The Pick-up Artist in Spring

To love that well which thou must leave ere long
Sums up the romance thing if you believe,
As some do, that the yellow leaves do hang
To leave no doubt that loving means to grieve:

One always leaves. Some stay for just a week--
Spring break, perhaps--but sometimes leaving takes
A lifetime: two, in fact. The browned leaves seek
Relief on the ground, then in: the yellow shakes.

Against the cold? Not quite. Against the leaves'
Last lingering green, the spring that cleaves to them
Even as autumn's leave-taking bereaves
Their branches, leaving hope no cold can stem.

So, leaving first is the best choice you have.
And leave that well which soon enough you'd love.

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The title makes plain that the speaker's "time of year" is cynical youth, an impression reinforced by the jazziness of "the romance thing" and "Spring break, perhaps." At the same time, though we believe in the speaker's aversion to grief, the poem betrays a respect for lifelong love, and for love's incorrigible hopefulness. It is not a heartfelt statement but a playful, often witty, treatment of love, leaves, and leaving. It works best when it flows easily, as in the first quatrain; it loses some of its elegance when we come to "the browned leaves seek...the yellow shakes" and the grammar seems to go haywire. The last line also requires a little more polish.


[This message has been edited by Richard Wilbur (edited May 12, 2008).]

I'm not a huge fan of difficult forms. It would be fine if everyone practiced and practiced and practiced, and then threw out their practice exercises, saving their stamps for the excellent poems they eventually produced. Instead, it seems to me a lot of people say to themselves, "Eureka! I've successfully completed the technical requirements for a (villanelle/triolet/whatever)! Good for me!" and send the thing out to be published by easily-impressed editors. In general, I'm not fond of anything that smacks of the classroom, or clever-cleverness, or bored poets rummaging around for something to write about because they think they have to publish a hundred poems a year.

So, just to spite me, someone wrote this poem, which I shouldn't like (difficult form, Shakespeare allusions, cleverness up the wazoo), and dammit, I find it charming. It's an example of a sonnenizio, a form invented by Kim Addonizio. In a sonnenizio, you start with a line from someone else's sonnet; then you repeat one word from that line in each line of your own sonnet.

I'm sure all you former child prodigies not only know this one's first line comes from Shakespeare's Sonnet 73, but know all of Shakespeare's sonnets by heart. I'll post it anyway, for the benefit of my fellow dumbasses.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
___This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
___To love that well which thou must leave ere long.




[This message has been edited by Rose Kelleher (edited May 03, 2008).]

For me, this poem is above all a triumph in sound. The word "leaves" is a lovely liquid and soft sound with a bright centre and the circular re-appearance of it is hypnotic. The clever variations of "cleaves" and "relief" add to the charm. It is also a touching meditation on the nature of love and survival after separation. And the autumn colour warms the whole poem.
Janet



[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited May 03, 2008).]

As I'm observing this sonnenizio and Marybeth Rua-Larsen's take on the form (in the latest Measure) I reach the conclusion that the sonnenizio--at least the fully rhymed version--does what it does by wandering around.

Almost the only way to achieve all those repetitions AND the needed rhymes is to let the language go in a kind of nonlinear thought process, pulling in images here and ideas there. The poem we're looking at here picks up various pieces of the Shakespeare and tosses them around, playing acrobat in the way it juggles one and then the other. Ordered argument isn't what we look for; it's more like stream of consciousness: where will we go next?

So the fact that this one manages to pack self-contained ideas into the three quatrains rather neatly is a surprise strength.

The final line is the only thing that doesn't fully satisfy me--maybe I'm not reading correctly! Mostly I just admire the way this keeps all the formal balls in the air.

I liked the poem very much when I first read it, although I thought it was too liberally stealing from, playing off, and hewing to the Shakespeare. Of course, I didn't know what a sonnenizio was at the time. I suspect its author is the youngest successful entrant in our seven bake-offs.

Once you realise the rules of the form it is difficult not to admire this, not least because it takes a brave poet to take Shakespeare as their starting point for a sonnet!

This works well for me more or less throughout, apart from:

Relief on the ground, then in: the yellow shakes.

how do get that line to scan well within the poem?

Alan

I think if "in" was italicized, it would scan more easily for you.

David R.

I think it is clever, and one of the best examples of a sonnenizio I have seen. For the most part, it manages to keep saying different things, despite the repetition of "leaves." The syntax is somewhat crabbed, but still intelligible. I like the ending, with its implication that leaving first is a kind of cowardice. Like a sestina (which I also have reservations about), a sonnenizio risks saying the same thing over and over, and I don't think this one totally escapes the problem of overlapping ideas. Of course, its model, the Shakespeare poem, also can be accused of that.

Susan

I'm not too big a fan of this one. Yes, it's clever in its way, well-phrased in spots - but under so much self-imposed duress, no wonder that it can't quite squeeze its thoughts into the form. The couplet feels tacked on. The IP wobbles every couple feet. I don't care for the slant rhyme in S1. And in L8, "relief" looks like a cheat.

