"metre" poems
I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).
Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.
Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)
Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.
THE END.
(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
I can't stop writing this poetry,
Because all I think of is poetry.
Phrases repeat temselves spontaniously.
Like trains coming continuously
Rhyme and metre extravagantly
Burst into flames explosively.
Twas I who consulted psychiatry.
OCD he said repeatedly.
OCD I thought repeatedly.
Then I broke free
From
Rhyme and. Metre
And any rules really!!!
**** it?
Flower
Sunshine in the rain
Relax bro
Be open and throw **** all over the place
But do it with grace.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC
Make your poems Memorable,
That’s what I say.
No need to be incredible,
Just let them play.
Read them with your inner voice,
Write them that way too.
Hear the music in those words,
This I’m telling You.
In ancient times these poems were songs,
Remembered off by heart.
At least you’d call them statements,
Knowledge to impart.
Iambic metre’s very common yes,
And so of course is rhyme:
To make these verses remembered
Through the course of time.
Yet verse is best as poetry,
Lyrical if you will.
We have to write with feeling,
And give the reader a thrill.
Paul Butters
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
529
I’m sorry for the Dead—Today—
It’s such congenial times
Old Neighbors have at fences—
It’s time o’ year for Hay.
And Broad—Sunburned Acquaintance
Discourse between the Toil—
And laugh, a homely species
That makes the Fences smile—
It seems so straight to lie away
From all of the noise of Fields—
The Busy Carts—the fragrant *****
The Mower’s Metre—Steals—
A Trouble lest they’re homesick—
Those Farmers—and their Wives—
Set separate from the Farming—
And all the Neighbors’ lives—
A Wonder if the Sepulchre
Don’t feel a lonesome way—
When Men—and Boys—and Carts—and June,
Go down the Fields to “Hay”—
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the foxgloves explode
in infinite slow motion [silently]
from them also we can learn
the soft crash and save ourselves
from the genius suicide:
the brief fame of a supernova
…
intermittent rain keeps the land fecund,
a deluge cleanses to the bedrock,
rain in perpetuity is impossible
and we think we can control this
but we live at one speed,
and measure in standard units:
our language is insufficient
to give a precise reflection
…
to assume our laws are true beyond appeal
puts into question our democratic process
we forget the necessity of conversation
the original Greek ideal of the agora;
to meet friends and argue is the point, is it not, of life,
of all this noise, after all, what use is silence?
…
our luxury of having the exercise of our conscience
is subsidised by the suffering of a multitude other
..and yet
when we all speak with one
language / currency / voice
there is no poetry anymore
no rhyme, no metre, no form
in this Heaven only, [on Earth], we are united
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
our bread and butter...
*the web of stars,
the scatter of moons
and orbiting planets.*
the entire universe
harvested and crammed
into the metre,
of a poetic verse.
our bread and butter...
*harnessing the regal rays of the sun.
inflating the fluff of quiet clouds.
drinking up the winds of the weather.
revering the magic in the flight of birds.*
we fill our cups to the brim...
with fantastical dreams
and let spill
over parchment
the cornucopia of idealised words.
our bread and butter...
the incessant peeling and picking
on healing wounds.
of which we have learnt to savour...
*let bleed
the willing blood...
feed the seeds
with impending flood.*
nurture to fruition
thoughts stunted in discretion.
bring to light
thoughts hidden in the nether.
our bread and butter...
we dip...
the nibs,
of our word worn feathers.
let them sink,
shallow beneath the surface
to the sanctity of a familiar place.
*casting our trials,
and tribulations...
pent up emotions,
and what we think
unto paper
with the burn of
everlasting ink.*
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
And I can control my feelings better now.
The shakes are still there of course-
General anxiety is another problem to deal with,
But, since it's winter,
I can pass it off as just being cold
When the small child holds my hand
And asks me "why are you doing that?"
The drugs are working,
And I can feel myself getting calmer by the day.
