This is not one of those too noisy rooms,
Where students squawk and warble all day long.
Instead, it has the affect of a tomb,
Pens’ sullen scrape the only kind of song.
It may well be that soon this hall will ring,
With gladsome sighs in knowledge that they’re free,
Yet now no joyful hope beams from their eyes;
Exams abide as long as charity.
They know they’ll stay here till the world goes cold,
When ev’ry drop of ink is drawn and dried.
And so they’ll sit here, watch the clock, grow old,
And try to stifle thoughts of suicide.
When all their work is done and handed in,
Our planning for the retakes will begin.
I’m not particularly good with iambic pentameter – it is neither my meter nor my métier. Things I write tend to end up in tetrameter, regardless of what I attempt.
Given that it is one of the important meters though, I felt I should learn to write in it. This is my first attempt, written while incredibly bored and supervising in an exam. It is not modern; I am not modern.