Two Thoughts on Rhyme

Sound Principles

These eye-rhymes, like those half-rhymes, are so weak.
Oh, sure, they work hard sometimes, to be fair,
But mostly they just stand to create pique
Among us true verse lovers everywhere.
Choosing to break tradition, like a bough
Lopped off a living tree, no matter who
Insists on aimless foolish choices now,
Has always been a source of endless rue.
Prove doesn’t rhyme with love. I grab the gunwale,
Retching, and hoping that the stale mince pie
Won't come up. But this beats the old dank tunnel
Where I grew up with two ears and one eye.
Since I walked my first sonnet down the aisle,
I’ve counted on sound principles, true style.



Make It Sing

If you rhyme sing with wrong, something had better
Be wrong: that’s the whole point of using rhyme.
When rhyme gets altered, unmade by one letter,
It’s like harsh music swerving out of time.
You need a reason? Dissonance in Mozart?
Sure, with a purpose, and then it resolves.
This half-rhyme with no purpose is a goat’s art:
Meh! Reading it, my good will twists, dissolves.
I hate those eye-rhymes, too, but this is worse,
A tool not used, but squandered, disdained, wasted.
I retch at this ignoble victual. Nurse!
Please help me purge this poison that I’ve tasted!
I tried to make a sonnet, make it sing,
Raise true delight, but something has gone wrong.

Tropes

This room here is half lit, and so am I,
Watching the stars for signs that never come,
Inventing stupid reasons not to cry,
And crying anyway, roughly, struck dumb
When numbness had been my most devout wish.
Somehow, I'm swamped by feelings I don't want,
Don't need, can't use. Revenge may be a dish --
But not when I'm the object. I'm not gaunt;
I should be gaunt. Instead, I'm old and fat,
I breathe dust, contemplating suicide,
But give it up. I'll wear an old straw hat,
Recalling how we both cried, lied, died, sighed.
This is the end of everything, all hopes,
But I write sonnets: copes, slopes, ropes, mopes, tropes.

Sugar

It’s time for lies: this candour’s run its course,
With all its passion, love of truth, and steam.
The time has come for living in a dream,
For literary sonnets, drained of force.
Forget those endless sagas in Old Norse,
Inspiring speeches to the football team,
And good, strong coffee with a splash of cream,
No sugar. I want sugar, and remorse.

I will not say I’m sorry. Every day
You carp and moan, demanding honesty,
And up to now I’ve caved in, too gently,
But now it’s time for lies, I’ve got to say:
The subtlest, deepest, falsest turn away
From truth. Lights out now: I don’t want to see.

Enough of Tears

I’ve had enough of tears. Sometimes I cry
Because a dog gets hurt, just in a book,
Or some sad character has told the cook
To give up cabbage rolls; a lullaby
Sung to a baby; hoping to reply
To these attacks but too afraid to look
Where they came from. I sighed, my shoulders shook,
Then I gave in to futile weeping. Why?

It’s not compassion, but it’s not abstract feelings,
This stupid crying. I’d be cold as ice
If only I could turn off this device,
These wet ducts, sadness and the onion peelings,
The chance to reconcile, the honest dealings,
The crooks, the devils. Stop. I’ve done this twice.