Rhythm and Rhyme Workshop

opinions wanted:

Love Poem (one of a million)

Love is a rope
Impossible to climb
A needle in hay
Impossible to find
Sometimes forgiving
Sometimes unkind

Apart from the loss
Apart from the gain
Love is not proud
It does not want fame
There’s no feeling like it
There is none the same

Love has a hold
On all its possessors
Constantly touched
By its caressers
Always announced
By its professors

Love is a rose
Hidden by thorns
Along with the joy
Brings things forlorn
Each day of sun
Comes one more storm

Conniving and sneaky
Love is for sure
Trial and error
The only cure

This is nicely done. Rework the next to last stanza. Read it carefully. It doesn't completely make sense (at least to me.) Your girlfriend won't mind if you capitalize the word 'I.' Your sense of rhythm and rhyme is excellent. Keep writing...and good luck with the girl! :)

Hi everyone. Please, some critic would be appreciated.
Just an attempt to use iambs on my poem
(to court a girl who likes poetry) =)
thank you


The Riddle

I had with me a riddle though
That no one knows the answer so
For all they have is just a guess
To throw at me, oh what a mess

But since you want to hear it then
My riddle now i'll say it when
You'll throw a kiss on me and say
'I'll love you now and everyday'.

So well I see your bashful smile
And read your thoughts in just a while
You've said those words just in your mind
So here's the riddle; here's the bind:

In ups and downs, it jumps and shouts
It looks and feels, for all the bouts
It knows a song for you to sing
It likes you more in everything

Sometimes it cries when you're away
Sometimes it smiles when you would stay
And always grieves when you were gone
For it desires for you and none

It likes itself to feel this more
It felt this way like this before
It has no wings though it can fly
It could then fall when you pass by

So here you are at me you stare
I just don’t know to guess you dare
But if a clue you wish to know
to give i cant if that is so

Just look at me and read my lips
The chanting on my fingertips
Or feel the beat within my heart
If you would wish to answer start

ANY SUGGESTIONS OR CORRECTIONS TO MY POEM BELOW? CAN YA ALL GUESS WHAT I'M FEELING RIGHT NOW? ......

Any constructive criticism is very welcome regarding this poem:

Tenant of the Eaves

Then one day, after the pall of the freeze
in the spring of the year, full blown with fragrant ease,
there came a sparrow to my narrow eaves
to weave a home out of some remnant leaves.

The music of its silky throat was shrill
and in the morning flew aloft to fill
the waking and the drudge routine with joy,
transcending the routine ennui employs.

That music was an antidote to time.
Clocks froze in the face of the sublime
and warbling presence near the door
as if unto a muse they would implore.

Abolishment of memory's distinction
between now, and what has passed and what will be
seemed the purpose of this soft concatenation
and the point of this wild tenant's melody.

Then I was taken all at once away
upon the lilting litany of song
that ushered itself in before the day
like the cardinal before the king in long

and flowing robe of richest cloth
trimmed in sparkling jewels and soft ermine.
The king I mean; the cardinal is loathe
to flaunt material and earthly fine

for life is given him only to pass
beyond the gawdy trappings of his task
and endure a poverty of happiness
reinforced by daily, flogging penance.

I am no saint, nor man of spoken vows,
yet I prefer my pleasures simple now
and live as though I wait for something, too.
Something, recalled in birdsong, I once knew,

something dethroning time's proud majesty,
fashioned out of innocence and light,
which sings encomiums to nature's rite,
and eulogies to all worldly loss of sight

and disparages our heedlessness of sound-
a rustling among the leaves or a rumbling of the ground-
that speaks as if a father showing truth
to a soul maliciously misguided by its youth

Thanks in advance!

Falling into this hole,
When I can’t feel the pain.
The mark left on your soul,
Once life has been slain.

Never aware of such events,
That cause so much devastation.
The horror life represents,
Into scales of escalation.

Slow your moment of haste,
When time feels wrong.
Your feeling may be misplaced,
Away from where it should belong.

