I’ve long read and heard prose authors recommend writing poetry on a regular basis to improve your skills as a prose writer. With that in mind, I am attempting to make a habit of consistent poetry, the results of which I will post on this page.
Poetry Exercise 5 (202609.22)
This line contains eight syllables.
Feels short after pentameter.
What does those two beats less produce?
I need to internalize it.
Two challenges I feel in this.
To finish a phrase in eight beats.
And to bear the stresses in mind.
More practice will address them both.
These lines read slower than in ten.
An odd effect, it’s true.
We’ll see if trimeter’s the same.
Each beat’s elongated.
I’ll switch the order here.
From four-three to three-four iambs.
Another tool to use.
A different effect produced.
Trochees are tricky to get right.
I might want the stress to begin.
Others don’t know to read it so.
How to make it more obvious?
My to-do list for the week is overlong.
Only three days (and Sunday afternoon).
I prefer busyness to being bored.
But, a brief respite will do us well.
Poetry Exercise 4 (202608.25)
These stresses seem subjective compared to
A simple count of syllables and a
Division into iambs. Sometimes I
Can clearly tell where the stresses fall in
A given line, but other times I could
Interpret a line at least six different
Ways. This does not suit the engineer in
Me, and makes this exercise a struggle
To tell if I do it well or not. Are
These alternative stresses not a way
To largely ignore the iambic stress and
Instead write the line we choose without a
Thought to stress, and then ascribe the result
To pyrrhics, trochees, and weak endings? With
Practice perhaps I’ll solidify just
How all these stresses are supposed to go.
Poetry Exercise 3 (202607.14)
I much regret the lazy start I got.
My salvage efforts cannot be too late.
What happened to “we should stay together?”
Not that it’s the option that we’d prefer.
These lines are using iambs somewhat wrong.
They’ve the right syllables but the wrong stress.
Another thing I’m doing wrong it seems.
Though that one might be closer to the form.
It’s always cheaper closer to the source.
Let’s look at window treatments after work.
I made a lazy start; in spite of that
I’ll strive to compensate, for both our sakes.
That Marriott: reminder, book before
The weekend comes, and share it with the group.
My use of stress in recent lines, I think
is improved from before, though not by much.
A little progress, though, line by line, is
Not to be discounted – such is practice.
Materials cost less than products, but
Investing time does not costs obviate.
Poetry Exercise 2 (202606.13)
Metal walls surround me as I ponder
the colors of my kitchen walls and floor,
and how they’ll work with a granite counter,
or the stained wooden cabinets and doors.
As well, I worry about my focus
on job, on school, on projects, and on life.
Attention flutters like starving locusts,
Tasks and talking which could incite some strife.
Perspective’s such an easy thing to preach;
A harder thing by far to keep in mind.
It’s not really how things by time are bleached;
If it were, old faces would not be lined.
Goals and aspirations seem to matter,
But life is not a walk down any road.
Opportunities like coins do scatter;
It’s not enough to do just what we’re told.
Yet what will come, that is what fills my head;
I spin my wheels, but no motion follows.
What’s in my thoughts is not precisely dread.
No more: I’ll wonder not what is allowed.
Running (202301.26)
Running
along a black scar road
through a desolate landscape
of shattered tumble weeds
and lingering snow.
Darkness around
lights glittering in the distance
and the faintest pink streak in the east
like neon bleeding from a cloud.
Breathing
loud and rattling down a throat
as a north wind blows in
a gathering snowstorm and
the cold air
twists in the lungs
and slicks the sweat the prickles.
Pounding
footsteps crunch and squeak
alone in the night that grasps
that coming day with desperate fingers.
Coils of muscles
writhe beneath cloth and skin
first one foot, flexing, seeking the launchpad
then the other
calves flexing, eyes darting
freefalling ten miles an hours.
Freeing
the pounding, breathing, running
each step releasing
the shackles of shadow on a mind.
No ill or gloom can keep apace
nor dark thought gain a perch
upon the running man.
Borivat’s Retirement (202210.04)
A retirement: is it anachronistic?
Re- means back, back from, returning, again, anew.
-Tire from tirade, a volley, tirer: draw out.
So far from that to reach an estate with a view.
What a difficult thing, to live beyond one’s time,
To become a relic, unneeded, unhelpful,
No one of consequence, another “once I was.”
It’s easier, perhaps, to die as Wezzix died.
But no, I live, and I draw not yet useless breath.
A purpose I shall find, what once I sacrificed:
In scholarship and research, I shall stave off death.
In service to myself, and not the Prime, I’ll live.
But wait, the ground shakes! Wherefrom does this tremor come?
Back to the castle, for my work is not yet done.
Night Attack (202210.04)
Awake! Awake! Awake! The gong reverberates!
The alarm’s out, an attack’s come in the darkness.
With unknown foe, we’ll strive until the hail abates,
Our fortress, it stands strong against the wilderness.
To arms! To arms! To arms! The foe would do us harm!
Us, yes, and all those east of us whom we protect
Civilization, in city, village, and farm.
To defend our peaceful lands, you must stand erect!
Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts! Like ghosts they slip through the darkest night.
An arrow strikes here, a slung stone there. All is dark.
Where go they swiftly now? I cannot see to fight.
Silence descends, they are fled, but my terror’s stark.
Do you feel the difference? It comes from the west.
We must learn of this threat, there is no time to rest.
