adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Hobble, a poem


It is no wonder that my verses hobble—
I’ve placed the accents on the wrong syllable.
And it is true my lines but seldom scan—
with extra feet, they’ve often tripped before they ran.

Indeed, my poems do not move in quite
the meters many might insist are ‘right’
and scattered through the iambs you will see
a dactyl, or two of them, and perhaps even three.

Yet, still I’m told I have a certain way
with triteness, boring language, and cliche,
so hobble on I shall in clumsy verse—
for many do unwittingly write worse.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

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