"enjambment" poems
(explicit)
**** my soul
with poetry
scream out my gracious name
slay me with words
that peel my layers
and simultaneously
drive me
insane
finger me slowly, hotly
with just the right rhythm and rhyme
push me past my
tender limits
into tongues of syntax,
sublime
alliterate my senses
(in swift stac
c-at
o)
until my mind is but blank verse
mess up my stressed
and unstressed syllables
in unsung language, versed
I will speak to you in vowels
(the only sound
I will be able to make)
as you stroke
my iambic pentameter
in the heat of frothed-up
ache
we are this heroic couplet, you see
even if the meaning seems veiled
no need for simile or metaphor
as I feel your chest rise
in deep inhale
we are a natural paradox
so many ironies abound
discordant harmony
is our synaesthesia
in visible darkness found
and I love this delicious enjambment
as your aura invisibly slips
into mine
our lines have no beginning,
no end
as we undo
the boundaries
of time
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Do I have any talent in poetry?
Can I write a good series of monometers?
Let’s
See
They’re
****
Are those even monometers?
How the hell should I know?
Maybe I can write a decent enjambment
Let it flow with no punctuation
Let it soar with no interruption whatsoever
Let it flow let it flow let it flow
Ah **** it!
Flowing is for sissies!
Let’s punctuate this bastard!
Let’s add lots of **** to this!
Maybe, perhaps, supposedly!
All these worthless pathetic lines!
These are the things
That people may love
These are the things
That people may define as talent
This **** I made
They may say
I made from my talent
But to me
It is a massive piece of crap
Let’s add more **** to this!
Let’s add themes!
Love, darkness, hatred, abuse!
I’m sorry I left you baby, please come back!
It feels so black in this cruel horrid world!
**** you! Cocksucker! Bitch! **** I hate you!
Hit me again! Hit me again you ******
These are the things
That people may love
These are the things
That people may define as talent
This **** I made
They may say
I made from my talent
But to me
It is a massive piece of crap
If that isn’t talent then what is
You may ask
I answer this with a laugh
Poetry takes no talent
You silly fool
It is a simple sharing of heart and soul
Why lower it to a talent
It’s demeaning
It’s sickening
It makes me want to *****
Close your eyes
Let it take you in
Love it
Hate it
Praise it
**** it
Cleanse it
Vulgarize it
Whatever you like
If you ever want to be
A talented poet
Then don’t take my advice
Use structure
Use themes
Make your voice easily heard
But at the same time silent
These words
That people may love
These are the things
That people may define as talent
This **** I made
They may say
I made from my talent
But to me
It is a massive piece of crap
And really doesn't need talent.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
You should know
That I don’t normally do this.
Words come easy
and shape does not.
I know the purpose, though,
And have felt the effects,
a flowing melody
a short prelude
A bowstring across a violin.
I’m sorry.
Sorry that the river rushes
at the wrong times and,
sorry that I haven’t warned you
of the waterfall.
Sorry that I write
in pulses and not lyrics,
sorry that the sun sets too early
over somebody else's mountain.
Sorry that I can’t start again -
the suspense of pause
has already leaped from my lips
and the fluttering that is suspense
has melted into the river
and all that remains
is the value of silence.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
She died a year ago,
But so pathetic I wasn’t around during,
Her funeral,
Air would have protested against my loud dirge,
There would have been series of enjambment
In the stanzas of my her elegy.
General Abas said she died in a ****** coup,
But she was too wise to be wiped out in a coup,
She was like untamed lion.
Mr George gave another account,
He said she died during an internal war,
The war against the truth,
She has been from truth,
Too blind to see reality,
Fast asleep to be woken up.
The family doctor said she was poisoned,
Poisoned with the truth,
The truth that kills rather to set free.
Inspector James said she was sniped
From a fair perimeter.
The mortuary attendant said they
Heared movement,
Guess she was just try to raise up.
