The rime couée is a French poetic form, written as an number of sestets. The poem begins with an eight syllable rhyming couplet, followed by a six syllable line, another eight syllable rhyming couplet, and a final six syllable line. Some list the rhyme scheme as aabaab, ccdccd, etc. Others suggest the rhyme scheme is aabccb, ddeffe etc. Choose the one that works for you!
You can read more about this form at Poetry Magnum Opus and The Poets Garret.
So, there's your challenge for the week. I hope you'll join me in writing a rime couée. Please share a link to your poem or the poem itself in the comments.
Wow--this one is interesting to try.
ReplyDeleteThis Week’s Blows
A short, shocked pain is not dismissed.
It hits me like a tight closed fist
Along the righteous side.
Yesterday, a friend was buried.
My funeral is not hurried.
Then David Bowie died.
Lazarus rose from the deceased.
Death is not living, but released,
An arrow from the bow.
The scarring of a dying soul,
A diamond made from human coal,
Feel the pain--let it go.
©2016 Jane Yolen all rights reserved
I especially like your last two lines, Jane. I was doing research for my YA WIP and wound up with this:
ReplyDeleteWatching Tours of Tattoo Studios on YouTube
Tattoos and skulls go hand in hand,
or bone in bone. Tattoos demand
a certain solemn kind of grin,
a twist of fate, a dash of hex,
a slash of knife, a curve of sex,
all crawling on the wall of skin.
A rosebush grows in gray and black,
an octopus clings to a back,
a pin-up rides a shoulder blade.
The bearded boy makes inky art,
engraving Virgin Mary’s heart,
a sacrament of light and shade.
Now carry dreams like pagan charms
upon your neck and chest and arms,
but suns burn out and druids drown,
and fairy tales find different ends
and biker boys find different friends,
and skulls can close their eyes and frown.
—Kate Coombs, 2016
all rights reserved
Ha. Totally forgot to count the syllables! Will think about it...
DeleteOkay, fixed it. Kind of fast, but yeah!
DeleteWatching Tours of Tattoo Studios on YouTube
Tattoos and skulls go hand in hand,
or bone in bone. Tattoos demand
a solemn kind of grin,
a twist of fate, a dash of hex,
a slash of knife, a curve of sex,
crawling on walls of skin.
A rosebush grows in gray and black,
an octopus clings to a back,
pin-up rides shoulder blade.
The bearded boy makes inky art,
engraving Virgin Mary’s heart,
a prayer of light and shade.
Now carry dreams like pagan charms
upon your neck and chest and arms,
but suns die, druids drown,
and fairy tales find different ends
and biker boys find different friends—
skulls close their eyes and frown.
—Kate Coombs, 2016
all rights reserved
Crawling on the wall of skin. . . .YES!!!!
Delete