Poetics and Ruminations

Birthday of THE BOOK OF FORMS

Fifty (50) years ago, on 19 April 1968, I wrote in my journal, "The Book of Forms has arrived! It has the most incredible art nouveau cover." The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, first edition, by Lewis Turco, New York, NY: E. P. Dutton, 1968. Paperback original.

The New Book of Forms, A Handbook of Poetics (second edition of The Book of Forms), Hanover: University Press of New England, 1986 (www.UPNE.com),  ISBN 0874513804, cloth; 0874513812, paper.

The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Third Edition, Hanover: University Press of New England, 2000. ISBN 1584650419, cloth; ISBN 1584650222, paper. A companion volume to The Book of Dialogue and The Book of Literary Terms. “The Poet’s Bible."

The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Including Odd and Invented Forms, Revised and Expanded Edition by Lewis Putnam Turco, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England (www.UPNE.com) , 2012 • 384 pp. 3 illus. 5 x 7 1/2" Reference & Bibliography / Poetry 978-1-61168-035-5, paperback.

Companion volumes:

The Book of Literary Terms: The Genres of Fiction, Drama, Nonfiction, Literary Criticism, and Scholarship, Hanover: University Press of New England (www.UPNE.com), 1999. ISBN 0874519543, cloth; ISBN 0-874519-55-1, paper. A companion volume to The Book of Dialogue and The Book of Forms. A Choice  “Outstanding academic title” for 2000.

The Book of Dialogue: How to Write Effective Conversation in Fiction, Screenplays, Drama, and Poetry by Lewis Turco, Hanover: University Press of New England, (www.UPNE.com), 2004. ISBN 1-584653-61-2, paper. A companion volume to The Book of Forms and The Book of Literary Terms.

Form of the Week 36: The Limerick

The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Including Odd and Invented Forms, Revised and Expanded Edition by Lewis Putnam Turco, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England (www.UPNE.com) , 2012 • 384 pp. 3 illus. 5 x 7 1/2" Reference & Bibliography / Poetry 978-1-61168-035-5, paperback.

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The limerick is a form of light verse (vers de société). The alleged French ancestry of the limerick has been disputed.  Some authorities feel it is a native English form, descended from the madsong stanza. The madsong is any lyric sung by a madman or a fool, but there is a particular Form of the Week 35:  in which many such lyrics traditionally appear. The madsong stanza is said to be a descendant of the main stanza of "The Cuckoo Song":

 

THE CUCKOO SONG

 

Sing cuckoo now! Sing cuckoo!

Sing cuckoo! Sing cuckoo now!

 

Summer is a-coming in,

Loudly sing cuckoo!

         It grows the seed

         And blows the mead,

And springs the wood anew —

 

         Sing cuckoo!

 

The ewe bleats after the lamb,

And after the calf, the cow;

         The bullock starts,

         The buck farts —

Merry sing cuckoo!

 

         Cuckoo, cuckoo!

Well sing ye, cuckoo,

Nor cease ye never, now!

 

Anonymous (v. Wesli Court)

 

Written in strong-stress prosody (podics), the first, second and fifth lines of the main stanza (beginning above with line three) are tripodic, the third and fourth are dipodic.  The lines rhyme or consonate a³ b³ c² c² b³, d³ e³ f² f² e³ , and so on.  The long lines often end on an unstressed syllable (a falling ending), and there are internal sonic effects, including alliteration and assonance.

         Here is a twentieth-century send-up of “The Cuckoo Song”:

 

ANCIENT MUSIC

 

Winter is icummen in,

Lhude sing Goddamm,

Raineth drop and staineth slop,

And how the wind doth ramm!

                  Sing: Goddammm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,

An ague hath my ham.

Freezeth river, turneth liver,

                  Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, ‘tis why I am, Goddamm,

                  So ‘gainst the winter’s balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm,

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

 

Ezra Pound

 

This anonymous madsong following derives from the 16th century, and there are many versions of it; this is a shorter one:

 

TOM O'BEDLAM'S SONG

 

From the hag and hungry goblin

That into rags would rend ye,

                  All the spirits that stand

By the naked man

In the book of moons defend ye!