Today I arrive with nothing to feed my eye,
A little bit nostalgic,
I had the feeling that I belong here but not to death,
So I left for the yard, at the backyard,
I couldn’t belive what I saw on her gravestone,
“Nigeria a country, not a nation”
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
*for R.A.
our northern friend*
~
one foot in two countries,
she is enjambment symbolic,
running a single stanza
without a syntactical break,
by standing simultaneous
in two neighboring cultures
causing her dear readers
from near and far,
some, like me,
from across the borderline,
considerable multifarious symptoms
of
well considered verbal confusion
this,
a gifted special talent
from
she
who straddles
all kinds of borders
that divide
her
and
unite
her,
that
can be understood/revealed tho,
when observing the northernmost night skies
eh?
expert in modulating
extreme snowed under bay
winterized temperatures,
counterpointed by
drivingopen highways
on summer plains
where the dotted line is
all there is to see
for miles, thousandths wide
she-poet
oft goes quiet,
expelling her breath
between word roarings,
gentlest of periodic
verbal sweets
genteel
my word version for her
gentle so,
in a way that
makes gentility
deserve the nobility
inherent
that is the
work word
that always comes first
when we need to place her,
another star
in the night
flying frying
firmament
enjambment - her word
means I am
all in,
with both hands,
resting on both jambs
of an arched window
that she architects,
peering in,
Making Sure,
I have come to the right place
where she-poet
builds skylights of
northern lights,
igniting
adore her sweet
confusion,
but better yet,
her poems
of clarification
that explain all in,
why when,
we
all look up,
thru her
window exquisite
that she
meant
for us
we always first
turn our glacé glance
northwards
strangely, seeking, illogically,
but not really,
warmth
in the she-poets
northern way
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
words hurt.
have you ever been stabbed by an adjective
or ripped up inside by a verb?
how about those adverbs that modify
the emptiness we all feel inside?
words are a living creature.
lurking over the enjambment of the letters,
terrorizing those who hear them.
and yet;
we still use them.
pushing us over the edge
as they're muttered by those who
are not worthy of their power.
of their
grace.
but nouns hurt the worst.
razor blades and lemon juice
are like an ant to a human
compared to nouns.
and the only way we can combat
these fierce enemies
is to not listen.
but how can i cover my ears from
something i adore?
and how can i cover my ears
to protect myself from words when
i need them?
i need them more than Tina needed Ike
more than Lindsay Lohan needs coke
more than Beyonce needs Jay
more than Lucifer needs God to stay alive.
And how can I shield myself from words
when all I want to do
is hear the phrase
"everything is going to be okay."
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
you straddled
my mind with
the way you
drew a narrow
line between
what i knew
about you and
what i have
come to find
but you raddled
my body with
addle-brained
designs, never
once drawing
one of a benign
kind.
© Matthew Harlovic
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
Enjambment.
leave it to
those French to
put a break
where you don’t
want it to
be. As though
syllables
could be more
important
than complete
sentences.
Like something
should ever
pause without
periods
or commas
or some mark.
Don’t those kids
know that good
grammar is
essential
to English
language?
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC
I let myself break like the lines of a poem,
because every break is a continuation
of this wild & beautiful journey.
Every break comes with another grand adventure.
Another chance to try again when the sun rises
(there will always be tomorrow).
Every break comes with the promise of more poetry.
Jan 14, 2024
Jan 14, 2024 at 5:17 PM UTC
Surrounded with laughter
Surrounded with friends
Surrounded with smiles
Still I lament.
Poems that you'll never read
with emotions forced in lines
why do I bother writing them?
Filled with enjambment and rhymes
should I just stop writing then?
Am I merely wasting time?
A creative outlet for my emotions
they build up throughout my day
filling me up with tears and pain
and words just waiting
waiting to be set free from the confines
of my decimated soul.
Another four verse symphony created in my head
yet the trophy that is awarded feels like broken glass
dripping from my hands
a warm familiar fluid
the colours fade and my fluid visions change to red
The final line of the final verse
ends with a bullet in my head.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 2:51 PM UTC
what i find so
fascinating about you is that
you never seem to start or
end where you are supposed
to. no, you have your own
pauses and stops, and the
more i try to follow
you, the more confused i
get. is there any pattern or
sequence to you that i can
decipher? is there
a glitch in your equation which i
could probably unscramble? believe me. i find
that you are more beautiful in your
insistence not to be understood. i liked that
about you, as that tells me i don’t
have to struggle so hard. but, baby,
i still want to try. let me still
get my paper and pencil out to attempt
to solve you, like that algebraic equation
i can’t seem to ever get right. honey, i am
not giving up on you, the same
way i got headaches over those questions that
tested the logic out of me, eventually leading
me to ask whether i was really intelligent enough to
figure something out. but even then, even when
i am out of my zone and completely
uncertain, i will still follow this
fascination through. who
knows, perhaps, eventually
i will find the right spot, the precise
timing, the exact
variable needed to complete the solution to
us.
for j.e.
