Monday, February 09, 2015

Monday Poetry Stretch - Raccontino

I'm still working through the forms in Spinning Through the Universe: A Novel in Poems from Room 214 by Helen Frost. This week I thought we'd try the raccontino. Here are the requirements of the form.
  • composed of couplets (any number)
  • even number lines share the same end rhyme
  • the title and last words of the odd numbered lines tell a story
Here's an example from Poetluck.
Raccontino 

When we create poetry
our hands translate our hearts.

Our passions spill, poem leaps
to the page in mini-parts 

Words start at top, dribbling down
like bullets penetrating ramparts

Muses guide descent to page
poetry one of the succinct arts.

Until a form becomes a poem into
which our insight imparts.

We follow prompting of the heart
until our trajectory departs.
I hope you'll join me this week in writing a raccontino. Please share a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments.

5 comments:

  1. Oops. Missed doing the same end rhyme throughout, but here it is just the same.

    Desk

    Does my desk wonder where
    the high forest has gone?

    Does it know that now it is
    a set of rectangles, that I put on

    its back a computer, not changing sky,
    that it’s a smooth surface for a pen?

    A paper, lamp, a book, not rain—
    well, a cup of water now and then.

    And words, not birds, not earth.
    Nothing to fly across it with feathers,

    only memories of morning sun,
    lost wisps of wind and weather.

    —Kate Coombs, 2015
    all rights reserved

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Very nice. especially loved A paper, lamp, a book, not rain—
      well, a cup of water now and then.

      And words, not birds, not earth.
      Nothing to fly across it with feathers

      Thanks!

      Delete
  2. I love that, Kate, and for some reason especially the line "Nothing to fly across it with feathers".

    This was hard! Here's mine:

    Raccoontino


    morning arrives masked
    in mist. sunk in the land,

    bluish pond ringed
    by shagged cedars and

    berry bushes. stout
    with winter fur, grand,

    silvered, he stands with
    rear feet into sand,

    dips and rinses his
    catch—understand,

    not to wash it three, four, five
    times, but to demand

    more feel in those fingered
    forepaws. claws fanned,

    he scoops with both hands,
    more human than planned.

    --Heidi Mordhorst 2015
    all rights reserved

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Wonderful. So full of anticipation for the unfolding of the idea.

      Delete
  3. Thanks, Heidi. And wow--the coolest title in the world PLUS you got that rhyme throughout! Love your raccoon dude. :)

    ReplyDelete