I'm writing sonnets right now and seem to be forever tapping out meter and stresses, so this week I've picked a form that requires some syllable counting. Rictameter is a nine line, unrhymed poetry form in which the 1st and last lines are the same. The syllable count is 2/4/6/8/10/8/6/4/2.
You can learn more about this form and read some examples at the group site Rictameter.
What kind of rictameter will you write? Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
Oh this looks like fun! The link is fabulous!
ReplyDeleteToday
ReplyDeleteI am trying
a brand new form of poem.
It is known as rictameter.
Who is it makes up these poetry forms?
Some clown with a post box in Maine?
Or was it just someone
who had a dream
Today?
c 2009 Jane Yolen
Perfect, Jane. I had the same thoughts, too. I think it's just some puzzle addict who likes to torture people.
ReplyDeleteHa! Jane's right. Nevertheless, here's my rictameter:
ReplyDeleteSnail
Gypsy
hauls his round brown
caravan behind one
smooth trotless horse up and down small
country roads. When he's gone, so is the green
laundry from the garden's clothesline.
Festooned in lettuce, he
rides on--bold-eyed
gypsy.
--Kate Coombs (Book Aunt), 2009
Ooh, love that snail festooned in lettuce!
ReplyDeleteI'm in a morbid mood today, I guess, since I'm 2/3 through a book about a fatal bear attack. So...
Bear Attack
Screaming.
Ripped nylon. Claws.
Brush crackles underneath
navy sky, moon as sole witness.
Light creeps through bare black branches to spotlight
burgundy shadows far below.
Sudden, dead air. Silence.
Night prays for more
screaming.
--Laura Purdie Salas, all rights reserved
Autumn
ReplyDeleteIs so cool. He
Showers us with vibrant
Colors. Our children race and jump
In the pile the size of a Volkswagen.
We sip cider while we watch the
Breeze scatter leaves on the
Yard yet again.
Tyrant.
---Kelly Polark,2009.
Love all your Rictameters. Here's my stab at one ~
ReplyDeleteMind fog
Creeps shamelessly
Blurs judgment inside brain
Key decisions lost in its midst
Bleary vacillations picking up speed
Yearning for sun to blaze away
Thick overhanging clouds
Obscuring view
Mind fog
© Carol Weis, all rights reserved
I found this form frightfully difficult, more relentless, perhaps, than haiku. I have dozens of rejects. Interestingly, nearly all of them ended up as miniature, somewhat elliptical narratives -- teasers for a real story. Here is the one I hate the least:
ReplyDeleteWalking
Over the hill,
Past the long-necked horses,
Thumping the fence with a fat stick
Just for the wooden sound of it,
I wade into the grass
To hush my feet
Walking
I wrote a silly one first, but a conversation with my neighbor, a vet, sparked this more serious tone:
ReplyDeleteYour boots
and medals shine
like brass instruments that
announce the sacrifice you made
for him, and her, and them, and us, and me.
Do the sounds of battle still ring
in your ears and do you
long for quiet
and peace?
Andy
allegore, I loved your poem; what a beautiful Veteran's Day tribute!
ReplyDeleteI tried my hand at paring down my gifted lecture for preservice teachers into a rictameter. Here is the result:
Gifted
This word is not
elitist. These kids are
different, outliers on the curve.
They deserve love, support, and challenges.
We need to appreciate them
and help them learn to be
happy being
gifted.
I am having fun reading others' rictameters!
Easter
Harriet, I think that's so nice - and it is a teaser for a story. Love the detail of the long-necked horses, love that wooden stick.
ReplyDeleteOkay - I'm going to give this a try. Will post soon.
Late Night Thoughts
ReplyDeleteWhy not
howl at the moon?
Soon, it will be sun-up -
who knows what happens after that?
This might be it, your one wolf-throated chance.
You know, the sun never rises
at night - what kind of friend
is that? Howl now!
Why not?
This is about our newest addition!
ReplyDeleteA cat
comes to a door
looking for food and drink.
He finds this. And he finds children
kissing him before they even name him.
Small hands remind him how to purr.
Soft laughter fills the porch.
This home needed
a cat.
I couldn't resist adding another, this time with matching first and last lines.
ReplyDeleteHarvest
moon is slouching
lazily in the sky.
Her belly is too full to rise
just yet, so she lounges right above the
horizon, peers over the broad
shoulders of farm workers,
and inspects the
harvest.
Andy
Here's my rictameter, a belated Veterans Day observance, my Poetry Friday post, two book reviews (one's even a novel in verse) and a handful of coincidences:
ReplyDeletehttp://readingyear.blogspot.com/2009/11/poetry-friday-veterans-day-coincidence.html