King
A Univocal Poem
When I was an undergraduate, I truly met some wonderful Creative Writing professors. My poetry professor gave my class and me the assignment of completing a univocal poem, a piece where only one vowel is used throughout. It was an incredibly fun exercise, and one you might want to try as well! Here is the Wikipedia article “Univocalic” to help give more information and examples. My assignment with a few edits is below.
King
Slinking spring spills mist, pinkish light.
Birds flit in swilling winds,
sing whistling chirps. Sigfrid grins,
flint in his mirth, dirt in his fists.
.
His witch twirls, smiling
clips finch wings, divining
midwifing his might, gilding
it bright, rich.
.
Whitish spirits, grim,
find him, his victims impish,
chilling his mind, lilting, whining,
whirling, pining.
.
Blight. Silt in his drink.
Slick fins pricking his fists.
Sigfrid bids his witch,
“Fix this.”
.
Smiling, his witch spins,
fills prisms with whitish swimming fish.
Sigfrid grins, gripping his sins
in his fists.
About the Creator
Hannah E. Aaron
Hello! I'm mostly a writer of fiction and poetry that tend to involve nature, family, and the idea of growth at the moment. Otherwise, I'm a reader, crafter, and full-time procrastinator!
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Trilobite
*This poem is another piece I wrote while in college. It has undergone a few edits.* They found it in the attic, shoved in the corner of a half-empty cardboard box. Shaped like a flattened egg, like a tailless horseshoe crab, graphite gray, a series of carpet-creases slinking down its back. “This used to be alive,” her father said, tossing it up, from palm to palm. Bury it then, she thought, her eyes leaping from the fossil to the insulation-wound still waiting for drywall-suture to the fossil again. “Millions of years ago. Little terror of the sea floor,” he continued, smiling at it, then at her. “Here.” He placed it in her hands, cradled, the weight scratching with insect-prickles up her arms, burrowing behind her eyes to pupate. The nightmares: it molted like a cicada, crawling on centipede legs, pincers at her ankles. She cocooned it in mud only to wake up to it by her bed, clumps of clay crusted into eyespots. “Take it back,” she cried to her father. He laughed, ruffled her hair and sat it atop his desk, turning it so she could feel its stare.
By Hannah E. Aaronabout a year ago in Poets
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