Caveat: Quatrain #15

(Poem #215 on new numbering scheme)

One foggy night I walked and met
The Land Surveyor, K.
He shared with me his boring hopes,
his bureaucratic day.

– a quatrain in ballad meter. A nod to Kafka, presumably, although the Ardisphere had a land surveyor, K, too.

Caveat: Quatrains #10-14

(Poem #214 on new numbering scheme)

I walk the streets to work each day
and there's a restaurant.
It uses wood to cook its food:
the smell - it tends to haunt.
Aromas paint the air with thoughts
and memories of youth;
the burning wood recalls to me
those camping trips: Duluth.
October in the northern woods
along Superior;
We drove and sang Bob Dylan songs
Or stopped there on the shore.
Eventually we'd find a camp,
where we could raise a tent.
We'd light a fire, or take a hike,
I guess it's time well spent.
So nowadays I miss my friends,
our lives each have their track,
but when I pass that eating place
the smells, they draw me back.

– five quatrains in ballad meter.

Caveat: Quatrain #7

(Poem #211 on new numbering scheme)

Pues iba caminando yo,
de paso raudo fui.
Me devoró la oscuridad.
Así permanecí.

This is a poem written in English ballad meter. It’s not so easy to write a poem in Spanish using this English metrical pattern. In particular, although Spanish possesses clear stressed and unstressed syllables, natural Spanish rhythms are strongly trochaic, so forcing it into an iambic line is quite awkward.

Caveat: Quatrains #3-5

(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]

Caveat: Quatrain #1

(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.
picture

Caveat: Englyn #101

(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.

Caveat: Englyn #98

(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]

Caveat: Englyn #95

(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.

Caveat: Englyn #92

(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.

Caveat: Englyn #91

(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]

Caveat: Englyn #88

(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.

Caveat: Englynion #85-#87

(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

Caveat: Englyn #82

(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

Back to Top