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Alison
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0 posted 2008-08-27 01:03 AM


Cowed by a Rooster


My family once raised chickens and a rooster that refused to crow;
they lived out among the horses, protected from the wind-blown snow.
The rooster was an evil master, his hens tightly reined in line.
The chickens remained out of my way and that suited me just fine.

I was still a little girl and frightened of any kind of bird.
They darted quickly and made me hide, which my father found absurd.
We lived out in the country where children were raised to become strong.
I once heard my parents tell someone that they “bought it for a song”.

It” must have been that old house, sitting on a windy hill alone.
Only cold water flowed from one faucet; there was no telephone.
It was a place like few had seen (without any inside plumbing).
This leads to my story of the outhouse, rooster and me, running.

I didn’t like the chickens.  The rooster took a dislike to me.
He would chase me when he saw me and I would always try to flee;
but he was fast.  He was mean (maybe because he frostbit his toes)!
He seemed to have a radar-sense and knew when I snuck out to ‘go’.

He would creep around a corner. How his bright, beady eyes would shine.
He’d rapidly charge right for me and try to peck at my behind.
I’d run fast and slam the door.  Holding it tightly closed, I would gasp,
and think when I became braver, I’d hold him in my strangling grasp!

A man came to visit, said he could use a chicken, maybe two.
My dad said to help himself; he could have the rooster for a stew.
It seemed no one liked that bird; I almost felt sad to see him go.
Then I remembered his beak reach for me and how he’d chase me so.

I heard that man couldn’t eat the stew, that it was far too tough.
Mom said they should have roasted him (but only after he was stuffed).
I did not know and I did not care; he was rotten to the bone.
Yet I can still hear his wings flapping whenever I return home.

I’ll admit he still has me cowed when I hear the rattle of tree leaves.
I don’t know how it happened, but his spirit remains tied to me.
He haunts the lonely homestead, waiting behind the darkened spruce trees.
When I have to use the outhouse he still can bring me to my knees.

They say some chickens roam those hills with a rooster who will not crow.
They skulk behind an old outhouse, protected from the wind-blown snow
The rooster is an evil master; his hens tightly reined in line;
Impatiently, he waits for me so he can peck at my behind!

--

Alison


© Copyright 2008 Alison - All Rights Reserved
moonbeam
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1 posted 2008-08-27 06:30 AM


Alison

I'm in a bit of a hurry, but a few things immediately hit me.

You are using a lot of full end rhyme without any real metrical order.  This rarely works.  Rhyme and meter go together like love and marriage (to be very un-pc!)  or, if you prefer, a horse and carriage.  We have some people in CA who would be glad to help you produce fine metrical verse.

Secondly practically all your lines are end-stopped.  Even this:

"He would chase me when he saw me and I would always try to flee;
but he was fast.  He was mean (maybe because he frostbit his toes)!"

Should probably be this:

"He would chase me when he saw me and I would always try to flee.
But he was fast, he was mean (maybe because he frostbit his toes)!"

But anyway, end-stopping on such a regular basis with such long lines makes for a rather monotonous soporific read.  I don't mean that what you have written is uninteresting, but the way it is presented starts to sound a bit like a catholic chant, each idea presented in each line, neatly wrapped and closed off.  I could go on for longer about why this is not so good, but out of time.

In short, you have a neat story, but you need to work on the presentation I think.  I am sure CA can help.

Later.

M

chopsticks
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2 posted 2008-08-27 09:17 AM


Alison, you finally came to CA and I welcome you, but please don’t forget the greatest Deerster  of them all.

Now about the poem , I teared up  when I read how  they made stew out of the rooster same as I did when my grandpa played his banjo and sang “They will be coming around the mountain “

Now when you work on your presentation like Moonbeam suggested , can you keep that old rooster out of the stew pot.  

I can still see my Grandpa  picking and a grinning  and making chicken and dumplings out of that old red rooster.

Your poem is the kind of poem that you really have to know how to read poetry to get the fullness out of it, and I am full of it.

Btw, if you are to young to remember “ Coming around the mountain “ go to Youtube and listen to the Chipmunks ..



Alison
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3 posted 2008-08-27 09:54 AM


moonbeam,

Thank you for the comments and I understand what you mean.  I actually had some of those changes suggested in an earlier draft and will take a look at bringing them back.  

I'll give this another shot in just a bit.  