 

I slept not since the Conquest;

Till then I never waked

                  Till the roguish boy

Of love, where I lay,

Found me and stripped me naked.

 

The moon's my constant mistress

And the lonely owl my marrow;

         The flaming drake

         And the nighthawk make

Me music, to my sorrow.

 

I know more than Apollo,

For, oft when he lies sleeping,

         I behold the stars

         At mortal wars,

And the rounded welkin weeping.

 

The moon embraces her shepherd,

And the queen of love her warrior;

         While the first doth horn

         The stars of morn,

And the next the heavenly farrier.

 

With a host of furious fancies

Whereof I am commander,

         With a burning spear

         And a horse of air

To the wilderness I wander.

 

With a knight of ghosts and shadows

I'm summoned to a tourney

         Ten leagues beyond

         The wide world's end —

I think it is no journey.

 

Anonymous (v. Wesli Court)

 

However, the Anglo-Norman background of this form is probably not truly disputable, because it is clearly a podic form, and podic prosody developed after Chaucer, John Gower, and the Scottish Chaucerians adapted French syllabic verse to English accentual verse and adopted Norman rhyming.

The limerick is a quantitative accentual-syllabic quintet turning on two rhymes: aabba.  Lines 1, 2, and 5 have an iamb and two anapests, in that order; lines 3 and 4 have either an iamb and an anapest, in that order, or two anapests.  Line 5 can be merely a modified repetition of line 1 (AabbA), as the 19th century poet Edward Lear practiced it, but one of the oldest identifiable limericks also used this device: "Tobacco" is from Michael East's Second Set of Madrigals, published in 1606.  Whether East himself wrote it is moot.

 

TOBACCO

 

O metaphysical tobacco,

Fetched as far as from Morocco,

         Thy searching fume

         Exhales the rheum,

O metaphysical tobacco!

 

Michael East (?)

 

Despite the popularity of the limerick in the twenty-first century, the older folk tradition of the madsong can still be found in recent use. Here is a children’s game song that was current in New England at least as late as the 1940’s:

 

STREET SONG      

 

Help! Murder! Police!

My mother fell in the grease!

         I laughed so hard

         I fell in the lard.

Help! Murder! Police!

 

Anonymous

 

Many experiments have been enacted with the limerick form. Among other things, it has been used with some success as a stanza pattern rather than as a poem form. Changing its hard and wrenched rhymes to consonances, however, produces some strange results:

 

A ROBBERY

 

Some thieves sacked the home of Miss Hughes

Who owned a remarkable nose.

         She said, "Sirs, I shall sneeze

         And alert the police

If you don't get out of my house.”

 

Lewis Turco

 

A while back I posted this limerick on my Facebook page:

 

WEINER IN A BUN

 

A fellow named Anthony Weiner

Was fond of his penis' demeanor,

          So he mailed its portrait

          To girls...six or eight,

Who remarked that they wished it were cleaner.

 

Gary Getchell responded, “I tried to substitute ‘hot dog’ for ‘weiner,’ but the limerick never did work out! Lew ... you are the pro! Maybe you can show me how to do it!”

 

I’m happy to accede. We’ll begin with this little “fill-in-the-blank” exercise:

 

MAYOR BOB FILLNER OF SAN DIEGO

 

Bob liked to pat girls on the (fill in the blank)

And tickle their (fill in the blank) with his (fill in the blank).

      He'd no hope of Filner

      With fun or of killner

With wit, nor of making her (fill in the blank).

 

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Jennifer Reeser's Challenge

Jennifer Reeser sent Jack Foley this poem—and challenge:

 

HOW ABOUT?

 

How about you write a happy poem today,

with harps and harpsichords that play in major A,

remembering those hopeful things you used to say?

 

What if you imagined you were touring France --

the streets of Paris, say, where every passing glance

would seem to offer you a swift and sweet romance?

