Iambic pentameter

[Eönwë]

Already there's a rhythmic haiku thread
But now I think that this mode is the best
The old style Anglo-Saxons favoured most
And many other ancient cultures too
A style which I presume that Tolkien liked.

A single rule there is when on this thread
Iambic your pentameter must be.




Note: Some info on the iambic pentameter

[Ulumuri]

Indeed that is a tantalizing thought
and though I have no substance for my post
I thought I would at least initiate
a dialogue concerning.... millipedes.

Yes, millipedes, though one cannot deny
their relevance to Tolkien is quite slim
I have on good authority been told
some dwarves preferred roast millipedes to gold.

(It can be difficult, as you can see
to write in verse but fight the urge to rhyme!)

[Galadriel55]

Yes, difficult this task may prove to be,
But nonetheless shall we continue on
discussing dwarves and gold and millipedes,
and how to cook them - roast or boil or fry?

[Galadriel55]

For reasons that are still unknown to me
This thread is much too quiet and to short;
This ancient poem gladly I'll revive
And hope that other posters soon will join.

Already the roast millepedes are stale,
And this thread needs new topics to survive;
So how about the endlessness of time,
The thought that every poem needs a rhyme,
And humans' need of food to stay alive?

And with these thoughts a challenge I propose:
With all the time that Downers can dispose,
A minute can be found by each and all
To add to this great topic, and forestall
The fading and the ending of the tale...
Already slow it is, already stale...
So post here, even one line at a time,
And unlike me you do not have to rhyme!

[Mithalwen]

If I should fry a dwarf it should just be
As a last resort - they are better boiled
In stock slowly and skinned - it seems to me.
Then season well, debone fine slice and broil

[Morthoron]

In my Monty Python's The Two Towers parody I have the Orcs that captured Merry and Pippin speaking in iambic tetrameter. Sorry for the length of the post, but I have to set up the scene properly.

The Compleat Guide to Uruk-hai Cannibalistic Etiquette

-OR-

There's them what eats, and them what gets et

Having been dragged about for several days by his Orkish captors, Pippin, who had once despised the foul creatures, now gained a grudging respect for the Orcs. Certainly, they were bloodthirsty savages, and he and Merry were most likely going to end up spitted and roasted as hobbit-kabobs; but Pippin began to admire the Orcs' stamina, their brute strength and their devil-may-care attitude. Orkish wit, unsubtle and often cruel, had a Benny Hill-like sense of the absurd – over-the-top yet ironic – which gave their blunt speech a certain biting lilt, and a colorful turn of a phrase in nearly every gruff pronouncement. There was a brash nobility in Orcs that James Fenimore Cooper would have appreciated.

"Pippin," Merry whispered as their Orkish guards stepped away for supper.

"What, Merry?" Pippin muttered irritably, annoyed that his fellow Hobbit hostage had interrupted his Orkish reverie.

"Stockholm Syndrome," was all that Merry said.

"What?"

"You've got Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological reaction sometimes seen in hostages, particularly weak-minded ones, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty or sympathy towards his abductor."

"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Pippin huffed.

"Admiration? Brash nobility? Colorful turn of a phrase? James Fenimore Cooper?"

"I think the Uruk they call Lugdush likes me. He hasn't kicked me at all today."

"Will you listen to yourself?" Merry grimaced. "It sounds like you have a crush on him!"

Pippin blushed. "Oh, it's nothing like that. A crush, on an Orc? That's silly. Still…he does have dreamy black eyes. They glint darkly when he grunts."

"Pippin, every Orc has black eyes - they're always dark!"

"Shut yer traps, Shire-maggots!" the Uruk-hai leader named Uglúk growled. "Save yer pipsqueakin' for Isengard. You'll wish you had no tongues then!"

"About Isengard," Grishnákh, the classically trained Orc of the Dark Tower, sneered,

"Methinks thou hast an error made
Lugburz is where we should now fly
A Nazgul waits upon the shore
For news to bring before the Eye."

"Nazgul?" Uglúk spat. "And give up our prize so you can get all the glory in Mordor? No!" The Uruk turned a contemplative gaze towards distant Orthanc and said:

"My duty lies in Isengard,
Of that command, I will not shirk.
Be damned, you apish Mordor rat,
And damn your precious Nazgul jerks!"

Grishnákh clenched his fangs and hissed an Orkish curse. He hadn't expected the doltish Isengarder to reply in iambic tetrameter:

"Now watch your words, you wizard's pawn!
The Nazgul rate in Mordor high.
If I were you, I'd shut my mouth,
They are the apples of the Eye!"

Unwilling to have his dauntless captain spoken to in such a rude manner, the noble Lugdush stepped forward, his dark eyes glinting angrily:

"Spew not your treason, Orkish spawn
To Isengard we plight our troth
Uglúk our captain leads the way
His face will grace yon Gorgoroth!"

"You're doing it again!" Merry cried, no longer concerned with the consequences.

"What?" Pippin shrugged.

"You're having the Orcs recite verse like they were William Blake or Christopher Marlowe!"

"I am that iamb," Pippin muttered dreamily.