Alison

-

chopsticks,

Thank you for the kind welcome.  I'll never forget 'deer and the Workshop.  He's given me a lot of time and I am learning lots from him.  Just wanted to stick one up on the boards here because I commented the other day.  Seemed only fair.

Sorry, the rooster's got to go!

Alison

JenniferMaxwell
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4 posted 2008-08-27 10:10 AM


Welcome to CA, Alison, so nice to see you here! Easy to tell you put a lot of time, work and thought into this clever and amusing poem.

It reminds me very much of some of Robert Service’s poems, The Cremation of Sam McGee, The Shooting of Dan McGrew, etc. Though not to everyone’s taste, I enjoy his work immensely. I enjoyed your poem for the same reasons I enjoy his - the wit, the wisdom, the easy, down home style and language that makes them readily accessible to the average reader.

Take your time on revisions, Alison, maybe wait until you get a few more respones and then think about them all - see what works for you.

Alison
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5 posted 2008-08-27 10:47 AM


Thanks Jennifer - and you are right about taking time on the revision.  I'll let it sit for a bit.

Good eye on the Robert Service analogy.  I actually was thinking of him as I wrote this.  This is a poem that I am writing to memorize and recite.  So, I want to keep the story, but tighten it up.

Thanks for the welcome.  I kind of like hiding out over in the workshop - but figured I'd venture out a bit more.

Alison

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6 posted 2008-08-27 11:47 AM


Interesting story Alison. And Moonbeam's advice is really spot on. I'm sure more details are forthcoming. The Robert Service analogy is good too. As Jennifer said, he tells a good tale as you have here. You are right, of course, the rooster has to go in the end. One thing you will always notice about Service's tales is the meter is always consistent. I think that would add a lot to your poem. But Moonbeam already said that.

So, welcome to CA and thanks for sharing.

Pete

chopsticks
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7 posted 2008-08-27 01:12 PM


Alison, don’t stew the rooster. Take him to the state fair and let him win a blue ribbon..  If you must, before you do, read “ Sensibility “ by Robert Service.

Essorant
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8 posted 2008-08-27 01:51 PM


I enjoyed this as well Alison.  

The only thing I would suggest is perhaps making the lines a bit shorter.  Here is an offhand example:

We raised some chickens once ago
Whose rooster was right loth to crow.
They lived among the horses' stow
Protected from the windblown snow.

Indeed, I am using my favourite measure, that is eight syllables.  Ten syllables is a very good measure too.  Lines that tread beyond that number of syllables though begin to become unwieldy and difficult to work with.  They are so long that they almost always end in period instead of flowing nicely into other lines in a poem.  Notice how almost all your lines end in periods.  That is because they are so long that it is very difficult for any of them to continue flowing into the next lines.  


Bob K
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9 posted 2008-08-27 04:55 PM



Dear Alison,

           A true pleasure to see you here, Alison.  It might clarify things for you a bit if you gave some thought as to the meter you're actually shooting for.  It reads a bit line what they used to call "fourteeners."  This was a basic Ballad stanza set up, stretched out a bit.  Fourteen was the number of syllables in the line, and you could usually break each line down into a four foot and then a three foot line with a natural caesura falling in the middle.

     It would read this way,
   /     /     /      /         /      /     /
x  / x  / x  / x   //  x  / x  / x


     I may someday get a decent system for poetic notation.  Simple, easy to use. These ( "/") markings, superscripted, stand for accented syllables.  The "x" markings on the "text" line stand for unaccented syllables.  The "/" marks in the text line are divisions between feet.  The "//" double back-slash on the text line stands for the caesura.

     There is a natural caesura in a fourteener line, usually, after the fourth foot, as I marked above.  In the case of the rhyming couplets fourteeners seem to fall into naturally, you may notice that the couplet, taken as a whole, which looks this way:

   /     /     /      /         /      /     /
x  / x  / x  / x   //  x  / x  / x    (a)
   /     /     /      /         /      /     /
x  / x  / x  / x   //  x  / x  / x    (a)

Where those rascally little (a) signs stand for rhymes, very quickly become the recognizable Hymn or Ballad stanza, this way.


      
/      /     /        /
x  / x  / x  / x    
        /     /      /
     x  / x  / x    (a)
/      /     /        /
x  / x  / x  / x    
        /     /      /
     x  / x  / x    (a).

     Viola!  You have a stringed instrument!  Four lines of glory!