The things that bother me don't so much anymore,
And the medication flows through my bloodstream
And into my brain, slowly changing it's
Chemical make-up, and helping me become
A better person.
The drugs are working,
And this is my first attempt at a poem in months.
There's no rhyme or structure anymore,
And it's lacking a certain something that you're used to-
The metre is non-existent, and everything has
Descended into free verse.
The drugs are working,
And I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing or not-
Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is the case that I have simply forgot
The unbearable pain from which my poetry was born,
But still I miss it- those ups and downs which made me... me
And now, as I stare blindly at some old withered tree
I forget what poetry lies within, and only feel forlorn.
The drugs are working,
The old feelings have gone away
And, with them, a part of my soul,
Which could not stay another day,
In this unpoetic hole.
But the drugs are working...
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 5:05 AM UTC
The decaying mansions of English language
Rot and recede
into teenage grasses
with each unspoken year
The hired help have left their hair unmown and surrendered their uniform dress
Content with the neglect of nature
taking its timely course
When the architects and master masons of linguistics
Survey their forgotten plans in the heaven of English literature
They are not dismayed
but patiently sit and sit
The pristine edifices of the classics
Once grand and clad in deferential brick
Stand scaffolded and unread
The doors unlocked, ajar and hopelessly inviting
Into the library of the English canon
The dusty cloak on the carpets of grammar
Sheets thrown over the disused armchairs of archaic words
Echoing the plink of the out-of-tune pianoforte of the perfectly crafted short story
Bathrooms of formal poetry
With the rusty plumbing of metre and rhyme
Whereas the temporary outhouses,
hastily arranged huts of slang and idiom
are adorned by the living grasses of new forms,
creepers of half remembered dreams
mulching leaves of half formed thoughts
forests of half forgotten loves
writhing in living incompleteness
Which will in turn harden and fossilize
And we can then rue the passing of our once organic lingo
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 10:18 AM UTC
i love to write poetry with food
the clickety-clack of the knife on the dining board is my metre
the veggies going choppity-chop are the words
the masalas are the embellishments
that lift them to another level altogether
the pressure cooker whistles,
something in the frying pan sizzles
the flavours rise and fill my home
with the smell of cooking
the gravy thickens
the pulse quickens
in anticipation of the tasting
the aromas tease as i’m tempering
a little coriander for the topping
and I’m done!
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
09.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
Who will believe my verse in time to come
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts:
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, “This poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.”
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage,
And stretchèd metre of an antique song.
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.
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*Anyone can rhyme
Or hum a melody
But to lay your guts out on the table
For everyone to see
That’s what art is
That’s the soul
That's hunger, pain, and glory
As the artist tells their story
Living your truth
And telling it straight
Is what sets some apart
The secret of the greats
Stop fumbling with that metre
Don’t fret over the rhyme
Pour your soul onto the paper
Pull the tears from our eyes*
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Sweet dagger, pierce that midnight beauty,
that walks like cloudless climes and starry skies.
Go now, men, and do your duty.
Steal the schemes of other rhymes.
I am the captain of my ship; I am the master of metre and time.
I've mastered the art of thieving wit.
I've stolen the fame of men long dead
and staked my claim to the fruits of their minds.
I can write words yet unsaid;
But I've not the mind;
I've not the inclination;
I've not the creativity
to write my own lines.
If this rings too close to home,
perhaps you ought to write your own.
More likely though,
you'll just steal mine.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC
Those were the times — exclaimed master's maid;
When youthful glow was understood —
As dust on shelves — did beauty fade;
Completely changing fair Sir's mood.
The ceremony of served tea
Remains — a consolation sweet,
As beauty brings us — peaceful glee
The Twinings charms — the air suite.
My master is for — Pianissimo;
He plays piano — violin —
Splendidly Fast and Fortissimo;
All sounds swirl into my ***** like Dream!
I'll master perfect iambs late at Night
And Metre and Rhyme will be Sir's Delight!
