I’m finally coming to grips with enjambment through using it until if feels right—well, it will never feel right, but it has become acceptable; perhaps something like when my daughter started dating. Anyway, I thought I’d give it one more shot as a booster.
Wordle #12 from The Sunday Whirl, http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/, had some interesting words: poem, word, river, instinct, resist, thought, buzz, logic, galloping, whim, twisted, fluttered. This set of words was the opposite of last weeks. This one followed my usual organic style of writing and letting the words follow where they will. My muse wanted un-rhyming iambic pentameter this week, so I had to change the form of one of the words. “Galloping” is a dactyl foot, and the only way to make it iamb was change it to “galloped.”
Twas not a night to be about, a storm
was drawing near. Sweet Sally’s letter called
me out; for she would read her latest poem
upon the Flying Mare’s wee stage at ten.
She’d sat beside me as she wrote, each word
proclaiming her undying love. Tonight
the world would learn the truth, she’d swear her troth,
and I would face the wrath of Johnson’s sword.
As lightning flashed and rain poured down, my roan’s
instinct made him resist to the river path.
I urged him on, all thought gone, midst
the buzz of love, mere logic held no sway.
I galloped oer the riverbank, ahead
of swirling hell. Upon a whim, I glanced
above and saw a twisted spout. The roan
and I found shelter nigh and hid awhile,
until the storm was gone. A mile away,
the Flying Mare could not be seen. A bit
of paper fluttered down and lit upon
my hand; the rain-wet ink I’d seen before.
Twas Sweet Sally’s final poem, the one
she’d writ of us. No one will ever know
the love we shared, because this paper heart
is all that’s left they’ll ever find of me.