Underneath

You are as a scary alpine mount I’ve chanced
Upon where the wind blows piercingly brisk and pure,
With a cleansing, invasive breath by which I’m entranced,
Where the arctic cool awakens senses sure
To rouse me wide awake, and the cliffs are steep
And gorgeously bleak, with terrain pristine though prone
To avalanches, freezing pits, which keep
Me worried sick, by nature awed and alone.
When the seasons shift, the ices thaw and deep
Underneath is revealed a hill of holes, a zone
Of muddied tunnels, signs of secret life,
The nordic hill is now an insect heap,
And what I thought was glacial charm is shown
To be hollowed slush with rotten movements rife.

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I think of sonnets as a very standard, bread and butter form that was key to renaissance art, with writers like Shakespeare and Sidney producing whole novel-length books of them on one or a few topics, like Stella, or a young man who should procreate. They seemed borderline obsessive and ruminative, and the strict form reinforced this trait, although invariably modern poets have used the sonnet for broader purposes and with less adherence to form. I’ve used the Petrarchan or Italian type, figuring that the “turn” from the octave to sestet makes it niftier than the Elizabethan, which has as its signature the envoi (rhyming couplet) at the end. I like the sestet in my poem better than the octave, and I shudder at some of the phrases in the poem, e.g. “glacial charm.” Note: “Me guarded, freaked, by nature awed to the bone.” has been changed to “Me worried sick, by nature awed and alone.”

What I Need To Do

For the life of me, I can’t quit you

And leave the crazy sleepless nights,

Although it’s what I need to do.

When I hear your name my face turns blue,

My fears run wild, and yet, in spite,

For the life of me I can’t quit you.

I only want to start anew,

Can’t leave though try with all my might,

Although it’s what I need to do.

The sacred times are what help me through

The insults, lies, incessant fights:

For the life of me, I can’t quit you.

You’ll abuse me till I have no clue

And yet I can’t switch off the light,

Although it’s what I need to do.

I’m atop the line of your fan club queue,

And I’m sick and tired of all this shite.

For the life of me I can’t quit you,

Although it’s what I need to do.

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I was sick while writing the villanelle, and after quickly pumping out the first one I attempted for an excruciating time to write another – about literature, with the ending “I’m unsure what fiction’s supposed to do / Ask Tolstoy, he might have a clue” - but all creativity had been wrung out. Two observations about the villanelle: a) the ending lines should be strong and I assume that most poets write these first and b) the potential for jumbling lines and stanzas is immense here (the second and fourth stanzas of mine were originally reversed). If I were to revise my villanelle, I might try to strengthen some of the stanzas, like three and five.

Bali Pastoral

I lie afloat in glinting cerulean seas,

My eyes imbibing the teal bright horizon,

The swaying palms, the surfers braving waves,

The Hindu march, white robes and flags, strange sanctity

With mystic chimes and incense, idols swirled.

Ashore the locals barter, “Boy, want girl

Or gun?” and bamboo shrines with flowers burn

In doors as the dwindling sun flares magma red.

Chauffeured to Jimbaran Beach, past rice canals

And dogs astray, we sit in plastic chairs

With candlelight, untarnished chalk moonlight,

And dine on king crab, snapper, mango juice,

Our family one, united, enthroned in time.

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To my mind, the formula for pastoral = landscape + lyricism. When I originally learned I was to write a pastoral poem, I thought of Virgil’s Eclogues, which was a slog for me, although The Georgics is one of my favourite books. I also vaguely recollected some notion of John Milton following in Edmund Spenser’s footsteps in writing pastoral verse before graduating to the sublimity of epic, although I’m probably confused somewhere. The poem I wrote I’m moderately pleased with, although it’s questionable how pastoral-y it is, and the last few lines about dinner, meant to evoke a sort of timelessness and milestone for a family, come off as sentimental and tacked on.

Ode to Rain

Oh rain! Dispatch of the pregnant sky,

Thou bathe with drizzles cool,

Awaken seeds and roots run dry,

And render picknickers fools!

Thy wat’ry purses feed the creeks

That flow to oceans wide,

Where dwell the creatures of the deep –

Ever in rain reside.

Thy crystal drops that dew the grass

Back up to heaven rise,

In endless cycle: present, past

(And future, I surmise!)

In lightning storms torrential rains

Doth shoot down from above,

In cleansing act that soaks the brain

With scenes of hate and love.

Thy acid taste and patter hum

Welcome ‘neath stars not light,

Except rainbows streak the sky I’ll come

Outside and not take flight.

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This was my first real poem for the class and I bet in my effort to emulate the Romantics I appeared somewhat out to lunch with centuries-old language like “Thy,” “Thou,” and “Doth.” The ode is a more open form with many possibilities, though I used abab stanzas with iambic lines of four, three, four, and three feet, a structure I’ve worked extensively in.