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Prose is writing that goes right across the page. It rolls on, sentence after sentence, usually about things mundane.
But Verse is where you yourself
Decide the length of
Line.
Or stanza indeed. Some call lines “verses”. They can be very long.
Or short.
Iambic metre may be used
And other metres too.
You can write anapaests if you wish.
Yet Poetry is neither prose nor verse
As such.
It is about skyscraper forests looming large,
Trees spiking though mysterious mists.
Poetry is sunshine, filling your heart
With radiant joy.
Black nights of deep depression
Give way to a golden dawn.
The lonely
Find Love.
That’s Poetry.
Paul Butters
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Wordsong, wordsong,
Lovely as birdsong.
Could be a Pop Song,
But never a Swansong.
Could be a rap,
And all that *******
For Rap is easy,
Lemon squeezy.
But rap has beat
And words that repeat.
Rap has rhyme
Nearly every time.
Rap even has metre –
Who can beat her?
Yet wordsong is melodious too,
Giving us a worldly view.
Poems of love and dedication
Even human emancipation.
Whoops I’m slipping back -
Back into that addictive rap.
You must remember to read out loud –
Silver lining on every cloud.
Poetic landscapes catch our gaze,
Brightening up our mundane days.
The river of life keeps flowing on,
Iambic metre our beating heart.
Read it like you’re singing a song,
Write it whether or not it’s Art.
So play those words
So full of feeling
Just like the birds
And so appealing.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\1\2021.
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 5:53 AM UTC
it will just end up
being a tale of a drunk looking into a metre
as if it was a kaleidoscope mile
in an l.s.d. fuelled centimetre seance,
conjuring the dead, esp. sergei with his kijé,
and thinking about turning the zoo inside out,
with the birds as fish in the great aerorium
of the missing stars to cook up a fluster with broken beaks
nudging achilles to kneel using his heels.
i mean i’d cage those parrots to seal their colour
into stamps and dutiful ink of borrowed bureaucracy,
but i’d stink of oysters doing so and very little else.
so why did they decide upon petting fish in an aquarium
and said that birds were simply caged chickens easing out
an omelette? if i was keeping goldfish in aquariums
i’d be keeping budgies in aeroriums.
don’t tell me, the glass eases the process for disney's
talking blue fish? no wonder, a caged animal
is reminiscent of a caged man, but put man behind glass
and there's little chance of a narcissist conjured;
hence the necessity of slicing iron of the ribcage innuendo
within the framework of a niqab to peer through
on that whitewashed backdrop some call a canvased sigh of beginning.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
1
Why was it that Tarzan
only did one loincloth wear?
answer:
there was no clothes-shop there
2
Do you know Tarzan had a terrible phobia?
if you must know---it lasted for a long while-
a strong swimmer he was but devastated by this condition
as once he was nearly swallowed up by an 8-metre crocodile
3 Bringing home Cheeta the naughty little chimpanzee
was the idea of Jane
who said to Tarzan--we had enough of each other--
without Cheeta we would go insane!
4
Why was it Tarzan and Jane
didn't raise a family?
they were fighting the animal-poachers
all day long--too busy!
5
Of course Tarzan and Jane
lived together in the tree
they needed no beds
but were content and happy
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
NI SAHII
Nimekuwa silent for a while waka-confuse kuhang boots na a short break,huwezi nipata bar no wonder bars zangu ziko so-bar,black supremacy... Niko na connection na maraga ndio maana akanipea hii ko-r-ti,ni poet petty siku hizi na-weigh content si value ya suti,apart from kutema visiriaz,nacheza guitar na at times isukutti,kaa ni kisima,si unajua obvious hii_ sii_kuti,
Daily na hood niite mya-hoodie,ni due to public demand so sikuwa na budi,nilipretend kunguru ndio nipate hizo white collar jobs,na nikasema sitadiss king rabbit ndio unispot kaka,aty petty ameomoka?,si aitane basi sherehe ya kukata na shoka,kaa ni breko naamkia konyangi,na hii dry spell uko sure hunyongangi?.