111814
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Disconnected by the root, wasting
our time between sheets instead
of between conversations You kept
yourself in backwards hats and vague
excuses to the questions I was asking.
I lit myself on fire, extinguished the flame
in the shower after we finished, cursing
at the droplets sliding down the curtain.
***** this!* and ***** that after you ******* me
into the enjambment that was your free space—
your convenience. I fit only if you push, I matter
only if it’s after midnight and the world
outside your door and bed frame
doesn’t have to know. In the daylight,
I’m a ghost that you always see. I’m the ruby
spotted from the corner of your eyes, the shine
that hurts to look at, but no one can know.
Of course. No one can know the way your mouth
rests between sighs or how your eyes lock
into mine when your bruising the inside of my thighs.
I’m the extra beer in your back pocket.
I’m the ***** in the towel who’s promising
her better self that she won’t go again,
that she won’t allow herself to try to patch
the promise from too long ago. The relationship,
shattered early, that mended itself crooked,
that became a book thrown at the wall
and a sweet, dissipated call. I’m the secret solemnly kept
at night when you’re drunk and ugly and begging
for some beauty to curl up next to. I’m the last line
in the best country song, the whisper
you scream for when I’m gone.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
(3 hours. 3 years. A lifetime.)
1. 'and the Doctor said, "are you saying you feel guilty unless you are hungry?"
Discuss, with reference to the roles of female c haracters in the American moderns, particularly to Plath's representation of Esther in The Bell Jar , the relevance of this quote to your adolescent development.
(10 marks)
2. Should a poet's work invariably utilise enjambment or read in sequence, allowing the poet freedom to let the poetry find it's own form?
(Candidates are encouraged to explore the source to which the question above alludes, and to formulate an original argument with an effective use of rhetorical devices to communicate it,)
(8 marks)
3. Elucidate your role as a daughter, then compare and contrast it with your role as a student. Use quotes directly taken from personal experiences and your own examples to clairfy your explanation.
(5 marks)
4. They are all looking at you and laughing at you. You are a joke. You are hallucinating and haven't slept in days. How does this make you/the reader feel and do you think this was a part of your plotline intended to elicit a particular response?
(5 marks)
5. Love is not unconditional. Discuss.
(10 marks.)
6. "To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."
This famous quote by Nietzsche presents him as a nihilistic and misanthropic individual. Do you see him in this light or can you find hope in his hopeless stance? Use examples of your own suffering to corroborate your viewpoint.
(8 marks)
7. Is morality a prerequisite for appreciation of art? Are you? Are you appreciating/appreciated? Discuss.
(10 marks)
8. Calculate the 369th digit of pi as the fractal proxy to represent the infinite worlds contained witin each human being, and in doing so determine the contribution that you and the offspring you will most probably never have cannot contribute to the world shared between the infinite number of individuals posessing their own words, continuing on to deduct your own value from that of the mean value of the population considered in this infinite data set and draw up a graph to visually demonstrate the extent to which the world doesn't need you.
(15 marks)
9. Using the individual calculations formulated in question 8, derive the meaning of Y.
(5 marks)
10. Draw the shape of your sadness
(20 marks)
11. Don't you think you should have learnt by now?
(25 marks)
12. Explain what you are hoping for, and substantiate your hopes with empirical support.
(5 marks)
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
I put my pen to paper,
Trying,
over and over,
to express events
and their effects.
And I try to believe
that these words
trickling down my wrist
have some sort of value
or purpose.
Maybe it's just vanity
to think that my thoughts
are worth something,
that they mean
anything
to the world outside
my mind.
But I try,
over and over,
to make this
hollow space
in my chest,
and this growing pain
in my head,
coherent.
Relate experience
through stanzas
and enjambment,
or a poorly
thought-out
metaphor.
I write it
and leave it.
My soul onto a page
in purple pen
in a library
surrounded by people
who have no idea
of my name.
