The Sonnet Challenge

[Swatopluk]

As announced in the Haiku thread, here is a new lyrics challenge.
The task is to write a sonnet (choose one of the classic forms) using four words given by the previous player (mark those words in the text).
Two extra rules:
1.The words should be distributed to the four parts of the sonnet, i.e. to the two quartets and two terzetts (continental) or the three quartetts and the epigramm conclusion (English) with one word in each.
2.(At least) one of the words has to be used in the rhyme.
Don't be unfair in your choice of challenge words by using only unrhymables or words that don't fit the verse structure

I (randomly, I swear) chose the words purple, sunshine, drown, and tough in the proposal in the Haiku thread and here is the sonnet I made from that:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The purple fingered Eos guides the light
From Phoebus' palace by the distant sea
To where the sun god's horses will run free
And only one can hold the bridles tight

When he rides out adorned with helmet bright
Nyx will with covered face from heaven flee
For into Helios' face the hag daren't see
To sunshine's power cedes the pallid night

But on one fateful day 'twas her's to laugh
When someone else the chariot tried to drive
And found halfway the task for him too tough

His hybris cost young Phaёton his life
And struck by Zeus he fell down from above
Sun's fire drowned, the world of light deprived
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

New words: sting, well, fortune, listen

[Sibling DavidH]

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my sting well bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That fortune, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they listen best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

Easy!  

Next set of words:  Albumen, gaga, pubic, throstle.   

[Bob in a quantum-state-of-faith]

  Questions:   

Is the pace, the number of 'stops' in any given sentence fixed?  I.e.  in the first example, "The purple fingered Eos guides the light" there are 5 'stops' or emphasis points as I read this aloud. (.. and is not all poetry meant to be read aloud?).   I see the same pattern in the second example, "When I consider how my light is spent"-- 5 'stops'.  Is that a rule?

Next, I understand the couplet structure of the first parts:  last word of first sentence rhymes with last word of last sentence, with the intervening two rhyming with each other.  

Then, apparently, you repeat the whole rhyming structure in the second group, rhyming the same way (or close to that).

But, when comparing the final six lines, with two groups of three each, I am baffled as to any pattern, given a sample of two poems-- to my untrained eye, the rhyming pattern (if there be such) is purely at the whim of the author?

In Swato's example, it appears that these two groups of three do not particularly rhyme with anything that's gone before, but alternate with each other in a pattern of the first and last (of the first three) rhymes with the middle (of the second three), and (loosely) vice-versa.

But in DavidH's example, the last word of the first group of three rhymes with the last word of the second group of three, again, none having anything (much) to do with the first set of four-and-four.

Is the rhyming pattern of the last set more or less random?  And is the pattern of 'stops' does not appear to match the five of the first set, either.

-------------

Okay, call me dry, but looking for patterns in things is what I do... too many years of programming.  And what is programming, but taking the real world, discerning a pattern that can be reduced to code, and implementing that on a computer?

[Sibling DavidH]

Bob, that's a good analysis for one who is unfamiliar with this stuff.

A sonnet is a poem of 14 lines, each usually of five beats (pentameters).  Usually the 14 lines are divided into two parts of 8 and 6, the octave/octet and the sextet.

We can analyse rhyming patterns like this:  Swato's first and fourth lines rhyme, so do 2 and 3.  We call this abba.  The next four repeat that, so the octet rhymes abbaabba.
My poem is by John Milton (sabotaged by me) and the octet goes the same, but some go e.g. ababcdcd.  Swato's sextet goes cdcefe, whereas Milton's goes cdecde.  There are all sorts of variations.

Swato's is a darn good sonnet, and his being a non-native speaker doubles my respect.  Milton's is utterly brilliant, even though he was a *!##* puritan and on the wrong side in the civil war.  The difference - and I know Swato will agree - is that Swato is playing a game and Milton is telling us how he as a Christian comes to terms with going blind.  Look also at the technique, e.g. the way he runs phrases smoothly across the break between two lines.  Mind you, I'm not saying Swato's doesn't have a coherent theme.

