Today at dVerse Poets Pub, Grace tends the bar challenges us to take a sixty seconds, or so, to form a Minute Poem.
The Minute Poem, created by Verna Lee Hinegardner, once poet laureate of Arkansas, is a 60 syllable verse form, one syllable for each second in a minute.
It has the following rules…
1. narrative poetry. 2. a 12 line poem made up of 3 quatrains. (3 of 4-line stanzas) 3. syllabic, 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 8-4-4-4 (First line has 8 syllables of each stanza. Remaining lines has 4 syllables in each stanza) 4. rhymed, rhyme scheme of aabb ccdd eeff. 5. description of a finished event (preferably something done is 60 seconds). 6. is best suited to light verse, likely humorous, whimsical or semi-serious.
Yeah, about numbers 5 and 6 – I heard Melpomene scoff “What’s a minute to the sun?” in my mind and knew Muse, being contrary, was going to kick “humorous, whimsical or semi-serious” to the curb. I just write the report.
His eyes open in the bright room. Past open French doors, a single white cloud lazily drifts across the sky. He hears the waves crash against the rocks of the coast and knows it is late in the morning. From eastern rise to setting in the west, he is attuned to each tick of any given day.
He runs a hand through his raven curls and feels the slide of the platinum ring that his been his honor to wear these twenty-four hours. It will be his honor to wear both, the rest of his life. He fists and flexes his fingers in awe of the ring’s existence. A story of two lives that blend into one, he knows people will speak of for eons – people do little else.
He sits up slowly, mentally chuckling at the soft cotton shirt twisted around his torso, still knotted at the waist, as he straightens it.
The only clothing left to the vagabond pirate after a night of ravishment by the rapscallions captain.
The captain whose blue eyes slowly open as he smiles. A left hand, whose ring finger bears a circle of platinum that matches his own reaches out for him as their lips meet.
It started with an annoyed sigh. A moment of here we go again(!) that will lead into being fraught with worry. He’s already had a glimpse of this frustration with others in his family and knew the shape of things to come.
It could not be avoided, still he chaffed against it.
He first discovered it might be an issue when he could barely discern the gap that differentiated the characters he knows should be there. A gap he knows was there before today. His breath caught in the shift of self-awareness he was not happy about.
It wasn’t time for that yet. It couldn’t be.
Despite the low hanging lights, the bright lighting itself was not enough for him to read the tiny print on the restaurant menu thrust in front of him.
He glared at his girlfriend’s amused smirk as she offered the pair she wore.
Try as he might, he could not avoid the truth anymore. Vanity be damned, he needed glasses.
I am amused, bemused By your rapier wit, And sharp tongue Where complements are calming And condemnations cutting You always keep me on en garde Whether I am Touched or touchéd You make your point With words That delight and damn My pen’s ink
Today at dVerse Dee, aka Whimsygizmo, asks us to takes our cues with muse in the form of a Quadrille, a poem of precisely 44 words, not including the title, and must include the prompt word MUSE.
Here I pay a slight homage to the two muse who fill my pen with prose and poem the most. Calliope and Melpomene.
Our host Dylan provides the first line, we get to write whatever comes afterward. Length, genre, and structure are completely up to us. We are feel free to modify the line as we see fit, adding punctuation, quotes, or other bits if so desired. Or for more of a challenge, change nothing.
The line for this week is: The horns of the hunt echoed across the snow.