What makes Shakespeare one of the greatest writers of all time? This is a writing question worth asking, if you aspire to be a great (or even a good) writer.
Great writing delivers on multiple levels. From story to language, from rhythm to depth of thought, from sound to structure, the great writer has to work like an accomplished composer, developing many elements at once.
It might be argued that Shakespeare’s prolific work with the sonnet was foundational for his other writing. This “little song” requires a writer to attend to everything good writers must attend to, in a compact space. It is work worth doing.
Write Me a Melody Poetry Prompt
For last week’s prompt, Glynn Young showed up with a ballad (featured below), based on our bus in a cornfield picture. It’s a good idea to sometimes work with form poems, to exercise the foundational aspects of good writing, even if we aren’t interested in ultimately writing a lot of poems in form.
Try It
Write a poem using either the ballad or the sonnet form. Don’t worry if it doesn’t fall into place easily. This is exercise. Your poem should contain the seed of a story. (All good poems do, no matter how subtle.) So it’s fine if you start with a story in mind and then see if you can tuck it into the lines of a ballad or a sonnet.
If you can’t work yourself into a ballad or sonnet mood, simply write a poem that tells a story.
Featured Poem
Thank you to everyone who participated in last week’s prompt. Here’s a ballad we enjoyed from Glynn Young.
The Corn Came Marching
He knew that things were well
he knew that things were good
until the corn came marching
out from Birnam Wood
The wanderer had plainly told him
all life would be well and good
unless the corn came marching
out from Birnam Wood
He stole his brother’s farm
he stole his father’s food
and still no corn came marching
out from Birnam Wood.
He turned widows out from houses
and orphans from their rooms
and laughed at the corn not marching
out from Birnam Wood.
Interest he squeezed and loans he sucked
from neighbors until they cried;
the corn did not come marching
out from Birnam Wood.
How long, O Lord, how long,
Have these evils you withstood?
And still no corn came marching
Out from Birnam Wood.
The more he controlled, the more he gained
and taken more he would,
until the day the wanderer came
in a bus out of Birnam wood.
And he saw, at last, corn marching,
corn marching to where he stood.
In rows the corn came marching
out from Birnam Wood.
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Bethany says
I’m pondering the point that every poem should contain the “seed of a story,” as you said. I like that. Glynn, I enjoyed the experience of reading your poem. I’m off to ponder Ballads…
L. L. Barkat says
That is how we acquire poems for Every Day Poems. They must have the seed of a story. Otherwise they are sort of a math problem or a language experiment perhaps 🙂
Rick Maxson says
Fulgurite
I am the rough limbs risen from the fire
in sand, the drums of Fiji striking back
into your spot of light, the war and sire
that battered you and made for me the wrack
of lullabies spun from the whorls of shells
on those ruined shores, made for you the glass,
the sea of color that soothed you like a spell,
a gentler light to fall upon the Mass.
The kiln never cools, glow of scoria
fine, from which a story grows so slowly,
the parts in broken pieces, paper torn
and tossed away, true, but not yet holy.
With grit and grace the years have polished me,
father of my father, setting us both free.
L.L. Barkat says
I especially liked “the drums of Fiji striking back.”
Even though it’s a little bit of a pun, I’d probably leave out “grit and grace,” as it suddenly takes a turn toward language that’s not as fresh. Which might be worth working on, because otherwise this sonnet is really so fine! 🙂
This was also really nice: “glow of scoria”
Rick Maxson says
Thanks you for reading and your comments. I think I may substitute some word play for that line:
“This scouring of the years has polished me.”
Scour has the meanings of scrubbing or rubbing and also searching, which would both agree with “polished me.”
L. L. Barkat says
oh, I like that. Especially the double meaning that offers “searching,” making it a mutual effort between Time and person.
Sandra Heska King says
“the wrack of lullabies spun from the whorls of shells.” I liked this.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks for reading and commenting, Sandra.
Prasanta says
I enjoyed Glynn’s ballad; wonderful. Also, I very much enjoyed Richard’s piece above.
I hesitated to post this, but here it is in spite of my reluctance.
While trying to find a tune that fits this ballad, thanks to Donna Z’s link, I was inspired to explore Irish folk tunes and discovered they are what I was looking for. Though this piece is a tragic tale, I imagine it paired with an upbeat tune, similar to this one: “The Star of County Down” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hF6MTwACKZk (the pace picks up just after a minute).