The best I can do is pontificate on the academic side of it and have a bit of a joke.  I couldn't match Swato at this game.

[Bob in a quantum-state-of-faith]

Thanks, David!

I will let this stew in my hindbrain for a bit, then maybe have a go myself.

[Griffin NoName]

We call this abba.  The next four repeat that, so the octet rhymes abbaabba.

Abba are certainly a good group! Watched an interesting docu. on them last week. If poetry can back them up, I'm all for it.

[pieces o nine]

This game looks like fun, but I will need a couple-three days to perpetrate a proper entry...

[Swatopluk]

I'll take my own challenge, again going for abba abba cdc dcd

The princess stood beside the palace well
And cried, for she had lost her golden ball
But no one seemed to heed her desp'rate call
That into dark deep water her toy fell

'Now listen', said a voice, 'what I thee tell!'
Who spoke these words? A frog sat on the wall.
'I will return it to your father's hall
But you shall pay me ere the midnight bell*

No golden fortune I demand, my dear
I make an offer you will not regret
So cease to cry** and wipe away your tear

I wish from your own platter to be fed
So far of you be any sting of fear***
Then take me as your husband to your bed!'

*alt: pay before the
**alt:dry your eyes
***yeah, lull her, then spring the trap

Who will finish the Frog Prince fairy tale by sonnet?

Words: iron, sheet(s), debase, arise

[Swatopluk]

Unrelated to the challenge (but it's no song, so it does not strictly belong in the Choral Squid section):

The Shoggoth

I am a ball of protoplasmic slime
With pseudopods, a vision to go mad
Repulsive, foul, I fill the heart/soul with dread
The mongrel cults adore me as divine

You may control me with the Elder Sign
But drop it once, I'll tear you to a shred
Of those who meet me most will end up dead
So take precautions ere/when you near my shrine

Once just a slave created as a tool
For Elder Things to toil both night and day
Controlled by them, their minds aloof and cool/cruel

But sentience grew and I did disobey
Rebelled at last against my masters' rule
And monster's maker then became its prey

[Sibling DavidH]

That is remarkable.   

[Swatopluk]

That was a hard one since for whatever reason I came up with one Alexandrine after the other when I needed 10 not 12 syllables.
Still thinking about continuing the Frog Prince with NSFW implications: What strange frog-human hybrid will I breed?

[Sibling DavidH]

When I sabotaged the Milton sonnet I foolishly proposed four very silly words: Albumen, gaga, pubic  and throstle.
Well, I made that bed and I suppose for honour's sake I'll have to lie in it, although those words do cramp one's style a bit.

Upon dropping a broken egg down my trousers.

Albumen is the white stuff in an egg,
It's gloopy and it sticks to everything.
It's yukky when you drop it on your leg,
It slithers down like bits of slimy string.
Then everybody seems to stop and stare
At you, as if the blemish were obscene:
"Can it be Lady Gaga's pubic hair?"
They ask, their silly faces turning green.

'Throstle' is just an older name for 'thrush'.
They love a bit of uncooked albumen
And when they see some, hordes of them will rush
To peck it off you, little caring how
They snip off other tender bits as well.
I'm singing treble in the choir now.

-----------------------------------------------------

That was a hard one since for whatever reason I came up with one Alexandrine after the other when I needed 10 not 12 syllables.

Start a Cornelian tragedy competition?  

[pieces o nine]

Nicely done, Swato and DavidH.    

[Sibling DavidH]

Thank you, Pieces.  I wouldn't exactly say mine is nice  , but it's a technically correct sonnet and it includes those four words I so frivolously proposed.

I bet you could do a good one.

[Swatopluk]

Still thinking on Frog Prince part 2. Looks like I will have to violate the rule that the 4 words should be split among the four units.

[Sibling DavidH]

OMFSM, I didn't know there was such a rule.  I'm going to have to redo mine.

