herfinator
2009-01-12 20:20:57 UTC
Function Playing Form's Game
Blank verse itself gives me a bad headache.
I don't know what to say or where to break
The lines. Rhyme doesn't count. My first two lines
Are useless trash, cliche, and even though
Counting to ten means nothing in theory,
The rules still worm my head to little blobs
Of goo. I follow these rules when they don't
Piss me off, and usually they do.
Form and I are neighbors that don't speak
Unless his Pekingese craps in my yard,
(My back to his), but I'm afraid his son
Wants to get with my daughter. Such offspring
Would be much worse than certain death to me,
Although there are those ones that would approve.
Look -- if I stopped there, it would almost be
A sonnet, depending how technically
"A sonnet" is defined -- ten syllables
Each line for fourteen lines, a structure
Designed to make a writing student nuts.
We didn't stop because we couldn't top
Shakespeare, but because we prefer not to
Sprain our minds on form when function matters.
If form really follows function, it means
That all poetry with no form means nothing.
So much for all the gifted writers who
Break the rules whenever they want to,
Daring to purify their craft against
The old crafters who say it can't be done.
Feel free to critique as well, just know that I don't especially like it . . .