Rhythm and Rhyme Workshop

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  • Roland Jamito Jr. (5/29/2005 10:08:00 PM) Post reply

    Hi everyone. Please, some critic would be appreciated.
    Just an attempt to use iambs on my poem
    (to court a girl who likes poetry) =)
    thank you

    The Riddle

    I had with me a riddle though
    That no one knows the answer so
    For all they have is just a guess
    To throw at me, oh what a mess

    But since you want to hear it then
    My riddle now i'll say it when
    You'll throw a kiss on me and say
    'I'll love you now and everyday'.

    So well I see your bashful smile
    And read your thoughts in just a while
    You've said those words just in your mind
    So here's the riddle; here's the bind:

    In ups and downs, it jumps and shouts
    It looks and feels, for all the bouts
    It knows a song for you to sing
    It likes you more in everything

    Sometimes it cries when you're away
    Sometimes it smiles when you would stay
    And always grieves when you were gone
    For it desires for you and none

    It likes itself to feel this more
    It felt this way like this before
    It has no wings though it can fly
    It could then fall when you pass by

    So here you are at me you stare
    I just don’t know to guess you dare
    But if a clue you wish to know
    to give i cant if that is so

    Just look at me and read my lips
    The chanting on my fingertips
    Or feel the beat within my heart
    If you would wish to answer start

  • Ghendo Quicoy (5/5/2005 11:41:00 PM) Post reply


  • Garry Brown (4/24/2005 5:24:00 PM) Post reply

    Any constructive criticism is very welcome regarding this poem:

    Tenant of the Eaves

    Then one day, after the pall of the freeze
    in the spring of the year, full blown with fragrant ease,
    there came a sparrow to my narrow eaves
    to weave a home out of some remnant leaves.

    The music of its silky throat was shrill
    and in the morning flew aloft to fill
    the waking and the drudge routine with joy,
    transcending the routine ennui employs.

    That music was an antidote to time.
    Clocks froze in the face of the sublime
    and warbling presence near the door
    as if unto a muse they would implore.

    Abolishment of memory's distinction
    between now, and what has passed and what will be
    seemed the purpose of this soft concatenation
    and the point of this wild tenant's melody.

    Then I was taken all at once away
    upon the lilting litany of song
    that ushered itself in before the day
    like the cardinal before the king in long

    and flowing robe of richest cloth
    trimmed in sparkling jewels and soft ermine.
    The king I mean; the cardinal is loathe
    to flaunt material and earthly fine

    for life is given him only to pass
    beyond the gawdy trappings of his task
    and endure a poverty of happiness
    reinforced by daily, flogging penance.

    I am no saint, nor man of spoken vows,
    yet I prefer my pleasures simple now
    and live as though I wait for something, too.
    Something, recalled in birdsong, I once knew,

    something dethroning time's proud majesty,
    fashioned out of innocence and light,
    which sings encomiums to nature's rite,
    and eulogies to all worldly loss of sight

    and disparages our heedlessness of sound-
    a rustling among the leaves or a rumbling of the ground-
    that speaks as if a father showing truth
    to a soul maliciously misguided by its youth

    Thanks in advance!

  • Dawson Smith (4/9/2005 1:51:00 PM) Post reply

    Falling into this hole,
    When I can’t feel the pain.
    The mark left on your soul,
    Once life has been slain.

    Never aware of such events,
    That cause so much devastation.
    The horror life represents,
    Into scales of escalation.

    Slow your moment of haste,
    When time feels wrong.
    Your feeling may be misplaced,
    Away from where it should belong.

    Needing to realize the desire,
    Beneath the layers of stone.
    While what I may admire,
    May mutate inside each bone.

    Move to the world of vitality,
    Where there lies no core.
    Left with the mark of mortality,
    As you’re left to explore.

  • Lee Ann Schaffer (4/6/2005 10:45:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    I've done two versions of a poem, and would like to hear some feedback on which one ends up being the stronger, more effective one. By the way, I don’t intend any offence at all, but I’m really not interested in judgments passed on the sentiment, worthiness of subject matter, etc. It would make more sense if those comments were to appear with the final product in my poems that I’ve posted on my own pages. I simply want to know how the structure impacts the effect. Any comments in this regard will be greatly appreciated.

    Version I

    What is it that makes me
    Love the leaning tree?
    It slants so low that
    My dachshund climbs it without
    Creating many degrees of angle
    To the close ground below.

    It doesn’t look as a tree should;
    Those whose erect majesty
    Evoke admiration or
    At least benign neglect,
    Ignored because they are
    As they “should be”

    Its silhouette shapes
    The letter S, though one that’s
    Fallen almost on its fanny.
    That letter is my own initial.
    It’s me, that fallen figure
    That’s not yet flat.

    What malicious armies
    Tried to lay it so low?
    How many tempests,
    Deluges building
    Soil roiling,
    Forceful floods?

    Its roots are still
    Well grounded;
    Strong, firm, and
    Wide spreading.
    Its branches and leaves
    Grasp at sun and stars.

    It’s the tree
    That simply
    Refuses to give up;
    That’s bent,
    Never broken,
    That I want to be.

