Sam Gwynn is the most consistently fine sonneteer of my generation. Here is "At Rose's Range," which brilliantly manipulates the vernacular of Texas and tells a helluva story in 14 lines.
At Rose's Range
Old Gladys, in lime polyester slacks,
Might rate a laugh until she puts her weight
Squarely behind the snubnosed .38,
Draws down and pulls. The bulldog muzzle cracks
And barks six times, and six black daisies flower
Dead in the heart of Saddam's silhouette.
She turns aside, empties, reloads, gets set
And fires again. This goes on for an hour.
Later, we pass the time at the front door
Where she sits smoking, waiting for the friend
Who drives her places after dark: "You know,
Earl's free next month. He says he wants some more
Of what she's got, and she's my daughter so
I reckon there's just one way this can end."
My recommendations to the membership are that you question Professor Gwynn about his mastery of the vernacular, the Dramatic Monologue, and the sonnet, areas in which he surpasses anyone now living (or croaking). And I can't help printing the poem I read to his students when I lectured at Beaumont:
Gladys, The Limerick
It began with those 2 A.M. calls.
Then he shadowed her daughter through malls.
But Earl learned his lesson
when her Smith and Wesson
Saddamized both of his balls.
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