A Little Idyll
1. a poem or prose composition, usually describing pastoral scenes or events or any charmingly simple episode, appealing incident, or the like.
2. a simple descriptive or narrative piece in verse or prose.
3. material suitable for such a work.
4. an episode or scene of idyllic charm.
5. a brief or inconsequential romantic affair.
6. Music. a composition, usually instrumental, of a pastoral or sentimental character.
Sorry, had to do that; it's a nice word. Anyhow, thought I'd post one of my better works as of now (it made Vers Magnifique, which was a nice surprise since I doubted I had written anything sharp enough yet), that being this:
A Difficulty In Parenting
A wrinkled lump of faithful skin
Lay curled at my daughter's door.
The dog was tired; I took her kin
And tucked him in; he didn't snore.
When she awoke, "Oh, where is Spot?"
I said he pulled a Peter Pan.
For after all, a dirty cot
Cannot compete with Neverland.
A foolish hoax, I must admit,
An act that kindles no applause.
My daughter beamed; and I regret
I've yet another Santa Claus.
It's concise, which is nice [/rhyme], and it runs along a style I'd really like to do a lot of work in; it's in somewhat of a "fairy tale" or "nursery rhyme" vein. I've always loved both, especially the former, so naturally I enjoy writing in a similar fashion (not to mention reading; there's a reason I'm a huge Lewis Carroll supporter). Anyhow, moving on, a little idyll with Idyll in the title [/nearrhyme]:
Atlantic City Idyll
Come bet with me and be my luck
and bring me gimlets tart with lime.
We’ll chase the wily holy buck
and toss the dice and sneer at time.
And we will dazzle in our clothes
and neon dazzle us as well.
We’ll strike a sleek and moneyed pose,
we’ll yell a blithe, ecstatic yell
until at last we’ve squandered all,
shot the wad and maxed the cards,
until we’ve quaffed till dawns appall
and hoarse are velvet-throated bards.
Come stroll with me and be my muse
of feckless hope and vain desire.
On the boardwalk the huckster woos
and Armless Annie tongues her lyre.
By Kate Benedict
Dandy poem, isn't it? Great rhythm, and the poem is oozing with extravagance and prodigality (Note to self: never use "oozing" when describing poetry ever again.). In the second-to-last stanza the momentum starts letting up, in preparation for the very effective eeriness of the last stanza. Fun stuff~ If you have the time, be sure to pay a visit to Kate's website sometime; it'll do ya good and whatnot. Take care 'til next time,