Deconstructing Dante
|
Deconstructing Hector
|
| Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. |
Same epigraph. |
| — Divina Commedia |
|
| This, the friggin’ 4th try at a terza rima, |
Those anarchist sestinas are for the birds — |
| Thought it’d be easier than a sonnet, |
Their crazy rhyme scheme has bound you tight |
| I got tired of writing the anarchist sestina. |
Till you can't see the poetry for the words. |
| These damn rimes are all flat, doggone it, |
And when the terza rima loses its bite |
| I want to go back to haiku: |
You decide a well-turned haiku says it all: |
| All the lamps are lit, |
Wet sidewalks at night. |
| Backyards smell of Bar B
Q, |
Sleeping bags against the
wall. |
| Mountain lions kill
crows. |
Merry Christmas, Gav. |
| Not much. All I can do. |
Perhaps. Or maybe the detour is just a stall. |
| Golly, this poem blows. |
An attempt to alleviate pains that poets have |
| I want an art form easy as breath, |
From frequent workouts on a familiar track |
| A creative flow that flows. |
With seventeen drops of Japanese salve. |
| Doing rima is my poetic death, |
It’s time to get your joie d’écrire back. |
| O hell, I’ll just chew some more meth. |
Bust out! Pack up! Hit the road, Jack! |
| Hector Q. Mooney |
Susannah Martin |