The title makes no sense - is N a "rake"? Oy vey. Not only is that pun a groaner, but it makes light, I think, of what's at stake for N, who comes off as a whiny loner.

Form is its biggest strength, and biggest fault.

One man's opinion!

Take with the usual salt.

[This message has been edited by John Hutchcraft (edited May 05, 2008).]

This would be a piece that would be very easy to make rather clever and glib, but it has an underlying seriousness that allows itself to be jaded, instead. Which is appropriate in this instance.

Quincy

[This message has been edited by Quincy Lehr (edited May 05, 2008).]

As someone who practices this form on a regular basis, I admire this one greatly. The repeating word -- leaves -- is well chosen and utilized inventively. And like Maryann, I'm most impressed that the writer uses a traditional rhyme scheme (most that I've read don't use a rhyme scheme, though the final couplet is rhymed) and makes clear points in stanzas -- tricky stuff handled very well. I can see why the writer didn't utilize true rhyme in the final couplet -- to mirror the emotional dissonance in the poem, and because there's a rhyme scheme here anyway -- but I miss it. And I guess the last line was the one spot where I wanted to hear the writer's voice clearly, rather than just another echo of Shakespeare. Very well done indeed, though.

Marybeth

I admire the attempt, but it really seems like a procrustean form within which to work.

I believe this one follows the form and is cleverly written. However, it gets tiresome after awhile.

I think this is rather splendid. At first I did not think so, for all the usual reasons, but as I read it over, I see that it is an exquisite thing, deeply so. A perfect tangle, of language and intertextuality and truth and feeling. Of course, I don't believe the suggestion of the penultimate line is one's only choice.

Alex

Sonnenizio is new to me. Too much constraint. I think it would be almost impossible to do anything worthwhile in this form. It is an exercise, and a well-executed one in this instance, but no more than that.

Alan

Here is another one I have not commented and it deserves to get a huge bouquet also for the elegance of its crafting.

Sonnenizio is a form I have never tried, I am not sure that it will ever pop up at the top of my list, maybe when I am old and gray and full of sleep, and have run out of ideas.

I admire this one though. It was a delight to read and re-read.

Much appreciated.

Janice

Tricky. Very tricky.

David R.

I didn't think you folks
Would mind a little hoax.

All right then, I am going to expose you. John's crit above -- posted before we knew he was the poet at the top of the thread -- was disguised. Here it is again with proper lineation:

Nicely done John. I especially like how "relief" is still in L8! It wouldn't take much to make this stand alone. Is it too late to change my vote?

David R.

Fucking brilliant.
Well done.

John, you should be thrilled at being Rhina's first choice. I just read her your comment on the poem, and we are agreed that it is a brilliant parody of a Michael Cantor critique.

I'm very honored that this sonnenizio was chosen, if for no other reason than it was SO freakin' hard to write. I should make clear, since this is the first time some have encountered the sonnenizio form, that according to its inventor, Kim Addonizio, the form does not require meter and a full rhyme scheme. It requires only that the first line be taken from someone else's sonnet; that there be fourteen lines; that each line contain a word from the first line (some people use different words throughout); and that the poem end on a rhymed couplet (slant and other types of rhyme count). So, the bed is not quite as Procrustean as I made it for myself. That said, I have to lie in it, and I'm sympathetic to the criticisms that have been made - even my own! - while at the same time I feel very happy that the poem has tickled at least a couple people. (Tim, I'll admit that Rhina's thrilling vote did not escape my notice.)

And of course I want to extend my thanks to Richard Wilbur for his continued support of the Bake-Off in particular and this community of poets in general. It turns out that it's just as cool as I thought it might be to know, really know, that Richard Wilbur has read one of your poems. It's also a bit nerve-wracking. A poet of his stature brings a high standard to bear, and I'm grateful that he chose to phrase his feedback with tact.

Thanks to all for having read! It's been an honor to have my work discussed at this level, and to share a stage with so many terrific poets.

Richard Wilbur:

Tim just read this to me, and I had no idea what a sonnenizio is, or its preposterous demands, which go far to alleviating my reservations on your grammar. Clay, I started laughing at about the third line of your savage critique of your own work, and I must say that the critique is considerably better than the object of its derision. Good luck with your marriage and law school. I thoroughly approve of the former and have my reservations about the latter.

John,
It is a difficult form, and I think you did very well with it.
The obligation to fit the chosen word into every line is a real challenge.
I must confess that my favourite poems of this type (and I haven't seen that many) are the humorous ones, where the poet really has fun with the variations on the required word, hiding it within another word etc.

It didn't quite gel for me for two reasons--the word swap in the final line doesn't really work, and my very personal feeling that I've seen the autumn leaves motif too often.

I did enjoy your self-critique--that was sneaky and hilarious.

Regards, Maz