Ovi Poetry Challenge 47: THRIVE is your inspiration.

Sometimes you feel helpless but then you have those periods where you’re THRIVING baby! It doesn’t matter what that thriving is about or what area it’s in, thriving can make up for so many downs in your life. It’s made me feel like I can accomplish things. My life these days is trying to convince my mother that, yes she did do that or yes you were there when that happened. There is almost an argument every day, but I think she wants an argument. So those moments of thriving are less than they once were and now I grab hold of them whenever I can. I have four books that have been about a month away from being put out for over six months, but I just can’t get there. I’m looking forward to that thriving moment.

OVI POETRY

Ovi is a syllabic/metre poetry form. In this case, Ovi is from India, originating in the Marathi language. The Ovi  has been in use in written form since the 13th Century, but the women’s ovee/ovi predates the literary form by at least the 12th Century.

The Ovi are in general, lyrical folk songs expressing love, social irony, and heroic events. They are written in the following scheme.

4 line stanzas, as few as one stanza and up to as many as you like.

8 syllables or less per line

Rhyming is AAAb. The second stanza would be CCCd. The third, EEEf. And so on. Meaning nothing in one stanza must rhyme with anything in the previous stanza. The fourth line does not rhyme.

Example:

Roly Poly by Judi Van Gorder

The big toothed tot with golden hair
picked up a bug on Sister’s dare,
it rolled into a ball right there
and won her springtime heart.

Notice the rhyming pattern is AAAb or
A
A
A
b

My Attempt

Blue flowers continue to grow,
with the shadow’s making them glow,
giving life to darkness and woe,
dying each year to yet return.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

9 thoughts on “Ovi Poetry Challenge 47: THRIVE is your inspiration.

  1. To Thrive in Memory

    Late last night, I saw a friend’s face,

    recently deceased, a dream trace

    of him, his knowing smile, his race

    now done save for the eulogy.

    Our final words were kibbitzing,

    e-mail jests, words on the wit wing,

    puns and pleasures, that sort of thing,

    not his measure but surely mine.

    Living is filled with loves and loss –

    poets appease the void with floss,

    entwining glances, graceful gloss

    to hone a seamless elegy.

    But I reside in early grief,

    still stung by my own disbelief

    that time is such a hungry thief

    and farewells are rarely granted.

    http://www.engleson.ca

    Like

Leave a comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.