HAZARD
Junior Member
since 06-24-2009
Posts 40
ENGLAND
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26 posted 06-28-2009 10:07 AM
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Spent some time today and yesterday looking at meter and syllable. There are some interesting Villanelle's in Sylvia plath's work, for example.
I soon came to the conclusion that to write one simple, perfectly formed example would be best - that is, before experimenting with the type... Plath uses - BTW - 'Leans and Thirteens' in her repeating lines for 'Domesday'. But it's deliberate, as far as I can work out after examining the echoes and meter variants. But am new to this.
My 'Lies and Fireflies' was not deliberate!! There's no denial!
I got waylaid from a simple-yet-perfect form and ended up with Paranoia! (Literal literature here!) Which is rather a complex poem, with internal rhymes/ homophones etc. I'm hoping the 2nd lines have the same distinct meter! First and third the same.
Yeats gave me the longer line varient. I liked the endless galloping feel - found in Brownings 'How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix' And Tennysons '600' - and with the title wanted something a little breathless and inescapable. You can hear Tennyson read his'600' on the Poetry Archive (Eddison's wax disk!) Incredible. Hence to my three sets of four syllabic beats.
See what you think Mr B.
Paranoia
The knives are out – I’m on the rack, nowhere to run. Head full of pills, I’m a cut-throat blade. Ill whispers fly, sweat burns my eyes, a haunted son.
A distant shout – I’m dead tonight, was born to shun. A force inside, I’m in zero shade. The knives are out – I’m on the rack, nowhere to run.
The searing doubt – I’m sick with fright, a loaded gun. Heart stopping dread – I’m the devil’s trade. Ill whispers fly, sweat burns my eyes, a haunted son.
A life in draught – I’m desert blown, scorched by sun A brief respite, I’m no better made. The knives are out – I’m on the rack, nowhere to run.
The fatal bouts – I’m hung each day, skullduggery done. Hell’s Jobe elect – I’m cursed and betrayed. Ill whispers fly, sweat burns my eyes, a haunted son.
Me; foul lies clout – I’m reasons whip, pitied for fun. Me; shriven lout – I’m a holy cade. The knives are out – I’m on the rack, nowhere to run. Ill whispers fly, sweat burns my eyes, a haunted son.
[This message has been edited by HAZARD (06-28-2009 11:50 AM).]
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