Michael Burton Posted July 14, 2017 Share Posted July 14, 2017 As the title suggests, this poem was my attempt to insert amphimacers (or cretics) into iambic trimeter in a regular pattern. Negative forty Fahrenheit Cools the limbs with morbid fright. Fast in chill, Arctic winds reblow, Parting deep the sluggish snow. Fiercer gale skates a frozen lake; Dauntless yet I wait, awake, With negative forty Fahrenheit. Donning axe, parka too, emerge, Onward press’d by ancient urge, Braving icefields and polar beasts, Tracking stars to east-north-east, Silently I forget my rest. Waning moon, don’t scorn my quest In negative forty Fahrenheit. Near at last I a glance can steal, Sating some my boiling zeal, Seeing foam, bubbling, bursting brim, Savior from a deathfrost grim. Cauldrons rare hoard their waters hot; Slipping in makes hatred naught For negative forty Fahrenheit. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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