      I mean, voila!, each couplet becomes your very own ballad stanza.  The magic of poetry.  These stanzas are rugged little beauties, and may be easier to revise and manage than your longer fourteeners.  You might enjoy "The Ballad of Edith G.," a grim little cautionary tale, by W.H. Auden.  Rollicking, but more than pointed, which shows some of what you can do with these babies when you take them out for a road test.

     Not to mention Kippling.  (Don't tell me you've never kippled?)  He's done of number of these  in the straightforward fourteener format, and he's a lot of fun though out of style these days.  Much of A.E. Houseman, is done in the ballad form and is still as fresh and vivid and chillingly lovely as the day they were made.  You are not a weak hearted lady, if you have survived an encounter with a crazed rooster; you'll enjoy Houseman a great deal.

     Such a pleasure to see you here.  Thanks, Alison.  Yours, Bob Kaven

Bob K
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10 posted 2008-08-27 05:04 PM




Dear Essorant,

           I t'ought I 'taw a Skeltonic.  Did I?  Did I?  And what that little Colin Clout with his paws, his paws?  I did!  I did!

Sincerely yours, & yr. Obt servnt.  Rbt KAVEN

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11 posted 2008-08-27 05:58 PM


Great BK descendeth, or should that be ascendeth, from the Alley.  Florida here I come.

You are in excellent paws Alison.

M

Bob K
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12 posted 2008-08-27 07:43 PM



Willikers, Auntie M.,

                   It are only me, from over the alley, Barnacle Bob the Bigmouth.  Isn't anything I've seen you say  that isn't pretty much the truth:  You probably have a better grip on it than I do. I agree with you mostly about poetry.  I don't know your politics, but as long as you stick close to the facts there too, it's pretty much fine with me.  If you have a different point of view, you've probably got a good reason for it.  If I think stating mine might be helpful or supplemental, I doesn't pretend to be offering more than that.

     Dinner table discussions when I was a kid were a bit competitive.  And I never got over the red pen on my college papers that said I  tended to over-qualify my statements, and that I was supposed to take a position.

     And I never did come out on top of any discussion at home.

     Must be part of why I eat so fast.

     Actually, it's a pleasure to be having an excuse to speak to you directly.  I tend to admire the things you say and the way you say them.

Yours, Bob Kaven

    
    

Alison
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13 posted 2008-08-27 10:20 PM


Thank you all for taking the time to warmly greet me and offer suggestions to make my poem stronger.  I agree with what I have read and am rewriting it now; however, I am exhausted tonight and am going to have to resume tomorrow.  That might be for the best anyway.  Sometimes I think that writing poetry is like making bread.

I need to let the dough rise now and I'll be back to punch it down later.  Then, after another rising or two, it'll bake until we can all enjoy it.  Well, something like that anyway.

Thank you again,
Alison


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14 posted 2008-08-28 04:21 AM


Alison

Very wise to take your time with revision.  The temptation is to rush, in an enthusiasm of anxiety to correct and amend the obvious "errors" - this can then produce other problems arising from the rushed alterations.  The net result is that you go round in circles becoming demoralised.  Take your time, think holistically.

And now Alison, could you excuse me using your thread please while I just say a few words to BK.  BK, ("Auntie M" - I like that!): you already know what I think about your poetic commentaries - your philosophical/religious commentaries seem to be mostly grounded in common sense which imo is the only logical place to be in such discussions when they descend to the particular (by which I mean for instance: the various arguments and distinctions between the plethora of human-instigated faiths) - my politics perhaps differs from yours in so far as by birth I am a natural "Tory", conservative, republican.  It's possible that elements of that might remain despite my best efforts to be born again into a more objective viewpoint.  These days though (perhaps especially here in the UK) it's fairly pointless to base arguments along traditional party lines.  I do try to stand back and look at the "facts".  Therein lies a problem - what are "facts"?.  As an inveterate cynic I'm afraid that nowhere is my cynicism more rampant than when contemplating the deeds of our great and good political fraternity.  "Lies and damned lies" springs immediately to mind, and I tend to think I have better things to do than spend my time ferreting out "facts" which may not in fact be facts, with which to debate with others who have also ferreted but have different facts. If it helps though, I am a Bob/Jennite rather than a Mikeite.

I haven't forgotten about the "destination" discussion by the way.

Best.

