Dead Poets Cannot Rhyme

[drummondo]

Dead Poets Cannot Rhyme (With Their Head Upon The Writer's Block)

 

The self-proclaimed poet sits

At a table, candle-lit

With papers strewn; rhythmic wit

Is left to yellow with each chime

Of careless clocks; the passing time

Bears no relation to its kind,

The ticking hands but symbolise

This poet's unwanted reprise;

His ideas fleeing from his mind.

 

Searching deep within their lives,

In each spoken word, he derives

Potential images, and strives

To show their stark significance,

Reveal their real relevance,

But always taking that soft stance,

For each piece must have its meaning;

But life isn't so redeeming;

Just like death, it's left to chance.

 

And our poet throws his pen

Once more unto thought; but again

He scribbles out each word, and then

Attacks the page, not with the flair

Of creativity, but despair,

And he relaxes in his chair,

For he cannot find the mood,

And the one line that was good

Is now obscured by a tear.

 

Taking in his writing room,

The reek of ink, the white of moon-

Light playing o'er his unmarked tomb

Of carpet and mahogany,

He notices the raindrops flee,

From darkened skies and chastity,

To meet the tarnished cobbled lane

And, pausing to tap on the panes,

Add to our poet's misery.

 

Submitting to this writer's block

On which his head rests, as the clock

Counts down, he struggles with the lock

Of his front entrance as he leaves,

Entranced by failure to achieve.

Our poet hopes he can retrieve

Some kind of idea or muse,

A single image he can use

To write a poetic reprieve.

 

Driving through the sheets of rain

Which obscure vision as he strains

To see ahead. The lights now feign

A holy aura in his eyes;

Small halos of a droplet's size,

As if their ignorant replies

To heaven's call, while full of grace,

And forming rivers at the base

Of spattered glass, are full of lies.

 

And now the intermittent flash

Of headlights through the windscreen, clash

With thoughts of poetry, awash

With images and ideas, lined

Across his now-distracted mind;

The chance to write has made him blind,

And with the screeching sound of brakes

He hits the flashes, and he wakes

To hear the unforgiving grind.

 

And spinning, rolling on the street,

He stops to note the harsh repeat

Of death's reflections in the sheet

Of rain upon the unhurt floor.

And still, our poet takes in more,

Unable to resist the lure

Of storylines to call his own;

This plot is his, and with a groan,

He dies, yet still the raindrops pour.

 

Poetic pictures parting from

His mind, along with feelings, gone,

For now our writer dies alone,

Unable to describe the chill

Of death, and lying prone until

A relative who knows his will

Can turn up late, and say "I see

His failing was his poetry,"

And back home, the clock chimes still.

[Mira]

First off, welcome to The Pen.

 

I like this poem for a number of reasons. First it flows well. The ryhme scheme, while pretty simple, does a good job of holding the poem together. I also really like the images conveyed all over the poem. Finally I really enjoyed the way you tackeled the subject.

 

All in all, good stuff. I hope you continue to post around here.

[Parmenion]

As Mira says, welcome to The Pen.

 

This was a fantastic poem which kept me enthralled throughout! Nine versus comprising of nine lines each and a structure that you stuck to very well. I compliment you on your ability to tell the tale of the poet within the framework that you set for yourself. Moreover, on managing to keep for the most part the rythym of the poem together to make it completely readable throughout. Sometimes such strict schemes can cause a degradation in the poem as it nears its end but in this case you managed it admirably!

 

There were a few lines where I thought perhaps a refrasing of the line with the same content would help the poem to flow even better but to be perfectly honest I quite enjoyed it as is and therefore ain't gonna post my minor suggestions unless of course you wish to hear them.

 

I thoroughly look forward to reading more of your poetry, excellent job! Thank you or sharing and keep writing.

 

[reverie]

hmm, sounds familar...

 

or atleast the title does...

 

what inspired you to write this

 

is it a new take on something else...?

 

or totally orginally...

 

curious

 

rev...

Edited October 6, 2004 by reverie

[drummondo]

hmm, sounds familar...

 

or atleast the title does...

 

what inspired you to write this

 

is it a new take on something else...?

 

or totally orginally...

 

curious

 

rev...

I fear the title may sound familiar because the reference to "Dead Poets" could possibly be construed as a cliché. Who knows, it's all relative anyway.

 

Inspiration? I started writing it before a bout of writer's block, and added a further seven stanzas once I'd ended my curse. As far as I know, it was my own original idea, I thought up the general plot a while ago but it took a while to figure out how to accurately present what I had in my head.

 

Thanks for reading, and hopefully enjoying

[reverie]

hmm okay... well I commend for being able to hold together a 9 line 9 stanza form... Like parm said, it's hard to keep something like that from degrading...

 

In my own past attempts, I found that looser approach can help open things up... i.e. alternating stanza line lengths and whatnot... I once experimented with a 13 stanza poem based on six liner constructions with varible syllible lengths... yet choose to open with a 4 liner to set the theme... Predictible stanza forms can enable to a nice pulse to develop, but this can also get annoying... I find it a challenge to manage. It's hard to know when to hold back sometimes...but is all apart of the learning process... so kudos to you even attempting it...

 

Oh it was the "With Their Head Upon The Writer's Block" phase in your title, that set my memory off... I'm sure i've heard the phase or something very much like before, but just can't put my finger on it... good phase though.

 

revery

the dreamlost

"insert quote"

the dream continues...

Edited October 8, 2004 by reverie