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To be Hung and Drawn and Quartered (Violence warning!)

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  • Raoul D'Harmental
    commented on 's reply
    Ah, thank you very much for the forensic analysis and of course you are right. I have been loose with the rhythm and focussed mainly on getting the beats at the end of the lines right, sorry. For what it's worth though, I have amended the 2 lines (+1 more after 'heightened' for the congruency of the tale) you highlighted by way of practise. Full marks?
    Last edited by Raoul D'Harmental; 03-13-2017, 10:39 PM.

  • AnatoliyS
    commented on 's reply
    Raoul, I am a bad critic - I did not know what "meter" means just a couple months ago, before I joined RZ! Having said that, the lines that make me stutter a bit are the ones where I have to place the stress unnaturally.

    For example, first two lines setup a very clear pattern of 8 syllables with 1st being stressed ("!" at the end of syllable denotes how I stress):
    Round! my neck! the noose! was tight!ened
    And! my head! hung limp! and light!ened

    So, naturally, I continue with the same pattern in the third line, which also has 8 syllables and rhymes with the first two:
    Whilst! my heart!, at a! pace height!ened

    And here my flow is broken quite unexpectedly when I have to stress "a" instead of "pace".

    Next, when I read "My agonies by their bulging," I tried to stress the first syllable of "agonies", which does not work.

    As I continue reading, I try to keep the same rhythm going, and while most of the time it works beautifully, in some lines it breaks. If you try to read each line following the same pattern, you will see where the stressing is unnatural.

    Now, having said all that, maybe I am the only one who reads that way. Maybe for others it works perfectly fine as they are able to adjust their rhythm easily. I can speak only for myself.

  • rhymetime
    Graphic and very percise. I guess I was so lost in the detail that i missed most poetic missteeps. I only skipped at one spot. All together well imagined and portrayed.

    I can only assume that this is not based on personal experience

    Leave a comment:

  • amenOra
    Great job, this reminds me of my own poem from about 10 years ago, 'Danse Macabre'. I shall post it, I think...

    Leave a comment:

  • Raoul D'Harmental
    commented on 's reply
    Hi AnatoliyS. Thanks for your kind words. I must admit I was a bit sloppy with the rhythm in some parts and wonder if you could help point out the areas for re-structuring. I think I know of one or two lines but your input will be valuable so I can focus on them. Thanks a lot again for your encouraging comment.

  • AnatoliyS
    That IS graphic! The picture attached is too small to see anything, but the poem is more than enough by itself!

    I loved the rhyming here, great format! However, I felt that rhythm was stuttering in some lines, because I had to stress the words incorrectly in order to keep the flow. Amazing poem, nevertheless, but I think can become a real masterpiece with a couple more touches!

    Leave a comment:

  • To be Hung and Drawn and Quartered (Violence warning!)

    Round my neck the noose was tightened
    And my head hung limp and lightened
    Whilst apace my pulse was heightened
    By my heartbeat's thunderous score.
    Both my eyes too were divulging
    My discomfort by their bulging,
    Like the dance my feet indulged in
    On the air above the floor.
    Jerking, jinking to death’s grim tune
    Two clear feet above the floor
    And sweat poured from every pore.

    As the rope was tightly squeezing,
    My breath soon became a wheezing.
    ‘Twas unceasing and unpleasing
    Pain like none I’d felt before.
    I was left for hours suspending
    From the hangman’s noose extending
    Not one inch; ‘twas never ending,
    The cruel torture that I bore.
    You’d be premature in thinking
    That this yoke was all I bore.
    There was more, alas, in store.

    The noose was cut but hope was dashed
    When to a rack my joints were lashed
    And I was naked, unabashed,
    Like the babe my mother bore.
    As my strained sinews were stretching,
    With a grimace like an etching,
    Drunk with laughter was I retching,
    For I measured six feet four.
    Since my boyhood I’d been wishing
    That I’d sprout those inches four.
    Be careful what you wish for.

    Then I felt my joints decouple
    As my limbs flailed limp and supple;
    My stretched skin was a hue purple;
    The winch turned till my flesh tore.
    Upon the rack I heard a crack
    And many more from front and back;
    They heralded the rack’s attack
    On my ribs, twenty and four.
    They detached from spine and sternum
    With a crack, all twenty four.
    I was slack, rigid no more.

    Next, my bare belly was cut in
    Two beneath the belly button.
    I was quartered like cheap mutton;
    I was butchered like a boar.
    The knife went through me like butter,
    And yet whilst the callous cutter
    Carved me up, I did not utter
    A cry to make my throat sore.
    Not for mercy nor for respite
    Though my need was great and sore.
    Not a whimper nor a roar.

    And all the while blood spilled and spewed
    And like a fountain was renewed
    Afresh from vessels hacked and hewed;
    'Twas a perpetual pour.
    My innards outwards uncoiling;
    I spied; it sent me recoiling,
    Slipping, skidding, further soiling
    A floor I was grateful for.
    A crimson bed to rest my head;
    A rest I was grateful for.
    For my near-deadweight it bore.

    What supposed crime’s so deserving
    Of this torture so unnerving?
    Why am I no sentence serving?
    Need my death be such a chore?
    What offence is it I’m masking
    Beneath this poetic tasking?
    This and more I hear you asking;
    Does this gore settle some score?
    All this rhyme and yet no reason
    For this tale’s unsettling score.
    My mind’s blank, I know no more.

    For no time have I to wonder
    What my past was nor to ponder
    On my future, rent asunder
    Like my body on the floor.
    As I lay with my breath rasping,
    Filling the air with my gasping,
    To life’s worn thread clinging, grasping,
    My mind turned to Gustave Dore.
    That this tale of gothic gore might
    Suit the brush of Gustave Dore
    And give life to this death-lore.

    Of my fate, please do not worry,
    Nor for me should you feel sorry,
    For though it’s been grim and gory,
    Brave I stand before death’s door.
    But not yet will I embrace you,
    Grim Reaper, I will not face you,
    Nor Satan or even Jesu,
    Ere I pen these words and more.
    But my strength, it wanes and drains;
    I’ve just time for four words more.
    Adieu now and evermore.
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    Last edited by Raoul D'Harmental; 03-14-2017, 02:09 AM.