Poetry Exercies: Heroic Verse

Here I am, sleepy headed on late Sunday morning after having had wine and barbequed feast the night before. However, I'm determined to try and keep up some semblence of pace on this poetry writing.

So here is the next exercise Stephen Fry set. The instructions were to write in heroic verse ie iambic pentameter rhymed couplets. A contemporary monologue of a guy stoned off his head and trying to explain away a packet of cannabis found in his possession.

Trying to write this while being sleepy and tired gives me some sense of what it must be like to try and string logical thoughts together while in a semi-stupor.

To all you non-Singaporeans/Malaysians out there, this is written in Singlish: the bastardised version of English as she is spoke in my beloved country.

Explaining Away A Packet of Cannabis:
Aiyah! sir ah, this one how can mine one?
I *tole* you al-rea-ddy someone put it in for fun
Like joke like that - into my bag. I know
I know: you don't believe, ah, but it's so.
So suay. My friend, he run away. Lagi
Now worse for me. Aiyah, you search prop'ly
Neh mind neh mind. U don't believe? Is true
You say it's what? kah-na-bis? I no clue
This word I say also cannot. Ear-lier
When he give me, he say curry powder!


Needless to say i'm sure the cops didn't believe his story.

Suay: unlucky

Poetry Exercise: the Ballad

I do not like writing ballads. It's a bit like liking country and western music. Maybe I can like a tune or two and it is catchy to hum or sing along. But writing it is a different story. I find it really hard to be that exaggerated with my emotions or that sentimental. However in the name of doing Stephen Fry's exercise poetry exercise number 12, I did at least write a couple of stanzas so I can say I did it.

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

Sweet Annabelle and Dany Wise
Did love each other so
But late one night he heard some cries
And ran to her too slow

By then the vampire bit her neck
And though he chased it far away
His wife was white and sick
Next moon, she turned. And well, the rest is history

Poetry Exercise: Ottava Rima

Here's the next self-referential open form poem. One of the poetry exercises set by Stephen Fry.

The ottava rima as its name suggests
Was borrowed from Italian epic form
Too use in jest as with Lord Byron's epics
Best: Don Juan - the romantic satire long.
Later though, its mocking roots it left
And so his "Among School Children" was born
WB Yeats' philosophical anguish at ending years
End in perfect square of words that sear.

The rhyme scheme is abababcc. For those of you who saw the earlier draft, please erase the thought. I made horrendous mistakes in that rhyme scheme. As you can see I'm getting a bit too careless!

Poetry Exercise: Rhyme Royal

This classic English poem from old
Has iamb feet in pentameter lines
From Chaucer's time till present day it's mould
Not changed. But now its language modern is fine.
To not update it would be a shame, a crime.
With refurbished words, a new lease of life is given
The form can live again in modern times.

Poetry Exercise: Rubai

The exercise 11 in Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled has me writing several self referential forms. This one covers the Rubai which is an open form (ie can go on ad infinitum).

The Rubai:

This form was used in Persia long ago.
Omar Khayyam's moving finger writ it so.
His jug of wine to fuel his thoughts
And loaf of bread to help his poetry flow.

It's only rule is to rhyme lines one, two and four
In four line stanzas, no more.
Ignore line three: its rhyme matters not.
And there you go: a rubai from from yore.

Poetry Exercise: The Quatrain

At long last, I got down to writing again. To those of you about to chide me for my tardiness, I will say in my defence I did write an earlier one but as it was upon my lunchtime in the office and I had wanted to consult Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled, I had left two lines left unwritten. And then promptly lost the poem between the office and home.

So anyway, to cut a long story short, here's the quatrain, freshly written in my living room and I'm rapidly committing it to blogger before my laptop finally carries out its recent threats to die entirely.

The exercise was to write a self-referential poem describing the essential structure of a quatrain.

The Quatrain

The quatrain is what is all to us
A poem quintessential true.
Or so we think: it's just no fuss.
Can be strong, can be fun or blue.

The mood may vary, but same stays
The rhyme: abab, cdcd
Efef and so it goes
All emotion fits four lines, this story.