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The soldier. (My attempt at ENGLYN PENFYR)

March, we march because we must, oh we must.
We will never trust , you see?
Blind and numb, n'ere reaching thee.

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 

Comments

Englyn penfyr
Also known as the short-ended englyn. It consists of a verse of three lines.

The first line has ten syllables and the other two have seven each.

The seventh, eighth or ninth syllables of the first line introduces the rhyme and this is repeated on the last syllable of the other two lines.

The fourth syllable of the second line echoes the final syllable of the first through either rhyme or consonance

March, we march because we must, we must. (9)
 We never trust, you see? (6)
 Blind and numb, n'ere reaching thee.  (7)

 - we were going to stick to quatrains for this exercise –you have jumped the gun a couple of weeks to tercets. lol – never mind, great to see you showing us the stanza – you just need to fix the syllable count of the first two verses

– and I see you are remembering feet – nice meter

great little poem
love judy
xxx

 

 

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

Oh. I'm sorry if I ruined your plan. I forgot about the quatrains.

author comment

I did some editing. Is this better?

author comment

The fourth syllable of the second line should echo the final syllable of the first.

Your edit has made it the fifth

Otherwise great
Love judy
xxx

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

so as always I did some research... and was very sorry I did. There seems to be enough information concerning these eight types of poetry to warrant a decade's worth of study.

Darn it.

I have to go to work.

I am going to have to rent some more space for my mind. I'm running out of room.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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