Lucky Number Thirteen. I wanted to try my hand at the mysterious nove otto poem today — mysterious in that I can’t seem to find any information pertaining to its origins. What I did find was its form: nine lines of eight syllables each, with a rhyme scheme of aabccbddb. Straightforward enough, but I needed a subject, so it was off to the Random Poem Idea Generator, which gave me something like this:
“Challenge conventional wisdom in the form of a cosmonaut’s last words.” My muse took it from there and gave me this draft (you can also see my attempt at NaPo’s suggested abecedarian poem from day ten, but I didn’t think it was worth including in this month’s collection):
The red one’s not so small from here.
They said it could be hope, or fear
that takes over, out all alone,
but when it’s just nylon between
you and nothing, the nothing seems
a lot like peace, and the way home
sure seems awfully far away.
I think I’d do best just to stay
and wait awhile with the unknown.
I used a handful of half rhymes, yes, but in combination with the enjambment, I think it reads rather like prose. Which, for some reason, I find pleasant.