Tagged: The Ode Less Travelled

Exercise #12 (pages 200-201)

This exercise was to finish the ballad, the first two verses of which were provided.

Now gather round and let me tell
The tale of Danny Wise:
And how his sweet wife Annabelle
Did suck out both his eyes.

And if I tell the story true
And if I tell it clear
There’s not a mortal one of you
Won’t shriek in mortal fear.

Now Annabell and Danny had
Been married just a year
Life was good and nothing bad
Had made them shed a tear.

Until she large with child got
And had a terrible thirst,
And everything to drink she bought
Just only made it worse.

Her throat had never been so dry
A cure she could not seek
Then dripped a tear from Danny’s eye
As he kissed her on the cheek.

Each day, she drank them more and more –
Danny’s sweet, hot tears
The which he freely gave her for
His unborn child, so dear.

And when she gave to him a son,
Dan with joy was filled
And thought his cup was over-run,
Which ne’er before had spilled.

Alas, but it was not to be,
The tiny child died
And soon, poor Danny couldn’t see –
So much he wept and cried.

Annabelle, though broke with grief
Could not contain her thirst
And of his eyes became a thief –
She drank them ’til they burst.

Exercise #13 (page 208)

This exercise was to write a short dramatic monologue, a la Browning, about a stoned man trying to get out of a drug possession charge.

Yo dude, it’s like, these aren’t my pants, I swear
I don’t know how that bag of weed got there.
I heard this bang and thought that I’d been shot
And fell down flat; I guess my jeans got caught
Around my knees (but that’s beside the point).
Alright, this afternoon I smoked a joint.
And that, my honesty, should be enough
To prove I’ve never seen this other stuff.

Exercise #14 (page 229)

This exercise was to write a villanelle, six three-line stanzas where the first line of the first stanza is used as a refrain to end the second and fourth stanzas and the last line of the first stanza is repeated as the last line of the third, fifth and sixth.  In other words: verse 1: A1bA2, verse 2: abA1, verse 3: abA2, verse 4: abA1, verse 5: abA2, verse 6: abA1A2

Will my fragile heart be bold,
Take Love’s hand with joy, not fear,
Or growing older, grow more cold?

I’ll see the public all is polled.
I’ll find and ask the wisest seer
Will my fragile heart be bold?

Perhaps I’ll case my heart in gold
Which waterproofs against each tear,
But growing older, grows more cold.

Perhaps, forewarned, my heart is told
By me, in desperate act of mere
Will: my fragile heart, be bold.

Perhaps I’ll slip from Love’s large fold
With a heart that’s free and clear,
But growing older, grows more cold.

The answer can’t be bought and sold;
The question always looming near:
Will my fragile heart be bold,
Or growing older, grow more cold?

Exercise #15 (page 239)

This exercise was to write a sestina.  It’s too hard to describe, so here’s a link to the Wikipedia article.

Life’s a frantic flurry, a blur
Of soul and colour and sound.
If I close my eyes I find
There’s even more to hear
And there’s no way to silence
The constant chatter, clatter inside.

Even closed eyes create light inside –
Though I can ignore the bright blur
Under my lids, I only know silence
By the relentless, resuming sound
Of my thoughts, which say “Did you hear
Us cease just then?  We’re back now, you’ll find.”

Yet, at times, an eerie peace will find
Me and leave me hollow inside,
Loosen my connection to the here
And now, focus the blur
Into sharpness and the sound
Into a damp and muffled silence.

A cool and detached fog to silence
Extraneous thoughts, to seek and find
All my weaknesses and make them sound,
With coats of liquid steel inside
A human shell, to reduce the blur
Of time to “now” and the place to “here.”

In these times, it is no challenge to hear
The thud of my heart in the silence,
The sensations that once raced in a blur
Become stately in their passage, find
A majesty in deliberation, inside
Me – room to resound.

In such calm of mind, it is joy to sound
The depths of me, from here
And there to gather loose parts of me inside
A dark well of silence,
With a knowing smile for others to find
If they too can escape the merry-go-round blur.

In these moments, the sound and silence
Balance; I hear the call to find
A like balance inside me the world can’t blur.

Exercise #16 (page 260)

This exercise was to write a triolet for your true love (sweet without being sickly) and also a rondeau redouble on any topic.

Triolet
This poem’s for you, my love most dear,
Though I haven’t met you yet.
Don’t think me forward when I make it clear
This poem’s for you, my love most dear,
If we never meet I’ll have nothing to fear
For one thing you’ll never get:
This poem’s for you, my love most dear,
Though I haven’t met you yet.

