SheFallsSoftly

Oh god. This is gonna suck. A Ya- Du is a Burmese form of poetry which consists of up to three stanzas of five lines. The first four lines of a stanza have four syllables each, but the fifth line can have 5, 7, 9 , or 11 syllables.

The form uses climbing rhyme. The rhyme is required on the fourth, third, and second syllables of both the first three lines and the last three lines.
e.g.:

—A
–A-
-A-B
–B-
-B—

My body’s numb.
Muscles dumb, hands
all thumb; no grace.
I may race to
Disgrace of my skin.

That sounds so stupid I’m not even going to do another stanza.

Waka is a type of Japanese poem that goes 5-7 5-7 5-7 5-7-7

 

"Well, I used to dance."

I say this maybe once a day.

"Yes, I used to dance."

Only four words hold such hurt.

What is this movement

Whose absence burns so deeply?

My body searches for

A rhythm, dances, shows me

Who I am… Shows that I am.

Villanelles are stupid hard. Look them up yourself.

In time you will see this is the way
That time will pass and death will catch
And light will fade away

There is order to the pendulum’s sway
That rocks slow, slower until stopped with a snatch
In time you will see this is the way.

For now, we may topple onto grass and lay
Look up at clouds and watch
And light will fade away

There is much time to then and we may
Knock longer at life’s door before checking the latch
In time you will see this is the way

It’s useless now to grieve and pray
We will cry, beg, scream, and scratch
And light will fade away

Go gentle toward the end of the day
Worry not about the fallen that you could not catch
In time you will see this is the way
And light will fade away.

I am such a lazy bitch. Tankas are 5-7-5-7-7 syllables.

So, let’s be honest
Love poetry is awful.
It’s always contrite,
Contrived, cliche, ugly, and
I want to write it about you.

So I fight the urges
To wax poetic, suppress
The sonnets and haiku.
I won’t write about your eyes
Like oceans, skin like coco.

Instead I write of
Politics, religion, things fit
For a girl as smart
As I am. In my head I
Compare you to summer rain.

Do you see what you’ve
Reduced me to? Metaphor
A child would call used.
I can’t discuss your skin, soft
Your breath, soft, all of you, soft.

I have no way to
Say these things I think of you.
I’m too smart to
Say what I think, too dumb to
Think something more beautiful.

Beautiful like you
When you arch your back, like you
When you look down at
Me, like you when you smile, touch
My face, kiss me soft, like you.

I can’t allow this.
I can’t let you twist my tongue
From cryptic/graceful
To obsessive/obvious
I’m better than this, I swear.

There’s only one way
To prove myself. Set down the
Pen, and live through your
Kiss. Poetry is living
Sweetly romantic like this.

Spoetry is poetry that is composed primarily of spam email messages. Done as a haiku <3.

Does your cell have juice? 

How much do you want in your

account? Be bigger.

Okay, so Rictameter is another syllable-counting-type-poem-thingy.
Line 1-2 syllables (same as line 9)
2-4
3-6
4-8
5-10
6-8
7-6
8-4
9-2 (same as line 1)

Beauty
Doesn’t know me,
Doesn’t show me a thing.
Beauty doesn’t listen, doesn’t care.
Beauty can be so mean. So can you, girl.
But the way you walk, it whispers low
The way i should follow
To behold your
Beauty.

Ack, a little bit late. I lose.

A quatrain is a four line poem, with any rhyme scheme. I’ll use ABAB.

Grace cannot expect too much of beauty,
Rhythm cannot expect too much of rhyme,
We, though, fall back on our faults and duty,
We expect too little every time.

This form is a parody of a villanelle. It’s not supposed to make sense. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only these words.a

Your honesty lends a pallor to this place.
Your honesty lends a pallor to this place.
Across the table, coffee and cigarettes.
Across the table, coffee and cigarettes.
Honesty lends coffee and a pallor to this table.
Across your place, the cigarettes.

I try to seem brilliant.
I try to seem brilliant.
I laugh when appropriate.
I laugh when appropriate.
Laugh when I try to seem brilliant.
Appropriate, I.

Who are we reading? Nietzsche?
Who are we reading? Nietzsche?
It is Kafka, and I am an idiot.
It is Kafka, and I am an idiot.
Who is Kafka? Nietzsche is an idiot.
And are we reading it? I am.

Nietzsche and cigarettes, appropriate.
Honesty is brilliant. I am reading your laugh.
Kafka, who is I, lends this table a pallor.
I seem an idiot when I try to.
Across the place and to coffee.
Are we it?

Open verse haiku is a form of poetry where you string several haikus together to create a longer poem…

She. She steps. She. She.
She walks in cat-strides, slow sway,
Can’t help but follow.

Step. Step slow. Step. Step.
Her beat is mesmerizing,
I’ll memorize her.

Slow. Slow touch. Slow. Slow.
Her skin is honey-sweet, to
Taste, moves honey-slow.

Touch. Touch soft. Touch. Touch.
Her skin is aching and my
Touch alone heals her.

Soft. Soft kiss. Soft. Soft.
I chase her cadence, rhythm
Found with thousandth kiss.

A fractal poem with a point, but not a point. Comprenez vous?

But I knew it would end up like this
But I knew it
I knew that it would end

Imagining white face, mouth wide, back arched
I no longer wish to wish such things
(Why might the blind man cover up his ears?)
Why should I covet cowardice?
I do not miss that climbing cloud.

I do not hope to hope these things
I’m really only honest in my poetry
But I don’t write much anymore.
Three tinkling words tumble
Grow gasping gone, go!
How long I hoped to hear.

I do not hope to end this end
November was the month in
Panties coloured as Eve’s kiss
And mother’s bustier
Breath billows on the burning
Caught up in the meaning of means and
Ending ends, endearing incendiary
enceinte enclosed
All sealed with a kiss
And a tear
Alone.

I do not end to start these things
Small lost body swishes sexy
Soft cold feet, no socks
Open door, it’s winter out
Hot blush, lurid gaze
I do not hope to start these things
I do not hope to know
I do not wish to show these things
I do not wish to go
Illa est forma mei
Posses futare me
Petesve discedere?
Vita longissima est
Et verum, vitia graciosa est.