[Michael Cantor]

Angelica recently posted a poem on poetry - a subject which many of us have toyed with (usually with so-so results, IMAO) - and Michael T. suggested a thread on poems about writing a poem. Having written any number myself - a few decent, most only of interest to other poets - I jumped at the opportunity to preen and prance. In going through my Poems on Poetry file I realized that the only ones that were decent, and got beyond my po-world, were those that combined a poem on poetry with some insights from the real world.

Here's one that was published in The Cumberland Review years and years ago.

The Perfect Sonnet

I’ve been at this forever and I think
the perfect sonnet should consist of one
long sentence which will elegantly slink
around caesuras; have a little fun
with word-play as it sets its feet upon
good meter and an intertwining rhyme,
and then, just when it seems it will run on
and on without an insight worth a dime -

sublimely superficial, laced with wit
that sidesteps the realities of life -
shall open up a bit and half admit
concern about old age, finances, wife;
so that, instead of running out of gas,
it turns around and bites you in the ass.


And here's one which actually made it into my latest book - Furusato.
Like the first, it gets beyond being just a poem about a poem.

Trochees Are The Perfect Fix

I love a line of trochees now and then
Snort them up - my ear will tell me when
I’m due again - set for that metric hit -
the off-beat rush I need to discomfit
and chop the chain of pure iambic verse
that spreads a sonorous Shakespearean curse
across my winter sonnet’s boring drone.

Trochees are the poet’s perfect fix – stone
fences that provide a periodic high
to lift a rhyme through dull New England sky
to a caesura; punctuate the hills
with jig-saw boulders, frozen silver spills
of rock, the drift of snow on wind-tossed
lake, two paths uncrossed, a touch of frost.


I kinda like those two - particularly the second. But then we get into poems that are more directly focused on writing a poem and I think the quality suffers greatly. The next two don't get beyond a workshop chuckle. The first is a sonnet about the villanelle.

She Talks in Beauty Like a Villanelle

A proper, formal Miss, of classic phrase,
Her soft, hypnotic voice can weave a spell
That leaves this anxious suitor in a daze:
She is my siren of the villanelle.
Those retold lines and oft-repeated rhymes,
Old-fashionedly romantic Gallic pace,
The ease with which she makes each point four times,
Accent her elegance, her form, her grace.

And if she seems to stutter, just as well -
No twists or turns or sonnets’ clever ways
Disturb the quiet, mesmerizing swell
Of every echolalic, encored phrase,
As I begin to see that I adore
A nagging and reiterative bore


And here's my obligatory villanelle. Again, it focuses only on the poem, so it's dull-dull-dull.

A Simple Villanelle

Not good enough to show, I tell –
repeat some lines to ease the way –
and write a simple villanelle

that circles like a carousel
to grab at every last cliché
not good enough to show. I tell

in bloated, perfumed lines that swell
with labored adjectives each day
I write. A simple villanelle

is what is needed, to dispel
the force that leads my work to say,
not good enough to show, I tell.

Therefore I'll dwell, in parallel,
on word-play to restrain the bray;
and write a simple villanelle

(okay, a bitchy bagatelle)
that renders florid prose passé,
not good enough. To show, I tell -
and right a simple villanelle.


And finally (for now) another villanelle that I think is better because it mixes poetry with the real world. (I think this one was in Umbrella, centuries ago.)

Do Not Go Gentle into Villanelle

I wish I could create a villanelle
with poet’s flourish, and a sous-chef’s care,
as sweet and subtle as a plump quenelle.

I must find piquant lines that mingle well
(the recipe demands a perfect pair)
with which I could create that villanelle

as easily as I take shrimp and shell
Them, grind them, beat in egg whites full of air
and sweetly, subtly, raise a plump quenelle.

But overlabored tercets will not swell
my dish - If I could blend their essence with the flair
I wish, I would create a villanelle

that marries words and verbs in parallel
with nutmeg, cayenne, heavy cream; prepare
it sweet and subtle as a plump quenelle,

French-kissed with fruits de mer and bechamel,
a mix to metaphorically declare:
I wish I could create a villanelle
as sweet and subtle as a plump quenelle


Basta! Let's see your stuff.