A bit of alliteration.
+4
jean pat
Wytchie
RichardG
RichardK
8 posters
Page 1 of 1
A bit of alliteration.
Crossing the channel
Engine fumes fly from the funnel,
diesels drum from down below,
winches whine to wind in wires.
The siren sounds, the ship set free.
Leaving the lee of safe harbour,
through the heads, across the bar.
Ensign snaps in the breeze,
we feel the swell, flex the knees.
Faster now the engines thrum,
propeller thrashes, bulkheads hum.
Spume is flying, seagulls crying,
MS Wild Rover leaving Dover.
Changing course, away from land,
windward white cliffs on the port hand.
Steering South, wind waves in the hair.
Was the sea, now la mer.
Engine fumes fly from the funnel,
diesels drum from down below,
winches whine to wind in wires.
The siren sounds, the ship set free.
Leaving the lee of safe harbour,
through the heads, across the bar.
Ensign snaps in the breeze,
we feel the swell, flex the knees.
Faster now the engines thrum,
propeller thrashes, bulkheads hum.
Spume is flying, seagulls crying,
MS Wild Rover leaving Dover.
Changing course, away from land,
windward white cliffs on the port hand.
Steering South, wind waves in the hair.
Was the sea, now la mer.
Re: A bit of alliteration.
Really enjoyed this richard, could taste the salty tang of the air. I liked the way the alliteration and rhymes seemed natural and unforced, it's all too easy to jam a square rhyme into a round hole. The alliteration thing reminded me of one that I wrote a while ago as an excercise i think on A215.
Ale Iterations
Best is the best?
Bitter is better.
Lager's for louts and water's no wetter
Thrill me with Theakston
Pour pure pedigree
forget fosters and xxxx
it's marstons for me
Here's to the brewers
the malty magicians
healing heartache with hops
like fermenting physicians
Hand pulled perfection
with a cool creamy head
serves up more satifaction
than bouncing in bed
So come on with courage,
bring on the bass
because bitter is better by far
than a lass.
Ale Iterations
Best is the best?
Bitter is better.
Lager's for louts and water's no wetter
Thrill me with Theakston
Pour pure pedigree
forget fosters and xxxx
it's marstons for me
Here's to the brewers
the malty magicians
healing heartache with hops
like fermenting physicians
Hand pulled perfection
with a cool creamy head
serves up more satifaction
than bouncing in bed
So come on with courage,
bring on the bass
because bitter is better by far
than a lass.
Re: A bit of alliteration.
I like that combination - beer and poetry.
I think we both did the same alliteration exercise Richard.
Perhaps we could have a poetry challenge here? Anyone up for it?
I think we both did the same alliteration exercise Richard.
Perhaps we could have a poetry challenge here? Anyone up for it?
Re: A bit of alliteration.
I found alliterative really, really hard Do have a half-done fairly shockingly awful poem, but then caved in and went for free form for the TMA teehee...
Love both of those thanks for sharing
Love both of those thanks for sharing
Re: A bit of alliteration.
I stuck with free verse for the Tma aswell. couldn't get my head round all the vilanelles and sestinas etc. Richard and Mike G are the ones to speak to about form.
sonnets for ever!
Hi, and I enjoyed the alliteration poems very much - as has been said, they work without being contrived, and have real feeling about them. But - I loved the villanelles and sonnets and pantoums, although forget the sestina, which is more like a mathematical exercise. Too busy with TMA05 now, but will try to post something on classic lines at a later date; could be after May 16th...
jean pat- Posts : 2
Join date : 2013-03-26
Re: A bit of alliteration.
Hi jean pat
Welcome to a poet - there don't seem to be many about.
I have had a go at sonnets and pantouns but I do find villanelles and sestinas too difficult and a little too contrived.
Is this the sort of sonnet you like?
Ambrosia
Shall I compare thee to a can of rice
Round of body but top and base conflate:
Financial storms inflate the bogof price,
Anne Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hard the might of Tesco strike,
And oft his gold ramps up the price
as every fair trade cost from far oft places spike:
By chance or corporate plans change to gneiss
But thy internal dessert shall not decay,
Nor lose possession of that fair trade thou must;
Nor shall Death erode and change day to day
When time advances, to sell by or change to rust
So long as men can breathe, or palate can taste
So long lives this, not set to fall to waste
Welcome to a poet - there don't seem to be many about.
I have had a go at sonnets and pantouns but I do find villanelles and sestinas too difficult and a little too contrived.
Is this the sort of sonnet you like?
