How Sonnets Help

Involve yourself in every foreign woe.
I steadfastly refuse to cry for peace,
But tell my enemies, “Call the police!”
They laugh, and thank me for the comic show.
I warn the bastards they had better go,
Or else I’ll be compelled to call my niece
(“Uncle!” she cried), and bring the attack geese
To disembowel them, to quell the foe.

These sonnets are the glory of the age,
And pour out ruthless justice by the litre,
So the great world should rattle, snort, and teeter.
I know only disharmony and rage,
And face the troubles of this deadly stage
With ease of conscience and regular metre.

Our Own Senses

I love the way we sense that poetry
Feeds our own senses. Kiss, (that’s when the hum
Begins). We put to sea (with a bottle of rum
And seventy-five men). On the (wine-dark) sea
We took our chance, and from the tall mast tree
Sweet pine scent; sailing to Byzantium
The ship foundered, just like at Actium
(Age cannot wither her). What do you see?

A sailor (catching tigers in red weather)
Remarks on having sensed the lavender,
Attar of roses, frankincense and myrrh.
(Hope is the thing with feathers), a bright feather
Floats suddenly towards you, hell-for-leather:
Sight, and sound, touch, and taste (they taste good to her).

Why Women Prefer Planes and Trains

The bevy hit the levee in their Chevy,
But the levee wasn’t harmed by the incursion.
The cop complained the car was way too heavy,
But minor damage showed a different version.
The tires made airy gyres, round happy flyers
Revolving merrily above the guardrails,
As our desires were sung by angel choirs
Singing train songs, like “Coal Fires” and “Hard Rails.”
The beauties had their duties, so these cuties
Warned us about the UnderTow. The ocean,
Uncertain with its typhoons and its U.T.s,
Reminded them to use their best hand lotion.
And that’s why women fly; cars make them cry,
While men sigh as the women say good-bye.

Epiphany

You hardly blinked when elephants lay down
And washed themselves in wide brushed nickel tubs,
Or quibbled much when you were offered grubs
To keep you strong — it should have been a crown,
But you said you were not annoyed. Your frown
Said you would have preferred the syllabubs
Served to the precious burghers of the town.
You’d have preferred a hot dog and a clown.

But then came moments that were epiphanic:
When Victor, your puppy, broke loose and darted
Into traffic, left you broken-hearted,
And you saw the bun you ate was not organic.
Don't tell me now is not the time to panic.
Now is the time to panic: Let's get started.