Auntie    

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15 posted 2008-08-28 10:59 AM


moonbeam,

Thank you.  The meter is marching out of control in my head still, but I am beating it into line.  

Discuss away. It doesn't bother me, and I'll be back when I have a revision.
Alison

Bob K
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16 posted 2008-08-29 01:10 AM




Dear Auntie M.,

          Shade my face red, but I'm afraid I have forgotten.  Did I put my foot someplace bad . . . again?  Let me know, please.  Also U.K. politics and I are pretty much strangers.  I know I like Ambit and Poetry Review  and The Wolf (should the latter still be about; they had some very nice people about when I was last there in 2001)—are they Parties?  They seem like  at least some fun to me.

     What did I say?  Had I been drinking at the time?

Best, Bob Kaven

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17 posted 2008-08-29 02:06 AM


Okay, I have read everyone's advice and worked hard to apply it.  Bob, I thought of the meter as you suggested - read poets, as you suggested.  Reread some Robert Service (I love 'The Spell of the Yukon' and always go back to that one poem of his).

moonbeam, I tried to clean up the end lines for more consistant meter - kept some two syllable words, but tried to be more consistant and a less monotnous read.  I think I understood your advice, but you may have to elaborate.

Essorant, I worked to make the lines shorter and I loved your example.  Wish I had written it (grins).

Everyone else, thank you for the comments - and chopsticks, no rodeo for the rooster.  That has to be your poem - mine is stewed!

So here is the revised verison -

-

Cowed by a Rooster


We once had a rooster who’d never crow.
He strutted his stuff in windblown snow.
A mean master, he kept his hens in line;
he thought he was most macho and fine.

I was a little girl and scared of birds;
a fear of which I have not been cured.
Children on a farm were raised to be strong.
My dad said he “bought it for a song.”

“It” was the old house, sitting on its own
on a lonely hill, it had no phone.
It didn't have running water way back when,
just the outhouse, me, rooster and hens.

That old rooster took a dislike to me.
He’d chase me, and I would try to flee.
He was fast, though he had frost bit his toes,
and he knew when I snuck out to “go”.

The rooster would creep, beady eyes would shine,
and try to peck at my behind.
I’d run to slam the outhouse door and gasp;
wish to strangle him with one grasp!

Dad’s friend said he’d like a hen, maybe two;
and, perhaps, that old rooster for a stew.
I felt sad to see him actually go,
but, remembered how he’d chase me so.

The man couldn’t eat the stew, it was too tough;
should have had roasted rooster, stuffed.
I know he was rotten, bad to the bone;
yet I hear him when I go home.

He still has me cowed, and I still believe
his spirit’s ever tied to me.
He haunts the lonely hills with darkened trees,
and he can bring me to my knees.

An old rooster struts and he will not crow;
still he skulks, waits for me to “go”
A mean master, he keeps his hens in line;
and plots to peck at my behind!

--

Alison

chopsticks
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18 posted 2008-08-29 01:57 PM


“I felt sad to see him actually go”

I hope you don’t have bad dreams, like Robert did over the cat he killed. Anybody can stew a rooster, but it takes skill to get a blue ribbon for one.

I think you still need to get rid of some more of the trite expressions like :

Strutted his stuff.
Bought it for a song.
Bad to the bone.
Slam the out house door.

Alison
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19 posted 2008-08-29 03:05 PM


Good point on the phrasing, chopsticks.  

Thank you.
Alison

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20 posted 2008-08-29 10:20 PM


Cowed by a Rooster


We once had a rooster who’d never crow.
He lived out in wind, ice and snow.
A mean master, he kept his hens in line;
he thought he was fancy and fine.

I was a little girl and scared of birds;
a fear that I have not been cured.
Children on a farm were raised to be strong.
Dad bought it with “smiles and song.”

“It” was the old house, sitting on its own
on empty hills, it had no phone.
It didn’t have running water way back then,
just an outhouse, rooster and hens.

That red rooster took a dislike to me.
He’d chase me, and I’d try to flee.
He was fast, even with his frost bit toes;
he knew when I snuck out to “go”.

The rooster would creep (beady eyes would shine),
and try to peck at my behind.
I’d lean against the outhouse door and gasp;
want to strangle him with one grasp!

A friend said he’d like a hen, maybe two;
and that old rooster for a stew.
I felt sad to see him finally go,
but, then thought how he’d chase me so.

The man couldn’t eat the stew, it was tough;
should have had roasted rooster, stuffed.
I knew he was rotten to core and bone;
yet I hear him when I go home.