This pieceofshit
I call a poem
that I write
and leave
and never want
anyone to read.
Because what is the
point?
These are just words
about a person
who you don't know.
What's the
point?
I don't pretend to know.
And yet the pen meets paper.
Again
and
again.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
I don’t want to talk
about books anymore.
You favour a misty fantasy to the drudge of reality -
I know.
But I’m tired of fiction.
My bed is littered with it;
epic tales of
other lovers,
bowing with the weight of a thousand
a hundred thousand
lies.
Our talks on metre and rhyme have grown stale.
When will my melody, my enjambment
satisfy you?
Without the need for irksome words.
I want your lips to decipher mine –
No, I don’t want a pen.
I don't want whispered sonnets
or soliloquies any more.
Shakespeare shouldn't shape your mouth.
I want your breath,
not the remnants of his.
A kiss mustn't go in brackets, render words redundant.
Shh, no more.
Oh I can not find the strength to edit us.
Over and over.
I want original. I want harsh truth.
And I want you to love it.
I don’t want another paper romance.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
The opposite of end-stopped
Poetry; the trick with enjambment
Is to never complete a sentence, phrase, or thought
Within a single line of verse; but instead allow
The syntactic unit to run on
Unexpectedly, like a distracted self-drive tourist
Attempting to navigate a multi-lane freeway
Without indicating
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
Enjambment: meaning
and meter bumping bellies
in holy union.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 7:38 AM UTC
Desperate to grab the grail of words
we decide to share our joint thoughts
to introspect our vision together
of what it takes to write two at this hour
Pen and paper, one
writes witness into the mind of the other
and meets the timid point of punctuation, followed by
the exasperation of words
it only follows
rules do not apply
nor does a simulacra of similes
the enjambment is our language
that we create we can
misplace
is it our native tongue so much so that
poetry never needs to be learned?
The friendship of thought to process
Relays poet to poem
to poet
And poem again
It's with you now
I walk
Our eyes along the same path to troth
It's truth is spoken
Between lines, it's in the heart
Our paths, alone, come together
Its friendship Is art
Dialogical process fill in
the blanks at 1:01 4:01
p.m, hey aim
For the sweet link we proudly
discovered and shared in eyes and ink
Both black.
It's lack of light
Where the sun of the one seeks the night of the other
It's days and nights; mark hours... asunder under calendar
And daydream of once and again seeing the same sun face the marvel of the other
We are time traveling, air traveling through words
book a seat at the airline company of poetry
What the other sees in the sun sky above her
the other thinks of under his night sky
the thought of one never cancels that of the other
We trod on the same path
Me with Ginsberg, you with Plath.
Written jointly by Appoline Romanens first, third, seventh and ninth paragraph at 1:00-1:27 pm, Lyon, France and by Jesse Altamirano, second, fourth, fifth, sixth and eighth 4:00- 4:30 am, Riverside, California
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC
Saturation,
no space left in my mind.
So many questions and
so much emotion
that I can't think.
All the things that I used to
see as simple tasks or
thoughts won't link.
No coherence
in my brain. Juxtaposition,
of ideas leads my actions
to dissonance.
Enjambment in
every movement that I make.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
I wonder, sometimes, why it is a fact,
A gifted, handsome man should be alone.
My iambic pentameter’s intact,
And yet I tend to lyric on my own.
Alliteration alienates romance.
The ladies scorn my struggle with cliché
They scoff, then aggravated, wring their hands.
Yet still I need to couplet every day.
I’m thinking as I sit beside my date,
“I’ll syllable you soon if I am able.”
At times my meter renders me irate.
It’s difficult to rhythm at the table.
“Another cup?” I search her face for clues.
She looks a little bored. It can’t be me.
I pass the menu for her to peruse.
“Why don’t you try a blended Chinese tea?”
I’m formulating ditties as she speaks.
“I think I’d like to go. I’m rather hot.”
“Do stay. I’ve ordered brussels sprouts and leeks.”
Her grimace indicates she’d rather not.
I wonder if I’ve aimed a little low.
Her diction leaves a lot to be desired.
I’d like to teach her how to ebb and flow,
But ‘clueless’ leaves me, frankly, uninspired.
She fidgets nervously and looks away.
I wonder if the woman is a freak.
“I hope you’re not illiterate,” I say.
