(Poem #209 on new numbering scheme)
"Its time now, look, that starship waits," the alligator said. "Okay, let's travel to the stars." The monkey bent his head. The friends began their arduous trip; the parsecs zoomed right by. Their boredom grew unbearable, and one began to cry. "Oh, how can we survive so long? I wish this trip would end." The two of them, disconsolate... The reptile ate his friend.
– An absurdist space opera in three quatrains using ballad meter.
[daily log: walking, 7km]
(Poem #208 on new numbering scheme)
The ice, it dwells with arrogance in shadows, never more unknowable than when it melts, to form a tiny shore.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
(Poem #207 on new numbering scheme)
The other day they forecast snow, but then instead it rained. I don't dislike a rainy day, but snowless, I was drained.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
I have decided to continue to challenge myself, and therefore the next poetic form I will undertake is a more native (i.e. traditional) English poetic style, called the “Ballad meter.” These are alternations of 4 and 3 (mostly) iambic feet grouped in quatrains, with a rhyming scheme a b c b. Much famous poetry in English follows this pattern, such as Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Many well known songs and hymns also follow this meter (or, also, the very similar so-called “common meter” which differs only in having a “tighter” rhyming scheme a b a b), such as the songs “Amazing Grace” and “America the Beautiful,” as well as the theme song to “Gilligan’s Island.” I guess there is no specific name for a single quatrain of ballad meter verse, so I’ll just call them daily quatrains – or maybe sometimes I’ll try to make more.
I have never successfully done much poemifying in traditional English stress-timed meters – despite being a native speaker, the stress-timed patterns have always felt unintuitive to me, while I have been making more rewarding efforts at syllable-count-based poetry since middle school. I am much more comfortable with syllable-timed patterns such as predominate in e.g. Italian, Spanish, Japanese or Welsh. Hence my previous efforts at this “poem-a-day” blog have been on such forms as the nonnet (originally Italian) and englyn (originally Welsh), with occasional haiku back there, too.
(Poem #206 on new numbering scheme)
One hundred and one poems drawn from the sea's foamy rims thrust into imagined homes lost among time's felled columns.
– an englyn proest dalgron
My intention is that this is my last englyn. I’ll try to start something different for my daily short poems, soon.
(Poem #205 on new numbering scheme)
I got to heaven at last. Prices were high. The cars, fast. I looked around, aghast. Should I cry? Then I knelt down, downcast.
– an englyn unodl crwca
(Poem #204 on new numbering scheme)
"Why do you write in your mind, like some old bard?" asked my friend. "I'm preparing for the end of time, when the spaceships land."
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #203 on new numbering scheme)
Mostly I'm just drawing lines across a landscape of bones which rest beneath the dry rains of ash, covering my sins.
– an englyn proest dalgron
[daily log: walking, 1.5km]
(Poem #202 on new numbering scheme)
A series of explosions on philosophical moons changes orbits and begins to undo people's notions.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #201 on new numbering scheme)
My friend, who is my reader, celebrates his birth date. He's older. Some old snow lurks like litter, here and there, on the corner.
– an englyn unodl union.
(Poem #200 on new numbering scheme)
The octopus was alive. But then it began to have problems in the soup. It strove to remember... what is love?
– an englyn proest dalgron, referencing the Korean custom of eating raw octopus that’s still wiggling.
(Poem #199 on new numbering scheme)
I'm plummeting through life: down... Voices on all sides: a din... Days end; days begin: each dawn... Without purpose - but not done.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #198 on new numbering scheme)
On that first day, just one step starts the world's making. Top- down it goes, never to stop, quantum nodes placed on a map.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #197 on new numbering scheme)
Weirdos are chanting by threes, and dancing, Yelling at the pine trees. From the north there wails a breeze, So their madness starts to freeze.
– an englyn unodl union. This strikes me a more than a little bit Dylanesque – not that that’s an assertion of quality – it just has that feel to it.
(Poem #196 on new numbering scheme)
On the shelf I found a book. I pulled it down, took a look. But sadly, the words shook: no meaning; foaming gobbledygook.
– an englyn unodl crwca
[daily log: walking, 1km]
(Poem #195 on new numbering scheme)
She'd heard the teacher's call, so she tried. Her pride before her fall - Orange letters - not so small - she wrote her word on the wall.
– an englyn unodl union. This is about my student who said “no.”
(Poem #194 on new numbering scheme)
Laser-focused, I stumble through my apathy, tremble, wishing I were more nimble, each step a kind of gamble.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #193 on new numbering scheme)
The green gorillas will gasp and dance below clouds. A wisp of mist gropes the trees that grasp the hills. The cool air is crisp.
– an englyn proest dalgron. It may be surprising to hear that this is based on a fragment of a vivid dream I had 36 years ago, in 1981, while still in high school. I recorded it then in a journal I had. But this poem was written without consulting that journal – it’s just an image/story/vision that sticks with me. The full dream ended with nuclear holocaust – recall that I was in high school during the age of Reagan.
(Poem #192 on new numbering scheme)
On a long trip on a bus, from Temuco's rainy moss to Santiago's vast mess, I read a small, torn book. Thus, because of Neruda's songs there took root a vague longing. my inner poet grew wings. Although maybe I am wrong, since, in fact, I still long failed at becoming more controlled in habit, till I was told perhaps this blog could be filled.
– three englynion proest dalgron
(Poem #191 on new numbering scheme)
To let them languish, and use them for nothing? Thus I chose. See, the saddest spoons are those that sleep, unloved. Is it wise?
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #190 on new numbering scheme)
His oleaginousness causes me to start to miss the clarity of past gross crimes done in name of the cross.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #189 on new numbering scheme)
White, red, black, and pale: masses plunging among the grasses. Hooves pound. There are four horses. You see them? Now watch them join forces.
– an englyn unodl crwca
(Poem #188 on new numbering scheme)
The rampaging orange beast made his attacks hard and fast. Angry men used their dull host; false minds triumphed at last.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #187 on new numbering scheme)
That book about Malcolm X, which I liked so much, connects with a thing I read that talks about love, which our world lacks.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #186 on new numbering scheme)
We look for ways to resist entropy. We feel we must, or else we risk at last our own being being lost.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #185 on new numbering scheme)
Out between the apartments, the kids spread their footprints in the snow. At bat, he bunts; the ball rolls; he slips; she taunts.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #184 on new numbering scheme)
The topology of clouds conveys their unlikely needs. Likewise, the feel of the words in my mouth is changing moods.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #183 on new numbering scheme)
Like wet sand stuck in my mouth the days bunch together with broken rhythms and uncouth echoes like stones off a path.
– an englyn proest dalgron
[daily log: walking, 1km]
(Poem #182 on new numbering scheme)
She gazes out from the past, a queen or goddess, now lost. Can we know better than dust whether she maybe was missed?
– an englyn proest dalgron. This is about the Lady of Elche.
(Poem #181 on new numbering scheme)
I was finished with my brain. It began to slow its spin and spill out like a pale stain from my skull into my phone.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #180 on new numbering scheme)
It was the near last twilight of January. It let fragments of cold and gold float down, as if heaven forgot.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #179 on new numbering scheme)
Instead of snow, we got rain. The streets outside are now clean. The old snow's cleared and undone, Snowflakes reduced to a line.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #178 on new numbering scheme)
The alligator was mad 'cause the rainbow monkey said, "You're crazy and kinda bad!" So he bit him on the head.
– an englyn proest dalgron
(Poem #177 on new numbering scheme)
The cold crawled along the ground, creeping across without sound, grasping at fragments it found, unfurling, swirling slow, round and round.
– an englyn unodl crwca
