Is there a point at which the number of lines you leave between rhyme words becomes unacceptable / impractical? I was just reading some Betjeman and one of his poems has a stanza with a scheme of ABCABC, and while this may not seem extreme, I found myself tripping over the words because I had to read four lines before the rhymes came. When the rhyme word did come, it felt as though its originator was gone and forgotten, and was no longer fresh in my mind. For the record, the stanza comes from On an old-fashioned water-colour of Oxford A late, last luncheon staggers out of Peck And hires a hansom: from half-flooded grass Returning athletes bark at what they see. But we will mount the horse-tram's upper deck And wave salute to Buols', as we pass Bound for the Banbury Road in time for tea.
I think it's again one of those things which just go back to paying attention to your ear. If your ear can maintain the sense of the rhyme after so-and-so many lines, it works; if it can't, the rhyme fails. I assume the 'established forms' of poetry came about just because the rhyme schemes tended to work in the long run. One extreme example is Ezra Pound's Canzoni, a series of loose translations from French Provencal poems, where he has six lines between each rhyme (in fact, a stanza of seven line ends, and the following stanza contains the rhymes). Personally I'm not sure that works... as for your example, I personally think that one is fine!
I love Ezra Pound. And are you talking about one of his sestinas? That's what it sounds like. A sestina is an old French form of poetry. Personally, I love them. My favorite kind of poem.
Yes, Pound is great - and yes, the Canzoni volume contains Sestinas of sorts, but with rhyme rather than repeats. (Doesn't change my opinion about the effect of rhyme over so many lines, however )
I wrote one of these as an exercise while working through Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled. It's not a form I'm in any rush to revisit as they're a bit of a nightmare. -------------------------- Winter fades and spring moves in with a breeze, To dry the paths and paint the fields in green. Tree buds swell with pride and hope for new life, And leaves, once lying crisp on the floor, gone to allow fresh earth to breathe once again. Stalks of green stand proud and reach for the blue. But the sun is not yet felt on the Blue Bird's head, its rays kept at bay by the breeze of winter's last gasps, longing to live again. The few remaining garden leaves hide green lawns of fresh hope, shadows of winter gone, And small birds return to feed for their life. I wonder at my own existence - life as I know it seems futile and so blue when presented with winter's season gone. Mother Earth makes it all seem like a breeze, Blowing on through meadows once drab now green. Twelve months from now the cycle starts again. A plain old thrush hops and then hops again, Looking for worms to feed its nest of life. Then back up to the trees amongst the green, Shaded from the light beaming from the blue skies above, branches shiver in the breeze. Only months from now this spring will be gone. I search in vain for memories gone, Of seasons icy cold, but then again, The warm is nice, sweat kept at bay with breeze. Bare legs will soon be seen, enjoying life And lying under red sun beams from blue blankets above, bathing the earth in green. A riot of colour now - yellow and green of every shade, all greys forever gone. Birds of all types; wagtails and the small Blue Tit, swoop down then back to the skies again. I watch all this with a smile, such is life, With windows open enjoying the breeze. So now the green earth smiles, lush once again. Winter gone, life sprouts forth from black earth, And blue seas carry the breeze on their waves.