I may have been a little indescrete.
My fears were justified, she’s never heard
Enjambment quite like mine in all her days.
She slaps my face and tells me I’m absurd,
Then dumps me in a non-poetic daze.
I could have blessed her with a monologue;
Enthralled her with the kernel of my quill;
enchanted her with dazzling dialogue,
If only she’d have stayed to pay the bill.
Now woe is me. I’m lost and incomplete.
Lamenting my position; full of doubts.
Deliberating how a man can eat
A double share of leeks and brussels sprouts.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:05 PM UTC
My secrets are metaphors.
The words are artfully arranged in alliteration
Or cautiously halted in
Enjambment so that they don't reveal themselves.
My secrets are anaphoric.
They are metonymic, swearing secrecy to the pen.
Sometimes they are synecdoches,
Begging, afraid, in rhyme for your attention again.
My secrets are anecdotes.
They write about themselves through personification.
This poem juxtaposes itself;
I've told you all of my secrets of secrecy-how ironic.
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 5:13 PM UTC
Do you often wonder how you are perceived by those you meet?
What does a stranger think, what is his/her first impression?
Most of us wish to leave a good (?) impression or at least an impression.
So just how do we accomplish this?
Some wish to be remembered as Beautiful
Some wish to be thought of as Smart
Others like to be considered Funny
Or maybe Clever, Caring,... Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful,
Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean or Reverent if you are a Boy Scout.
Maybe if you are a Christian you want to be remembered as following
the Ten Commandments or Being a Good Neighbor, Doing Unto Others as you would have them do unto you.
If an environmentalist, caring about the Earth, loving nature, the seasons and all living things.
If a teacher, then concern for your students' futures
If an investment counselor or banker-wealth.
If a politician, then winning the next election.
Most of us do have some kind of agenda when we meet a stranger
So what is your agenda?
Does your agenda make the world a better place, help other people,
No matter what their religion, race or creed?
Or does your agenda simply build you up in their eyes?
Or do you just assume that you look good to them?
Do you really think so?
In writing this little ditty, I determined to use a thesaurus in order to improve my writing so that I would be perceived (identified, observed, regarded, sensed) as an intelligent poet of great merit and in doing so I learned a lot of new things which I will pass on to you, my readers. One thing that I realized is that my writing is not without enjambment and maybe yours is too. In addition my parti pris could be incorrect. Possibly the driving force behind this piece of writing could be an ulterior motive or an incentive to find out more about myself. It is also probable that I am participating in a bit of log rolling, pork barreling or establishing myself through the cronyism of you fellow poets.
Help me, I myself am really not sure.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
(With apologies to Dr. Seuss aka Theodor Seuss Geisel)
Green eggs and ham is what I pick
I like my poems un-iambic.
To much pomp and circumstance
Has me gazing quite askance.
I ask your patience Sam I am
For poetic posing I must slam.
My poetry I like to rhyme
In simple form and simple time.
And have it held with just the same
Respect and even mild acclaim.
A birthday card I shall not ****
For that to me would be a sham.
Nor baptism or bar mitzvah
I just do not have the chutzpah.
No wedding notice or get well
Poetic arrogance we must quell.
Each greeting billet I shall defend
As one of our true brethren.
Yes poetry indeed I’ll slam it
No synecdoche* or enjambment.*
I’ll have no Haibun* or Kyrielle*
No Triversen* or Villanelle*.
Is simple rhyme anymore silly
Than didactic forms we praise so shrilly?
I do not like to follow forms.
I do not like these contrived norms.
It is the freedom of poetry
that first attracted me to thee.
And why can’t all poetics be
Of an equal equality.
Perhaps it’s not the forms I hate
But the pompousness they doth dictate.
I will not stand for Seussian abuse
I relish odes to eggs chartreuse.
And so I say to thee dear Sam
My poems are happy as they am.
© Copyright 2018 Robert C. Leung
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:40 PM UTC
pure eyes mapping out
secret roads
swift onset of kisses
colossal than
still-seeking monuments.
supple enjambment of flesh
fuller than moon.
only her one side showing
in influx light -
eyes yearning to discover
what is behind mystery, as if
to say what lies in front
is subduable with openness.
these thoughts naked,
as we are both nailed
to the same tapestry,
clothed in honeysuckle.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC