A second building block in the "cywydd" meter, this format is written using sestets. The poem itself can be of any number of stanzas, but each stanza has a strict meter, containing two eight-syllable couplets and two interlacing rhymes on the third and sixth lines. The third and sixth lines also rhyme with one another. It's not as terrible as it sounds, now that we've attempted the awdl gywydd!
There are very few examples available on the internet, and most books I've found show the verses in the original Welsh. So I had to call in a favor or two. This one, from Marian, is called "poetic license":
hot tears flow as a rushing stream.
she jerks like waking from a dream,
glossy gleamed eyes, wet with rage,
turn hard against who waits for her
in chapter six. her muse can't lure
fraught demon purrs from each page.
Here, we note that the meter and rhyme are extremely similar to our previous work, with an extra couple of lines:
*******AMy first attempt is called "apothecary":
The scent of rain and stormy air.and on first glance, it looks right. However, I've moved my internal rhyme to the fourth line and dropped the second link entirely. For a better example, here is a rough-drafted verse of a longer poem I'm making now, with the cross-rhymes italicized:
A Pumpkin King's candle-lit stare.
Candy corn, preserved, bottled
with hot toddy and some cut grass,
one blazing leaf stuffed in the glass.
Then age the label mottled,
Questions answered, or denied flat,
all cards are laid out on the mat.
We stand at a bound'ry thin.
Tonight, the night wins over all.
The dimming waltz awaits our call.
With our fall, the end begins.
The cross-rhyme, or interlaced rhyme, can again shuffle between the third, fourth, and fifth syllables. It may look difficult, but it's more like putting together a puzzle than anything else, especially with the flexibility of the interlaced rhyme. Just be sure to put it in the correct place, unlike my first attempt!
Our final example comes from Jan Haag's "The Desolation Poems: Poetry Forms Used in English". It doesn't adhere strictly to the meter, but I enjoyed reading her interpretation. It is named, simply, "Cywydd Llosgyrnog".
The rain, the black night, the siren
are not claimed by morning's garden,
nor is the pen on its trips --
gliding so smoothly within each
phrase, sour-powered and inky
-- into pale parse-hidden pips.
Another explanation of the cywydd llosgyrnog can be found at Poetry Magnum Opus, including a pronunciation. I'm excited to read what you link up for this challenge!
Next time we'll touch down on one of the easiest (I promise!) building blocks in Welsh traditional meters, so please do your best, and stay tuned.