Poet ABC

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
How Excellent – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes a cup of ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, o it is erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

The poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I call it Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
its Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossy just a bit.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
it Zig-zaggs through your mind when told.

goodness gracious!

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
How Excellent – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes the good old ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, yes, it is — erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

The poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I call it Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
its Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossy just a bit.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
it Zig-zaggs through your mind when told.

Danke. It is a draft right now, I want to improve the language.

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
How Excellent – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes the good old ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, yes, it is — erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

A poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I write a Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
high Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossy -- just a bit.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
it Zig-zaggs through your mind when told.

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
How Excellent – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes the good old ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, yes, it is — erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

A poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I write a Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
high Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossy -- just a bit.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
Zig-zagging through your mind when told.

xenoglossy

I come here again and again to read it and read it - it's xenolithic!

The xenolith is a rather strange poetry form, rather new.

http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/xenolith/

I never wrote one until now.

I changed "xenoglossy" to "xenoglossic"

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
How Excellent – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes the good old ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, yes, it is — erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

A poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I write a Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
high Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossic -- just a bit.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
Zig-zagging through your mind when told.

Köstliche, lehrreiche und witzige Versschöpfung. Am Anfang war nun mal ... genau!

Entzückte Grüße
orlando

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
How Excellent – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes the good old ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, yes, it is — erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

A poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I write a Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
high Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossic -- goes the myth.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
Zig-zagging through your mind when told.

Xenolithe

Ich lerne immer dazu. "Xenolithe" kannte ich nur aus der Geologie (Petrographie), an eine Versform hätte ich nicht gedacht. Aber Du zeigst, Bernd, daß es tatsächlich eine gibt.

Ich habe selbst mal (godness, das war erst vorige Woche!...) zwei Strophen eines Gedichts so ineinandergefügt, daß sich dabei eine neue Strophe (bzw. eine andere Version) ergab. Dabei war ich von Liedern inspiriert, die den Hintergrundchor einen Refraintext o.ä. singen lassen, der sich etwas verselbständigt hinter den Vordergrundtext schiebt - z.B. das "shoot shoot bang bang" in "Happyness is a warm gun" (Beatles, White Album), oder die Arien bei Johann Sebastian Bach (z.B. im Weihnachtsoratorium), wo ein Choral mit eigenem Text "zwischen" die barock ausufernden Koloraturen und Textzeilen einer Solo-Arie gesetzt erscheint (kommt in jedem Bach-Oratorium mindestens einmal vor).
In so einem allgemeinen Sinn von "Fremdeinschluß" gibts nette Beispiele, auch literarische - mir kommt als erstes Döblins "Berlin Alexanderplatz" in den Sinn, mit Werbesprüchen und Maschinen-Onomatopoien, die da kontrast-schräg zwischen die erzählenden Prosa hineingerissen sind (wie Plakatwände, wo zwischen den Fetzen von jüngeren Schichten die älteren hervorblättern). Wenn die Brekzie zu einem Gneis gequetscht wird, dann gibts "Zettels Traum" oder "Finnegans Wake".
Ich denke, ich rücke - um "kon-kret" zu werden - mal meine eben erwähnte "Kalte Schnauze"-
Liedform hier ein.

Deshalb habe ich es mit Xenoglossie verglichen. Es ist wie fremde Worteinschlüsse, die eigentlich nicht dazu gehören. (Eigentlich ist es ja ein geologischer Begriff, wie Du schon geschrieben hast.)

In dem Gedicht taucht der Begriff auf, wie aus einer fremden Sprache, die man nicht kennt.

Ja, so liest es sich auch als selbstbezügliche Pointe (so gings mir beim ersten Lesen): "Xenolith", Fremdeinschluß, als Fremdeinschluß in der Liste der Vers- und Dichtungsformen, und in sprachlicher Ebene deshalb nichts als ein frech eingeschobenes Fremdwort, das besonders dadurch befremdet, daß die für Vers- und Dichtungsformen zuständigen Germanisten bzw. Anglisten diesen Begriff kaum kennen, da er 1. griechisch und 2. naturwissenschaftlich ist. Klingt, als sei dem Autor auf der Suche nach einer X-Form nichts "Unfremdes" eingefallen. - So jedenfalls beim ersten unschuldigen Lesen.

Dazu kommt, dass "Xenolith" als Form in der Lyrik nur erfunden wurde, um die Lücke mit "X" zu schließen.
Deshalb hält Dein Satz wohl auch weiterhin:

... dass die für Vers- und Dichtungsformen zuständigen Germanisten bzw. Anglisten diesen Begriff kaum kennen.

Zum Vergrößern anklicken....

Es ist also sowohl frech eingeschobener Fremdeinschluss, als auch frech eingeschobene, gezielt gesuchte Lyrikform.

God’s first word answers All, you see;
When „A“ he cried was poetry!

The Bard was smashing through the wood
a Ballad of Sir Robin Hood.

A Carol in the afternoon;
twelve days of Christmas coming soon.

The Death creates his masterpiece,
the Damsels need there handkerchiefs.

A baby cried an Epigram,
"How Excellent!" – said uncle Sam.

The poet likes the Fairy tale,
Far more he likes the good old ale.

You know, the Gasel is exotic
and, Godness, yes, it is — erotic.

A poet with a poet’s Heart,
engraves the Heaven with his art.

The Iambus fills without to halt
the Inside of the poet’s vault,

A well-known poet is sir John,
his Jolly verses are foregone.

In Iceland all the Kennings dwell,
much older than the Kyirelle.

When for a Love song you’re too thick,
sit down, and write a Limerick.

Your Manuscript was just rejected?
Don’t Matter, you are not effected.

A poet writing in the Night,
writes Notable in candle light .

My true love likes the lovely Ode,
although it is a bit Out-mode.

I write a Palindrome, my friend,
the Punch: I start it at the end.

Long is the live, long is the Quest,
I sing Quatrains about the rest.

The Rhyme Royal — the good old stanza,
Reports the king’s extravaganza.

Spell one Sonnet when love is hot –
Ill-fated love? Then Spell a lot.

When you are writing a Tercet
it is like Trickling in corset.

My poetry is Underground
’cause it includes Uncommon sound.

A special figure is Vers libre
high Voltage spreads through poet’s fibre.

The Waka once from Japan came,
to Write it is a fair old game.

Nobody knows the Xenolith,
it’s Xenoglossic -- goes the myth.

The Yadu is a Burmese verse.
for You it’s easy to rehearse.

Zen poetry is strange and old,
Zig-zagging through your mind when told.

This is terrific, dearest Bernd , es ist, um mit Mary Poppins zu sprechen, superkalifragilistischexpialigetisch !

I am deeply impressed and also inspired to write in English.

Thank you !

Happy new year

Anna