Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Alone I Live in the Dream of Tomorrows


     
A I dream love’s moonlit hero went for I
L a swim in the moon, forever rooted L
O onto waves of terror. Hemmed in I
N with a foredoom no mere rest V
E reforms. I woo the dormant E
  morrow adrift on moths  

 

An odd, self imposed torture and I believe, an original form, each line is an anagram of the one previous (first line is anagrammed from the title) with two letters removed. These removed letters form a type of acrostic, as they spell out the first three words in the title.

Since I think I just invented this poetic form, I’ll call it a Lindacs Poem, until someone bursts my inventive bubble and informs me otherwise!

 

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3 thoughts on “Alone I Live in the Dream of Tomorrows

  1. Tony Crafter on said:

    Sorry Linda, I’ve just realised that your structure is different from David’s in that you’ve created the anagrams by removing letters from each line to form the acrostics. Now that’s got to be a first!

    Apologies again.

    • woo hoo! the Lindacs Poem is vindicated! lol!! Of course this only means I’m even more artistically masochistic than you thought! Thanks Tony, I can always count on you to keep me honest. 🙂

  2. Tony Crafter on said:

    Sorry to burst your bubble Linda, but this form has been done by my anagramming pal David Bourke (It’s in the Anagrammy archives). I’m merely pointing it out because I thought you might find his piece to be of interest and as far as I know, he is the only other person apart from yourself to attempt this type of poetic form. Here it is:

    Each line of this poem is an anagram of the title.

    Diana, The Princess of Wales

    Charles passionate, we find
    Pains to end, as Charles’ wife.
    So with a fan, is dancer Sleep,
    Wasn’t paradise chosen life?

    Sad faces, new relationship,
    Oh dear! Pass! Life wasn’t nice.
    “Finished!” Palace now assert,
    As pals sin, end The War Of Ice.

    Leadership now fascinates,
    Self-worship a satanic need.
    Fate: Handle weapons crisis.
    She was an icon. Strife? Plead!

    Hasn’t a life, Escape Windsor,
    Hearts confess – pained wail.
    Windsor Castle’s a fine heap,
    Now fit in a cheap dress sale.

    She fled at once, was in Paris,
    She was to die in France’s lap.
    Life it ceases, and now, harps,
    A swain lies. Rest, one D.F. chap.

    Tops in fire, she was a candle,
    In the wind, fearless as a cop.
    Elton’s fans award his piece,
    A near-new life, as his CD’s top.

    Fascination! Press heed law,
    A slap saw sheer fiction end.
    Headlines now praise facts,
    Was she not a special friend?

    A swift escape, on her island,
    Wish of a land: Rests in peace.
    So what? Spencer’s final idea,
    Was “Finance Althorp”, Di sees!

    This in no way undermines the quality of your own poem, which is a work of merit in its own right, and the fact that you have imposed this additional masochistic constraint upon yourself makes it even more impressive! And, of course, when you eventually come to publish the book, the inclusion of pieces such as this will give an extra dimension to your work that will set it apart from other anthologies.

    Keep up the excellent work!

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