Poetics and Poetry Discussion


Is there a book you just read, a piece of poetry news or a reading you just heard that you want to talk about? Here's the place to start a conversation.
Post a message

Click here to list all messages

Deborah Cromer Deborah Cromer Female, 47, United States (7/29/2013 9:50:00 PM)

(This massage was posted as a reply to that message)

Rhymes and words that sound alike, must always connect and keep the work going as a whole. Getting the words to rhyme is one thing, but forming a piece to read clear and still have body to it is not so easy. I haven't found anyone who can rhyme like me yet. Still searching... My poetry is unmatched still, so far. Out-rhyming me is welcomed! I wrote as a youth, and now I'm old...Haven't written forever. Someday maybe?I have aquired so many more words to create poems with! Rhyme Time...

To post a reply to this message, click here
Replies for this message:

 

  • Lamont Palmer (7/30/2013 4:11:00 PM) Post reply

    Almost reminds me of some of Merrill's plainer, more accessible work. A good example of rhyme, where the effect doesn't drown the poem or give it an overly lilting sound; the more subtle meter (free verse can also be made to rhyme) gives it a nice flow. It goes without saying, (but I'll say it anyway) I don't see Cromer beating that. -LP

  • Mary Morstan (7/30/2013 3:46:00 PM) Post reply

    I'd say you might have competition....

    The Modern Pastoral Elegy

    BY CONOR O'CALLAGHAN

    A Tick-Where-Appropriate Template

    It begins with unspecified “you” and “we”
    raising fists of defiance to the void,
    the morning we opened the obituary,
    a pun on “decompose” you’d have enjoyed.
    These crocodile tears shed in rhyme,
    in an age too commercial to care,
    recall how we met the first time
    and the feisty old trooper you were,
    you were,
    what a feisty old trooper you were:

    the snook you cocked at convention;
    writing only when the muse was near
    your solitary published collection,
    Parnassus—A Calling Not a Career,
    we reviewed and/or said we admired:
    its allusions to myth, its classical power
    we found “inspiring” if not “inspired”
    and “important” as a euphemism for “dour, ”
    for “dour, ”
    important to find euphemisms for “dour”;

    your committee work; your taste in shoes;
    your alcoholism and/or love for jazz;
    your appetite for social issues
    that none of the young crowd has;
    your impatience with those smart alecks
    who expect to have and eat their cake,
    and some daringly inverted syntax
    the occasional end-rhyme to make,
    to make,
    occasionally an end-rhyme you’d make;


    your insistence upon a thing called “craft”
    (perhaps you meant margarine):
    how establishment critics originally laughed
    at your pamphlets from the Slovene;
    how you very nearly popped your clogs
    as we fought to get your name cleared;
    you were our stag set upon by dogs,
    indestructible in duffel coat and/or beard,
    your beard,
    the indescribable duffel coat and/or beard;

    your years of silence and/or second wife
    whose whereabouts remain uncertain;
    a paean to your flowering late in life
    in some council flat in Suburbiton
    and your dab hand with a hoover
    seasoned with the odd gratuitous clue
    (much as we champion your oeuvre)
    that we’re better writers than you,
    than you,
    we’re better writers than you;

    the valedictions when last we met—
    “Shut the door, comrades, adieu”—
    however innocuous when said,
    now seem prophetic: you knew;
    your despair and/or your courage;
    a warning for our planet and times
    culminating with a rhetorical flourish
    that pans out along these lines,
    these lines,
    that pads out along these lines:

    Something something something world,
    something something something grope.
    Something something something unfurled,
    something something something hope.

    Something something something dark,
    something something something night.
    Something something something lark,
    something something something light.

  • Lamont Palmer (7/30/2013 3:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Rhyme (certainly end rhyme) is such an unimportant and anachronistic element in contemporary poetry, that boasting of how no one can' rhyme like you', sounds almost like a joke; sort of like saying no one can drive a horse and buggy like you. I'd have to ask, 'who cares?' Whitman dealt rhyme a huge blow, and Eliot and Williams finished it off. Poetry functions and flourishes just well without rhyme as with it. Perhaps it can be mourned as a lost art, but touting one's rhyming abilities won't get you much applause in a literary culture where free verse (even if its a tighter, more syllabic free verse) rules. -LP

    Replies for this message:
    • Deborah Cromer (7/30/2013 6:41:00 PM) Post reply

      Beating?Touting?Boasting? Whatever. Hey, just saying it like it is. Call it what you will, I'm not looking for applause. No jokes. I have NEVER put down " free verse" or any other type of wr ... more

[Hata Bildir]