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Exhibit A: The Hipster Double Dactyl Exhibits B and C: Hipster Sonnets (English and Italian) Exhibit D: The Hipster Sestina Exhibit E: Hipster Limericks Exhibit F: The Hipster Villanelle Exhibit A: The Hipster Double Dactyl Whompety clompety Brave DJ Danger Mouse! White and Black Albums, Together at last! Beatles plus Jay-Z makes EMI litigate Opportunistically. Money moves fast. A double dactyl, also known as a "higgledy piggledy," is a form of light verse that obeys a couple-few rules:
With apologies to Wilfred Owen. Bent over, like old hippies with backpacks, Knock-kneed, coughing from fags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the subway stairs we turned our backs And towards the distant loft began to trudge. The night was cold. "Subway is a porno, The pavements are a mess," he joked, but we'd Just G-trained all the way through our borough To reach a party where "they might sell weed," And nothing seemed, in that grim hour, so droll. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He lunges at me, giggling, smoking, bowl Alight. "Pot! POT! Quick, boys!" I fumble, might Inhale. But if tonight I do get high, Dulce et decorum est pro Greenpoint score mori. Both the English and the Italian sonnet forms consist of fourteen lines in pentameter, meaning there are ten syllables per line. Usually sonnets are iambic pentameter, which is ten syllables broken into five sets of two, in which the first syllable is unstressed and the second is stressed. Some sonnet-experts say you're allowed the occasional jog into trochaic (stressed-unstressed) meter for variety's sake. And again, yes, I cheated in the last line. The Italian sonnet differs from the English in its rhyme scheme (abbabbacdecde rather than ababcdcdefefgg), and in its structure: The first eight lines of an Italian, or Petrarchan, sonnet must present a "problem"—a question, puzzle, metaphor, or conflict—which the final six lines then "resolve." Exhibit C: The Hipster Petrarchan (Italian) Sonnet Cyd Charisse, One Bedroom Like Brigadoon, a decent apartment Is sought-for, little-seen—a ray of light. If you find one, don't let it leave your sight. Till then, keep searching listings for low-rent Pet-friendly Cyd Charisses, heaven-sent: Roommates who cook, on Berry, "clean and brite," A bar next door with "two-for-locals" night, No broker's fee, no old landlord-tenant Bad juju. Search, my friend, till that one day, When you decide you won't check out craigslist, You'll take one damn day off from looking—Cyd! The long-legged metaphor for what you've prayed Would show up. But too late: your window, missed. You hate old musicals. You always did. The long-legged metaphor for what you've prayed Would show up. But too late: your window, missed. You hate old musicals. You always did. Exhibit D: The Hipster Sestina Love in the Time of Vespas At the old café, I like to sit and stare At women passing by, while watching my Vespa, Parked at the corner near the bar. Security in this neighborhood is loose And I sometimes worry about the thin Chain lock that protects my ride. I remember offering you a ride, Just to penetrate your thousand-mile stare. You were magnetic, so aloof and thin. When you climbed on the back of my Vespa, I loved how you put one arm loose Around my waist, instead of holding the safety bar. I took you straight to my favorite bar, Even though you probably wanted a ride Home. I warned you, my standards are loose. I admitted I couldn't help but stare. You were gracious, asked about my Vespa. I didn't notice your patience wearing thin. You had a pack of very French, very thin cigarettes, and the smoke hung over the bar like a cloud of dust in the wake of a Vespa. When you yawned, I finally gave you a ride home. Then I stood outside your window to stare. I couldn't shake myself loose. On an impulse, I pulled my scooter key loose From its chain, and slid its thin Promise under your door. I could imagine your stare, Your surprise. "Meet me at the bar tomorrow," I scrawled, "and we can go for another ride." The next day: no you. No Vespa. So I had to buy this new, crappier Vespa. The law has allowed you to run loose, Claiming there are other scooters to ride, And the line between gift and theft is too thin. I should tell you that you've raised the bar— I see you now in every woman who commands my stare. I watch you, thin and intense, ride Your Vespa toward what was once our bar. Your hair is loose. You avoid my stare. If you were ever forced to serve a detention for a witty, cruel high school English teacher, you were probably punished by having to write a sestina. A sestina is a poem in seven stanzas: six sestets and one "envoi" of three lines. The final words of each line of each stanza are repeated in a maddeningly specific pattern in a sestina: label the "end-words" of whatever stanza you're working on, in order, 123456, and for the next stanza you write, those end-words should go in the order 615423. Rinse. Repeat. The three-line envoi at the end uses all six repeated words, in no particular order, except that each line must end with one of the repeated words. Fun! Also: Totally crazy and French! Exhibit E: Hipster Limericks There once was a young scout from Merge Who courted a cold dramaturge He took her to shows Where they stood in front rows But she never acknowledged his urge There once was a foxy bartender Of a quite indeterminate gender He/she promised, "Ten rounds Buys a peek at my mounds." Which explains my gender-bending bender. There once was a writer from Brown Whose reviews left her feeling mowed-down Till she perked herself up Got some scotch in her cup And hung out with some people she knew from Brown who were super-depressed about their publishing jobs. There's something about the unavoidable dorkiness of the limerick that makes it a poor match for hipster-related content. The meter is too bouncy, the rhyme too predictable, and thanks to the infamous rhymability of the word "Nantucket," by now you almost expect every limerick to end in some kind of dirty joke. It's little wonder that this poetic form has become such a favorite among leering old men with rhyming dictionaries: the only way to save the limerick from its own inherent dippiness is to inject sex, sacrilege, or scatology into it. Exhibit F: The Hipster Villanelle Pull Me Closer, Tiny Cancer I took the job just to work nights. Yes, I'm the hottie who tends bar, But I want to be the girl who writes. My late shift inspired wild prose flights. The novel went well; I got far. I took the job just to work nights, And because I could smoke Camel Lights (My cigarettes are so low-tar). I want to be the girl who writes. With the smoking ban, work now invites Comparison to a bell jar. I took the job just to work nights. These days my words bite like termites— I'm fiending and weak and sub-par, But I want to be the girl who writes Here's a quarter from my sad tip jar: Go and plug some Har Mar Superstar. I took the job just to work nights, But I want to be the girl who writes. The villanelle, as you may by now have inferred, is a poetic form that relies on repetition for its devastating resonance and profundity. The word "villanelle" sounds like "villainess" or "Barbarella" or "Verlaine," or "very tall lantern," which is cool. But the fact is, there simply will never be a better villanelle than "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas, so there's no need for any human being, hipster or not, to try writing one. That's it. The window has closed. If you insist on trying, however, here is how to write a villanelle: Begin with a rhyming couplet. Then sandwich those two lines around a non-rhyming line, and press bravely forward into the next four stanzas, repeating the first line of the original couplet at the end of stanzas 2 and 4, and the second line of the original couplet at the end of stanzas 3 and 5. The rhyme scheme for all stanzas follows the pattern aba, except for your final stanza, which follows a bbaa rhyme pattern, where the two final lines are the original rhyming couplet. But again, seriously, seriously: don't bother. |
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Hipster Haiku
Siobhan Adcock
0-7679-2373-1
October 2006
$9.95