[pieces o nine]

Rules! We have no rules!
We don't need no stinking rules
In sonnet challenge!

[Swatopluk]

(Almost) any sonnet is better than no sonnet

[pieces o nine]

A poster was writing a sonnet
and said to the board, "I am on it!"
But he needed more time
to make his thoughts rhyme
because he just wasn't pulling anything usable from his chapeau.

[Swatopluk]

Here's Frog Prince Part 2

I can't defy my father's iron will
That to this thing my promise I must keep
A wretched amphib that gives me the creeps
That I'd prefer to bed not but to kill

A bridegroom longlegged, green; it's simply ill
For him/it to be the one to taint my sheet
What strange frog human hybrid will I breed?
Is there a pond the cradle then to fill?

Now here he comes my body to debase
He pounds the door, I have to let him in
Expose my virgin flesh to lurid gaze

To near with lust the daughter of a king!
Against the wall I'll smash your hideous face
You'll not arise of triumph proud to sing!

Words for the next one: coach, break, band, long

[Sibling DavidH]

   Nice one, Swato!

[Swatopluk]

Thanks! Will someone do the third part?

[Swatopluk]

"Hey, princess! Drop your gown, here comes your mate!"
"You slimy perv, I'll wipe your smile away
Of us two one won't see another day
Won't take me long your ego to deflate!"

She took him up, her eyes disgusted hate
"Your mangled corpse be stork's and heron's prey
Goodbye, my love, hope you enjoyed your stay
Now bones will break. Why did you tempt your fate?"

She threw, he flew, banged wall but what did land
Was not the shameless green one from the lake
And without fuss they 'joined in married band'

"The coach is ready", Iron Heinrich spake
"My heart's cage* bursts to have/see you back, my friend!
Ex-frog, Ex-virgin, where shall I thee take?"

*In the fairy tale Iron Heinrich put iron bands around his heart to keep it from breaking because of the fate of his master. When the prince got restored to his human self, those bands burst with loud bangs.

New words : fair, basket, uphold, keen

[Swatopluk]

Again one off the challenge track

Great Old One

He lies alone where humans never tread
And by the world has almost been forgot
No spire, temple, gravestone marks the spot
Where for strange eons he laid down his head

But still his name should fill your soul with dread
He's not alive and simple sleep it's not
But those like him, their bodies do not rot
And though he lies, he's nonetheless not dead

He will return when stars once more are right
The seal will break that shielded his dark lair
And up again he'll rise up to the light

He is a sight no human eye/mind can bear
No hero lives that ancient Thing to fight
Forlorn is hope, eternal just/but despair

[Sibling DavidH]

OK, Swato, if we can skip the compulsory words I can balance the record concerning the rather feeble Cthulhu:

Sonnet upon contemplating an overrated squid

Cthulhu's a silly, wimpish little beast;
He's just a baby octopus inside -
But not entirely useless, for at least
He'd make nice calamari rings if fried.
The Aardelope's the one you have to fear:
Born of fell Antelope and Aardvaark dire.
Fearful his presence and his sheer
Untrammeled rage. Slaughter is his desire.

I know of other fearsome, monstrous things
On Fooplegloop, on Grondheim and on Earth:
The Whooples' bane, the dreaded spaceborne Ngs,
Androids the wicked Zogtroon brought to birth,
His mutant parrots with their razor wings...
Cthulhu is just the butt for scorn and mirth.

[pieces o nine]

both efforts:   

[Swatopluk]

Nyarlathotep
(You may switch the order of the quatrains and tercets resp. on this one)

Egyptian clothing is his fav'rite guise
Although in thousand masks he may appear
His mere suspected presence you should fear
For he is working on mankind's demise

He is a god that even gods despise
Behind a noble mask he hides his sneer
So take to flight whenever he draws near
On those who trust, he'll spring a mean surprise

'The Crawling Chaos' is his rightful name
Of Azathoth the messenger is he
And in him burns the most unholy flame

Is he the king who lives in infamy
In yellow robes, the city's ancient bane?
And in what shape will he soon come to/for thee?


Azathoth

Out there it stands carved not of earthly stone
In regions that no sane soul seeks to find
Where space and time have long been left behind
Out in the Void erected is a throne

On it sits one of flesh not nor of bone
The Demon Sultan, Azathoth the blind
The idiot god, all-ruling without mind
The navel of the world is he alone

'How can he rule?', he who knows nothing asks
His messenger is Crawling Chaos called
Nyarlathotep fulfills his master's tasks

Around the throne a mad dance does unfold
Their faces covered with most hideous masks
Two flutists move, an unseen drum is rolled

[Sibling DavidH]

That's really good stuff, Swato.  They really are impressive.
I'm just a bit disappointed - I had expected you to come back with something ridiculing my beloved Aardelopes. 

[Swatopluk]

There are kinds of perversions that do not lend themselves easily to sonnetization.
Thinking more about a love poem to a Deep One girl.

Btw, I just logged in at TOP under an old alias. Several thousand of my old posts have withered away including it seems all of the lore.
Another reason to stay away from there.

[Swatopluk]

To my beloved Deep One girl

It's lovely how the air goes through your gills
That slurping sound each time you start to croak
Just like a toad that uncouth hands do choke
What wondrous sense of sickness it instills

Oh how your fishy smell my nostrils fills
Emitted from the slime, your skin's pale cloak
Does nausea like pyridine evoke
Like fest'ring boils and other putrid ills

Oh Deepie, do embrace me here and now
And let us join my dry and your webbed hand
It's time to take the third and final vow

Oh how I wish to see, alas, I can't
The Deep One cities, for they lie below
At least our child shall see the promised land

[Swatopluk]

3 sonnets written on the train ride home yesterday (because I forgot to put the newspaper in my bag)

Be good with Ghouls

These guys they have some habits I detest
And I don't share their taste for human meat
Beyond that, it's all rotten what they eat
While I think that the fresh food is the best

You thought that in the graveyard there'd be rest
And worms would be the only there to meet
Dear sir, you are mistaken there indeed
Few cemeteries they do not infest

It's easy just to loathe the common ghoul
But take some efforts, he can be your friend
Be careful though, don't rush it like a fool

Go uninvited, sticky'll be your end
Seek introduction, then all should be cool
Ask painter Pickman, he might lend a hand


The Cult is In

In bayou country brightly burns the fire
And through the darkness loudly drums resound
Sends fear to hearts for many miles around
To end themselves here roasting on the pyre

We dance around it, never do we tire
Of sweat and blood all stcky is the ground
Our ecstasy surpasses any bound
And our chant it groweth ever higher

Cthulhu lives and he sends out his dreams
And soon again the stars they will be right
Oh, master, listen to our victims' screams

Iä fhtagn, that will be a sight
See how already madly my eye gleams
We are the cultists, you are our delight


Contemplation on an idol of Cthulhu

Of greenish rock this idol has been made
Not of this earth was taken this dark stone
It shows Cthulhu sitting on his throne
From distant stars it must originate

So small a piece but how infused with fate
To look at it, it chills me to the bone
A fear fills me as never I have known
Vile work of art, it emanates pure hate

With claws so sharp and tentacles galore
His stubby wings of leathery membrane
The scaly skin all wet with slime and gore

A monster large no force could ever tame
That mongrel cults with sacrifice adore
Soon he'll return, insanity will reign

[Sibling DavidH]

Upon recalling Pogles, about which I used to tell my young children.

Of all Earth's horrors, Pogles are the worst;
Mutated hamsters with fell claws of brass
And jaws of adamant, which slowly burst
Your skull until your brains pop out your ..... _{anyone got a rhyme for that, please?}

The Pogle's a beast Lovecraft did not create.
That's just as well – his mind could never stand
The horror: he who recoiled at Cthulhu's fate,
Seeing a Pogle  would collapse, unmanned.

The ancient Greeks would tell about such things,
They called them Πόγηλοι, and wrote in tales
Of horrors such as Pogiloi with wings.

In the old Mabinogion of Wales
We read of bogyllau –the very mention brings
A shiver, and the courage fails.

--------------------------------------

Not so good; it's rough metrically and it wanders off to no clear conclusion.

[Swatopluk]

You could try to take the challenge and put the 4 words into the four parts.
Reminder: fair, basket, uphold, keen

The basket weaver is a craftsman proud
Though riches is unlikely he to gain...

[Swatopluk]

The Terrible Old Man

In Water Street in Kingsport he does dwell
Who's only called the Terrible Old Man
The people they avoid him, if they can
Of him some quite strange stories they do tell

Just Thomas Olney's known to like him well
He does not fear to visit his strange den
They will have conversations now and then
But otherwise few people ring his bell

The robbers Ricci, Silva and Czanek
Were eager to relieve him of his gold
Went in the house but never did come back

The captain looks as fragile as he's old
But somehow to small pieces did them hack
And keeps their souls in bottles, I am told

[Swatopluk]

In the Walls of Eryx

Oh curse the crystal that has lured me here
Invisible the walls of this damned maze
How could the natives such a structure raise
Whose 'high-tech' does not go beyond the spear?

But I'm entrapped and feel my end is near
Like vultures they do gather in the haze
My air supply will last but a few days
They'll wait me out, I see it in their sneer

If I got out, they know I'd flame them all
But stupid me fell for their clever bait
Now I can't find the exit in the wall

But am I right these lizard-folk to hate?
Whoever will decipher this my scrawl
I tell him 'Leave! Before it is too late!'

[Sibling DavidH]

Good stuff! ^ I'll have another go, but not with baskets.  Nasty, orrible spiky things is baskets and I can't be doing with 'em.

[Swatopluk]

I have opened a thread in the arts section to post my sonnets that are not part of the challenge.

Using the strict Italian form (abba abba cdc dcd) has a tendency to make the second quatrain the weak part of the poem and forces me to leave out parts that I'd like to include. For example I could not, with the available rhymes, include the bottles with the lead pendulums in the Terrible Old Man sonnet* or mention earlier that he had a sea captain by profession. Instead Olney had to enter and occupy the space.

*that way the last line is not self-explanatory.

[Swatopluk]

Taking up my own challenge again

A wary workman walking by

The basket weaver is a craftsman proud
Though riches is unlikely he to gain
You see him walk remotest country lane
His produce there to sell day in day out

Though poor he is, his spirit is unbowed
He does his work in sunshine and in rain
And will not show the slighest hint of pain
His eys stay keen though hands are warped by gout

His face is lined, all gray are beard and hair
He cannot rest, no leisure for the old
But ne'er he moans, bewails that life's unfair

He has a reputation to uphold
That what he does is done with utmost care
For that is more to him than shiny gold

New words: long, sail, ribbon, alone

[Swatopluk]

This one started out as trying to meet my own challenge again but took a very different turn.
By pure formal criteria I think it is the most advanced I have written yet because for the first time I managed to extend a thought beyond the end of a verse without a caesura. That way the whole thing is far more flowing. I think this is also the first serious love poem I ever wrote (I do parodies not the real stuff!).
I have to say this is totally not me. I never dated a green-eyed Asian girl with that fashion sense and if I did I would not go into this kind of poetry.

Without title

Her hair is darker than a moonless night
And intertwined with ribbons of pale blue
Her eyes like forest pools when sun shines through
The branches of the trees on May Day bright

A flickering green surrounded by pale white
Of almond shape that daily will anew
Rekindle in me love that's pure and true
And fill my wary soul with pure delight

Oh how can such a beauty that seems less
Of low and earthly birth but of divine
Put up with me and to me love confess?

But yes you said you'll share your life with mine
That higher powers will our union bless
You own my heart, I'll be forever thine