 

It needn't be about a great thing. Something humble

would work: a wildflower's wilted, yellow umbel

attracting ladybugs, or weighty bees to bumble;

 

safe in your favorite place, a fine, French Quarter door.

For once forego oppression, poverty, and war.

You do not have to save the planet anymore.

 

Your very first attempt at making rhyming verse --

remember it? No subject matter ever worse

than rainbows praised, then folded in a plastic purse.

 

And yet, your teacher told you it had wit and charm,

that it was new to school -- like you -- and southern, warm,

and if it didn't heal, at least it did no harm.

 

So no more "beaten puppy" poems. Are we agreed?

We all have veins, which, cut with our own hands, will bleed.

Of suffering, The World Review has no more need.

 

-- Jennifer Reeser

 

Jack Foley replied,

 

HOW ABOUT YOU?

 

How about you write a happy poem?

No more of scandals like The Teapot Dome

A happy poem to thrill you and hit home.

 

You aren't an insect like the praying mantis

Get down and dirty, unlike your old aunties.

Think colored underwear and sexy panties.

 

The world is going quickly down the drain

And everywhere you look you notice pain

We don't have to hear that song again.

 

Death's the lord that rules this whirling earth

But though there's death, there's also daily birth

And where there's birth, there's also joy and mirth.

 

Turn off the side that thrills to homicide

Be happy that you have another side

That lovely woman makes a lovely bride

 

And you have many times discovered blisses

In your lover's captivating kisses

(Please don't remind me of the pain a bris is).

 

A happy poem looks deeply in the eyes

Of someone you see always with surprise

But wouldn't ever harm or compromise.

 

A happy poem does not deny the dearth

Of happiness but answers it with mirth.

A happy poem returns us to the earth.    

 

-- Jack Foley

  

Jack sent me this correspondence, including the Sandburg “Snatch” just below. I assume he meant to challenge me, too, so I wrote my “Happy Pome” and sent it to Jack and Jennifer:

 

 

Are you happy? It’s the only way to be, kid.

Yes, be happy. It’s a good nice way to be.

But not happy-happy kid, don’t

be too doubled-up doggone happy.

It’s the doubled-up doggone happy-

happy people…bust hard…they

do bust hard…when they bust.

Be happy, kid, go to it, but not too doggone happy.

 

—Carl Sandburg, “Snatch of Sliphorn Jazz”

 

HAPPY POME

 

Are you happy? It’s the only way to be, kid.

Yes, be happy. It’s a good nice way to be.

But not happy-happy kid, don’t

be too doubled-up doggone happy.

It’s the doubled-up doggone happy-

happy people…bust hard…they

do bust hard…when they bust.

Be happy, kid, go to it, but not too doggone happy.

 

—Carl Sandburg, “Snatch of Sliphorn Jazz”

 

     I am happy happy happy -- 

     Yes, I know I'm kinda sappy,

But I'm happy as the friggin' day is long,

     So I've put on my toupee

     To write a happy pome today --

If you've music you can sing it as a song.

 

     Though the world is sort of crappy,

     And I haven't had my nappy

(Not a didy but a sleep that's nice and long),

     I'll put on a smile that's silly

     And I'll wear it willy-nilly

Like a jockstrap that is very like a thong.

 

     I will eat my tapi-tapi-

     Oca pudding till I'm whacky, 

Then I'll sit and count my fingers and my toes

Till my cat goes lappy-lappy

     At her milk like it's a frappe

     And I get a drink of water from my hose.

 

     Oh, I wish I had my pappy

     Back although he gets quite snappy

When he's wakened from his slumber in the ground.

But I'd say to him, "Dear Daddy,

     I exist up here quite sadly.

     I'd be happy if you'd rise and hang around."

 

-- Lewis Turco

 

And Jack replied again with other poems by himself and other people:

  

DONE

 

Oh, he wishes for his pappy

Though his pappy can be snappy

(After all he’s dead and buried in the ground)

So the Turk puts on his gnome

Hat, produces quite a poeme

(But--his pappy’s turning, whirling all around!)