    Version II
    What is it makes me love the leaning tree?
    It slants so low my dachshund climbs without
    Creating angle with a large degree
    To ground so close below and spread about.

    It doesn’t look as trees are meant to look;
    Those who inspire through erect majesty
    Or beg benign neglect be undertook,
    Ignored because they are as they “should be”

    Its silhouette, the shape of letter S,
    Though one that on its fanny almost fell;
    Initial that should fit on me the best.
    A fallen figure, not yet flat, can tell.

    Malicious armies tried to lay it low.
    Came many tempests shaking more than buds;
    The winds that pulled the roots that sought to grow;
    Deluges building, roiling soil in forceful floods.

    Its roots are still well grounded, firm, and strong;
    They spread much wider than the wind could reach.
    It sends its leaves and branches up like song
    To heaven bound to thank and to beseech.

    It is the strength the leaning tree displays,
    Defiant in the face of all the trials,
    That makes me lift my feet on stormy days;
    I can have hope that I can walk the miles.

    Along the way some solace can I take
    In knowing that my prayers will blessings bring.
    Then after storms that bent but did not break,
    To all the gods my song of thanks I’ll sing.

    Replies for this message:
    • Leanna Stead (4/12/2005 11:56:00 AM) Post reply

      I personally lean towards Version II as the stronger poem in terms of rhythm, expression, and tone. While the first is well executed, its broken lines indicative of an almost jagged meter. It is als ... more

    To read all of 2 replies click here
  • Ali Khorvash (3/29/2005 6:52:00 AM) Post reply

    hello everybody!
    I want to suggest you read the poem: YOUR PHOTO by SHIRIN PARVARESH.
    I found that very very senseful and beautiful.
    Its rating is 9.1 (13 votes)
    so I invite you all too read it and submit your comments and vote.
    Im sure that you will enjoy it!

  • Dr. A.celestine Raj Manohar Md (3/12/2005 7:58:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    This is a poem in 'iambic dimeter form'

    The Dancing Lass

    The dancing girl:
    She makes a whirl,
    And twists and turns
    In majesty;
    With gestures made
    For emotions,
    She walks in style
    And jumps awhile;
    In shiny garb
    Of silk: in hues
    And plaited hair,
    All flower-decked;
    With painted face
    And anklets belled;
    Bejeweled much,
    She moves with grace:
    So rhythmical
    To melody;
    In solo/groups,
    Gracefully stoops;
    She’s trained so hard
    A youthful star;
    Her soul in art,
    Enticing hearts:
    A dancing belle
    She does so well!

    Copyright by Dr John Celes

    Replies for this message:
    • Dan Redican (3/26/2007 8:41:00 PM) Post reply

      Very nice. Dimetre is such a difficult form. There seem to be very few writers on this site who have much comprehension of the difficulties.

  • Lee Ann Schaffer (3/10/2005 11:34:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    To Andrew Philips

    I'm not sure what exactly you're feeling that makes it not right for you yet (I really like it by the way) , but without changing the content and only adding one new word, I could offer the following:

    A Stormy Day

    Out of the window,
    I look up; hope drifts by in
    jubilant gray puffs.

    That keeps your form and your content. It doesn't even remove you (by the use of the word 'I') from the poem. The only thing added is a sense of movement. Since I'm unsure of what you seek, I only respectfully offer a possibility. It's quite nice the way you've last drafted it.

    Replies for this message:
    • Andrew Philips (3/18/2005 8:09:00 AM) Post reply

      Thanks for the advice. This poem was really a practice in juxapition (I no spel well) and the reason for my not being satisfied with it most probably has to do with my personal writing style. I have ... more

  • Andrew Philips (3/9/2005 8:19:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Here's a haiku of mine. It is one of my earlier ones.
    A Stormy Day

    Out of the window,
    looking up, I find hope in
    jubilant gray puffs.

    I'm not realy sure about this one. I have rewriten this one about five times now and it still desn't seem to work right. Any suggestions?

    Replies for this message:
    • Paul Slinski (3/11/2005 10:30:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

      It's quite simple isn't it? Out of the window looking up and finding hope. Jubilant gray puffs. It seems to be a problem with action. Second line. Looking up (past tense) and we move to ... more

    To read all of 2 replies click here
  • Dean Robinson (12/29/2004 12:24:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I am a Christian and a Holy Spirit filled poet. I have been writing poems for ten years.(I am an Electrical Engineer turned poet) . I write classical poems and agree with your message. I have not received any training in writing poems. My goal is to write a book for my 11 children, so when I go to be with the Lord, they will have something from me to help their faith journey. My church has posted many of my poems on their website. I am also interested in getting training, but with my job and family, it is difficult to find time. Your thoughts would be appreciated. God bless you and your work.

    Replies for this message:
    • Dr. A.celestine Raj Manohar Md (1/20/2005 3:22:00 PM) Post reply

      Dear Robinson, Actually, time is never a hurdle to writing poetry.Most of my poetry is by inspiration and I am an autodidact.I've believe strongly that Poetry is one thing that comes to minds and he ... more

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