He has me cowed, and I always believe
his spirit’s ever tied to me.
He haunts the lonely hills with darkened trees,
and he can bring me to my knees.

An old rooster struts and he will not crow;
still he skulks, waits for me to “go”
A mean master, he keeps his hens in line;
and plots to peck at my behind!

--

Alison

[This message has been edited by Alison (08-29-2008 11:21 PM).]

Alison
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21 posted 2008-09-04 04:00 AM


Cowed by a Rooster


An ill-tempered rooster with frozen off toes,
lived out with the horses as wind pelted snow.
He was master of all who dared enter his realm,
pecking and lurching to keep his place at the helm.

I was a young girl, terrified of that bird
(a fear, it seems, of which I’ll never be cured)
Growing up on a farm, I was raised to be brave
(my terror of roosters I will take to my grave).

We lived in the hills, our house remote and alone;
there was no inside plumbing, hot water or phones
An outhouse stood leaning in the woods way out back
guarded by the rooster, always primed to attack

He was afraid of no one, especially not me
and his wing span propelled him when I tried to flee
Weaving behind me on misshapen toes,
he was on alert when I had to “go”.

The rooster never slept;
how his beady eyes would shine.
The prize he desired
was a chunk from my behind!

I would run and he’d chase me, close to my heels.
Do you have a clue how a rooster beak feels?
Pushing the door tightly closed, I would gasp
I wished to strangle him tight in my grasp.

A friend asked if he could have a hen, maybe two;
and he’d relieve us of that old rooster for stew.
Initially, I felt sad to see him go,
but, then remembered how he’d chase me so.

Finding out later, the rooster stew was too tough,
it was suggested he should have roasted him, stuffed.
Even though he was cooked and the dogs got the bones
I can still hear him hissing when I return home.

That rooster has me cowed, and I’ll never be free
Could it be fate that keeps his spirit linked to me?
He haunts those lonely hills among darkened trees,
and the thought of him can bring me to my knees

A mean spirited rooster with frozen off toes,
haunts an abandoned farm, waiting for my time to “go”.

---

Alison

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22 posted 2008-09-04 04:53 AM


Alison

This is getting much better.

You've tipped it decisively towards a light humourous piece and it's benefiting from that tremendously.

In this genre you need to make sure the meter is perfect so that your chuckling reader can skip effortlessly along enjoying the ride.  If you've never read Marriott Edgar I think you'd enjoy his work as performed by the great Stanley Holloway.  You poem now reminds me of some of his hilarious poems.  Here's one of my favourite:

Albert and the Lion - Marriott Edgar

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,
That's noted for fresh-air and fun,
And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was their Albert
All dressed in his best; quite a swell
'E'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle
The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the ocean
The waves, they was fiddlin' and small
There was no wrecks and nobody drownded
'Fact, nothing to laugh at, at all.

So, seeking for further amusement
They paid and went into the zoo
Where they'd lions and tigers and cam-els
And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big lion called Wallace
His nose were all covered with scars
He lay in a som-no-lent posture
With the side of his face to the bars.

Now Albert had heard about lions
How they were ferocious and wild
And to see Wallace lying so peaceful
Well... it didn't seem right to the child.

So straight 'way the brave little feller
Not showing a morsel of fear
Took 'is stick with the'orse's 'ead 'andle
And pushed it in Wallace's ear!

You could see that the lion didn't like it
For giving a kind of a roll
He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im
And swallowed the little lad... whole!

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence
And didn't know what to do next
Said, "Mother! Yon lions 'et Albert"
And Mother said "Eeh, I am vexed!"

So Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom
Quite rightly, when all's said and done
Complained to the Animal Keeper
That the lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it
He said, "What a nasty mishap
Are you sure that it's your lad he's eaten?"
Pa said, "Am I sure? There's his cap!"

So the manager had to be sent for
He came and he said, "What's to do?"
Pa said, "Yon lion's 'eaten our Albert
And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too."

Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller
I think it's a shame and a sin
For a lion to go and eat Albert
And after we've paid to come in!"

The manager wanted no trouble
He took out his purse right away
And said, "How much to settle the matter?"
And Pa said "What do you usually pay?"

But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone
She said, "No! someone's got to be summonsed"
So that were decided upon.

