Happy new year! After a short break for the holidays, the Monday Poetry Stretch is back and ready to take on another form.
The trimeric is a form that was invented by Dr. Charles A. Stone. Here's how he describes it.
Trimeric \tri-(meh)-rik\ n: a four stanza poem in which the first stanza has four lines and the last three stanzas have three lines each, with the first line of each repeating the respective line of the first stanza. The sequence of lines, then, is abcd, b - -, c - -, d - -.
At first I thought this would be relatively easy because the first lines of stanzas 2, 3 and 4 are already written (seeing as how they use lines 2, 3 and 4 of the first stanza). Boy, was I wrong! That first four line stanza is so important! The lines must hang together, but they must also be able to stand on their own as introductions to the other stanzas.
There are many examples on Dr. Stone's trimerics page. Here is one of my favorites.
UNSIGNEDby Dr. Charles A. Stone
I sent her a secret message on her birthday,though she thought it was an ordinary cardin an every day envelopefrom the innocent boy next door.
Though she thought it was an ordinary cardshe taped it to the wall with others she hadreceived in her eleventh year. Then,
in an every day envelope,she mailed a simple thank-you noteback to me, but she forgot to sign it.
From the innocent boy next doorto the man I am today, I’ll never forget how hardI cried because I had forgotten to add I love you.
Published with the author’s permission.
I hope you'll join me this week in writing a trimeric. Please share a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments.
Oh, the example poem hits me in my heart.
ReplyDeleteHoping to write an original piece later this week, but here's a reprise of my trimeric from last time this form came around:
ReplyDeleteHow to Play Bass Guitar
Grip with both hands and throttle its throat,
this obstinate and bell-bottomed bird
asleep in your lap, ostrich-brained:
there’s nothing here that’s musical.
This obstinate and bell-bottomed bird,
begin to stroke its fattest string
and hear it bare its baritone.
Asleep in your lap, ostrich-brained,
it thrums a slow and walking blues,
but don’t confuse your fingers yet.
There’s nothing here that’s musical.
Listen for the catch in its breathing
in other birds would pass for singing.
©2014 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
Oh my gosh--that is gorgeous! I have to write a sonnet and an ode this week for a teaching guide, but maybe I'll play with a trimeric, too, if time permits...Never heard of this form. Thanks!
ReplyDeleteI knew right away it would be hard to get lines that worked in multiple ways but it took me a while to realize it would also be hard to keep the poem moving forward. Thanks for the challenge! I was clearly inspired by the content as well as the form.
ReplyDeleteThe Best Day of Sixth Grade
One day after school
he was waiting for me.
Without saying a word
he handed me a candy and ran off.
He was waiting for me!
Nobody else
went home that way.
Without saying a word
I took it.
I knew peach jolly ranchers were his favorite.
He handed me a candy and ran off
leaving me
with a sweet memory.
© 2014 Elizabeth Steinglass, all rights reserved
I really like this form! It seems to lend itself to narrative. My first attempt ended up telling a sad story:
ReplyDeleteAs she lay feverish and dying upstairs,
downstairs he was renovating the kitchen cabinets.
Long ago she had wished this wish;
now he knew he was running out of time.
Downstairs he was renovating the kitchen cabinets
with new handles, spring-bright colors.
His memory as fresh as paint, he recalled that
long ago she had wished this wish,
and he had scoffed, probably rolled his eyes,
muttered about lack of money or time – yes, time.
Now he knew he was running out of time.
The robins in the garden tree were nesting,
And the egg-blue cabinets were just half-done.
~Elisabeth M. Priest, 2014
Such good stuff this week! I read about this online and wrote a poem…
ReplyDeleteWeather God
No one should leave the house right now—
the temperature is 30 below.
My brother’s outside making snow,
creating clouds like a weather god.
The temperature is 30 below.
If it weren’t, he would burn his face,
throwing boiling water into air.
My brother’s outside making snow,
shaping a miniature storm
while I’m inside where it’s warm.
Creating clouds like a weather god,
he smiles. Then bangs into the kitchen.
He leaves the pan on the table.
—Kate Coombs, 2014
all rights reserved
Liz and Kate, I enjoyed reading your poems of memories and weather gods. I can relate to both.
ReplyDeleteBeth: I read this one three times, as it's a fantastic use of the form and an intriguing, well-crafted narrative.
Steven
WARM FRONT
ReplyDeleteThe snow has finally melted.
The sidewalks are clear again.
My morning walk is free of danger:
confidence returns to my step.
The sidewalks are clear again,
although piles of grainy, dirty snow remain
where snowplows cleared parking lots.
My morning walk is free of danger,
is again a time of brisk strides
and introspection.
Confidence returns to my step
until my nose alerts me:
it's also warm enough to awaken skunks.
©Mary Lee Hahn, 2014
LUCKY 13
ReplyDeleteMom didn’t make it to my 13th year –
It’s not like she didn’t try.
“I can’t wait ‘til you’re a teenager!” She said.
I’m sorry it never came to pass.
It’s not like she didn’t try;
Writhing in pain, cancer’s a train
That leaves angels in its wake.
“I can’t wait ‘til you’re teenager!” She said.
That was her mantra, a daily affirmation
Of a mothers love.
I’m sorry it never came to pass,
I know you’re celebrating somewhere –
Forgive me if I don’t feel like doing the same.
(c) Charles Waters 2014 all rights reserved.