Ambrosia
Shall I compare thee to a can of rice
Round of body but top and base conflate:
Financial storms inflate the bogof price,
Anne Summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hard the might of Tesco strike,
And oft his gold ramps up the price
as every fair trade cost from far oft places spike:
By chance or corporate plans change to gneiss
But thy internal dessert shall not decay,
Nor lose possession of that fair trade thou must;
Nor shall Death erode and change day to day
When time advances, to sell by or change to rust
So long as men can breathe, or palate can taste
So long lives this, not set to fall to waste
A bridal path lament - a sonnet pair
Him:
When I saw you, framed by the window seat,
shimmering, sun kissed, soft silky short hair,
I felt love’s fire, an intense burning heat,
warm my heart, and your beauty fix my stare.
Lost in that moment, without map, unplanned,
your smile led me onto the path you laid.
We marry, and blessed with child, take our stand,
together strong, in the bond we have made.
Villanous death stole a link from our chain,
abducted you to a celestial realm,
to leave me bereft, alone, to remain
retracing our steps through poplar and elm,
searching the Earth for a memory to share,
like the time the sun first shone in your hair.
--
Her:
--
What shall I do with this boy that I love?
He stares, open mouthed, with nothing to say.
Women must give love a push and a shove,
if youth is red-faced and won't seize the day.
I smile at his glances, guide all his moves,
foolishly fumble in primal embrace,
till a whisper of love, deepens my groove,
closer the future as two we will face.
But body betrays me, won't let me stay
to nurture our child and wrinkle my skin,
or watch you grow old and gently turn grey.
I reach for you as our journeys begin,
and leave with that smile, to heaven above,
to love from there, with a push and a shove.
When I saw you, framed by the window seat,
shimmering, sun kissed, soft silky short hair,
I felt love’s fire, an intense burning heat,
warm my heart, and your beauty fix my stare.
Lost in that moment, without map, unplanned,
your smile led me onto the path you laid.
We marry, and blessed with child, take our stand,
together strong, in the bond we have made.
Villanous death stole a link from our chain,
abducted you to a celestial realm,
to leave me bereft, alone, to remain
retracing our steps through poplar and elm,
searching the Earth for a memory to share,
like the time the sun first shone in your hair.
--
Her:
--
What shall I do with this boy that I love?
He stares, open mouthed, with nothing to say.
Women must give love a push and a shove,
if youth is red-faced and won't seize the day.
I smile at his glances, guide all his moves,
foolishly fumble in primal embrace,
till a whisper of love, deepens my groove,
closer the future as two we will face.
But body betrays me, won't let me stay
to nurture our child and wrinkle my skin,
or watch you grow old and gently turn grey.
I reach for you as our journeys begin,
and leave with that smile, to heaven above,
to love from there, with a push and a shove.
mark.oconnor- Posts : 12
Join date : 2013-03-23
Age : 62
Location : Bristol UK
Re: A bit of alliteration.
By the way Richard - loved the poem - It contains my favourite word - Spume
mark.oconnor- Posts : 12
Join date : 2013-03-23
Age : 62
Location : Bristol UK
Re: A bit of alliteration.
Hi Mark
I have to say that I am really impressed - and made envious - by your sonnet pair. I think these are excellent. I like the matching story in each and the symmetry in each, 'sun in hair' and 'push and shove'.
I think this is how poetry should be, a wonderful story that you can come back to and enjoy many times.
I think, as Neil Gaiman would say ' You have made good art!'
Thank you.
Richard K
I have to say that I am really impressed - and made envious - by your sonnet pair. I think these are excellent. I like the matching story in each and the symmetry in each, 'sun in hair' and 'push and shove'.
I think this is how poetry should be, a wonderful story that you can come back to and enjoy many times.
I think, as Neil Gaiman would say ' You have made good art!'
Thank you.
Richard K
Re: A bit of alliteration.
Ahhh Thanks Richard
Here's a sestina from the grown up son's point of view looking back at the ill fated lovers - I know what you mean about the sestina form being contrived - trying to keep those 6 end words fresh and invisible is a challenge - I love villanelles though and feel they are more intrinsically poetical
In memoriam of times past – A son’s sestina
---------------------------------------------------
My dead father rests in cliched peace
that in single life, escaped him, most of the time.
Ashes now, but I imagine his sleep
to be good, like a man found not guilty in a trial.
He left me a large aspidistra pot,
stuffed full of poems, on each an avian mark.
Chipped, it also bears scratches and a mark
I recall from youth, five letters spelling peace,
initials too, (Peter and Olivia Thompson), ‘Peace POT.’
Two poor writers, with little sense of time,
artists of their present, but blind to future’s trial,
where one endures, the other silenced in sleep.
After mother died, I watched Father in his sleep,
gaunt, tear streaked face, and sensed the mark
of Caine upon his soul. On trial,
not knowing if he would find a peace,
his flesh in limbo, stuck for all time,
slow braised in hellish casserole pot.
Words, like fragile shoots from a flower pot,
grew slowly, and brought comfort to his sleep.
Pantoums, sestinas and sonnets beat time,
conducted by his pen to indelibly mark
each poem with a white dove, of peace,
an avian army of advocates that argued at his trial
and won. I know now why each poem and all the trial
attempts, he threw into that pot,
as if he knew would grow a protective kind of peace,
that prepared me for the nightmares of my sleep.
Writer warrior, his sword but a pen, to make his mark,
and create a memory of her time.
With each precious poem I read, over time,
I feel closer to one I never could trial,
a mother, whose breast my milk teeth couldn’t mark,
who now, in poetry preserved, would never go to pot.
How I relish those times, whilst in my sleep,
he wrote of Mother's strokes throughout my slumbered peace.
When my time has come for blissful peace,
and I begin my trial of eternal sleep,
don't grieve, just mark me, please, with a poem in your pot.
Here's a sestina from the grown up son's point of view looking back at the ill fated lovers - I know what you mean about the sestina form being contrived - trying to keep those 6 end words fresh and invisible is a challenge - I love villanelles though and feel they are more intrinsically poetical
In memoriam of times past – A son’s sestina
---------------------------------------------------
My dead father rests in cliched peace
that in single life, escaped him, most of the time.
Ashes now, but I imagine his sleep
to be good, like a man found not guilty in a trial.
He left me a large aspidistra pot,
stuffed full of poems, on each an avian mark.
Chipped, it also bears scratches and a mark
I recall from youth, five letters spelling peace,
initials too, (Peter and Olivia Thompson), ‘Peace POT.’
Two poor writers, with little sense of time,
artists of their present, but blind to future’s trial,
where one endures, the other silenced in sleep.
After mother died, I watched Father in his sleep,
gaunt, tear streaked face, and sensed the mark
of Caine upon his soul. On trial,
not knowing if he would find a peace,
his flesh in limbo, stuck for all time,
slow braised in hellish casserole pot.
Words, like fragile shoots from a flower pot,
grew slowly, and brought comfort to his sleep.
Pantoums, sestinas and sonnets beat time,
conducted by his pen to indelibly mark
each poem with a white dove, of peace,
an avian army of advocates that argued at his trial
and won. I know now why each poem and all the trial
attempts, he threw into that pot,
as if he knew would grow a protective kind of peace,
that prepared me for the nightmares of my sleep.
Writer warrior, his sword but a pen, to make his mark,
and create a memory of her time.
With each precious poem I read, over time,
I feel closer to one I never could trial,
a mother, whose breast my milk teeth couldn’t mark,
who now, in poetry preserved, would never go to pot.
How I relish those times, whilst in my sleep,
he wrote of Mother's strokes throughout my slumbered peace.
When my time has come for blissful peace,
and I begin my trial of eternal sleep,
don't grieve, just mark me, please, with a poem in your pot.
mark.oconnor- Posts : 12
Join date : 2013-03-23
Age : 62
Location : Bristol UK
Re: A bit of alliteration.
Hi Mark (et al)
I am loving the poetry on this forum. Mark, I loved your sestina and wrote two for my last TMA but am currently working on two villanelles or is it just two villanelle (always have a debate about collective nouns!) and two sonnets for EMA so my concentration is somewhat in that direction. Will pop my head round the forum door and if I get any inspiration will post here, although I do get a bit of the collywobbles when I read the great poetry on here.
I am loving the poetry on this forum. Mark, I loved your sestina and wrote two for my last TMA but am currently working on two villanelles or is it just two villanelle (always have a debate about collective nouns!) and two sonnets for EMA so my concentration is somewhat in that direction. Will pop my head round the forum door and if I get any inspiration will post here, although I do get a bit of the collywobbles when I read the great poetry on here.
Midgie- Posts : 23
Join date : 2013-03-25
Re: A bit of alliteration.
I'm that impressed with the poetry on this thread that I've lost the words to describe it.
Such a range; from beer to death via alliteration and pudding! I am truly envious of your word-smithery. I can only hope that I could write something equal to this.
This has made it clear though that you are all much more experienced writers than I; but also that I can now see first hand a benchmark to aim for.
Keep writing, and I will keep reading!
