Rhophalic

Words beginning with "rh" occupy six pages in the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary.  There are more than I expected, and some of them are rather fascinating.  They mostly come from Greek words, of course.  The Greek rhopalos was a club or tapered cudgel.  This primitive weapon has lent its name to the "marginal sensory structures in various jellyfish," and an Indian aphid.  Not to mention a literary device.

Literarily, rhophalic describes a passage "in which each word contains one syllable more than the word immediately preceding it." 

I recently attempted a poem based on the Fibonacci sequence, where the number of syllables per line increase quickly.  (Interestingly, the number sequence itself has poetic origins.)  Five-syllable lines are easy for me, but eight and thirteen were tough.  Increasing syllables in each word, though, that's pretty challenging. 

• I'm writing sentences multiplying syllabically.

• Walk softly, carrying knuckle-dusters empoweringly.

• Peach apple banana chirimoya marionberry macadamia-nut

Three or four syllables are plenty for most words in English, even the interesting ones.  Sure, " supercalifragilisticexpialidocious*" would be a wonderful climax, but what thirteen-syllable word could precede it?  I find myself relying on hyphenated terms and tenuous adverbs.  (Good thing I'm not a member of Writers Against Adding Any Adverbs.)  Perhaps rhophalicism is easier in agglutinative tongues like German.  And prosody does not always require complete sentences.

Can you wax rhophalic?  Give me your best shot.



*In the OED since 1986!  Look here for origin and meaning.

Writers' Block

A Magpie Tale

Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Hong Ahn

New writer on the block
looked for rooms to let
the inspiration percolate.

Blank wall, blank page
hand cramped around dry pen.
The only view:
the empty hopes and bones
of tenants past.

Lay down your head
to sleep, perchance to dream up
a gripping tale
full of wit and pathos
and signifying everything
to hordes of eager readers.

On the off chance,
neighbors with glass hearts
jostle for position,
prepare to cast their stones.

Haunted House

A Magpie Tale

She tries to be a gracious host
to an audience of ghosts,
gliding through the mist
to see the chairs are set just so.

It's hard to plan, not knowing
who is coming, when they're going.
Still she tries to organize
a captivating show.

Striving to improve her best
with each song or dance or jest,
no matter what the size, she tries
to render well her part.

The few bouquets she gathers,
strewn like iridescent feathers,
fall mutely through the fog,
but she holds them to her heart.

Drivers' Ed

A Magpie Tale

Laura, Allan and I waited outside the Industrial Arts building after school.  It was a lovely spring day, and we could have been doing so many other things, like homework, or running in circles with the track team.  But on this fateful day, we had our first practical session of Drivers' Ed. 

Fortunately, we were not waiting for our ill-tempered, rat-faced classroom instructor.  He was suspicious of bright kids like us, who finished our homework before our classmates finished their simulator drills, and turned to more recreational activities.  He would never have put up with our plans.

For we were prepared to combat the stress and tedium that were obviously inherent in three hours of student driving.  We had pen and paper ready for composing poetry.  I think we'd brought some snacks, too, and Laura always had a deck of cards ready for a round of Speed.

It turned out that Mr. P., an elementary school teacher who ran driving practice on the side (you could NOT pay me enough to do that), wasn't too keen on our diversions, either.  He thought we should be learning from each other's mistakes, not politely overlooking them, or rhapsodizing on the theme.  But you can't keep a good nerd from taking notes in poetic form.  Here are a few of our Highway Haiku:

Finally we drive
Car has a big yellow sign
Hope we do not crash
                             -T

Allan is nervous

This is his first time to drive

"No more gas, Allan!"

                             -T

Mr. P. is nervous
Safety belts are on, of course
Oh no!  Watch out, please!!!
                             -L

Zoom around the curve

We stay in the parking lot

No one to hit here

                             -T

I am sure he'd find
something or someone to hit
"NO MORE GAS, ALLAN!"
                             -L

Those in the street

gaze with wonder at the car

jerking 'round the lot

                             -L

Buddy Holly sings
on the "oldies" radio
Groovy music, yeah!
                            -T

Mr. P. looks

groovy with those glasses on

as the singer twangs

                             -L

He'll earn his money
Others drive illegally
before it's their turn
                           -T

Without the promise

about a fatter paycheck

he would have stayed home

                           -L

He will never know
just what all these "hi-Qs" say
Prob'ly just as well
                           -T

I am so thirsty

and my bangs are in my eyes

It's too hot in here

                           -L

A tree hits Allan
This is so embarrassing
Trees should never drive
                           -T


Note:  No actual trees were harmed in the writing of these poems.  Well, besides the one that gave its life to become college-ruled notebook paper in those pre-recycling days.  Never mind.

Nurture

Terresa, at the Chocolate Chip Waffle, recently posted a lovely poem, "Recipe for a Perennial Writer".  She then asked readers to describe their own creative processes.  For me, for now, it seems to be akin to  breastfeeding.  Here is my reply, which has been gnawing at me for a week and a half now:

It begins
when an idea approaches,
latches on to my bosom,
and won't let go.

One idea
sucks at my sustenance
until fully formed, blooming.
Another sips, to release, and return.

Nourished by my vocabulary
and experience,
it may begin to take on
my freckles, my cute toes,
my eyesight.
But, like a human child,
it has its own spark,
unique essence.
I only feed and clothe it,
silently, in my mind.

When I dare
to set it down on paper, on a screen,
it looks, at first,
like so much spilt milk
running, clumping, formless.
But if I persevere,
the image that grew in my mind
and my heart,
appears for all to see.

Like my own child,
I hope that my creation
will be noticed, loved, accepted.
When instead
it returns neglected,
rejected,
I welcome it with open arms,
for it is mine
forever.