Hii class kila mtu huchoma tuko high class,heri uko mnakula vako,huku kumekauka kuliko kichwa ya babu owino,dawa ya wivu nakuandikia eno,situmii smartphone natumia phone smart,only call sina time ya kuchat,ambia smart joker jokes zake huwa joked smart,
Walisema sikio la kufa halisikii dawa,acha nijaribu tena MARA MOJA, thanks to corona for the first time mluhya anaoga mkono na si ugali anakula,na petty unatema hata mtu haezi sema,ni venye alikuwa na vinyasa mbili so nikamwomba sho-r-t_moja,na petty pieces zako huniacha in pieces,hizo ndio comments nareply,juz for teases,
Na kama corona shida zangu huwezi zicough out kwa public,natumia mouth piece ya scimo na Leo hatubongi za mitaro na toothpicks,na kuna chizi flani ananukia colon na hii corona huwezi sema kwa mama mboga iko loan,na kama ni lyrics nauza hii itabidi umechomoa mita,na before niachilie mic,kumbuka sonko alisema social distance ni ya one metre,sihang suspenders kwa shoulders, nikiwa hustle nahang guitar,hio time short nimespend apa nilikuwa na blessings za mama no wonder sijastammer,kama nimekubamba scratch kwa tenje uniseti stage ndio home na sijaplan...kuhama.
-P€TT¥PO€T✍️
©️2020.
Sep 10, 2020
Sep 10, 2020 at 5:29 PM UTC
785
They have a little Odor—that to me
Is metre—nay—’tis melody—
And spiciest at fading—indicate—
A Habit—of a Laureate—
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IT fell in the ancient periods
Which the brooding soul surveys,
Or ever the wild Time coin'd itself
Into calendar months and days.
This was the lapse of Uriel,
Which in Paradise befell.
Once, among the Pleiads walking,
Sayd overheard the young gods talking;
And the treason, too long pent,
To his ears was evident.
The young deities discuss'd
Laws of form, and metre just,
Orb, quintessence, and sunbeams,
What subsisteth, and what seems.
One, with low tones that decide,
And doubt and reverend use defied,
With a look that solved the sphere,
And stirr'd the devils everywhere,
Gave his sentiment divine
Against the being of a line.
'Line in nature is not found;
Unit and universe are round;
In vain produced, all rays return;
Evil will bless, and ice will burn.'
As Uriel spoke with piercing eye,
A shudder ran around the sky;
The stern old war-gods shook their heads;
The seraphs frown'd from myrtle-beds;
Seem'd to the holy festival
The rash word boded ill to all;
The balance-beam of Fate was bent;
The bounds of good and ill were rent;
Strong Hades could not keep his own,
But all slid to confusion.
A sad self-knowledge withering fell
On the beauty of Uriel;
In heaven once eminent, the god
Withdrew that hour into his cloud;
Whether doom'd to long gyration
In the sea of generation,
Or by knowledge grown too bright
To hit the nerve of feebler sight.
Straightway a forgetting wind
Stole over the celestial kind,
And their lips the secret kept,
If in ashes the fire-seed slept.
But, now and then, truth-speaking things
Shamed the angels' veiling wings;
And, shrilling from the solar course,
Or from fruit of chemic force,
Procession of a soul in matter,
Or the speeding change of water,
Or out of the good of evil born,
Came Uriel's voice of cherub scorn,
And a blush tinged the upper sky,
And the gods shook, they knew not why.
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Extrapolating time as distance, the last 1000 million years, which is the age of our oldest known rocks, is represented by the distance from here to roughly, 3 city blocks distant.
For instance:
Mankind rose from all fours just 60m down the road… and Christ was born just 60cm away.
This allows the enormity of time to gain credence in the capacity of man to visualize…especially difficult considering the limitation of humankind’s puny lifetime duration of just under 100 years.
