Never one for romances I was blinded to arrive Apart from old advances By time’s sweetest contrive
You chipped at the iciness That fear had given quarter Revealing warm spiciness Under this cold heart’s mortar
With twin hearts now emblazing Gave no choice but to sever The cold to the amazing This love so dear so clever
Day 2 of National Poetry Writing Month I bring you an Ae Freislighe poem
The Ae Freislighe (ay fresh-lee) is an old poetic form from Ireland. It has a quatrain stanzas (4-line stanzas) of only 7 syllables per line. What makes is interesting (and somewhat frustrating) is its rhyme scheme.
Lines 1 and 3 rhyme together, but they rhyme as three syllables (xxa) Lines 2 and 4 rhyme together as two syllables (xb)
A unique element of the form is that the final syllable of the poem should be the same rhyme as the very first syllable of the poem. (Yes, I cheated here – rhyming the word, not the syllable. It said should not must – shoot me.)
An Ae Freislighe poem can be as concise as one stanza, or scale out as far as a poet wishes.
I Do sense Here and now This first bright spark I shall not waste it
You Also Know the gods This moment touched You will not waste it
We Now one Deep feeling This sacredness We do not waste it
I kick off National Poetry Writing Month with an Arun, as I have done these past few years, in honor of the fiend (<– not a misspell), and creator of this poetic form – GirlGriot, who first got me into this yearly challenge.
An Arun is a fifteen-line poem in three sets of five lines. Each set of five lines follows the same syllable structure: starting with one syllable and increasing by one syllable with each line. 1/2/3/4/5 — 3x. There are no other rhyme or structural requirements.
The memory of it still lingers Like sticky nectar on our fingers Made the more so in summer’s heat From the vain attempts to sluice Our chins of honeyed peaches juice But in a moment replete Under the fading eye of Sol We heed the thrill to shun control The stolen kiss even more sweet
Today at dVerse the challenge from Kim (Kim881), is to write a poem about kissing, a special kiss that still haunts you, a peck, a snog, a kiss hello or a kiss goodbye. Whatever it is, try to capture the wordless intimacy of the act.
Faded ribbons holding memories Twirling the colors between my fingers
Indigo as the night you first touched me just so
Scarlet as the blood pulsing through my veins When I went from being your woman to being your wife Perhaps the white as the fresh made snowball in sunlight That I waited until I was inside the house to throw
Faded ribbons holding memories
Maybe the orange of the summer tiger lilies You didn’t think could I grow in our yard Oh, the lush green for the fresh-cut lawn I had to teach you how to mow
Twirling the colors between my fingers
Perhaps the rich deep brown of steak Well done as you loved, but I abhorred Then there’s the aqua as crystal clear As the waters of our Caribbean cruises
Or the slate of the morn I became your widow
Twirling the colors between my fingers Faded ribbons holding memories
This week Grace has us Meeting the Bar via mementos. Either as the poetry form itself or in a free style poetry with a theme of memento, using symbolism as a poetic device.
Today on Quadrille Monday, Dee (WhimsyGizmo), prompts us to go boldly and boldly go with a quadrille.
A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “bold” or a form thererod in your poem.
Yesterday on Quadrille Monday, Mish, got her sugar rush on at the bar and invited us to put a sweet spin to quadrille.
I also cheat a little in that my quadrille is also what I’ll call an Extended Arun. A nonce poem created by blogger GirlGriot, an Arun is a fifteen-line poem in three sets of five lines. Each set of five lines follows the same syllable structure: starting with one syllable and increasing by one syllable with each line. 1/2/3/4/5 — 3x. There are no other rhyme or structural requirements. Here I added an extra stanza to meet the 44 word Quadrille requirement.
Le petite mort, for those who may be unfamiliar with the term, literally translates to “the little death”. It is an expression in modern usage refers specifically to the sensation of post orgasmic afterglow that is as often likened to death.
Oh, if only I were as prolific in writing as Williams was in adlibbing!
Once again – glutton for punishment I am, I participated in this year’s National Novel Writing Month or simply NaNoWriMo as many, sometimes cringingly, call it. In layman’s terms I had write 50,000 words of my story/novel in 30 days.
Why 50k and calling it a novel? I’ll let the NaNoWriMo website explain it:
We’ve found that 50,000 words is a challenging but achievable goal for many people, even folks with full-time jobs and children. And, though on the shorter side, it’s definitely long enough to be considered a novel: 50,000 words is about the length of The Great Gatsby.
