Feel the rhythm, feel the rhyme, gear on up, it's bobsled time!
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Who among us has not, in moments of ambition, dreamt of the miracle of a form of poetic prose, musical but without rhythm and rhyme, both supple and staccato enough to adapt itself to the lyrical movements of our souls, the undulating movements of ou
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The point is obvious. There is more than one way to burn a book. And the world is full of people running about with lit matches. Every minority, be it Baptist/Unitarian, Irish/Italian/Octogenarian/Zen Buddhist, Zionist/Seventhday Adventist, Women's Lib/Republican, Mattachine/Four Square Gospel feels it has the will, the right, the duty to douse the kerosene, light the fuse. Every dimwit editor whosees himself as the source of all dreary blanc-mange plain porridge unleavened literature, licks his guillotine and eyes the neck of any author who dares to speak above a whisper or write above a nursery rhyme.
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I'm tired of Love I'm still more tired of Rhyme. But Money gives me pleasure all the time.
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The minute you decide to write a poem you are making artistic and technical decisions about rhyme and form and structure. Each one of those decisions pushes it away from the personal and makes it an artwork. If you were writing entirely personally, you would just write in that “Oh my god I’m so in love, I don’t know what to do with myself” voice. A poem moves away from you as you write it.
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A Haiku is just like a normal American poem except that it doesn't rhyme and it's totally stupid.
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We have our little theory on all human and divine things. Poetry, the workings of genius itself, which, in all times, with one or another meaning, has been called Inspiration, and held to be mysterious and inscrutable, is no longer without its scientific exposition. The building of the lofty rhyme is like any other masonry or bricklaying: we have theories of its rise, height, decline and fall -- which latter, it would seem, is now near, among all people.
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Roses are red, Violets are blue, Some poems rhyme
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Highly important in poetry is Rhythm, but the word means merely 'flow,' so that rhythm belongs to prose as well as to poetry. Good rhythm is merely a pleasing succession of sounds. Meter, the distinguishing formal mark of poetry and all verse, is merely rhythm which is regular in certainfundamental respects, roughly speaking is rhythm in which the recurrence of stressed syllables or of feet with definite time-values is regular. There is no proper connection either in spelling or in meaning between rhythm and rime (which is generally misspelled 'rhyme'). The adjective derived from'rhythm' is 'rhythmical'; there is no adjective from 'rime' except 'rimed.' The word 'verse' in its general sense includes all writing in meter. Poetry is that verse which has real literary merit.
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I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.
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Our actions are like the terminations of verses, which we rhyme as we please.
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I'm tired of Love; I'm still more tired of Rhyme. But money gives me pleasure all the time.
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Life is tons of discipline. Your first discipline is your vocabulary; then your grammar and your punctuation Then, in your exuberance and bounding energy you say you're going to add to that. Then you add rhyme and meter. And your delight is in that power.
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Next to theology I give to music the highest place and honor. And we see how David and all the saints have wrought their godly thoughts into verse, rhyme, and song.
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Revenge is mortal but forgiveness is divine. My gift is your gift now catch it in a rhyme. Forgive me for your time but not for your mistake. My will is your will that they can not break. Many emulate but they do not try, to wash their hands from the man in which they have ties!
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All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme.
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Rhyme, that enslaved queen, that supreme charm of our poetry, that creator of our meter.
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Travel, trouble, music, art, A kiss, a frock, a rhyme - I never said they feed my heart, But still they pass my time.
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Not marble, nor the gilded monumentsOf princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme.
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History does not repeat itself. But it does rhyme.
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Prayer and practice is good rhyme.
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History may not repeat itself, but it does rhyme a lot
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Live life like a rhyme. One line at a time.
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Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
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The rhyme of the poet Modulates the king's affairs.
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