Brian,

I should have known better. I read it wrongly!

O.k., now I come to post this, I've reread the instructions and I think I may have gotten it wrong - or have I? Oh well :)

Free verse indeed.

I’m as happy to experiment
with line breaks as the next
man, and occasionally I long
to say exactly what I mean
rather than the nearest
approximation that scans
and rhymes. But really,
who do they think
they’re fooling? Free
verse, indeed. Try telling
that to the security guard
at Waterstones. At the end
of the day, it’s really
no cheaper than metric.

Matt, the competition calls for "a poem either in free verse mocking rhymed, metrical verse or in conventional verse mocking free verse." What you've written, if I understand it correctly, is a poem that says free verse and formal verse are more or less the same from a bookstore shoplifter's point of view. Clever, but not exactly what they seem to be looking for. Sometimes people win by coloring just a bit outside the lines (Bill Greenwell is one frequent winner who does quite well that way), but I'm not sure your entry would be in with a chance. Mind you, I feel a little bit shaky about my own entries in this comp, so take my misgivings with a grain of salt.

Complete in Their Dogmatic Denial

Rhyme is a mnemonic, nice when sounding,
but no one should confuse "Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally"
with the operations for which PEMDAS stands.
If something rhymes, why strive for perfect sense?
Just ram it in meter, wave the sign of the Cross—have faith!

Blissfully loving the foreign Franglais, they expound
upon virtuous rhythm yet ten year olds
can drum more groove with a set of plastic buckets.
Ah! But they, these poetic pimps, so reasoned, seasoned with craft,
we must bow to haphazardly collected eons of work.
They forget that the first line of iambic pentameter
must have labeled its poet a rebel, heretic, or both.

Without feeling our breath, our lulls, our shifting inspirations, our gasps,
they mindlessly carve everything to fit their tracks.
They commit treason against Poetry, its compelling landscape.
Pinned to rusted rails, their words grasp so painfully little.

lovely poem, bill.

Taking Chris's advice that maybe we should try one of each (most of us appear to be going for rhyme mocking free verse)

At first she thought she could live with it –
the insistence on parallel cutlery,
the meticulous sheet-folding and bed-making,
the obsession with symmetrical paintings,
even the rigorously-timed foreplay.
But then - Oh God! – he started writing poetry,
highly-structured formal verse
with perfect pitch and perfect rhyme
and perfectly accentuated syllables.
Let your mind run free, she sobbed,
cast off your shackles and scream.
But he couldn’t.
She keeps his book in the kitchen.
It tilts the table at a slight angle.

Nice one! Very nice one!

I enjoyed that one Peter, very good indeed. Great last line too.

I do think the word "sexual" is superfluous before the word "foreplay"; it's sexual by definition. It jarred slightly when I read it - but it was the only thing that did.

-Matt

Thanks, Matt. You are quite right. Amended.

There once was a girl whose home
was in the town of Nantucket
where the ocean waves flashed
pink at sunrise; the rages of her
alcoholic father had so debased
her self-esteem that she sought
approval through degradation
and prostitution. I know, I know,
it's depressing to think about.
But had I told this narrative
in lilting anapests and rhymes,
chances are you'd be laughing.
Never write free verse in Nantucket.