For TG
A certain editor, distressed
At the venomous plaints
Of rejected authors,
Proposed a definition:
Good poems
Would lie at the center
Where three circles
Intersect.
Each wide balloon
(One pink, one purple, one
Lemon yellow)
Floats a single
Element:
Intelectual;
Lyrical;
Emotional.
And the poems
We want would occupy
That intersected space
(An unfortunate muddy gray),
Pulsing with all three
Adjectives.
We forgive
The misspelling of
“Intellectual,”
The pressures of blogging
Being what they are.
***
Nonetheless, these are awesome adjectives.
How do we charge our verse with intellect?
Shall we quote admonitions of pensive
Long dead poets? Surrender abjectly
To Pope, let’s say, who argued that “The sound
Must seem an echo to the sense.” Agreed,
That works, but times do change. MacLeish astounds
Us with “A poem should not mean / But be.”
And, not long after, X. J. Kennedy
Opined: “The goose that laid the golden egg
Died looking up its crotch / To find out how
his sphincter worked. / Would you write well? Don’t watch.”
(This last tore my sonnet’s woven rhyme—shit!
Nonetheless the “intellect” was worth it.)
***
Which brings us to “lyrical”—the music
Shimmering, vibrating, intense, our sense
Subverted by feelings almost pubic,
Our mind becomes an ear, and no pretense
Of logic trumps rare musical insight.
“Eftsoones,” sweet Spenser sang, “they heard a most
melodious sound, / Of all that mote delight
a daintie ear.” This goes on apace, boasts,
Finally, that “[B]irdes, voices, instruments,
windes, waters, all agree” in “harmonee.”
Our lurid ears, not minds, are being sent
To the Bower of Bliss. Tough to tear free
From such unsanctioned delight. Tough to find
Escape when lyrics overwhelm the mind.
***
Which brings us to “emotion.” This one chills!
One man’s brute joke can break another’s back.
The safest route is to confess your ills—
This worked so well a “movement” wrote a stack
Of books, cherished yet. Deep confessionals!
Hard to believe our poets entertained
Those betrayed trusts, baleful lusts: blunt twaddle,
“Look at us! Our deep indelible stains!”
It’s time, dammit, for each poem to give up
Its passion for the “inner”; try “outer”
For a change. Stop flaunting intimate crap
That taints your soul. Become the mad shouter;
Excoriate this writhing world. Scream STOP
EARTH’S MURDEROUS NONSENSE—LISTEN—GROW UP!
***
Jeez, three sonnets
And a bowling pin
So far,
And I’ve yet to make my point.
Defining art is easy.
It’s formal & aesthetic.
Defining form used to be less queasy,
Before “free verse” gave license to every pathetic
Scribbler to wax poetic!
Back in the day, when poets
Mastered rigid forms—sonnets,
Villanelles, whatever, with such
Velvet ease the reader never knew it—
That was poetry!
But aesthetic—that one’s tough.
Simply put, it’s what you like.
And you’re the editor.
No bunched colorful
Balloons, as you justly note,
Conveys the mystery
Of your taste.
We scribblers
(Who’ve never penned
A turgid word!)
Will keep harassing
Until you surrender
Your notion of delight,
Come to your senses,
And adopt ours.
Alas! To be an editor
Is to be besieged.
(7/6/07)
