Rhyme and reason

I am a logophile. I love words and the quiet power they wield. I spent my primary school years reading as much as I could (even sneakily with a torch in bed after ‘lights out’) and my high school years developing my own writing techniques and individual style.

Poetry is a creative form that I particularly enjoy (and caution: will likely feature in future blog posts). Rhymes, especially silly rhymes, tend to come easily to me, perhaps an effect of a healthy consumption of Roald Dahl in my youth.

Limericks are a fun form of verse but can be challenging to craft. I am prone to waffle, and the rigid limerick structure curbs this tendency. My freestyle prose can easily stretch a verse (or four) too far, with my inner editor failing to recognise the prime point at which to cap the Bic. With just five lines to tell the (often humorous) tale, word choice is paramount for a limerick to be effective. It’s forced ruthlessness.

The limerick has a rhyme scheme of AABBA, with the first, second and fifth lines sharing a rhyme, while the third and fourth lines are shorter and share a different rhyme. It’s traditional for the first line to introduce a person and place, with the place name establishing the rhyme for the second and last lines. Those familiar with the form may be able to predict the punchline from early in a stanza. (‘There was a young girl from Nantucket’ rather sets you on a narrow course.)

My recent tour of Ireland didn’t include Limerick, the city on its itinerary. We just missed it by a few measly miles. Pity. The tour however did feature limericks, the poetry. We had a friendly little limerick-writing contest, and as the trip drew to its close, the competition had grown fierce. Our scribblings were submitted, and our lovely tour director read them aloud to the captive coach audience. There were plenty of giggles and some big laughs. Feeling inspired and creatively juicy in the Emerald Isle, I’d put forward four limericks of my own. This one proved most popular:

Mick, a nudist from Kildare

Was famed for his cute derriere

When he’d stop and bend down

In the middle of town

The craic was sensational there

It had humour, Irish references, it had double entendre – I’d nailed it. And yet… The winning limerick was drawn from a hat. How had this become a game of chance? Nothing against the (unlikely) victor, but come on! Did his even get a laugh?! A creative writing competition should and could only be won through SKILL!

Competitive much? To be sure, to be sure.

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