 4. Homophone 5. Oxymoron
6. Metaphor 7. Personification 8. Pleonasm 9. Euphony 10. Assonance
11. Dissonance 12. Parallelism 13. Homonyms 14.Truism 15. Antithesis
16. Pun Lines 10-14 Enjambment
August 18, 2018
~3rd Place~
Contest: Litany of Poetic Devices
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Judged: 09/13/2018
When my muse ruled
my conscience's compass,
waterfalls of rhyming rivers
revealed unspoken secrets -
long forgotten in my heart.
Exposing vulnerable verses
from vaults where vines
had wrapped my tongue
into subdued silence.
In the Injustices of
judicial juxtaposition,
speech spoke in a
paradoxical oxymoron -
'deafening silence'
Pouring in drops of crimson,
I became a convicted cliché,
taken hostage in a
Machiavellian marketplace,
where I felt illiterate - harassed,
by insidious guards and
anapestic gangsters.
In the personification
of confinement,
where word weavers
are poetically unapologetic,
virtual villains ventured
to plagiarize my vocabulary.
An enjambment of envious
eyes attempted to burn
my anthology of alliterations,
so I buried each chapter
in a communal garden,
under a galaxy of ghazals,
hoping pantoum petals,
would bloom in scarlet
stanzas with sophisticated
syllables of rhythmic refrains.
Agitated by
artificial assonance,
my artistry is an
analogy of angst,
where cathartic couplets
of consistent consonance
care not for iambic ideologies.
My elusive elegy is the
legacy of my resistance,
as in my melancholy,
I'll forever be a
misunderstood metaphor.
Silencing intrusive ink,
to prevent another massacre.
With no concern for applause,
I've removed the
garlands of sakura chains.
For I'm no longer a
prisoner of poetry,
but my muse's musk
still remains....
As Sol arises, greets the morn
the soon test taker wails,
"I'm doomed! If I had only read
The Canterbury Tales!
Or more of Samuel Collerige,
or Wordsworth, Yeats or Shelley,
More Medieval or Old English,
some Eliot or Browning!
Or how to spot a romantic
or how a Victorian,
or who saw Tutors on their shift
in this timeline Aenean?
I know not Byron from Whitman,
or Herrick from John Donne,
or Frost or Pound or Tennyson,
cannot read Piers Plowman.
There's just too much literature,
(I can't believe I spoke
this thought, it's blasphemy I'm sure)
like the Raven I quoth.
And though most know the Raven, I
do too, and that's not bad.
Though I think the extent of my
knowledge's not ironclad.
Though I can say with certainty,
amidst my sad lament,
the technique I used priorly
is known as enjambment.
And I know too that rhyme royal
is seven verses long,
where octavia rima's whole
is eight - one more verse strong.
And I've read Paradise Lost and
many Shakespeare works,
and much more Poe than The Raven,
and know Dickinson's quirks.
And I know Marvell and Camus
Gogol, Dostoyesky;
perhaps my portents were untrue,
my knowledge not so petty.
Perhaps I'm ready for this test,
though not well-versed as some.
Like caesuras, I'll take a rest
and stop acting so glum.
From a review book, I'll apply
this truth which first appalled:
If you know all this well, then why
attend grad school at all?"