Inspired by “Poems and Poets” by Anne Winter
“For once in my life,
I want to be a poem” — Anne Winter
If I were a poem
could my poem be a poet?
If such could be done
who besides me would know it?
If my poem—as a poet—wrote something new
could I as a poem be the other poem too?
Or would I simply exist on a document list
along with other poems that coexist?
(As a poem I would be …)
Living on the edge of poetry forms’ parameters
Running ever changing rapids of trochees and iambs
Line dancing varied rhythms of iambic pentameters
da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM ad infinitum
Dancing two-step footles with the poem of my dreams
Braving slalom ski runs of Klein’s Vase Verse
Climbing lofty peaks of Heroic Crown of Crowns
Then doing it all over again in reverse
(I do have a poetic license you know …)
I think of such thoughts from time to time
when my muse is confused and obtuse
Especially when finding it hard to rhyme
my head flooded with thoughts most abstruse
What would it take for me to be a poem
vice versa my poem to be poet?
The very next time my muse starts to roam
I’ll try to find out—don’t you know it!
Categories:
trochees, fun, humorous, poetry, poets,
Form: Light Verse
O’ Pat Pattison, you, my brilliant teacher,
I would shower in praises, had you not
taught me better! for cliches void of thought
are as worthwhile as a couch surfin’ moocher!
O’ masterful and deepest sort of creature,
shocked then, in the thrall of churning wounds, distraught
I found your grace—and for my breaking clot
you gave me poetry, this soothing suture.
Trochees and iambs, blank verse, Shakespear’s form—
you illuminated a path obscure
to my sight. The subtle rhythms and rhymes
you used as guideposts through a ruthless storm
are now the tools that fix me fast,—secure.
I’d take your class again a million times.
Categories:
trochees, appreciation, creation, love, poetry,
Form: Italian Sonnet
You can’t force a poem, although you can try;
it seems that’s a maxim, but I don’t know why.
You smash it and bash it and beat to a pulp,
like using sledgehammers when trying to sculpt.
Sometimes it’s the topic, at others, the form -
just rains in your brain like some strange neural storm.
The trochees are croaking and Anna’s a pest;
the dactyl’s intractile, the iambs cause stress.
And Poet’s Collective just makes matters worse
'cuz Rannaigheacht bheag sounds more like a curse.
So it’s back to your childhood, the muse of your youth;
the Seussian salve is quite soothing, forsooth!
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"Rannaigheacht bheag" is pronounced “ran-a-yah voig”
Categories:
trochees, writing,
Form: Rhyme
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
Categories:
trochees, poetry,
Form: Rhyme
Here’s a little form I found,
from a gal you know.
Trochees give a rhythmic sound
to its metered flow.
Lines must take syllabic care,
keeping proper score:
seven on the first and third,
five on two and four.
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The '7/5 Trochee', found on poets collective, by none other than Andrea Dietrich. Trochaic meter, 7/5/7/5, using abab or abcb rhyme.
Categories:
trochees, poetry, writing,
Form: Quatrain
Do footles ever fournicate?
From two come more, and soon there’s eight
The image conjured up ain’t great
Them spondees, trochees on a date
Gosh, aren’t they cute? They’re all the rage
right there in strands across the page
Cuz less is more, and I’m a sage
The tribble's I don’t act my age
Or have you ever metaphor?
I’ve met a ten, but ’twas before
My wife - we don’t use scales no more
a weighty matter, out the door!
Why's it folks don’t discuss meter?
You mention length, the convo peters…
‘Was thinking more 'bout counting sheep
And not how long the missus keeps
The high regard for iambs, odd
The way they sound, you’d think they’re god
And what about the punks you ate?
My colon’s bad; I still dash great.
And then there is the Bard’s blank verse
I think they’re hiding something worse
Like sometimes how, here at the Soup
They filter words worse than Jan’s poop.
I’d best not rant on dactyl feet;
For now I think my work’s complete
Y’all come back, we'll spin a yarn
I'm ratcheer at the Poem Barn
Categories:
trochees, nonsense, silly,
Form: Light Verse
if meter refers to a poem’s beat ~
why are iambs, spondees, and trochees feet?
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Measuring with Metrics by Milt Hankins got me thinking...
Categories:
trochees, silly, words,
Form: Couplet
The Composition of Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
“I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats
We breathe and so we write; the night
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
And what we mean we write to learn:
the vowels of love, the consonants’
strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape—
curved like the heart. Here, resonant,
sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass
like singing voles curled in a maze
of blank white space. We touch a face—
long-frozen words trapped in a glaze
that insulates our hearts. Nowhere
can love be found. Just shrieking air.
Published by The Lyric, Candelabrum, Iambs & Trochees, Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Hidden Treasures, ImageNation (United Kingdom), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian
Categories:
trochees, writing,
Form: Sonnet
My poetry looks like a heavensickness.
The paradise from which I was exiled
is locked up tight. Nor luck, nor mental quickness,
nor tractable iambuses, nor wild,
limped on their right leg trochees, nor bad English
(oh, those “which” and “that” I can’t distinguish,
or, say, the tenses. What a hellish tongue!
Sometimes I wish I died when I was young),
nor Russian, my insane experimenter
and faithful servant (though, some dura'ki*
find it's not true) – that’s not enough to enter,
and all I really need is just a key.
Alas, I haven’t. But through the keyhole
I see footprints of angels on my soul.
* (rus.) fools
Categories:
trochees, paradise, poetry,
Form: Sonnet