But I beseech you… consider the advancement of humanity in that incredibly short span of his existence as a species.
From cave to skyscraper
From raw bones to haute cuisine.
From jumping a metre in the air to manufacturing and implementing a successful research exploration to incredibly distant Mars.
From the snarl of wrath to an intricate debate on advanced mathematics
From faltering first step to Ferrari.
What other species on earth, or as far as we know, anywhere else in the universe… has made progress at this astonishing rate?
What other creature exhibits the drive and compulsion to excel and succeed?
What other creature exhibits the variance betwixt an expression of love in eloquent poetry and a declaration of outright, murderous warfare… to his fellow man?
What other creature has the capacity for infinite creation and absolute destruction?
What other creature even considers these absolutes?
We humans are the vanguard and promise of tomorrow.
We have the responsibility squarely, on our shoulders…to endure, to succeed.
Marshal Gebbie
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
Just writing for precedent, or so I keep writing later if precedent works there.
Thinking about metre and it's slow going because all I want to do has already been here or so far off thinking about it gives me a thousand yard stare.
Trapped in myself has become my event horizon. Building cities for my heart out of **** and hair to keep it turned on.
Thinking about old people i know who stopped doing their compulsive creative medium at some point in their lives.
I imagine what stopped them was ease and some contract in blood they signed for their eager calling from about 50 years down the line and a crawling mammal which has hold of their mind.
Then that puts my tiny light in perspective and i forget after tapping my wrist to remember.
One day of that that mystified group of adults given to their fearful balmy impulses and I'll be a member.
I think this on my weaker days.
It makes me more friendly in some ways.
When have i wanted to be that when it comes down to it.
When this meager neglect sentiment ignorant of relative need well aware of the rifts of spirit between those
with and without means. It starts to pick up the toys from floors
while he's sleeping.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
Today’s lesson on the pad
Showing a new guy how to stake grades
So we paced out a grid and pounded in stakes at semi-even intervals
Always picking up where someone else left off
Using their existing grid, we paced ~16 m in Northing (a metre is approximately equal to a yard)
Again, using the existing grid, we paced ~13 m in Easting
Then I asked him to pace out the hypotenuse, it was ~21 m
The grid was for the most part at right angles to each other
To show the new guy how Pythagoras came to his theorem
I scratched a triangle in the crushed aggregate
On the side of the x-plane I scratched 16 m and on the side of the y-plane I scratched 13 m
The diagonal received a 21 m
Out came the notebook
16 squared plus 13 squared = ~21 squared
Using my iPhone calculator
256 plus 169 = ~21 squared
425 = ~21 squared
square root of 425 = ~20.6155281280883 or ~21
Then I grabbed my stick to scratch out a head, body, appendages, and finally a circle encompassing my proto-Vitruvian dude
Never thought work could be this fun!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Yesterday morning I woke at 4AM again
And once more my mind got churning.
I juggled with some words in my head,
Composing free verse on how I write my poems.
I wondered whether I should grab a pad
And write.
Or even get on my laptop.
But I made myself go back to sleep,
Forgetting it all.
So here I am,
A day later at 10.30AM,
Pouring out these verses:
A sort of Stream of Consciousness.
No thought of structure
Or metre
Or rhyme.
Just emphasising certain words and phrases
By giving them separate verses
Of their own.
Something I learnt once
When reading a book in Pudsey Library
About how to teach kids to write poetry
An easy way.
Unfettered by considerations of metre or form,
You can express yourself freely,
As deep as you wish.
Just let your emotion
Or Philosophy
Run free.
Let your words cascade
Over those shiny pebbles.
Babbling along through winding willows,
To crash over waterfalls
In a crescendo of sound.
A stream that sparkles in the light
Of sun or moon (and stars),
Wafted by scents of abundant flowers
And sappy cut grass.
God's Grandeur radiating all around.
Enjoy.
Paul Butters
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC