"iamb" poems
I heard there was a secret metric foot
that David knew was favoured by the Lord,
and when he penned the psalms he'd often put
this pattern the Almighty best adored
amongst the endless praise and imprecations;
unstressed, plus stressed, suffuses through his pages,
though hidden by the English of translations;
pentameters still echo down the ages.
The spondee's spurned, and has been from the start;
an anapaest's anathema, and grim.
Though trochees may be near the Maker's heart,
you'll never hear a dactyl in a hymn.
There's only one the Lord thinks worth a ****
the sacred, the unchangeable iamb.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 8:07 AM UTC
I am;
Partly shiny but mostly dull,
kinda Bo Peep-ish,
I'm into wool.
I'm an errant bent penny of
dubious worth,
a fickle little tickle
on the funny bone o' mirth.
I am
Tapioca pudding after
Chicken coq au vin.
And I am
an iamb
a gestalt of a man.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
Iamb, iamb, iamb, I plod along
in verse predicting I could write a song.
To call upon the muse of higher power
pour some wine, kick off your shoes and glower.
While putting best foot forward, don't forget:
cliches are lines that surely **** your wit.
Reality, you say, bears greener grass?
Abstraction always steps across as crass.
It's true you could walk on like this for days.
Your meter's tight, it rarely ever strays.
But what of clever feet and sounds succinct?
If images are dull, your verse will stink,
As blossoms dance upon the redbud tree
and oceans fill your squid with ink of glee,
remember what your mama always said:
mixed metaphors fill readership with dread!
Say: sonics surely sock a swelling swale,
Entwined, the twisted tongues tell not your tale.
Less is always more, the teachers say.
If tricks you train, then please just walk away!
I never knew how hard it really was
to write a poem that might parade a buzz.
I thank you moderators and big brass
for sticking yours so fully up my ***
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
[Click]
“–ll now and you can win a Dream vacation, with the Artist himself! For those of you just tuning in, this is yet another hit by Grammy-nominated singer/songwriter Sam Cole, on MTVChristmas. Here’s The Slime of the Ancient Caroler”
♫ I am an iamb man, I am
and so it’s come to haunt
such will be the meter for
My Christmastime account
I do beg you not give haste
I know you’re on your way
But I’ll be quick, as not to waste
a minute of your day
the party, it can wait young sir
as all good things will do
my warning comes for times of myrrh
and a frankincent or two
Sit back or stand, relax your hands
now dawning is the time
when you must beware, of songs in air
of Ancient Car’lers slime
It all starts at first December
When she haunts the streets at night
Watching dying embers
Release their doom-ed light
That’s when she comes, dear little ones
bearing candles of her own
she brings the light, to cull your fright
from darkness cold as stone
sometimes her many fiends come with
to throw you off your guard
and though you’ll think “not dangerous”
that’s when the music starts
And O the ringing, singing bells
will melt into your soul
and heat the morning frost untill
your soul again is whole
but just when you release all of
the tensions from your mind
once upon a song of love
the devil hid behind
the devil with his might did peek
to celebrate your loss
that’s when you’ll see a beak, and he
the winged albatross
oh curs-ed you, ye albatross
hadst not thou’st had thy will?
This is time to wear the cross
why do you haunt me still?
Go now, children, beware the slime
be merry and be well
earmuffs now, avoid the rime
and singing Christabells ♫
“Whoa… that’s a hit that’s sure to be around for decades. You can pick up this single at any–”
[Click]
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 6:07 PM UTC
Here's pain in iambic pentameter.
Iamb skill, like the lion that kills lambs.
'Cause I am Bill, not just an amateur.
I am will. And I will not give a ****
.
Mem'ries beat on, hear it all on your feet.
Five metrical feet, heretical feats.
I'm not pent up with pain that I mete out,
Burdened with truths I'm trying to eke out.
.
That's five pairs of beats alive with the heat
Of pain on this tragic perimeter,
Until it leaves no memory of doubt.
This ain't pain? Why'd I write it down again?
.
Live through spasms with enthusiasm!
Bruise some atoms, throw some glue right at 'em!
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
I am partly shiny
but mostly dull,
kinda Bo Peep-ish,
I'm into wool.
I am an errant bent penny
of dubious worth
and a fickle little tickle
on the funny bone o' mirth.
I'm tapioca pudding
after chicken Coq au Vin --
an iamb, and I am,
The Vitruvian Man.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
A.
drone this day empirical
from where we were once the we
rained from, a high excursion
which savvy the drop, weighing in, a fault
trying to convince the day when Sun
embellished from the ravine of your hand,
a catacomb secured by the rolling
of your body like a boulder keeping
a minute sacred, christened an evinced noon
that was your repetitive finding. onto
a netted frame caught, dripping out of
a felt space in need for graphs to measure
from, a well unnamed which presence
resembling your body, resounding
the fluency of what the physical ascribes
an iamb of a crowd inverted, diminishing
and inflected in a day's livid sigh
housed in a jar that is a mouth
words assemble an ikebana willing
a delayed color that was a lack.
held a device that was a sky
or a gleaming face with a high price
claiming a solstitial -- when I went
to your home it was Saturday all
week inside my ribcage chiming worship.
plastered to a sheen all is equal underneath
equatorial tracing a sphere when
I found stroking the innards of a calendar
it is November. it is Saturday.
B.
he comes from
low wattage this night's post
a wonderful polyp
to begin a
blight
apparently so from a cut blackest gutter
carrying an ample water virulent
when taken in and again in
a savingslight of metamorphosis
climbs vertical so the winged moon
is a black bird in the blackest
cage / baltic a different fraternity
of land with the same pictorial
this lovely stillness calling it work
a flood could mean pernicious is blood
brewed from this climate
it is here past Mandaue hillsides dreaming
if place were rumored as same-silent.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
I think I would like to have Shakespeare recited to me.
While I'm on a balcony,
Or leaning out an open window.
I deeply love Shakespeare.
And there's not much in the world
That can make me fall in love more quickly
Than well-performed Shakespeare.
That doesn't mean that I would fall in love instantly
With just anyone that
Performs Shakespeare for me.
Oh, no.
It simply means that
You instantly have a foot in the door.
Or if you already have a foot in the door,
Well, then,
I've probably fallen in love with you
By the third iamb.
So,
I would like it
If a man were to stand below my window,
And after tossing a a few pebbles at the glass,
Smiled up at me and
Recited some well-rehearsed
Shakespeare.
Yes.
I think that would be nice.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
for the love of pejorative poetry
~
i was minding my business,
the tending of words,
assuring they’re watered,
they’re grazed and they sleep;
dividing the ewes,
from the yous;
sadly, all shepherds have
one runaway sheep,
who needs for more tending
than attendance has thyme.
(there... see that?
see what just happened
to this story of mine?)
of course dinner is calling,
and it's not so appalling,
for we all need something
to serf on the palate.
and a wandering iamb
will serve up just fine,
yes! this palette will please
at this dinner of mine!
you tell me, “that’s mean!”
“no never!” i repeat,
for i say it’s merely
the culling of words,
... so to speak.
having far more to learn
than having been taut,
i tend rather high strung,
using all manner of phrases,
and words where ought not.
for instants...
i didn’t know,
to drive them to market
can drive one to drink,
if one isn’t careful
one can end up a shrink
(or was that need one),
or even worse,
wind up like Ms. Muffit,
who i’m told was last scene
eating her whey
through the curds...
(or was it having
her way with words?)
but back to my story,
the tending of verbs.
all I can say is
while minding my business,
as good reimer’s do,
in broadening horizons,
in pushing the boundaries,
one little poem
put a kink in my foundry;
all this to say, that
she struck a nerve...
(so is that more
like striking out
or striking it rich?)
but no matter,
for the world hasn’t
been the same since.
life's little questions
are now up in my face,
my wife doesn't speak to me
i’m losing grace,
and the more that
i wonder, i ponder,
(or was it wander and pander)
for does one miche in a niche,
and can one skulk in a sulk?
my point being simply this...
discovery or uncovery,
here’s what i found
poetry is simply,
it's so plane to see;
it's quiet oblivious
for someone like me,
she ain’t no noun...
no, i say “poetry” is a verb!
she’ll never be more than
a do-it-to-yourself project!
no, this tending of words
won’t make you a prophet.
so now, dinner is over,
they’ve served just deserts;
if you’re not gonna eat that,
would you mind very much,
if i had the last word?
~
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
Dear Poeta,
I suppose I should be studying
But instead I write vain thoughts
Sweet Iambic pentameter
One-two-three-four-
rest
One-two-three-five-
rest
Iambic stress
Iamb stressed
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
so empty alone
my need
is to fill it with
anything
give it a texture like Van Gogh
painted
canvases with his ear
or paint a melody
a visual
song of Hey Jude
and someway in a trying
image
or a straining high
toned
metaphor
talk to angels
which I do
between the lines
and forgive
my inability
to artistically capture
their immortal
words
but my
periods if
you examine
closely are
tears and my
pauses the blank
paper
of my soul
my heart the
pen writing
my foot an iamb
or a pallette knife
or violin.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff?
It’s all Gobbledygook to me!
As far as I’m concerned you can just stick
Your iamb up your fat pentameter.
Wink.
And I don’t care whether some of it
Is like common speech.
Or clever for being slightly incorrect.
Wink.
So why do lilies have to mean death
When they are nothing but fracking flowers?
What’s with all these virile horses
And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?
They are bladdy animals and fruit
For heaven’s sake!
Nothing more, nothing less.
All this Moon in June stuff.
All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying
And unrequited love.
All sentimental words
And Repetition.
I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:
At least it tells you something
You can use in real life.
Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.
All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid
Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical
Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.
And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot
With his cruel Aprils and his
Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.
Vita illius.
And while I’m at it.
Who needs history when we live in the present?
Art is no use whatsoever.
Give me a hammer and a spanner
Any day.
Leave those luvvies to their childlike play
And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.
Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.
Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.
Poetry? No bladdy thanks.
(Written for some Friends.
Winks.
At too great a length
For most).
Paul Butters
© PB 13\7\2023.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 6:50 AM UTC
I am poetry;
Sonata composed in fourteen lines;
Woven in a dilating sonnet.
I am poetry,
Anaphora riding on iamb's saddle
Echoing free verses n
From line to line
And singing metaphor's
ever-living hymns;
Of then and now,
Dawn and rise.
I walked in rhymes
Till my feet strikes the gleaming Volta
And sends me back
To gloomy Arden.
I am poetry.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 11:54 AM UTC
In Hamlet’s famed soliloquy,
“To be or” (maybe) “not to be,”
He questions life – is taking breath
A better deal than choosing death?
Another quote, among a slew,
Is this: “To thine own self be true,”
A brilliant and perceptive thought
Which few obey, though most are taught.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on”
Actors cry on stages played on,
Which refers to both the play
And also to our lives each day.
Some Shakespeare gems to celebrate
His birthday, which was on this date.
Though some believe that’s all a sham,
I don’t! Am I a fan? Iamb!
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
stretching to length of gallows
under faint light of moon.
the dead buries the living.
a thing is not a thing in itself
as it denotes nothing.
like a peripatetic iamb inscribed
persisting in drivel. flowers her face
this evening. pillars her arms,
i do not have a wife.
i do not have a love undressed
as i examine a pool of shadow
in the plenary recess of silence.
the dead buries the living
within the blue-headed noon;
fascist birds bellow over haciendas,
tuba from the dustwell, from the orchard
decorated with blood. it rings for me
a guttural voice: hustling down
the avenue of the dead. better the alternative,
the guillotine, the small beginning of rage
through the thickness of air.
a marauder sleuths as the living keep
on keeping on, as the dead resign
a hindrance under dissonant skies.
she is not with me as all the others are.
they have passed on expired limitations;
a flash of lighting at the back
of startled hills. rivers shake cool waters
down my sleeve and i sleep -- soon fields
will be nasal with dew and the children
will have their place in heaven. the damp
landscape will adhere to stucco, fashioned
to cerements on corpses reeking, rising
to altitudes where some birds
in spring soar, left thriving in smog
as i bid you good night, farewell.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
the vehicle of the uberstressed perhaps
her ventricle an aorta
pumping out
pressures
has to be an outlet
Iamb that I guess
makes me smile to think
I may be
that was not lamb by the way
(Lamb) the two are identical
this was but an
rant turned into a discourse
on the physical properties of
a type font
I apologize i myself prefer roman
numerals
CVILI
nothing...
but a syntax error
greater values
should not follow lesser ones
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
The Tempest III.ii.129-130
Be not
Afraid
Iambs
Are just
The way
We speak
They are
Our natch
Ural
Rhythm
Or:
Be not afraid; iambs are just the way
We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1
Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then
(Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair
Othertimes “natural” is read as three) –
Be a skilled artist in your poetry!
1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb
But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
No One is Your Vibrant Stereotype
One’s words and one’s friends are not tuning forks
They do not vibrate, and are thus not vibrant
Nor are they folksy, colorful, or quaint
Curiosities for you to collect
Poetic verse is free of DNA
An iamb suffers no identity
It boldly speaks its rhythm clear and strong
And metric feet march to their own chosen beat
But
If you feel that any culture should vibrate
Then go sit on yourself and just…rotate
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 10:31 AM UTC
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
The Tempest III.ii.129-130
Be not
Afraid
Iambs
Are just
The way
We speak
They are
Our natch
Ural
Rhythm
Or:
Be not afraid; iambs are just the way
We speak; they are our natural rhythm 1
Sometimes they must be squashed a bit, and then
(Hear “natural” as two syllables, a pair
Othertimes “natural” is read as three) –
Be a skilled artist in your poetry!
1 “Rhythm” is a trochee, not an iamb
But let it stay, that poor, little lost lamb
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
It is a love poem when I am making love to you, a soliloquy of silence but for your murmurs and your moans. The stanza of your shilouette, the verses of your curves. An iamb means I love you dearly, a dactyl that you are delicious, spondees and trochess of tenderness and passion. There are rhymes and rhythms when we lie upon each other, an alliteraration of kisses and hugs, caesuras to catch out breath. Our ********** is a chiasmus, making and taking tortuous turns until white sheets and yellow pillows fall on hardwood floors. Caresses precede onomatopoetic sighs that become love songs. Anaphoric thrusts need no explication, only the silence and solitude of joy.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
Gilligan’s Island...
The discipline of reading at least one poem each day
The meter started getting rough aboard
A scheduled poetic three-minute tour
Across a sonnet or a blue haiku
Broken up by a wave of indolence
The Professor repairs an iamb or two
With a clam shell, seaweed, and coconuts
While Mary Ann recites “The Road Not Taken”
And the Skipper chases poor Gilligan
Who trips and falls, and finds a misplaced rhyme -
Maybe we’ll all get off the island this time!
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC