[Roger Slater]

I translated a poem about poetry written by Baltasar de Alcázar several centuries ago. You can read all 100 lines in The Alabama Literary Review (scroll to page 100 or so), but here's the beginning:


About Rhymes

....I'd like to tell my tale of woe,
oh Juana, but my curse is,
what I mean to say, I fear,
my verse sometimes reverses.
....For if I try to say what seems
important, half the time
I end up saying something else
because I'm forced to rhyme.
....Example: I would like to write
a verse to make it plain
Inez is good and lovely, but
the rhyme then adds insane.
....And so I end up calling her
insane because it went
with plain to make a rhyme although
that isn't what I meant.
....And if I praise the subtle wit
with which she's known to speak,
before I turn around, my rhyme
proclaims her nose a beak.
....And thus in substance I allege
her nose, that's so sublime,
is hooked, although I have no cause
except the cause of rhyme.

[RCL]

Notes of an Old New Critic

Can it truly be a poem if
It isn’t in a formal shape
It isn’t in a well-known meter
It isn’t cleverly ironic?

It isn’t what’s ambiguous
It isn’t with organic rhymes
It isn’t opposed to paraphrase
It isn't paradoxical?

It isn’t easily read or taught
It's read as if a history text
It's a poet’s biography
It’s biased Lib or GOP?

It's a Frenchman's deconstruction
It's by an AI robot written
It isn’t a solo Verbal Icon
It isn’t a very Well-Wrought Urn?


For most of you out there, way way way younger than I am, the last two lines refer to manuals of close-reading approaches that English grad students and instructors slept with in the 1950s and 60s. From a weakening memory:

W.K. Wimsatt, The Verbal Icon
Cleanth Brooks, The Well-Wrought Urn

[Michael Cantor]

This was written for Carol Taylor, who ran the Sphere in the Mesozoic era (and popped up suddenly a few weeks ago, then disappeared again) and didn't like my habit (back then) of ending sonnets with an Alexandrine.

Alexandrine Ragtime

Come on along, come on and hear, you’ll want to cheer
the Alexandrine Ragtime Band. We top the stand,
we’ll take command, we are the grandest in the land!

If you’re keen on mean sestinas, set to ragtime,
and you like your Coke with brandy, Alexandrine –
beat your feet to rhythm? Hexameter each line?

Totally demented? You will like us big time:
we are the bestest poets what wrote a dithyramb –
your honeyed hams – the Alexandrine Ragtime Band!!


And this was one aimed at the legendary Alan Sullivan, who ran the Deep End when the Deep End was deep, and had a defeatist attitude about Triolets - particularly mine.

Critical Mass

“I don’t like triolets,” the critic states,
“I find them quite impossible to write
with grace.” Some may agree with his dictates –
I don’t! With poise and wit, the critic states
his point: my triolet accentuates
and twists his meaning, adds an insight
he won’t like. “Triolets,” the critic states,
“I find them quite impossible to write”


And Then He Wrote

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.


Dear Poet: (Form Letter)

Thank you for your [brief description]
which we have read at [journal's name].
We recognize the erudition,
but must inform you, all the same,

that, though an elegant submission,
just now, we [show no one's to blame].
But please do purchase a subscription -
[imply acceptance then, and fame].

[Julie Steiner]

Manifesto

I’m sick of songs of victimhood—
stuff that I don’t want to write.
My work will preach that life is good.
I’m sick of songs of victimhood.
My muse, though, hasn’t understood,
and only sends depressing shite
I’m sick of—songs of victimhood.
Stuff that. I don’t want to write.

[RCL]

Nice one Julie! It reminded me of this oldie from Ghost Trees, a riposte to Frost's "Acquainted with the Night."


Night Light

This is a poem saying Life is good.
Although I am acquainted with the night,
it isn’t wailing grief or slinging mud.
This is a poem saying Life is good,
a song of peace and joy, not painful plight.
And yes—the darkest poems embrace the light.
This is a poem saying Life is good,
although I am acquainted with the night.


I then recalled this pastiche from My Miscellaneous Muse.


Acquainted with the Light

I have been one acquainted with the light.
I have walked out in sun—and back in sun.
I have outwalked the darkest city night.

I have looked down the sunniest city lane.
I have passed utopians, dreamy and sweet,
And raised my eyes to see no one in pain.

I have strutted, jumped and danced on echoing feet
When on my sunlit path a constant cry
Rose from dark caves beneath the city street

That meant for me to pause and praise the sky;
And closer still there was a hopeful sight:
Proud chanticleer, his ruby comb held high,

Proclaimed in song this day would bring delight.
I have been one acquainted with the light.


(I have an ever-growing suspicion that Frost's original is a parody of the overly indulgent ego in poems.)

[Michael Cantor]

Triolets, huh.

Confessions of a 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.

[RCL]

And slightly slant, the final draft of one of my earliest posts here, and published in Ghost Trees:

Learning a Trade

At ten years old, I learned the art
of stripping down a well-worn chair
awaiting its recovery
at Joseph’s Furniture Repair.

I loved to tear off tufts and yards
of braid and fabric, yank out mesh
and tacks, and bare the chairs to bones,
frames my father would refresh.

In my search for hidden treasures,
I’d peel away a Naugahyde,
brocade or satin, rip out springs
and webbing, finding deep inside

old glasses, watches, pencils, coins,
photos, jewels, and wedding bands—
dry remnants of their owners’ lives,
recovered stories in my hands.

First appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly

[Roger Slater]

EPIC POEM

I thought that I would write a poem
... that's filled with great import,
and what you're reading now, I thought,
... would be the epic sort
that fills at least a book or two,
... yet something came to thwart
my best intentions. That is why
... this epic poem's so short.

[Chris O'Carroll]

How Many Poets Does It Take to Screw in a Light Bulb?

Eschew the headlong thrust, but choose the screw,
That subtle swerve that Archimedes knew.
Let there be light by means of deft rotation
And delicately twisted penetration.



Five Feet

Iamb and spondee are trochees
(An anomaly some find amusing),
And anapest scans as a dactyl –
Poetry is perverse and confusing.

Dactyl falls short of dactylic
Eminence, since it lacks the essential
Third syllable. Thus only trochee
Manages to be self-referential.



Ode to My Rhyming Dictionary

Some rhymes are words you don’t hear every day:
This book alerts me that I’d be a curple,
A horse’s hindquarters, were I to say
That no word in the language rhymes with purple;

It sets me straight by showing me that month,
The name we give an interval of time
Of which a day’s about one thirty-oneth,
Can beat the rap of lacking any rhyme;

It gifts me with a golden rhyme for silver,
That precious color of bright drops of dew
Or moonlight glistening on a newborn chilver
Nursed by her likewise silvered mother ewe;

It takes me by the hand and guides me higher,
As to the very summit of the Blorenge,
Bids me survey Welsh landscape and acquire
That rhymester’s Holy Grail, a match for orange.

[Gail White]

My favorite poem on this subject is an immortal quatrain by
X.J. KENNEDY:

Ars Poetica

The goose that laid the golden eggs
died looking up its crotch
to find out how its sphincter worked.
Would you lay well? Don't watch.