Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.
—  Galatians 6:9

anonymous asked:

But how do you differentiate between stressed and unstressed syllables?

A stressed syllable is where the emphasis is. For instance, in the example I used yesterday, the word ‘poet.’ You pronounce it poet, not poet. Because that sounds weird as hell. A line of iambic pentameter is composed of five iambs: so five sets of two syllables that follow the pattern of unstressed, stressed. 

Like so:

Enforc’d | thee! Art | thou king | and wilt | be forced?

(I’ve put lines | between the iambs so you can see exactly how it breaks down.) Obviously when you’re doing scansion by hand you can’t bold anything so a stressed syllable is indicated by an acute accent ’ and an unstressed syllable is indicated by a breve ˘. This is called the ‘slash & breve’ method, and it looks something like this:

Of course this isn’t a great example because there are a lot of feminine endings here and all of my imagework is on top of it, but if you look at just the blue and black ink (ignore the red) you can see where the meter is written in. 

One of these days I should just do a crash-course scansion workshop, maybe. Would that be a good thing? Is that something you guys might want to see? IDK let me know.

Around the world, millions of people are painting
their fingers pink but it isn’t making a smidge
of difference.  Somewhere near a man I never

met took his life, a boy.  In words we’ve all
turned from the taste of he said, calmly,
this is why and when it ends.  No human

can understand being trans*, being woman
or being man, boy or girl or neither or
both or — but he could have.  He was one of

the true ones and he’ll never ever
see the day he buys his first shitty
lottery ticket or the day he goes out

and maybe gets drunk with his
friends for the first time, hobbling back
to a wretched home on legally beer washed legs

—There’s something to be said for swimming through
pain for so long and then having the courage to
decide that the pain will no longer keep you.

There’s nothing to celebrate when a boy
takes his life with a bottle of pills stolen
from his might-as-well-be-dead mother’s

cupboard below a generic yellow sink used
for throwing up her embittered troubles and
casts everything he’s lived for down the

tortuous tubes of his digestive and
cardiovascular systems, but there’s something
about it we can’t help but mull on.  

Hate is not a strong enough word for us
to utilize here.  There must be something
far fouler, fare less innate, far more

human at play when a boy must tell
the pain, “back off” with the aid of a
few round shiny whites where most

humans can simply use words.  Not everyone
can get out.  Not everyone sees
when we suffer before we take the last leap.

His name was Zander and his mother’s name won’t
be mentioned and I’m sure we won’t recall
the street he grew up on, what cheap foods he ate

from cans on summer days with friends, what
video games he played when the day had slunk
out and the cool moon replaced him.  

I’ve seen too much death on the internet, in
the news and on the lips of my friends but I
won’t. close. my. eyes because children

are dying, loves, and there’s nothing more
we can do but eulogize them now, but unless
we keep our eyelids glued to our foreheads there’s

no way we can stop the next one from
looking death in the grisled white face
and saying, “thank

God

you’ve finally

come”

—  once-more-with-felecia aka me