This is the second part in a series of posts documenting my efforts learning more about prosody:
In the last post, I explained how I was learning to be a better poet. I also included my attempts from the first exercise in Stephen Fry's book, The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within. Now it is time for the fruits of the second exercise. I would love to hear your thoughts on my attempts – what works, what does not, where you think I've gone wrong. Perhaps you might get a copy of the book and have a go yourself. If you do, I'd really like to see your results.
Write five pairs of blank iambic pentameter in which the first line of each pair is end-stopped and there are no caesuras, then write five pairs of blank iambic pentameter with the same meaning, but using enjambment and at least two caesuras.
The topics for each of the five pairs are:
- Precisely what you see outside your window.
- Precisely what you'd like to eat, right this minute.
- Precisely what you last remember dreaming about.
- Precisely what uncompleted chores are niggling at you.
- Precisely what you hate about your body.
The blur of trees is racing out of sight,
As speedily the train ploughs down the line.
A pack of tasty chips from in my bag.
The ones I bought last night inside the store.
A crazed outlandish woman blocked my path,
Demanding love and drinks from all my friends.
I really must repair the door and step,
And take the time to see the naked earth.
My gut has grown from laziness and food,
It hurts to walk upon my foot as well.
Using enjambment and caesuras
The trees, in blurs of green that race beside
the train, demark the path we travel on.
Some chips, perhaps a drink of something, I bought
selections from the store last night. Thank God.
So drunk, the girl accosted me, she asked
if anyone would like a kiss. We ran.
The earth is bare, it waits for seeds, we might
sew grass or herbs. And still the door needs work.
From food, my gut has grown to fill the space
beyond my pants. Yet still my foot, it aches.