Round they went to the Police Station
In front of a Magistrate chap
They told 'im what happened to Albert
And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his o-pinion
That no-one was really to blame
He said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms
Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing
"And thank you, sir, kindly," said she
"What waste all our lives raising children
To feed ruddy lions? Not me!"

.......

And another:

Three Ha'pence a Foot - Marriott Edgar


I'll tell you an old-fashioned story
That Grandfather used to relate,
Of a joiner and building contractor;
'Is name, it were Sam Oglethwaite.

In a shop on the banks of the Irwell,
Old Sam used to follow 'is trade,
In a place you'll have 'eard of, called Bury;
You know, where black puddings is made.

One day, Sam were filling a knot 'ole
Wi' putty, when in thro' the door
Came an old feller fair wreathed wi' whiskers;
T'ould chap said 'Good morning, I'm Noah.'

Sam asked Noah what was 'is business,
And t'ould chap went on to remark,
That not liking the look of the weather,
'E were thinking of building an Ark.

'E'd gotten the wood for the bulwarks,
And all t'other shipbuilding junk,
And wanted some nice Bird's Eye Maple
To panel the side of 'is bunk.

Now Maple were Sam's Monopoly;
That means it were all 'is to cut,
And nobody else 'adn't got none;
So 'e asked Noah three ha'pence a foot.

'A ha'penny too much,' replied Noah
'A Penny a foot's more the mark;
A penny a foot, and when t'rain comes,
I'll give you a ride in me Ark.'

But neither would budge in the bargain;
The whole daft thing were kind of a jam,
So Sam put 'is tongue out at Noah,
And Noah made Long Bacon* at Sam

In wrath and ill-feeling they parted,
Not knowing when they'd meet again,
And Sam had forgot all about it,
'Til one day it started to rain.

It rained and it rained for a fortni't,
And flooded the 'ole countryside.
It rained and it kept' on raining,
'Til the Irwell were fifty mile wide.

The 'ouses were soon under water,
And folks to the roof 'ad to climb.
They said 'twas the rottenest summer
That Bury 'ad 'ad for some time.

The rain showed no sign of abating,
And water rose hour by hour,
'Til the only dry land were at Blackpool,
And that were on top of the Tower.

So Sam started swimming to Blackpool;
It took 'im best part of a week.
'Is clothes were wet through when 'e got there,
And 'is boots were beginning to leak.

'E stood to 'is watch-chain in water,
On Tower top, just before dark,
When who should come sailing towards 'im
But old Noah, steering 'is Ark.

They stared at each other in silence,
'Til Ark were alongside, all but,
Then Noah said: 'What price yer Maple?'
Sam answered 'Three ha'pence a foot.'

Noah said 'Nay; I'll make thee an offer,
The same as I did t'other day.
A penny a foot and a free ride.
Now, come on, lad, what does tha say?'

'Three ha'pence a foot,' came the answer.
So Noah 'is sail 'ad to hoist,
And sailed off again in a dudgeon,
While Sam stood determined, but moist.

Noah cruised around, flying 'is pigeons,
'Til fortieth day of the wet,
And on 'is way back, passing Blackpool,
'E saw old Sam standing there yet.

'Is chin just stuck out of the water;
A comical figure 'e cut,
Noah said: 'Now what's the price of yer Maple?'
Sam answered: 'Three ha'pence a foot.'

Said Noah: 'Ye'd best take my offer;
It's last time I'll be hereabout;
And if water comes half an inch higher,
I'll happen get Maple for nowt.'

'Three ha'pence a foot it'll cost yer,
And as fer me,' Sam said, 'don't fret.
The sky's took a turn since this morning;
I think it'll brighten up yet.'

........

I'll look at your poem in a short while.

Good work.

M

[This message has been edited by moonbeam (09-04-2008 05:36 AM).]

moonbeam
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23 posted 2008-09-04 05:27 AM


Alison

One of the best things you've done in this latest version is made sure that you don't just end-stop each line.  Like Edgar, you now have your ideas flowing through the lines in a way that draws the reader on in a most delightful way.  Let's have a look at some of the remaining problems:

An ill-tempered rooster with frozen off toes,
lived out with the horses as wind pelted snow.

>>>Great opening.  A principally dactylic meter, quite appropriate for the light story.

an ILL tem pered   ROO ster with   Froz en off   TOES
lived   OUT with the   HOR ses as   WIND pel ted   SNOW

He was master of all who dared enter his realm,

>>>still fine

pecking and lurching to keep his place at the helm.

