"Jan: My, what curiously musical prose you write! (Merril Moore sounds like a perfectly terrifying individual.) By the way, I agree completely."
Thanks, Stephen. Just compensating for my unmusical verse?
At his best Moore is quite good and interestingly flexible with the form. He taught himself shorthand so he could write more sonnets between classes and <u>labs</u>, attended Vanderbilt with Ransom and R. P. Warren, was a member of the
Fugitive circle, went on to pick up an M.D., and had a career as a psychiatrist (which furnished much of the material for his sonnets). I also understated his output, which was actually about 50,000 sonnets; he died at 54.
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The limerick’s also too easy. What fun is there reading some wheezy ridiculous puns about abbots and nuns? I’d rather be playing parcheesi.
Yet somehow they keep being written by scribblers who, suddenly bitten by love of the sport (though it isn’t their forte), offer verse with no substance nor wit in.
And sometimes a classic arises that truly delights and surprises. The lass from Nantucket sought humor and struck it. Do likewise is what I advises.