Wednesday, June 08, 2011

Everybody Hates a Rhyming Poem

[especially a rhyming love poem]

Iceland ~ Ragnar Axelsson

He sang her down the night tattoo
She said he taste like paper glue
Danced tonight the obligatory mambo
Two they went where only one go
They kissed the sky’s bright spat display
Swam the road to Mandalay
And when the night up-lit the trees
They rose through light in slow degrees
To touch the wind upon the brow
To drink the night in the here and now
To go beyond the morning news
That lines them up like polished shoes
To go beyond the shallow flake
That fakes the day with wedding cake
To see behind these blinking eyes
To blow the night in a feast of sighs

7 comments:

Letitia Coyne said...

That beautiful image makes me cold! Colder, I should say.

I love rhyming poems. Usually old bush ballads. I hope this copies, below is an example of what I love.

And yours is lovely, also. I enjoy blowing the night in a feast of sighs on a cold night, too.
Lxx

AB 'Banjo' Patterson.

So he went. They found the horses by the big mimosa clump.
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them --- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side".

Baino said...

Don't mind a rhyme now and then . . . but mine are usually far sillier.

designing wally said...

Oh!
Love is like a flower,
lovely like June's rose...
Yes.
Love is like a flower,
with a bee sequestered to sting your nose.

Indifferent about a rhyming poem....

xoxox

Tom said...

ack. you are not Keats reincarnated.

Pisces Iscariot said...

Letitia: thanks for the bush ballad; you are now the recipient of the longest comment award :)

Baino: ...and you think this isn't silly?

dw: bitter [sweet]

Tom: I'm not anybody reincarnated

Confessions of a Temporal Lobe said...

This reminds me of old black and white movies.

Jane Russell could have rocked these words-o-yorn.

Harlequin said...

the shoes and news was lovely.. and the last line....sublime.
what a delightful poem.