[Michael Cantor]

Chris - neat, but I'd prefer it if it was pared to S1, S4 and S5. And S5 by itself is wonderful for a shorter critique, and you don't have to go through as many lines to get to the all-important "Fuck you".

[Roger Slater]

An unpublished ditty I seem to have written 18 years ago:

HONEST VILLANELLE

Here's the first line. It will be recast
and used again before this poem is through.
And here's the line I need to end on last.

The challenge of a villanelle is vast.
I started poorly, reader, telling you
'Here's the first line. It will be recast,'

and even though I knew it was half-assed
I kept on writing, knowing it was true.
And then I wrote the line that would come last.

By now, dear reader, you are shocked, aghast,
and wondering if you have grounds to sue.
Here's the twelfth line. Like the first, recast,

its vapid senselessness is unsurpassed.
It's like a food you cannot taste or chew,
as is the line that's destined to come last.

We can only hope that it comes fast.
We all have better things by far to do.
Here's the first line, thoroughly recast.
And here's the line I'll end upon at last.

[Roger Slater]

HOW I DID IT

When I sat down, I did not plan
... to write the poem you're reading,
but when I tried to write the one
... I wanted, on proceeding

I discovered to my sorrow
... that I would be needing
not to write it after all
... because the rhymes were leading

me to say what I had not
... in any way intended,
so all my plans for what I'd write
... were totally upended.

My friend, if you're enjoying this,
... I've no right to be proud.
It wasn't me! I simply wrote
... whatever rhyme allowed.

[Orwn Acra]

The wind—

p. 5
p. 7
p. 5

[Roger Slater]

THIS POEM

This poem's self-referential.
... Of that there is no doubt.
This poem itself, and nothing else,
... is what this poem's about.

The way it blithely bops along,
... much like a metronome,
the way this poem proclaims this poem
... is all about this poem.

It's not about the ache of love
... or autumn leaves that fall.
This poem's a poem about itself,
... exclusively. That's all.

You may not like it. That's okay.
... You need not take it home.
It's not about your taste in poems.
... This poem's about this poem.

[Michael Cantor]

Here's a translation of Orwn's haiku:

Sonnet twists and turns
Villanelle repeats itself
Haiku jumps - kerplop!


This one is so old it was originally written in charcoal on the wall of a cave.

Teach a Man to Write

Give a man a book, 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 sonnet that he gibble-gabbled
at all night: what once was babbled
now will form a half-defined
and vague, but metrically aligned
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!)


And - just to prove you can write a poem about poetry without rhyme or meter:

From Russia With Love

I think today I'll write about
Potemkin Villages -
hell, I'm Russian,
or at least my father was born there,
and I even wear a big gold ring,
a double eagle coin
with the Tsar of All the Russias
trapped face down
kissing my finger,
so the description of these villages -
facades
propped up house-fronts
nothing behind them
erected quickly
fits right in -
and I can even use it
to write my daily
Potemkin Poem
because it gives me something,
to talk about
some starting point
and piece of reality -
good images -
the ring,
all those Potemkin housefronts,
maybe sheathed in ice
in a hard Russian winter,
while I scribble
scrabble dribble
drabble
words and pictures down a page
as quickly as I can type
and make sure to
provide
many
line breaks
so it looks like a poem
and it's amazing
how many people
regard it as a poem,
even me,
even though all I did was
quickly write
whatever came into my head
scrible scrabble, dribble, drabble,
for fifteen minutes,
and here's my latest
Potemkin Poem.

[Roger Slater]

THE POEM'S PLEA

Say me, please.
Don't just read me.
Sound is food.
Won't you feed me?

Life itself
is what I give,
but first I need
your voice to live.