Old Timey and Rhymey Poems
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Beneath the Branches
I know what you mean about "19th century feel", I like your poem too, especially the possible "Notes from Underground" reference. I have a zillion 'old timey' poems, but one's my favorite, I've even got a story for it.
My girlfriend at the time was still in college, this blond angel/English major that lived down the street from me but I hardly spoke to until we graduated high school. I was working in this massive storage depot, had plenty of free time to read. I wrote her little poems and there was this line from one of the Oedipus books that I loved, something along the lines of 'Your love lying on her cheek for a pillow'. She had a gorgeous bottom, so I'm talking about different sorts of cheeks here. She didn't have a willow tree in her backyard though--
Beneath the branches of her once thriving willow,
she'd lie on her stomach, her cheek for my pillow,
or on the quiet green, we sullenly met the serene,
calmly lying, after a temper's last billow,
her moist breath on my ear, my cheek for her pillow.
I know what you mean about "19th century feel", I like your poem too, especially the possible "Notes from Underground" reference. I have a zillion 'old timey' poems, but one's my favorite, I've even got a story for it.
My girlfriend at the time was still in college, this blond angel/English major that lived down the street from me but I hardly spoke to until we graduated high school. I was working in this massive storage depot, had plenty of free time to read. I wrote her little poems and there was this line from one of the Oedipus books that I loved, something along the lines of 'Your love lying on her cheek for a pillow'. She had a gorgeous bottom, so I'm talking about different sorts of cheeks here. She didn't have a willow tree in her backyard though--
Beneath the branches of her once thriving willow,
she'd lie on her stomach, her cheek for my pillow,
or on the quiet green, we sullenly met the serene,
calmly lying, after a temper's last billow,
her moist breath on my ear, my cheek for her pillow.
Angeline
Poet Chick
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- Mar 11, 2002
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Both your poems are really good. Some people think there's little place for rhyming in modern poetry. I disagree. I write a lot of form poetry, much of which rhymes. And as far as old timey, well I majored in English in college and my favorite stuff was mostly nineteenth century and earlier, so I love that sort of archaic sound in a poem. 
I do tend to like poems with an internal rhyme more than rhymes on the end words, but that's because imo it's hard to write poetry with end rhymes that doesn't sound sing-songy. You've both managed to write poems that rhyme but sound fresh though. Here's a contribution to the thread, a sonnet I wrote a few years back:
Oh, apple that my lover gave to me,
You glow in rose illumed and yielding cream.
Imperfect fallen orb, your blushed beauty
Delights my winter’s pale with summer dream.
Yet still not half so sweet as his warm kiss,
Your scent not fragrant as his russet hair,
Your tender flesh cannot enjoin the bliss
I find within his limbs--an orchard rare!
Still all of nature’s piece are thee and he,
Both having left a garden for my side.
Is too much joy a sin of vanity?
Is tasting you or him a false-stepped pride?
I hold you in my palm and contemplate:
Once fallen ‘tis fruitless denying fate.
I do tend to like poems with an internal rhyme more than rhymes on the end words, but that's because imo it's hard to write poetry with end rhymes that doesn't sound sing-songy. You've both managed to write poems that rhyme but sound fresh though. Here's a contribution to the thread, a sonnet I wrote a few years back:
Oh, apple that my lover gave to me,
You glow in rose illumed and yielding cream.
Imperfect fallen orb, your blushed beauty
Delights my winter’s pale with summer dream.
Yet still not half so sweet as his warm kiss,
Your scent not fragrant as his russet hair,
Your tender flesh cannot enjoin the bliss
I find within his limbs--an orchard rare!
Still all of nature’s piece are thee and he,
Both having left a garden for my side.
Is too much joy a sin of vanity?
Is tasting you or him a false-stepped pride?
I hold you in my palm and contemplate:
Once fallen ‘tis fruitless denying fate.
Exactly
Angeline, I really like the sentimentality throughout your poem. It reminds me of Shakey, Henry Constable, and E. Barrett in that order. The sonnet's probably the only form that made it into 20th/21st centuries, which says something about Shakey's staying power even in 'pure' poetry.
Angeline, I really like the sentimentality throughout your poem. It reminds me of Shakey, Henry Constable, and E. Barrett in that order. The sonnet's probably the only form that made it into 20th/21st centuries, which says something about Shakey's staying power even in 'pure' poetry.
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