[Janice D. Soderling]

If there is anything a respectable editor will not touch, it is a poem about a poem or about poetry. Unless a REALLY FAMOUS and perhaps lately deceased, poet wrote-et.

But everybody has written one, at least one. They are sulking at the bottom of the drawer, we cannot bring ourselves to discard these embarrassing children, but know that they are doomed to obscurity.

Janice to the rescue. I suggest that we can admire (or smirk at--silently) each other's bastard offspring HERE in this thread.

You show me yours and I'll show you mine (It is OK to post here even if you have a poem in the crit process).

How 'bout it? Who will be first? Who is the bravest of the brave?

[Shaun J. Russell]

Sure, I'll bite. Two sonnets about the craft!*


Satire

Removed as it just got published without warning of acceptance...


LXVII

It starts with but a single line of text
That comes to you from some uncertain spot
Within the brain, perhaps (or maybe not),
And leaves you at a loss to what write next.
When inspiration strikes, you feel perplexed
At what fine force possesses you to jot
Your every flimsy dream and fleeting thought
Regardless of its pertinent context.
A poem is oft reviled, and oft explained
To be a simple whimsy of the arts--
In truth its relevance has simply waned;
When poetry is greater than its parts,
Its power cannot truly be contained
Within the confines of enlightened hearts.


*Incidentally, I DO have another poem about poetry accepted for an upcoming publication. I can't attest to the repute of the editor though...



[This message has been edited by E. Shaun Russell (edited November 24, 2008).]

[Laura Heidy-Halberstein]

If Art Should Ask

If Art should ask me did I suffer for
his sake, I'll tell him no - unless you count
the times I put the sky aside to core
an apple for a baby boy or to mount
a child's butterfly with paper wings
onto a cold refrigerator door.

If Art should ask what song it is that sings
inside my heart, I'll answer quick, before
I've once again forgotten all the words
not written down - but if he feels he needs
a freer melody the caged blue bird's
the better one to ask. She sings for seeds.

She does not know Art's name, nor does she care.
She simply sings whatever songs are there.

[Shaun J. Russell]

Laura, that is one of the most beautiful poems I have read on Eratosphere yet.

Hats off.

[Janice D. Soderling]

*Incidentally, I DO have another poem about poetry accepted for an upcoming publication. I can't attest to the repute of the editor though...

Well, you are the exception that proves the rule, Shaun. Congratulations.

And I second your motion about Lo's poem. Very nice, very nice indeed.

[Martin Elster]

My Talented Pets

My turtle writes far faster than I do,
My owl composes with more variation,
My chimpanzee writes with more innovation,
My parrot from a novel point of view,
My grizzly writes ghazals about the zoo,
My cat writes catty crits, and my Dalmatian
Pens ballads about his buddy (an Alsatian).
Now what to write about? I have no clue.

Perhaps if I think hard and watch each pet,
I’ll come up with a theme. But even so,
I don’t think I will ever really get
A feel for how to make this poem flow.
While I still grind away at the sestet,
They’ll each have penned one thousand lines, I bet.

[Michael Cantor]

Do Not Go Gentle into that Quenelle

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.

....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.

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.

....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.

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,

....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

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.

....As I begin to see that I adore
....A nagging and reiterative bore.

[Martin Elster]

Good one, Michael!

[Michael Cantor]

Confessions of an Easy Triolet

I'm an easy triolet,
but it kind of makes me sad
when I overhear folks say
I'm an easy triolet -
sure I like to tease and play
with two twists to make a bad
and uneasy triolet,
but it kind of makes me sad.


The Amanuensis

A shadow-poet must accompany
each one of us, a wit, a twit, a bit
of what it takes to make an awkward fit:
this amanuensis dogs us, painfully.

Somewhere, out there, out in eternity,
a moving cursor writes, and having writ
a sentimental, tender piece of shit,
reveals itself to be the real me.


Teach a Man to Write

Give a man a poem, they say,
and he will read it through the day;
but teach him meter and some rhyme,
and see how he, in little time,
fights sleep to write, and with first light
makes coffee, then will re-recite
the gibble-gabble that he scrabbled
at all night: what he once babbled

somehow forms a half-defined
and vague, but artfully designed
melange of words he’ll stir, then stuff
with metaphors, until enough
is there to fester, seethe and cook.
Oh Christ! Just give the guy a book!


For Anthony Hecht

Wheezerly, geezerly
Cantor the poet, he
hit on a dry spell and
couldn't write shit.

Finally, he sleazily,
double-dactylically,
twiddled and twaddled and
broke out of it.

[Michael Cantor]

The Process

The way I write is
I get a long and graceful table
And an old fashioned pen

Or a slender Japanese brush
And hack and hack and chop
With the dull wood sword

That disgraced ronins use for seppuku
Until my guts spill on the table
Then dip in the pen

And get something down on paper.

Sometimes the scars
Stay fresh for years.