Tag: iambic pentameter

Iambs To The Slaughter

It’s been a while since I’ve tried a sonnet;
Covid locked me down with just haiku.
The structure’s not a problem, but doggone it,
I worry that I might not make it through
One hundred forty pentametric iambs–
Fourteen lines, each rhymed as per the scheme–
Without some falling flat like sons of Priam’s
Slain by Greeks in some Aeneid meme,
Or at the very least without resorting
To such tortured similes as that
Until you only read ’cause there’s a sporting
Chance I’ll pull another from my hat
(Or darker orifice that I won’t name).
Iambs to the slaughter. Such a shame.

That’s Not Who Iamb

I’ll never say I told you so.
That’s not how I prefer to go
Through life, forever keeping score.
If we’re true friends, we’ve got much more
Important bonds. You think I’d sever
Those to prove to you I’m clever?
Crazy! Petty isn’t how
I roll, and you should know by now
That though I may be lazy, you
Can always count on me to do
The work required to ensure
That our friendship will endure.
No outside force, no matter how
Impressive has that power, now
Or in the future. (Though, of course,
Should you decide to bet a horse
Despite my fervent fight
Against…we’ll know who’s right.)

It’s Fun To Have Fun, But It’s Difficult Now

I used to reach the end of every day
And think, “I’ve no idea what to write.”
I’d spit some syllables and let them play
Until a verse congealed, then say good night.
And then last Tuesday happened. Silliness
Is suddenly more difficult to trap.
I swear, it’s not for lack of willingness.
I’d love to wield a slapstick on this crap!
But thanks to our new President-elect
An anapastic tetrametric verse
(Think Dr. Seuss) feels somehow incorrect;
With sonnets, every quatrain’s like a curse
And cursing’s what I’d really like to do.
I won’t, though, ’cause that’s too like you-know-who.

Spenserians Need Not Apply

Five to seven rhymes in fourteen lines
With two or three ideas and a “turn”
Or volta–which, you’ll be chagrined to learn,
Is placed at different points for different kinds–
With pentametric iambs down their spines:
Spot that, you’ve got a sonnet! Shakespeare’d spurn
The references to ABBA, and he’d churn
Out couplets on which Petrarch’d levy fines,
But both the English and Italians
Were faithful to their favored sonnet forms
To such extent that they begat namesakes
As recognizable as two old friends.
For centuries they both have weathered storms
Of taste and fashion. (All the rest are fakes.)

Anything But

A sonnet, right? Is that what you expect?
The Ides of March makes it a natural choice,
But I don’t want to write one. I reject
The impulse, though I recognize its voice:
Come on, it’s easy, you won’t have to work.
Pentameter comes naturally to you!
And iambs? Those are practically a perk!
To write a verse without them’s hard to do!
It doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind,
And when I put my (non-syllabic) foot
Down on a subject, rest assured, you’ll find
My foot remains exactly where it’s put!
I will not write a sonnet. Not tonight.
No more discussion.
So…what should I write?