A friend and I have been practicing bad poetry (you know who you are) and have discovered that it to be not as easy as it sounds. No matter how hard you try there’s always something that slips in there that elevates it to a point just above terrible. Some people, by my observation can create terrible poetry without even trying. Or perhaps it’s brilliant poetry that goes over my head.
Lots of things go over my head. I went to the doctor yesterday (I’m going again today, too. It’s what I do these days) and he informed me that I am getting shorter. Quite a bit shorter. That’s weird, and slightly alarming.
Anyway ….. poetry …. When I try to write good poetry (let’s just call it poetry, it will never be ‘good’) there is always something in there to drag it in the direction of terrible but still never quite taking it all the way to the bottom. So whether I try to be good or bad the result is more or less the same. I am consistent. That’s what my teachers used to say at school. Only one of them, actually.
Am I rambling? I thought so. Sorry. What I am trying to lead up to is that a quadrille is (allegedly) a poem of 44 words. Subject to such restrictions how could anyone produce something good? I couldn’t anyway.
This one comes via A d’verse prompt and has to be about a blanket. I think.
This night is young, we’re doing fine
Pour another glass of wine
Warm before the fire we’ve made
Watch the embers slowly fade
Like memories this fading light
Let’s hold them close into the night
And underneath the blanket lay
Tomorrow is another day