>>>slight bump here - the problem centres around "KEEP his ??" which is missing an unstressed syllable.  Maybe something like:

pecking and lurching to stake out his place at the helm

This works metrically but  you could go for a shorter line and adjust accordingly, which might sound better.  Closing a stanza in humourous work with a short punchy line often works well, as here:

"But Mother had turned a bit awkward
When she thought where her Albert had gone
She said, "No! someone's got to be summonsed"
So that were decided upon."

So for instance:

An ill-tempered rooster with frozen off toes,
lived out with the horses as wind pelted snow.
He was master of all who dared enter his realm,
he pecked and he lurched to hold onto his helm.


I was a young girl, terrified of that bird

>>>"Young" causes a stumble I think.

I was a girl terrified of that bird

(a fear, it seems, of which I'll never be cured)

>>>Losing the meter a bit here.

So maybe:

(a fear, so it seems, which will never be cured)

Do you see the difference Alison?

Tell you what.  Scan your original line for me, and then scan mine.  See what you come up with.

Growing up on a farm, I was raised to be brave

>>>Perfect!

(my terror of roosters I will take to my grave).

>>>"I'll" would make it better.  Can you see why?  And maybe remove the brackets and add a "but".

>>>So we have:

I was a girl terrified of that bird
(a fear, so it seems, which will never be cured).
Growing up on a farm, I was raised to be brave,
but my terror of roosters I'll take to my grave.

Ok so far so good.  I'm getting tired.  Can you continue to work through.  

Maybe to start with you might tell me which lines you think read a little rough?

Hint:  In the very next line, give me two reasons why you don't need "house"?  You'd need to replace "our".  What could you use?

M

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24 posted 2008-09-04 11:08 AM


MB,

Thank you and I see what you are saying.  I'll be back with my thoughts tonight.

Thank you again,
A

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25 posted 2008-09-06 11:05 PM


MB

The Edgar poems are hysterical - I have read them several times and understand what you are saying.  I'll be back to respond to your questions and post another draft of the poem.

A

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26 posted 2008-09-07 03:56 AM


The Edgar poems should be read in a Lancashire accent Alison - think Daphne from Frasier.

or:
http://www.last.fm/music/Stanley+Holloway/_/The+Lion+and+Albert?autostart

(Audio player is top right of the webpage, I think it will start automatically so make sure your sound is on)

Can't wait for your next revision.  

M


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27 posted 2008-09-07 04:26 AM


Cowed by a Rooster


An ill-tempered rooster with frozen toes
lived among horses in wind-driven snow.
He was master of all who entered his realm,
boldly pecking to keep his place at the helm.

I was a girl, truly scared of that bird;
a fear that lingers without any cure
Growing up on a farm, I was raised to be brave,
but my terror of roosters I’ll take to my grave.

Back in the hills, we lived remote and alone;
there was no running water, plumbing or phone.
An outhouse leaned off kilter out back
the rooster close, primed to attack.

His neck would crane as he took notice of me;
his wings commenced flapping when I tried to flee.
Weaving and lurching on misshapen toes,
he was on alert when I had to “go”

He pursued me with passion, close to my heels.
Do you have a clue how rooster beak feels?
Reaching the commode, I’d take a deep gasp
and long to strangle him tight in my grasp

A friend asked for a hen, or even two;
he offered to take the rooster for stew.
I felt kind of sad to see him go,
but, remembered how he’d chase me so.

The rooster stew was too stringy and tough,
he should have been buttered, roasted and stuffed.
In spite of being cooked and cleaned to the bone,
I can hear him hiss when I return home

That rooster has me cowed; I’ll never be free
Could it be fate that links his spirit to me?
He haunts those hills among the darkened trees;
thinking of him can bring me to my knees

A rooster spirit with frozen off toes,
haunts the farm, waiting for me to “go”.

Alison

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28 posted 2008-09-07 09:31 AM


An ill-tempered rooster with frozen toes
lived among horses in wind-driven snow.
He was master of all who entered his realm,
boldly pecking to keep his place at the helm.

An ill-tempered rooster with frozen toes
lived among horses in wind-driven snow.
Master of all there who entered his realm,
he pecked to  assure his just place at the helm.


I was a girl, truly scared of that bird;
a fear that lingers without any cure
Growing up on a farm, I was raised to be brave,
but my terror of roosters I ll take to my grave.

