[Melalope]

For Michael..

Michael, dear you do so inspire me
I’ve never seen this light before!
But did you know in formal poetry
Writing can become such an awful chore?
ta Tum ta Tum ta Tum ta Tum
Reminds me of something quite queer
An ugly brown cow chewing gum
Or perhaps banging an old steer?
So now my glee is at an end…
No more butt jokes sadly its done.
I’m chained to this meter I can’t pretend
That I am having too much fun.
But if you prefer again to talk about ass,
I won’t get upset or say you’ve no class.


Michael
you can try not
to be such a stick in
the mud. Try one of these maybe?
Chicken?



Just a note back to my sloppy rhyme!
Isn't the point here to have a good time?
I didn't read a rule that said
we must use meter, honestly I'd rather be dead!
In fact if I can quote what I read this is true:
Carol said: "Do whatever you want to do."

J/k




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited May 04, 2002).]

[Roger Slater]

PREAMBLE

Carol, I believe I've spotted where
the rhyme repeated, didn't really rhyme,
and so I wrote a fix. For those who care
to let me further waste their precious time,
I'm posting here a dutiful revision
wherein it can be stated as a fact
my clumsy rhymes are mated with precision:
though uninspired, they are now exact.
I thank you so much for your high opinion,
and Michael's too. You both are far too kind.
I know who rules the roost -- I'm just a minion--
so when the Duchess praises me I find
her compliments can serve to make me feel good
(although I know my poems are far from real good).

CRITIQUE


I like this very much, but you should cut
everything that follows stanza three,
maybe change the second yet to but,
eliminate that pompous royal we,
then think about the meter. Are you sure
those anapests you favor don't create
a sort of sing-song bounciness that pure
iambic verse could help you mitigate?

You might just try this as a villanelle,
or better yet, a series of haikus.
Remember, poet: always show, don't tell.
And there's a ton of padding here I'd lose.

I've seen your other work and thus surmise
this poem will turn out great --once you revise.

[Michael Cantor]

<u>Fourteen Ways To Rhyme a Sonnet</u>

It’s man and cat and quiet house and Dell
aligned to face the rhymer’s challenge; tell
the world I’m more than pretty villanelle
and somewhat clever face - I’ll write and spell
and clamber over iambs, then rapelle
my way down fourteen lines to yell
out to the others – see how, in one swell
single-rhyming foop, I rang the bell -
(some might say I sound the doleful knell
in sonnet’s citadel: the infidel
is at the gates and he’s got lines that smell
like pure poetic masturbation) - well -
now that I’ve rode through metric shot and shell
I fear I’ll hear again – that’s cute as hell!

[Zita Zenda]

change "I fear" to "I've faith" in the last line... then it will work .... for me!!



------------------
zz

[Roger Slater]

LOYAL RHYMES

From many vain attempts I know quite well
that writing one-rhyme sonnets can be hell,
especially in these days when folks rebel
from writing rhyme at all. But then, why dwell
on the judgment or the taste of the infidel?
The hungry listen for the dinner bell
with closed eyes to enhance their sense of smell,
and what I'm hungry for is rhymes that dwell
and do not just ring once, then say farewell,
but keep on coming back until we swell
with their abundance. Though rhyme is a prison cell,
I don't resent the warden's personnel.
They view this jail more like a fine hotel,
so why not take a room and stay a spell?


--Bob

[Michael Cantor]

<u>THE WORLD POETRY FEDERATION ANNOUNCES:</u>


WHEN I MEET UP WITH JOLLY ROGER SLATER
IN THE EAST COAST SONNET DEATH MATCH HERE
AT THIS ERATOSPHERE, AN ALLIGATOR
COULD TAKE LESSONS FROM THE WAY THAT I SEVERE-
LY TEAR APART HIS STANZAS, RIP THE HEART,
STILL BEATING, FROM THE OCTAVE – THEN I’LL NAIL
(JUST LIKE IN JAIL) THE SESTET, AND I’LL START
TO NIT-PICK AT THE COUPLETS WORD BY PALE
AND LIFELESS WORD: I NEED REVENGE, YOU SEE -
GET EVEN FOR LAST MONTH, WHEN I WAS KING
OF THE SESTINA AND HE CAME AFTER ME
AND HIT ME WITH A SIX-PACK IN THE RING.
SO GET SET FOR BLOODSHED, SEX AND SONNET
(BUT I WOULDN’T BET MY BOTTOM DOLLAR ON IT).


[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited May 05, 2002).]

[Melalope]

Cinquains
Do not take up
That much time, but the rhyme
Is the place that can likely trip you
It’s true

I’m new
To metrical
Beats and linear feats
That astound the eye and the ear
Its clear

To me
Though patterns I
Shun, I don’t want to run
So tell me how can a sonnet
Be fun?

ta Tum?
excuse me: ta-
TUM, or TUM ta ta TUM?
To write one I think you need some
good RUM.




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited May 06, 2002).]

[Robert Swagman]

Mel

I just read the insult here,
your libelous comment on my rear.
I shamedly confess to you
what you deduced is really true;
but I deduce from your ta - TUM
that you've already hit the rum.




[This message has been edited by Robert Swagman (edited May 05, 2002).]

[Melalope]

Revised with new feets and beats? Am I getting closer now?

Are sonnets really such a breeze to write?
I’m thinking that it’s not worth a big fight.
Fourteen lines with rhymes written nice and tight,
should not take poetic muscles and might.
To come up with a poem that in my sight
one can compose without being too bright.
But if we look at a different light
on my past posts a poet’s ugly blight...
speaking of butts seemed to quickly ignite,
flames of upset and disdain from a height,
that almost convinced me to take my flight.
I’m not even sure I’m doing this right...
Hairy asses I can discuss all night.
Although some may think the subject is trite.

*breaking the sonnet habit...*

I don't
need rum to rhyme
about butts. 'Cause I'm nuts
enough to enjoy something hairy,
scarry?

HEY you
sonnet lovers
like rabbits, a habit
to multiply? What's there to gain?
cinquain?

Step up?
It's fun! the beat
is 2 4 6 8 2,
the rhyme is there, not to scare ya.
Dare ya.




[This message has been edited by Melalope (edited May 06, 2002).]

[Roger Slater]

ANONYMOUS TIP


I knew who wrote me, though it was not signed.
A friend who wanted only to be kind
but never noticed that his words maligned
me more than all my enemies combined.
A man who'd been my guest, politely dined
beneath my roof, but in his note seemed blind
to how his words might place me in the bind
of having to react, though disinclined,
to what his words had planted in my mind.
I trusted her. Our lives were intertwined
with love that God's best angels had designed
and eighteen years of marriage had refined.
My friendship, not my love, was undermined.
I burned the note and left my friend behind.