#tercets

[indianmartialartsresearchgroup]

An anthology of horror stories in verse, prose and art with varying degrees of darkness by multi-genre writer and illustrator Harjit Singh Sagoo...

[blubbed]

a series of tercets

[creatediana]

"Kept and Swept" - free verse tercets written 2/02/2024

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Poetic Forms: Tercets

Tercets -> three-line stanzas

Haiku (hokku, haikai): a Japanese form that Western poets tend to render as 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables.

Suicide's Note by: Langston Hughes The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.

Terza rima: a continuous interlocking rhyme scheme (ababcbcdc…) most famously used in Dante's Commedia. Many poets render it in tercets (aba bcb cdc…).

Ode to the West Wind by: Percy Bysshe Shelley O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Blues: tercets in which the second line is a refrain of the first (giving the singer time to improvise the third).

Villanelle, which poets writing in English render as five tercets and a quatrain, originated in a French song form with repeated refrains. The English version is governed by a strict pattern of refrain and rhyme generated out of the first tercet, so that each subsequent stanza repeats a line (or two, in the case of the final quatrain) from the first tercet, and the entire poem is restricted to the two rhyme-sounds introduced in the first tercet.

One Art by: Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Sources: 1 2

[uutpoetry]

For The First Time In History These Three Amazing Poets Join Voices And Speak To The Human Race (In Tercets)

The scouts leave Saint-Sulpice in single file attacking an invincible security bolt coming into the dark of their own work

with a hundred bright ribbons. As for me, I see only a single aspect— a car whose make I don’t know, a man running

a lost Japanese man, then another. The sun projects the shadow of the candle and the flame the stormy dunes barely holding on

persistent as a swarm of bees circling Mount Hydra with a hundred thousand rubies in a double-decker: not very full.

People stumble. Micro-accidents. A swan lies down on the grass. We were born and given names

day dreaming a life away in small pauses in the delirium of uselessness. The rain starts to fall again.

The Three Voices: Georges Perec (An Attempt At Exhausting a Place In Paris), Robert Desnos (Essential Poems and Writings), Ivan Argüelles (Orphic Cantos); art by // P*

[crownedwithcalmleaves]

Titanomachy

A forest fire is violent, true And yet too many years without And we'll set one ourselves

Even wetlands will burn Lightning needs only to split the sky once To set everything ablaze

And when all is dark and cool and quiet once more, When even the embers no longer smolder, Only then can new life take root

So too will I strike a match against my arm And let the flames lick their way up my trunk New growth can only be fed by the old

I must always surpass myself If that means tearing my soul to bloody ribbons Then so be it, I will still remain

There is a reason for aware We cherish the sight of falling cherry blossom petals Because of the blossoms left drooping, brown and withered

Sometimes change means running off a cliff Sometimes all we can do is fall And sometimes we fly back up

[creatediana]

"Blank" - a poem written 12/08/2023

[creatediana]

"Serious Moonlight" - a poem written 8/02/2019