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Shakespeare's Revenge, or How I Lost My Fear of Poetry or Lost My Head


Cole Matthews

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Prompt 39

April 23rd is Shakespeare's birthday.  Since April is Poetry Month and I'm absolutely horrible at writing poetry, I'm at a disadvantage, to say the least.  However, I'm always game to try something new, so I challenge our faithful readers and writers to a duel, you know, Tudor style.

In honor of the Bard of Avon's birthday, let's do sonnets.  I found an explanation, which I still don't really understand, but I think I get the gist of it.  

A sonnet is a 14 line poem.  It has four sets of four lines that rhyme thusly:

a, b, a, b

c, d, c, d

e, f, e, f

g, h, g, h

 

And then, the last two lines rhyme with each other.  

I guess the last two lines either sum up the subject, or surprise the reader with a twist.  

The subject of the sonnet should be a unifying theme, like a summer's day, or a fresh blueberry pie, or what you found at the bottom of the sink drain after you cleaned it out.  You decide!

Therefore, I submit my terrible attempt and you must do better than me, or you lose. If you don't try, you lose and then Henry the VIII will get to marry you and chop off your head or Elizabeth will defeat you at sea, or something equally as embarrassing.  

So, pull out your quill and ink, grab a piece of vellum, and get to work, wenches!!!

Prompt 40

Write a poem about one of Shakespeare's characters.  It can be a love poem to the hunky Romeo.  It may be a dirge about MacBeth.  It could be a limerick about Puck, and how he like to pluck, flowers from the garden.  

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I think this is perfect to show the purpose of NaPoWriMo, which is having fun.  A marvellous idea!

Staying with the motto "the code is more what you'd call "guidelines" than actual rules."

@Cole Matthews Challenge accepted.

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*cracks knuckles *  I think I may have to write a sonnet about the gunk from the sink drain :gikkle:  

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Okay, as promised, a sonnet that will make Shakespeare roll over in his grave.

[clears throat]

The footballer

 

Hearing the beat, of manly Feet

He comes afield, a Player

Watching the dirt fly from a Cleat

Opposing team, he’s the slayer

 

His brow furls, and shows Trouble

The muscles contort, contract as a vice

Spit slides from his mouth as a bubble

He intimidates others like mice

 

Ready is he, the enemy to assail

Across the glen, he comes at a trot

Breath puffs as a blustery gale

Scores and yards to win the Pot

 

Then lost, his mighty figure slumps

The footballer has taken his lumps

 

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