Needing to realize the desire,
Beneath the layers of stone.
While what I may admire,
May mutate inside each bone.

Move to the world of vitality,
Where there lies no core.
Left with the mark of mortality,
As you’re left to explore.

I've done two versions of a poem, and would like to hear some feedback on which one ends up being the stronger, more effective one. By the way, I don’t intend any offence at all, but I’m really not interested in judgments passed on the sentiment, worthiness of subject matter, etc. It would make more sense if those comments were to appear with the final product in my poems that I’ve posted on my own pages. I simply want to know how the structure impacts the effect. Any comments in this regard will be greatly appreciated.


Version I

What is it that makes me
Love the leaning tree?
It slants so low that
My dachshund climbs it without
Creating many degrees of angle
To the close ground below.

It doesn’t look as a tree should;
Those whose erect majesty
Evoke admiration or
At least benign neglect,
Ignored because they are
As they “should be”

Its silhouette shapes
The letter S, though one that’s
Fallen almost on its fanny.
That letter is my own initial.
It’s me, that fallen figure
That’s not yet flat.

What malicious armies
Tried to lay it so low?
How many tempests,
Deluges building
Soil roiling,
Forceful floods?

Its roots are still
Well grounded;
Strong, firm, and
Wide spreading.
Its branches and leaves
Grasp at sun and stars.

It’s the tree
That simply
Refuses to give up;
That’s bent,
Never broken,
That I want to be.


Version II
What is it makes me love the leaning tree?
It slants so low my dachshund climbs without
Creating angle with a large degree
To ground so close below and spread about.

It doesn’t look as trees are meant to look;
Those who inspire through erect majesty
Or beg benign neglect be undertook,
Ignored because they are as they “should be”

Its silhouette, the shape of letter S,
Though one that on its fanny almost fell;
Initial that should fit on me the best.
A fallen figure, not yet flat, can tell.

Malicious armies tried to lay it low.
Came many tempests shaking more than buds;
The winds that pulled the roots that sought to grow;
Deluges building, roiling soil in forceful floods.

Its roots are still well grounded, firm, and strong;
They spread much wider than the wind could reach.
It sends its leaves and branches up like song
To heaven bound to thank and to beseech.

It is the strength the leaning tree displays,
Defiant in the face of all the trials,
That makes me lift my feet on stormy days;
I can have hope that I can walk the miles.

Along the way some solace can I take
In knowing that my prayers will blessings bring.
Then after storms that bent but did not break,
To all the gods my song of thanks I’ll sing.

hello everybody!
I want to suggest you read the poem: YOUR PHOTO by SHIRIN PARVARESH.
I found that very very senseful and beautiful.
Its rating is 9.1 (13 votes)
so I invite you all too read it and submit your comments and vote.
Im sure that you will enjoy it!
Ali

This is a poem in 'iambic dimeter form'

The Dancing Lass

The dancing girl:
She makes a whirl,
And twists and turns
In majesty;
With gestures made
For emotions,
She walks in style
And jumps awhile;
In shiny garb
Of silk: in hues
And plaited hair,
All flower-decked;
With painted face
And anklets belled;
Bejeweled much,
She moves with grace:
So rhythmical
To melody;
In solo/groups,
Gracefully stoops;
She’s trained so hard
A youthful star;
Her soul in art,
Enticing hearts:
A dancing belle
She does so well!

Copyright by Dr John Celes
2-9-2005

To Andrew Philips

I'm not sure what exactly you're feeling that makes it not right for you yet (I really like it by the way) , but without changing the content and only adding one new word, I could offer the following:

A Stormy Day

Out of the window,
I look up; hope drifts by in
jubilant gray puffs.


That keeps your form and your content. It doesn't even remove you (by the use of the word 'I') from the poem. The only thing added is a sense of movement. Since I'm unsure of what you seek, I only respectfully offer a possibility. It's quite nice the way you've last drafted it.