Mastering Poetry

Mastering poetry isn't a joy,
Tapering from the old pains to the new:
Working things out, passing images through
Thresher-like engines of craft. As a boy
I never wanted for dons to annoy,
Gurus to pester, instructors with no clue
Waiting for me to impregnate with dew
All the implicit rhymes time will destroy.

Now I am old, and the world still awaits
Sudden fecundity, inspiring flash,
Innocent truths, but my heart turns to ash
While my insensitive friends hold debates,
Claiming their help has been what integrates
Craft with my art, two things that never clash.

Cabbages

It is a song. You always knew the song;
I will not smile, pretend to play the fool,
And act as though disaster makes us strong.
You have lived it. I have been to school,
Learning mad words and foreign languages,
Testing my lessons against time and truth,
Discovering that love is cabbages
And episodes you call products of youth.
I know too many songs, dear, not to flaunt
The knowledge, and, pretending to be wise,
While other men deliver what you want
I savagely refuse to tell you lies.
I sing this to our past, and to (of course)
Your heart, a paramilitary force.

As My Fame Redounds

I met a woman who made crazy sounds:
A train, a four-horse wagon, a bass drum,
And prayers that called all sinners to come:
"Now praise the Lord!" We wandered through the grounds,
Avoiding both the sinners and the hounds.
Her true name may have been known to some,
But never reached my ears. Only a hum
Plays quietly, just as my fame redounds.

I thought music would be my epitaph,
But my outsized ambition was aborted
By the unknown woman I escorted:
I asked her, "Did you want my autograph?"
She answered merrily, "You make me laugh."
"Is that a good thing?" I inquired. She snorted.

What Sonnets Mean

for John Klavins

You know how clamour rhymes with glamour, right?
That's all there is, noise filling up my brain
While listening to thunder, while the rain
Beats on the tin roof through the starless night.
No, I'm not waiting for slivers of light,
Or new methods for dealing with the strain,
I can't remember how to stanch the pain,
I just hear clamour, glamour, bathed in fright.

When every thought is how sonnets are made
Once they get started, I'm ready to start
As soon as one idea about art
Hits home. I give each rhyme a letter grade
(It's C for Ambuscade, E for Evade,
S H for Shade), and prick my ears apart.