Trochee > Iambic pentameter > Haiku > Trisyllabic meter > Freeform

I mean accentual verse not syllabic...

I don't think so, since what I read of it apparently Latin had a different way of "defining meter" or something like that.
The poem I'm referring to is Carmen 63
This guy makes a pretty good attempt at reading it
youtube.com/watch?v=DcYTpj2wb6g

It's a pretty gay meter but I just like it because it captures what's happening so well, like all of the followers are in this frenzy.

I like how you unironically have an established style as the best rather than devising your own

>Not realizing that you choose the form depending upon the effect you are trying to achieve

Yeah Latin is accentual and English is syllabic.
Google says Tennyson wrote a poem in that meter and if anyone could do it its him. He is a metrical virtuoso.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson used the Galliambic metre for his poem, Boadicea[1].
poemhunter.com/best-poems/alfred-lord-tennyson/boadicea/

Devising your own is listed under freeform

Holy shit. Nice.

...

No, you can create a form not widely accepted that is still strictly formatted which does not constitute as free form/verse. Free-form just means a lack of formatting

Autist.
I hope you never post on Veeky Forums again.
The glow from a screen
brings in November brightness
that's only eye-deep.
I am kidding, but still: you should put some more thought
into what you post, for
you see this is a board that
represents the pinnacle of
imageboard intellectualism and
we don't want to
deal with
so called
'shitposts'.

Fuck, poetry is great!
But ranking it defeats the purpose
The variability makes it great

Example pls

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let’s to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth’s foul peace,
And the light’nings from black heav’n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God’s swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour’s stour than a year’s peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there’s no wine like the blood’s crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And prys wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might ’gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth’s won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There’s no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle’s rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges ’gainst “The Leopard’s” rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry “Peace!”

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought “Peace”!

Speakin’ in general, I ’ave tried ’em all—
The ’appy roads that take you o’er the world.
Speakin’ in general, I ’ave found them good
For such as cannot use one bed too long,
But must get ’ence, the same as I ’ave done,
An’ go observin’ matters till they die.

What do it matter where or ’ow we die,
So long as we’ve our ’ealth to watch it all—
The different ways that different things are done,
An’ men an’ women lovin’ in this world;
Takin’ our chances as they come along,
An’ when they ain’t, pretendin’ they are good?

In cash or credit—no, it aren’t no good;
You ’ave to ’ave the ’abit or you’d die,
Unless you lived your life but one day long,
Nor didn’t prophesy nor fret at all,
But drew your tucker some’ow from the world,
An’ never bothered what you might ha’ done.

But, Gawd, what things are they I ’aven’t done?
I’ve turned my ’and to most, an’ turned it good,
In various situations round the world—
For ’im that doth not work must surely die;
But that's no reason man should labour all
’Is life on one same shift—life’s none so long.

Therefore, from job to job I’ve moved along.
Pay couldn’t ’old me when my time was done,
For something in my ’ead upset it all,
Till I ’ad dropped whatever ’twas for good,
An’, out at sea, be’eld the dock-lights die,
An’ met my mate—the wind that tramps the world!

It’s like a book, I think, this bloomin’ world,
Which you can read and care for just so long,
But presently you feel that you will die
Unless you get the page you’re readin’ done,
An’ turn another—likely not so good;
But what you’re after is to turn ’em all.

Gawd bless this world! Whatever she ’ath done—
Excep’ when awful long I’ve found it good.
So write, before I die, ‘’E liked it all!’

To the dim light and the large circle of shade
I have clomb, and to the whitening of the hills,
There where we see no color in the grass.
Natheless my longing loses not its green,
It has so taken root in the hard stone
Which talks and hears as though it were a lady.

Utterly frozen is this youthful lady,
Even as the snow that lies within the shade;
For she is no more moved than is the stone
By the sweet season which makes warm the hills
And alters them afresh from white to green
Covering their sides again with flowers and grass.

When on her hair she sets a crown of grass
The thought has no more room for other lady,
Because she weaves the yellow with the green
So well that Love sits down there in the shade,–
Love who has shut me in among low hills
Faster than between walls of granite-stone.

She is more bright than is a precious stone;
The wound she gives may not be healed with grass:
I therefore have fled far o’er plains and hills
For refuge from so dangerous a lady;
But from her sunshine nothing can give shade,–
Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green.

A while ago, I saw her dressed in green,–
So fair, she might have wakened in a stone
This love which I do feel even for her shade;
And therefore, as one woos a graceful lady,
I wooed her in a field that was all grass
Girdled about with very lofty hills.

Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the hills
Before Love’s flame in this damp wood and green
Burn, as it burns within a youthful lady,
For my sake, who would sleep away in stone
My life, or feed like beasts upon the grass,
Only to see her garments cast a shade.

How dark soe’er the hills throw out their shade,
Under her summer green the beautiful lady
Covers it, like a stone cover’d in grass.

I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.

This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.

But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.

All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?

Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.

For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.

Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.

Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys,
Seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
Round corners coming suddenly on water,
Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands,
We honour founders of these starving cities
Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,

Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow
That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys;
Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities
They reined their violent horses on the mountains,
Those fields like ships to castaways on islands,
Visions of green to them who craved for water.

They built by rivers and at night the water
Running past windows comforted their sorrow;
Each in his little bed conceived of islands
Where every day was dancing in the valleys
And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains,
Where love was innocent, being far from cities.

But dawn came back and they were still in cities;
No marvellous creature rose up from the water;
There was still gold and silver in the mountains
But hunger was a more immediate sorrow,
Although to moping villagers in valleys
Some waving pilgrims were describing islands …

'The gods,' they promised, 'visit us from islands,
Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities;
Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys
And sail with them across the lime-green water,
Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow,
The shadow cast across your lives by mountains.’

So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains,
Climbing up crags to get a view of islands,
So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow
Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities,
So many, careless, dived and drowned in water,
So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.

It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Then water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.

For English:
Free verse > blank verse > sonnet form and modified sonnet forms
everything else is cutesy look-at-me shit

Who /fourteener/ here? I've found it very useful in my own narrative poetry.

t. user who hasn't read Tennyson

>boo boo baaa bebe be beeebehhh give me your cummies I love the taste of cock in my mouth

I forgot heroic couplet, goes after sonnet I guess. Chaucer is pretty cool.

>a metrical foot atypical for English poetry > a verse typical for English poetry > a far-eastern form > a joke verse

Yeah OP is a troll but this can still be a good poetry thread

flarf > all

Poetry has never made sense to me. I can follow it on a grammatical level, of course, but I can't understand what the author is trying to communicate or make any sense out of it.

Reminder that people who oppose free verse are blasphemers.

In high school I "changed" my name to Spondee and demanded everyone call me that.
You were not more Veeky Forums than me. Not even close.

>translated poetry

DOUBLE INSPIRATION

This is pretty pretentious

Iambic meter does the job for me

Sometimes trochiac

Don't mind a couple of spondees here and there

>Double inspiration

I just looked this up.
At first I thought it was going to be some kind of weird poetic meter-counting technique for ancient poems (like inhaling twice or something to make the meter fit)
It's even worse than I thought.
Holy fuck how do Christians take this shit seriously? Both the arguments for and against are equally absurd. The problem is the frame.

>Holy fuck how do Christians take this shit seriously?
Most probably aren't even aware of this. It's a fringe issue.

git gud

dactyl>iamb>amphibrach>bacchius>cretic>antibacchius>anapest>trochee

All I know is that the best bits of poetry that I have ever read* are written in blank verse: metrical verses, with the counting of syllables, but without rhyme. It is a perfect blend of freedom and contrition, a balance between the liberty of the mind to spread wings and fly wherever it wants and the need to follow certain patterns, routes that guide it's flight and make it more expressive, more effective, more acrobatic.

In a certain way the blank verse forces the mind to organize itself, to exercise itself, to muscle itself, but without the weights and chains being so aggressive that they end up degenerating the expression into something decrepit and fragile, like the poor calf imprisoned to melt and cream into a veal.

Rhyme can produce wonderful things, but it will greatly limit your choice of vocabulary, your breadth of expression, your freedom of speech. I prefer the great moments of Shakespeare's blank verse (with his main obsession being the metaphor and the imagistic coloring than the sound patterns) to anything written by Dante, or Pope, or Racine, or Tennyson.

In short: blank verse is prose that trained its physique and sculpted its muscles; is elevetad prose, dignified prose.

*Shakespeare, Aeschylus, Homer, Milton

bakha banha bäinämöinen

Lol. Look up Pindar's meters, or the meters of Greek tragic lyric. Modern shit is for plebs.

Here is a pretty simple example. How can moderns even compete?

what do the words on the right mean?

other way round, homer is not sophisticated at all but he's true and sincere in an almost religious, biblical tone. compare and constrast with, say, the french neoclassicists; highly intelligent and perfectly constructed, but heartless, nobody reads that stuff anymore, yet homer was belov'd

>Pindar
>tragic lyric
>homer

Poems, no less! Poems, everybody!

The laddie reckons himself a poet!

They're metrical descriptive terms for the scanned lines. E.g. pherecr is pherecratean and lecyth is lekythion. If you were a trained classical metrician these terms would make instant sense.

We're talking about metrics here, and Homer's dactylic hexameters ARE more sophisticated than any forms the French ever used. And Homer was a piker compared to the lyricists I mentioned.

More sophisticated in what way?

rhyming is the only important thing

I'll drop the claim that Homer was more sophisticated bc it would be too hard to demonstrate without an advanced knowledge of Greek.

But with regard to the lyricists, I'll stand my ground and post pic related again. Have you ever seen a stanza with scansion this complex in a modern language? You have not.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

>You have not.
Thanks for telling me.

2/8

suck my dick
make it quick
your lips on
my fuck stick