Just a small girl, I was scared of that bird
a fear that still lingers without any cure.
Raised on a farm, I was taught to be brave
But fear of all roosters I'll take to my grave.

Back in the hills, we lived remote and alone;
there was no running water, plumbing or phone.
An outhouse leaned off kilter out back
the rooster close, primed to attack.

Our farm in the hills was remote and alone
There was no running water, no plumbing or phone.
The outhouse out back kind of leaned to one side
And that's where the rooster would silently hide.


His neck would crane as he took notice of me;
his wings commenced flapping when I tried to flee.
Weaving and lurching on misshapen toes,
he was on alert when I had to  go

His neck would crane up when he saw me come.
His wings commenced flapping when I tried to run.
He weaved and he lurched  when I tried to flee.
That rooster had radar when I had to pee!



He chased me with passion and pecked at my heels.
Do you have a clue how rooster beak feels?
Reaching the commode, I d take a deep gasp
and long to strangle him tight in my grasp

He pursued me with passion, close to my heels.
Do you have a clue how rooster beak feels?
Safely inside, I would take a deep gasp
And think evil thoughts of that fiend in my grasp.

A friend asked for a hen, or even two;
he offered to take the rooster for stew.
I felt kind of sad to see him go,
but, remembered how he d chase me so.

A friend happened by for a plump hen or two
and offered to take that old rooster for stew.
I felt kind of heartless as I watched him go
But remembered that sharp beak and my aching toes.

The rooster stew was too stringy and tough,
he should have been buttered, roasted and stuffed.
In spite of being cooked and cleaned to the bone,
I can hear him hiss when I return home

The stew he created was stringy and tough.
He should have been buttered, roasted and stuffed!
In spite of the fact he was cleaned to the bone
I  still hear his hissing each time I go home.


That rooster has me cowed; I ll never be free
Could it be fate that links his spirit to me?
He haunts those hills among the darkened trees;
thinking of him can bring me to my knees


The rooster stays with me; I'll never be free.
Some strange twist of fate links his spirit to me.
He still haunts those hills, there among darkened trees
with power to bring weakness and fear to my knees.


A rooster spirit with frozen off toes,
haunts the farm, waiting for me to  go .

I still feel the prescence of that evil fowl
Awaiting the movement of me and my bowel!


Hey, Alison! I tried to use your wording everywhere I could.In some areas, I had to change them for the sake of the meter. Hope you find something there that may help.....

[This message has been edited by Balladeer (09-07-2008 10:09 AM).]

moonbeam
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29 posted 2008-09-07 10:42 AM


Ah well, Mike has delivered the goods Alison.  

To be honest I was kind of hoping that no-one would ride in and rewrite it for you, because I kind of feel that unless you do it for yourself understanding why you are doing what you are doing, you tend not to learn as fast.

Nevertheless hopefully you can see how Mike's version reads with a nice dactylic pattern, DA dum dum DA dum dum.  Yours was still bumping in a few places.

There was, however, at least one place where I thought your version was better:

He chased me with passion and pecked at my heels.

is better than:

He pursued me with passion, close to my heels.

to my ear.  And your line races along better to, just as the rooster is racing along.



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30 posted 2008-09-07 04:50 PM


Alison is learning VERY fast, possibly faster than anyone I've seen. One of the things that has helped her learn is having her versions compared to versions written by someone with more experience in rythym and meter. The mechanics of poetry is like the mechanics of anything. I can give you blueprints on how to put a motor together and I can tell you how to do it but, unless you have the mechanical grasp of how it should be done, nothing would help you more than actually seeing it done, and seeing the steps which lead to the finished product. Teaching by example has always been a proven path to good results.

Btw, moonbeam I agree with the line you don't care for. Hers works fine.

moonbeam
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31 posted 2008-09-07 05:27 PM


Yes I see what you mean Mike and that is indeed one way to teach.

I'm quite sure having been with her in the workshop you know Alison's needs and wants better than I do -  I tend always to assume that people who post here want to "leave" with a poem that they feel THEY have made.  That's why I stopped rewriting after a couple of stanzas in favour of asking Alison to respond to questions which I hoped would start her thinking.

But I am sure you are right.  Blueprint is good.

Best.

M

Alison
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32 posted 2008-09-07 10:36 PM


Oh God!  I'll reply to you both after I have stopped laughing about me and my bowel!
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