Over the last few weeks, there have been more and more discussions in poetry related forums I participate in over whether poems should rhyme and if that’s passe.
I’m not a huge fan of poetry that has end-rhyme only. Mostly, I think, because sometimes it sounds too “kiddy” or repetitive. I think rhyming poems get ignored or looked down on because some poets force it. Meaning, they put a word at the end of the line for the sole purpose of continuing a rhyme pattern. It’s very difficult to rhyme and make it sound like natural speech.
Do you like rhyming poetry? Do you think rhyming is passe?
Today, I’m grateful for music. I’ve always loved music and singing especially. And thankfully, I have a pleasant enough voice that when I sing people listen instead of running from the room screaming. My husband says my singing (and my backside) are what convinced him to ask me out. I’m not sure how to feel about that lol. Flattered works, I think.
Music makes everything I do seem more exciting. I have theme songs for everything. My “walking around anywhere” theme song is Ebla by E.S Posthumus. If you haven’t heard it, I highly recommend listening to it and then either imagine going for a walk or actually do it. Epic.
The poem I am trying -and failing- to write now is also about music. So I decided to share a poem I enjoyed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning for today. Because we need more poetry around here! And it isn’t Friday, but I’m going to tag this under favorite fridays anyway.
PERPLEXED MUSIC by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
EXPERIENCE, like a pale musician, holds
A dulcimer of patience in his hand,
Whence harmonies, we cannot understand,
Of God; will in his worlds, the strain unfolds
In sad-perplexed minors: deathly colds
Fall on us while we hear, and countermand
Our sanguine heart back from the fancyland
With nightingales in visionary wolds.
We murmur ‘ Where is any certain tune
Or measured music in such notes as these ? ‘
But angels, leaning from the golden seat,
Are not so minded their fine ear hath won
The issue of completed cadences,
And, smiling down the stars, they whisper–
They said he’d returned
but we couldn’t find him in this stranger
embattled awake and asleep,
blows are buffered by blankets, collaterally damaged
and bruised eyes have cause to weep.
The children hope to escape notice, crawling low
under barbed wire words until strikes from above cease.
And the scene reverts to every day.
We creep from cover, daddy’s taken pills.
And I tell them: Daddy still loves us, he’s just a little ill.
Here, he is found. With us,
casualties in war of attrition. We are the shell-shocked
reborn as flowers smiling through the battlefields.