Ode to MacGyver: A Poem in Dactylic Tetrameter

By Jamie Zvirzdin

Long long ago when the earth was barbaric, wild—
(Oft called “the 80s,” and I but a little child)
Angus MacGyver, reliable knife in tow
Fought against evil—a hero, a dynamo.

Who is this? What? you say, Who is MacGyver?
My friend, I will tell you: the man’s a survivor.

Single and mulleted, ready to spring into
Action with nothing but handfuls of shoelace string
Time is no problem; methodically, quietly,
Guns would be faster, but hey, here’s a battery!

Who is this? What? you say, Who is MacGyver?
A citizen, grandson, good friend, and cabdriver.

Each time he faces a problem he conquers it
Holes leaking acid he staunches with chocolate
Alcohol’s uncool—give him some orange juice
(Meanwhile, he coaxes some spouses to call a truce.)

Who is this? What? you say, Who is MacGyver?
The peacemaker, trailblazer, duct taper, songwriter.

Sometimes he gets shot; a few times he got caught
While trying to pass off some info with microdots
Yet somehow Mac manages, follows his hunches
He takes what he’s given and rolls with the punches.

Who is this? What? you say, Who is MacGyver?
My friend, I will tell you: the man’s a survivor.



An explanation might be in order . . .

Poetry is a dying art. And I don’t really mind its demise. I won’t miss it too much. And yet—it can be really fun. Limericks were always my favorites. You know,

There once was a maid who said "Why
Can’t I look into my ear with my eye?
If I put my mind to it,
I’m sure I can do it.
You never can tell till you try."

(From p. 29 of Your Own Joke Book by Gertrude Crampton. New York: Scholastic Book Services, 1972. My favorite joke book ever.)

Organizing thoughts around a metrical (or non-metrical) form makes you employ all your English skills—builds your vocab, forces you to say what you want to say in different ways—and it gives you a chance to be very philosophical. Or, in this case, purely ridiculous. But the ridiculousness has meter. It is organized ridiculousness. So it’s a fun hobby.

For those who never had a good English teacher who at least mentioned poetry terminology (thanks be to Judy Mac, one of my favorites) or for my younger readers (Michael and Joshua) who haven’t gotten there yet, here is the rundown of poetic terminology:

The basic metrical unit of poetry is called the foot. It usually has one accented syllable plus one or two unaccented syllables. Usually. There are all sorts of exceptions, and nobody is required to stick exactly to a certain meter. In fact, good poets break their own meter to emphasize the meaning behind what they are saying. You can do all sorts of cool things by breaking the rules that you set for a poem. The disruption of a rhythm makes the reader (a good reader) sit up and take notice.

An iamb is an unaccented and an accented syllable together: the SUN | is HOT, | we NEED | to LEAVE. I just did 4 iambs there, so that line would be called iambic tetrameter. Shakespeare mostly used iambic pentameter (5 iambs). He broke his own rules a lot, too.

A trochee is the opposite of an iamb: ONly | YOU can | EAT the | SAL-ad
So that line (brilliantly and laboriously composed—and missing fresh salad here in the Marshall Islands) would be called a trochaic tetrameter.

Those are the duple meters—two beats per foot. Now for the triple meters.

Anapestic meters have two unaccented beats and then an accented beat: da-da-DUM. See my previous poem, Why I Hate Dresses: A Poem in Anapestic Trimeter, for some frivolous anapestic trimeter fun.

Dactylic meters are very rare; my old English textbook said that they belong in a museum. They have an accented beat and then two unaccented beats. DUM-da-da DUM-da-da DUM-da-da (That was three dactyls, so that would be dactylic trimeter).

There are also spondees (two accented syllables together—I dare you to write a poem that way) and monosyllabic feet; the monosyllabic feet are usually just used to break the rhythm or are used as a filler foot.

There. Now you know more about scansion (going through a poem and picking out the meter and how the author breaks it to make a point or give emotive emphasis) than you ever wanted to. But if the creative bug bites you late at night, this is a productive, English skill-building way to pass the hours. I also recommend Merriam-Webster’s Pocket Rhyming Dictionary. It is fun to see how strange English has become.

And yes, I was an English major in college. Some people collect Coke bottles; some people do crafts; some write archaic poetry and watch MacGyver. To each their own. What’s YOUR weird hobby?