Tim--Got sidetracked on the other thread. Some examples Traditional and Contemporary in an Iambic or accentual Dimeter.

One of mine here, iambic dimeter:


At Trader Vic’s,
A tiki bar,
A lady picks
A tacky jar
Of witch’s brew,
With parasols.
Now watch her spew
The alcohols.

I won't pretend this poem of mine is any good, but it's in dimeter so I'll post it to help get things started. Obviously, dimeter is a rather constraining meter to write in, and villanelles are a constraining form, so have some pity. Better poems are sure to follow as the thread develops:

SPEAKING ONLY FOR MYSELF

I don’t like pain,
but then, who does?
I’m not insane

when I complain.
It’s just because
I don’t like pain.

As normal a brain
as there ever was,
I’m not insane

and will not feign.
Among my flaws:
I don’t like pain

or think that gain
must keep its laws.
I’m not insane.

Let others strain
to praise sharp claws.
I don’t like pain.
I’m not insane.

Bob, your poem reminds me that pain causes insanity ;).
Well, this isn't the place for crits (or else I might mention your penultimate stanza as being the easily improvable one), so here are a few quick copy and pastes from my Soon to be Submitted (But Where?) File:

Luigi Pirandello
did not care for yellow;
he rushed to and fro
if one ordered Pernod.

Federico Garcia Lorca
was allergic to pork; a
faulty diagnosis
said he had trichinosis.

Frank R. O’Hara
kept his date with samsara;
it’s when sleeping on beaches
that a poet overreaches.

Beatle John Lennon
studied his zen an’
soon understood Yoko
had always been loco.

Neil Young
was coming unstrung.
All of his back-ups
were headed for crack-ups.

Federico Garcia Lorca
wrote a play in Majorca
in which Salvador Dali
played an ingénue in Bali.

Emmett Grogan
erected a Hogan
built out of granola
and rose hips acerola.

Morgan Le Fay
made a fast getaway
when an innocent idyll
ended up homicidal.

Mad Monk Rasputin
could digest only gluten;
to serve him a shashlik
was rash and impolitic.

Terese

Terese, I'm sure you noted that a couple of your clerihews are not in dimeter, as no particular meter is required for a clerihew. I have not done many dimetric poems, though I have one over at The Deep End now. Dimeters seem to me especially good for faster-paced pieces, and they can better expose your best phrases.

W/G

[This message has been edited by Golias (edited January 10, 2003).]

Although I don't employ it nearly as often as I do ballad stanza or trimeter, I've written tons of dimeter. This is probably my most successful attempt. Carolina Quarterly characterized it as Murphy's epigrammatic Paradise Lost, and it is identical in stanza with Frost's The Dust of Snow and with Hardy's The Wound, with which I began the loose iambics thread.

The Expulsion

Six weeks of drought,
the corn undone
and wheat burned out
by the brazen sun:

over that land
an angel stands
with an iron brand
singeing his hands.

I write in dimeter not infrequently. I find it a very compelling meter, that often has a lot of energy.

This piece is accentual dimeter until the end, when I deliberately changed in order to change the energy.

"Put the kettle on, Eliza - Miz Autumn's back in town"

Autumn blew in
with a gust of wind

scattering leaves
like careless kisses.
"Missus Maria -
How grand to see ya!
How long has it been?
A year? My dear!
The places I've seen!"

She rustles and bustles.
"I can't settle, yet --
now don't worry, pet:
I'll be back at your place
once I've put on my face,

and we'll have ourselves a veritable confabulation,
with mulled cider, warm rugs, and Turkish Delight
through all the lengthening nights
until Winter.

Dimeters are not that constraining (except in villanelles),
and they are wonderful when they're wonderful, as in that
(very loose) dimeter poem of Larkin's, and in poem after poem of Hardy's--I'll list a few of his dimeter masterpieces:
Lonely Days, The Moon Looks In, Timing Her, Lament, I Need Not Go, and--best of all (it would be my nomination for best poem in dimeters in the English language, maybe in any language ---To Lizbie Browne. ( And I've mentioned just some of his best ones, there are others.)

Golias

Yes, I noticed after posting that there's no way Lorca's full name can be construed as dimeter, even when saying it quite fast! Ditto the ingenue line, but I was busy and left them up. My apologies, G! ;) Ya got me there.

Indeed,Bob, "Lizbie Browne," which can be read simply by entering "lizbie" at either AltaVista or Google, is a most endearing poem in dimeter. However, my all-time favorite remains "The Bridge of Sighs" by Thomas Hood. It made me weep up as a youth and it still evokes a tear and a sigh. In Venice one may often pass the spot where Hood's drowned, unknown girl would have been laid to await identification. It's not right by the Bridge of Sighs, but upon the Bridge of Straw below, from which one views the Bridge of Sighs.

ONE more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?

Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!