The Moon Clavier
She hung her heart on the clothing line
To drip the tears and let the pain air-dry
The moon shone silver absorbing the shame
And soothed her to sleep by singing her name.
He saw the heart hangin’ and thought it was free,
Yanked it and tied it to the sweetgum tree
In the darkest of night, serenaded with lies
Sang gales of freedom while knotting the ties.
Rest and dream, ‘tis the moon clavier’s song
With his lullaby now, dawn won’t be long
“Worth more than this” he sang sweet and low
But she fell asleep and never did know.
She felt the pain when she awoke
When blade cut through with one swift stroke
Her heart called out from the sweetgum tree
When split in half by the sword of the sea.
She rose and stared with two sides bleedin’
Still, he said, he’d be all she’d be needin’
To sew it up and make all right again
She followed him on then, the eye-patched man.
Rest and dream, ‘tis the moon clavier’s song
With his lullaby now, dawn won’t be long
“Worth more than this” he sang sweet and low
But she fell asleep and never did know.
For a while, yes, she believed the tale
And sewed wounds up but love grew stale
Following herself, like chasing one’s tail
No compass to guide her, a circular trail.
Wake up sister, no more, no more,
The stars joined in to plead her to shore
Your soul is free as well as your heart
Grasp your life in hand and quickly depart.
Rest and dream, ‘tis the moon clavier’s song
With his lullaby now, dawn won’t be long
“Worth more than this” he sang sweet and low
But she fell asleep and never did know.
Leave now, dear one, just get on out
The stars sang louder, began to shout
Afraid of losing another heart once free
With initials carved into the sweetgum tree.
Rest and dream, ‘tis the moon clavier’s song
With his lullaby now, dawn won’t be long
“Worth more than this” he sang sweet and low
But she fell asleep and never did know…
she fell asleep and never did know.
L. L. Barkat says
I especially like this:
“Rest and dream, ‘tis the moon clavier’s song
With his lullaby now, dawn won’t be long”
Glad you posted!
Rick Maxson says
I love the title of this ballad. My favorite verse is:
She felt the pain when she awoke
When blade cut through with one swift stroke
Her heart called out from the sweetgum tree
When split in half by the sword of the sea.
Donna Z Falcone says
Oh… I felt the ripping at this line: Yanked it and tied it to the sweetgum tree…. wow.
I think yes, it very much has the feel and beat of an irish ballad – I can almost hear it sung although I don’t know that one you mention, it has that sound – a lilting sadness and ache…. definitely the stuff of an Irish ballad!
Prasanta says
Thank you all for the encouragement. 🙂
Donna Z Falcone says
I love ‘the kiln never cools’ – it touches everything before it, and everything after.
Really love the edit with ‘scouring’
Bethany says
Richard, what an incredible piece. So many nooks to ruminate on: “The kiln never cools,” the “wrack/of lullabies…” and the ones mentioned above struck me as well. Thank you for sharing your art with us.
Rick Maxson says
Thank you, my fellow student/classmate/poet. 🙂 I appreciate your comment. I like your new website !
Donna Z Falcone says
The Wednesday Night Dare
(sung to the tune of The Wild Rover https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYPuz0EYPSo)
Come poets and singers,
Come old and come young!
The Open Mic magic
Has nearly begun!
Curl up on a sofa
Or pull up a chair.
It’s Wednesday at Duffy’s!
Will you, take the dare?
And it’s iced tea, coffee
Leave some room for the cream.
Snickerdoodles, biscotti…
A musician’s dream!
Step up to the microphone
Take a deep breath
If it’s your first time
You might be scared to death!
But sing anyway and
Don’t stop ‘til you’re done!
You’re sure to be hooked
On the open mic fun
L. L. Barkat says
Fun one, Donna 🙂
I like the part about leaving room for cream. (I always, always leave room for cream!)
Donna Z Falcone says
Ha! Yum. I’ve tried coffee black, but while I don’t mind the taste, the cream chages everything for the better for me, 🙂 I love how the baristas at Duffy’s always ask “Leave room for cream?”
Rick Maxson says
This is wonderful, Donna. I can see it continuing with each different person coming up to the mic.
Donna Z Falcone says
Thanks Richard… it’s a lot of fun to sing this one! I think I’ll bring it to open mic this week – they’ll get a kick out of it. 🙂 As a tavern song (do you know it) there are traditional parts for clapping through the chorus…. I’ll bust if they clap that way! 🙂