Meara, I believe this form must be Irish for the translation is from Gaelic: "eight for the beginning poet", fochlac being the second level of mastery.

I'm very glad to see the revival and discussion of these forms that are so much more interesting than the standard sonnet. I'm drawn to poetry, as I told Flidais, despite my finding words to be just opposite the way my brain works. Maybe if I could spout poetry instead of English, I'd be a little more comprehensible! What's fun about getting old is that now people find all my dyslexic mistakes amusing when they talk to me rather than insulting. So there's something to be said for being a harrmless little old eccentric lady...

I'm very curious about the way you all work. Being visual, you'd think I'd do poety this way, but I can't. Verse is visual, poetry is like music. I hear the rhythms first and then the words form like some lyrics long ago forgotten. It's very hard to describe, but I'm right-brained, so the words don't come out of the speech centers, but sound like echoes from somewhere else. But I'm from a long, long line of poets on both sides. I don't mean to come off mystical, but it's like remembering a forgotten tune: "sit right down and you'll hear a tale..."

GOTCHA (how many people were compelled to fill in the next line?

Here's my ochtfolach:

Mortal Claw

Rising weath, pregnant moon, labored in autumn skies, torn by trees;
Reigning queen, precious gem, lady your auger cries, as he flees;
Racing heart, preying death, laughing his amber eyes, the darkness seize;
The world he thirsts for, dreams desire-filled, filled with thirsts of life's devising.

Wailing air, timbred dusk, shiver the bristled spines, from her light springs;
Waning moon, timbered hills, sheltered by broken pines, to them clings;
The wastrel year, tendered time, shredded, he breathless whines, to her sings;
In gasping birth, in death-defying, birth and death the soul swells, rising.

Thanks,
Lonrach