 

-- Jack Foley

 

A HAPPY POEM

 

Happiness is an epiphenomenon,

A by-product of something else,

Like yesterday, when I did errands for a friend

And realized her day would be better:

Then I felt happy.  But I didn't do it to feel happy

Or to make her happy, as if cause and effect

Were the only thing in the human world...

We do so much that is indirect, find ourselves

When we don't know we are lost; return

A favour when someone does not expect it, recall,

Incidentally, the walk across the bridge,

Meant only to get to Cambridge, the rest

Of our lives, become a father again.

Happiness has its own course.  We find it

Along the way.

 

-- Peter Sherburn-Zimmer

   

A DULCET AIR

 

    A lark, a sprite, a glass of wine and thou

    In a pastoral setting, picnicking wow

    This is life with a capital L, and how!

 

    I might think of France, Corsica or the Ardennes

    But in a dell or on a delta - life is made of friends

    Joined to enjoy overflowing cups making temporal amends

 

    To me a dandelion's seeds blown into the blue on high

    A silhouette of cypress against a blazing sunset sky

    Or the unseen flight a single bird calling on the fly

    

    Such are simple joys which often get passed by

    Without a thought, taking note or ever wondering why

    Even while, for many, happiness is as remote, even sly

 

    We don’t have to focus on sufferance and pain

    We don’t have to join the dirge of those who complain

    We don’t have to compete to see whose most insane

 

    This world is a world, much as any, that can be found

    It is glorious, verdant, blue, green white and round

    It’s moon is a wonder giving us mysteries that abound

 

    And so it is to happiness that our verse should be turned

    It is happiness through which our souls become learned

    And to happiness that we would dedicate all we’ve earned

 

    A dusky meadow, upland in some seaboard state

    Where fireflies and children, with joy, have a date

    And watermelon waits, with a cake on a plate

    

    And happy, happy eyes look on and reminisce

    And happy, happy smiles whisper for a kiss

    As musicians warm up for folk-dancy bliss

 

-- Dan Brady

  

A HAPPY POEM

 

A happy poem is the relief 

of turning away from ominous grief

looking at a luscious tree

sharing fruit and shade with me

 

-- Nina Serrano

  

THESE WORDS

  

These words are short these words are long.

What does it matter if they’re wrong?

Let’s squeeze them all into a song.

 

Sing praises to the tardigrade,

(Its jolly rounded shape, well made!)

and feed the world some marmalade.

 

We fret too much or fret too little

soon our mouths are full of spittle.

Oooo our psyche is so brittle.

 

The young dies young the old dies old.

It’s not a pretty scene, all told.

Living has never been so bold.

 

Misfits, servants, addicts, lovers,

strive and nest without the buffers.

So fly and wade the humble plovers.

 

If Christ and Buddah return today

neither of them has much to say

except the teas in Cafe Bouquet.

 

Take a cup and drown the sorrow.

No scam is like that of tomorrow.

We all return the stuff we borrow.

 

Sing hey hey hey, sing hee hee ha.

Sing hum-di-dump, and ooo-la-la

and a wump and a tooth and a tree, wa wa.

 

-- Clara Hsu

 

evening

 

the older folks

who live here

gather on the porch

just before the sun goes down

 

before the birds

go sleeping

into the branches

 

before the sun

moves gently

out of the leaves

and they turn

from brilliant green

to indistinguishable

shades of blue

 

before the bear comes out

with her cub

 

before the deer

go home

with their

fawns

 

how wonderful

to hear them

 

the older folks

where i live

 

talking

and laughing

 

still

  

-- Deborah Wenzel

 

A HAPPY POEM – WHAT A CONCEPT

 

A happy poem - What a concept! -

requires faith from the onset,

and more courage than a lovely sonnet

 

It could never be arranged by any contract

but might be found in alien contact

if it led to a joyous sex act

 

Imagine soaring at light speed

while every molecule decreed

interstellar bliss achieved! 