Such a range; from beer to death via alliteration and pudding! I am truly envious of your word-smithery. I can only hope that I could write something equal to this.
This has made it clear though that you are all much more experienced writers than I; but also that I can now see first hand a benchmark to aim for.
Keep writing, and I will keep reading!
Re: A bit of alliteration.
Thank you for kind comments - and don't get collywobbles - here's a quote - 'you can't be a writer without a reader' - dive in, what's the worst that can happen?
Here is a short pantoum, about the widower again, as the years pass by ...
The waiting of the widower - A Pantoum
------------------------------------
To wait for her, and feel the cold
wet wind, whipped by winter storm,
pains the man, now grown so old.
Inside, for her, his heart stayed warm
Wet wind, whipped by winter storm,
fades now, to hope of sunny Spring.
Inside for her his heart stayed warm,
young, denied their promised everything.
Fades now any hope of sunny Spring,
wrought early from love's throng,
young denied their promised everything,
from dawn to early evensong.
From dawn to early evensong,
pains the man, now grown so old,
who thinks, can it be so very wrong
to wait for her and feel the cold?
Here is a short pantoum, about the widower again, as the years pass by ...
The waiting of the widower - A Pantoum
------------------------------------
To wait for her, and feel the cold
wet wind, whipped by winter storm,
pains the man, now grown so old.
Inside, for her, his heart stayed warm
Wet wind, whipped by winter storm,
fades now, to hope of sunny Spring.
Inside for her his heart stayed warm,
young, denied their promised everything.
Fades now any hope of sunny Spring,
wrought early from love's throng,
young denied their promised everything,
from dawn to early evensong.
From dawn to early evensong,
pains the man, now grown so old,
who thinks, can it be so very wrong
to wait for her and feel the cold?
mark.oconnor- Posts : 12
Join date : 2013-03-23
Age : 62
Location : Bristol UK
Re: A bit of alliteration.
I love the look, sound, smell of the Pantoum (auto-correct had that as Pantone, ha ha) but have never yet indulged. One for the stacking 'to do' pile, I think. All very clever stuff here, but will post one of mine when I get a minute, to reassure newcomers that you don't have to be brilliant to post here - poetry not being my strong point, but an area I definitely want to work on.
BTW was told 'spume' is obscure vocab, by my A215 tutor and not to use such words!!! Strange when he lives in the same town as me, down by the sea. Thankfully, the lead lecturer on my MA is a poet and he celebrates such words. Bring them on, I say.
BTW was told 'spume' is obscure vocab, by my A215 tutor and not to use such words!!! Strange when he lives in the same town as me, down by the sea. Thankfully, the lead lecturer on my MA is a poet and he celebrates such words. Bring them on, I say.
AmandaGarrie- Moderator
- Posts : 31
Join date : 2013-01-29
Location : South Coast
Re: A bit of alliteration.
This villanelle was the final form in my little collection about the Widower and his son
Advice to a widower from his son - A villanelle
When old and alone forget Father Time,
there is no deity to hear your appeal,
he can’t take you back to visit your prime.
Bleak years leak by, and smear thickly grief’s grime,
blackens the trough of despair you feel.
When old and alone forget Father Time.
You’ve committed no wrong, blame-free of crime,
and though you pray for love’s luck to repeal,
he can’t take you back to visit your prime.
Memories form, an oasis sublime,
of your wife’s smile, but you know it’s unreal,
when old and alone forget Father Time.
Become a man with a new paradigm,
who, thin limbed, furrowed frown, somewhat genteel,
needs never go back to visit his prime.
You know now future’s a distant wind-chime,
tolling to tell us the fate God will deal.
When old and alone forget Father Time,
he can’t take you back to visit your prime.
Advice to a widower from his son - A villanelle
When old and alone forget Father Time,
there is no deity to hear your appeal,
he can’t take you back to visit your prime.
Bleak years leak by, and smear thickly grief’s grime,
blackens the trough of despair you feel.
When old and alone forget Father Time.
You’ve committed no wrong, blame-free of crime,
and though you pray for love’s luck to repeal,
he can’t take you back to visit your prime.
Memories form, an oasis sublime,
of your wife’s smile, but you know it’s unreal,
when old and alone forget Father Time.
Become a man with a new paradigm,
who, thin limbed, furrowed frown, somewhat genteel,
needs never go back to visit his prime.
You know now future’s a distant wind-chime,
tolling to tell us the fate God will deal.
When old and alone forget Father Time,
he can’t take you back to visit your prime.
mark.oconnor- Posts : 12
Join date : 2013-03-23
Age : 62
Location : Bristol UK
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