Rondeau Redouble
I miss you now, as you have likely guessed,
But since you’re busy, you might not miss me.
It’s not a thing I’d thought to have confessed,
Since I am good at living life lonely.

We had so many times of fun and glee
And also quiet times to learn the best
There was of us, and that is why, you see,
I miss you now, as you have likely guessed.

I often worry that I am a pest,
And that my absence fits you to a t.
It’s true that missing you can make me stressed
But since you’re busy, you might not miss me.

Most people that I meet could never be
Close friends – their presence makes me feel oppressed.
I miss how much the two of us agree.
It’s not a thing I’d thought to have confessed.

My friends are few but I am not depressed,
I know I can depend on none but me.
Without you, I did not expect unrest
Since I am good at living life lonely.

I didn’t want to come across clingy.
I’m not the type who’s jealous or obsessed.
That’s why we always hung out casually
But this can’t keep on going unexpressed:
I miss you now.

Exercise #17 (page 273)

This exercise was to write a parody of a favourite poet and also a cento (poem made from fragments of other poems).

Parody of Ogden Nash
When I say I hate you, I don’t mean
just a bit.
I hate you like I hate reading a really
sad obit.
That listlessly lists all the loved ones
left behind the recently died
And makes you wonder why said newly
departed wasn’t saintified.
You should know that my feelings for you
are much stronger.
If you think this couldn’t be true
because surely nothing could be
more distasteful than reading re
random dead people, you couldn’t
be wronger.
The inspiration for this angsty
abhorrence might surprise you,
fatale most femme –
I hate reading obituaries because it
always annoys me to find that you’re
not the star of them.

Cento of Emily Brontë
The starry night shall tidings bring
That Time is treasuring up for me
Not a sign of further grieving
(Such thoughts were tyrants over me!)

Glad comforter! will I not brave,
That from which it sprung – Eternity.
Three thousand miles beyond the wave
We’ll rest us long and quietly.

Compiled from the following poems: “The starry night shall tidings bring,” “A.G.A. to A.S.,” “A death-scene,” “Faith and despondancy,” “Anticipation,” “Death,” “Written in Aspin Castle,” and “Start not upon the Minster wall.”

Exercise #18 (page 280)

This exercise was to write a haikus for each season, each including a kigo word (roughly, a reference to season, weather or atmosphere).

People seem to think
Spring is so fresh, bright and new.
All I see is mud.

That time of year when
Leisure outweighs the sweaty
Heat: it’s called summer.

The leaves flutter down,
Gracefully helpless in their
Seasonal descent.

Each home never so
Cozy as when the winter
Swirls coldly without.

Exercise #19 (pages 291-292)

This exercise was to write Petrarchan (abba-abba-cdccdc) and Shakespearean (abab-cdcd-efef-gg) Sonnets on Electoral Apathy.

Petrarchan Sonnet
The folks who love election day are few
They’ve little time to waste on candidates
And even less for all the running mates.
They’ve stuff to see and better things to do.
The TV shows that trap their eyes like glue
Are not the lengthy policy debates.
They’d rather whine and moan about “ingrates,”
Than research on and vote for someone new.
And yet, I am too hard (perhaps) on all
Who do not hear the ballot’s siren song,
Who view each promise made as just a tall
Tale – their hopes have lesser length to fall.
They care less when the leaders’ plans go wrong;
The dirty lies don’t fill their souls with gall.

Shakespearean Sonnet
They’d rather watch reality TV
And mindlessly invoke the party line,
Than learn about each candidate’s policies.
Their “research” is to read the roadside signs.
The responsibility they hold is great –
A right for which historic heroes died.
And yet, they’d rather leave to others their fate
Than give a hand and our great nation guide.
It pains me to admit I’m not above
This accusation, I too am apathetic
Too cynical to trust the promises of
The candidates, my choices are aesthetic.
And yet, perhaps, we’re wise to hate the game
Since every politician lies the same.

Exercise #20 (page 305)

This exercise was to write two pattern poems, one in the shape of a cross and another in the shape of a capital I.  Also, an acrostic verse spelling out your name.

This
icon
rich
with
deep symbolic meaning
is the plain wooden
board
upon
which
I pin
my sin.

Really, Fry?  It seems ridiculous
Of you to make me go to such a fuss.
Surely penning poems about my name
As such is just a narcissistic game,
Leaving others to suspect I find
In it more fun than yet has come to mind.
Not wishing folks to think me vain and dumb,
Denouncing it, I find the end has come.

Mirror, mirror on the wall
make me gracious dark and tall
life
long
mind
strong
eyes
bright
thoughts
right
make me charming rich and wise
And both my biceps a larger size.