 

But only planted firmly on the earth,

the home planet in homegrown dirt,

can we discover that golden mirth

 

that so overjoys us in our skin

that we slip loose of it time and again

and dissolve into an autumn wind

 

whose face is intimate, but unseen

a welcome sigh out of a dream

that we once lived and loved and leaned

 

into a bloodstream almost divine

beyond the concepts - time and mind,

beyond the light and awestruck blind

 

we see again through scaleless eyes

the joyous world and glowing skies

beauty herself undisguised 

 

-- Jake Berry

 

THIS IS A HAPPY POEM

 

And why not make room for some porter ale in Pollyanna tones

which will quash your global ostrich blues. Take all your finer tokens

for granted.  Pipe down on skunk-fume, spread your dijon

 

Instead.  Remember even drips can inspire love by telephone.

Dog-eared flowers & tin pan songs aren’t so easily forsaken.

O the tender scent comes fresh apricots, lightly shaken.

 

And here’s the rub. The best ice cream flavor ever chosen

sticks to the page, drips downside eyes & honey cones—

quadruple scoops are proof of purchase alone.

 

Skip who’s-up-the-creek, such inklings thrown

trip you for a loop at best.  One single couplet coupon

favors lucky charms.  Touch his/her cubit as shown.

 

Joyous sea waves crash air holes together eloping

foam. A love note tucked between some old leather tome

is about as absurd as finding blackbirds or a polished stone.

 

A bluebird sings up sudden without thought and roams

all, not only one third of sky.  A clutch of words can crack ribs open

from a hidden nest deep inside your chest.  Rest.

                                    Find yourself a happy poem.

 

-- Mary-Marcia Casoly

 

ANOTHER HAPPY POEM   Light as a feather Clouds in a rosy sunrise Holiday weekend!   -- Adelle Foley

Perhaps everyone should accept Jennifer’s challenge and write a happy poem today!

Jack, Please tell your lucky, talented wife, Adelle, that she has made my day, and that the crested California Foleys have gone to the top of the Swamp Reesers' Christmas card list this year.  It seems that Lew, you and I have set fire beneath a few heels ;-)   Jennifer

 

The Book of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Including Odd and Invented Forms, Revised and Expanded Edition by Lewis Putnam Turco, Hanover, NH: University Press of New England (www.UPNE.com) , 2012 • 384 pp. 3 illus. 5 x 7 1/2" Reference & Bibliography / Poetry 978-1-61168-035-5, paperback.

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SHAKESPEARE GNOMES

 

Attraction

 

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her womanhood, for I am merely male.

 

 

Daydreams

 

O what men dare do! What men may do!

It’s fun to think what women may do too!

 

 

Owlishness

 

We should be woo’d and were not made to woo,

It matters not a whit, to wit, nor who.

 

Falstaff’s Callgirl

 

I follow him to serve my turn upon him –

The others do not even care to con him.

 

 

Genomic Imperative

 

Asses are made to bear, and so are you

Made to bare your ass to quite a few.

 

 

Pursuit

 

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below

The waistline where I most would like to go.

 

 

 

 

MADSONG: AN OLD TALE RETURNED

 

Most lovers are good in a clinch,

They do very well in a pinch.

       They clutch a few straws.

        Loosen their drawers —

Break some conundrums? A cinch!

 

A lover's a fellow with bells

But only one clapper that swells

      And makes such a dong

      Nell breaks into song 

And then vents a series of yells.

 

A maiden must hold up her head

After she gets out of bed

      And heads out of doors,

      Joins society's wars

To show she's been very well bred.

 

"Good heavens!" the neighbors will cry,

"You're looking uncommonly spry!

      Your skirt is quite rumpled,

      Your bodice is crumpled,

And there's an odd gleam in your eye!"

 

Her sweetheart sneaks out the rear window,

Acts like a weed in a windrow,

      But he will return,

      Though his mistress may burn,

For she has been labeled a bimbo.

 

Lewis Turco

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