We define a novel as “a lengthy work of fiction.” Beyond that, we let you decide whether what you’re writing falls under the heading of “novel.” In short: If you believe you’re writing a novel, we believe you’re writing a novel, too.
Nanowrimo website
As a fan fiction writer I use it motivate me to go for those longer multi-chapter stories in the warren of plot bunnies running amok among the dust bunnies in my head. I am verbose – I know this. I have a fic out there that took over 277k words and eighteen months of my life to tell. So, I at least start the stories and complete them once NaNoWriMo is over.
I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo off and on for a few years now. I believe they chose November because here in the States, at least, Thanksgiving at the end of the month throws a huge wrench in the gears of obtaining that 50,000 words. When I first started there were a couple of years where I had not managed my time well and had fallen far short of the goal. Now I try to hustle at the beginning of the month, with a personal goal of reaching the 50k by the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Because I know from experience nothing is getting done that Wednesday thru Friday.
Notice I said try to. I was more than annoyed with myself this year to have only reached 42823 words on the morning of the 22nd. I knew there was no way I was typing over 7k words in a single day. Between preparing for, celebrating during, cleaning up after Thanksgiving my brain just had to accept the fact that not another word was going to be typed until Saturday morning the earliest. Yeah – between family staying the weekend, and I’ll be honest – alcohol, lots of alcohol, Saturday morning at the earliest became Sunday evening before I could write again. It took until last night, but I crossed the Rubicon with 53517 words and two days to spare!
No, this year’s so called novel “Rock Star” is not even close to complete. I estimate another 20k, but a chunk is done, and the was the goal. So now I get to breathe for a moment, pull out the big red editor pencil and go from there.
Let’s see how others are goal tending this Tuesday…
This is my confession it is my obsession I have a natural predilection to its addiction
Memories of my father and his ochre cup Attached to his side, breakfast, lunch and sup’
My oath to drink only one all my friends joke about I would offer my first-born rather than do without
An olden concoction for which we modernists still toil
To smell its aroma fills me with such frustration To see its liquid flow as I pour fills me with anticipation To taste its liquid heat is such a sensation To feel its burn down my throat fills me with elation To hear that last swallow fills me with such trepidation
For some it is more precious than diamonds, gold or oil
An obsession shared by many on this orb As sip after sip it is so greedily absorbed
I oscillate between the need the makes my heart burst And the joy of feeling the elixir oust my deep thirst
I’m like a kid with chewiest of toffee Nothing beats that first oomph of coffee
Yes, this is my coffee mug at work. Yes, my colleagues know not speak to me until my coffee reaches well under that bottom marker.
Today at dVerse Poetics our host and pub-tender paeansunplugged invites us to raise a glass and sip on some verbiage to that all quenches our thirsts. I chose the libation that gets many of us up, running and ready to face the world with less of a snarl in the mornings – well at least me.
Most people saw images. People, animals, objects and then they made stories about them.
Not Papa. Papa only saw words among the luminaries once the skies grew the dark.
She walks in the street of the sky, Night walks scattering poems, calligraphy in the stars.
That is what Papa told me when I was young.That above our heads are words among the stars.
Reams of poems of Night.
Shooting stars? Line breaks. Comets? An exclamation.
Pictures were for those too young to read. He taught me how to read them as well.
To read the sonnets, couplets, quatrains and meter that falls from Night’s fingers to the firmament she treads giving Luna teasing nudges to see who notices her offerings.
It is why when you ask me what in doing as I gaze into the diamond dotted indigo skies I answer, just reading.
Autumn leaves in warm earth tones vale upon the new mound of soil. The leaves appear demur on the soil adorned with fresh florals. She who has spent nearly three score with in life until a year ago, has now joined the he in afterlife. Most have begun to mill away, eager to start the slow shedding of bereavement that begins with the repast, but she lingers a spell.
I watch her eyes, both mournful and misty.
And I watch as she, a morbid Noah, mentally gathers the dates of the ancestral pairings interned. I know she sees in the family line none have gone more than two years without their hearts in life beside them. The dichotomy of such beauty in sadness. She fears it, yet, I see she embraces the seemingly inevitable as we finally leave.
Raivenne-lations 