Poetics and Ruminations

BOHICA: A Sestina

       

          There are many fine poems in this newest issue of Joseph S. Salemi’s Trinacria by people such as the late Alfred Dorn, Claudia Gary, Jennifer Reeser, Richard O’Connell, Frederick Turner and others. Here are my two contributions, “BOHICA,” a sestina, and “Our Shelves and Selves,” a Monsourelle:

 

BOHICA

 

Here’s Lady Luck whipping ‘round the bend,

Checking us out, looking our bodies over,

Making sure she has good pickings here.

She tests her cattle prod, makes certain it

Is primed for use when the good time comes

Grinning beneath the sunny skies again.

 

Here she comes, aiming for us again

To find if now we’ll break instead of bend.

We seldom see her; nevertheless, she comes

Sneaking up behind us. When it’s over

We wonder how we could have overlooked it

Sparking in her grip! We didn’t hear

 

Her footsteps stealthily approaching here

Where we were caught flat-footed once again.

Suddenly, between our cheeks we felt it

And we could feel our creaking spine unbend,

Cracking like a bullwhip whistling over

The lightning of her cattle prod. She comes

 

Smiling like the temptress she becomes

Once she’s had her way with us. We hear

Her tender voice: “I’m sorry, Love, it’s over

Now. I couldn’t help myself again.

Won’t you forgive me, dear?” We watch her bend

Us to her will at will. We know that it

 

Is only a matter of indefinite

Time before she goes away and comes

Back in her red Ferrari ‘round the bend

Looking for us – and she’ll find us here

Tending our garden, offering again

Like a cat in heat yowling or purring over

 

Roses and dahlias till once more it’s over

And we straighten up. No doubting it --

She’ll find us in position once again

Whenever it is she chooses, and when she comes

She’ll find us patiently abiding here

Doing our calisthenics: a deep knee-bend

 

Or two, perhaps. Luck always overcomes

Any obstacle to stick it here

Where she will sweetly watch us bend again.

  

OUR SELVES AND SHELVES

A monsourelle, a form invented by Leslie Monsour

 

We put our minds in pens to pass the time,

And then, perhaps, we add a bit of rime

And meter here and there to complicate

 

Our effort and to add some ornament.

At first it was in no way our intent

For this sweet dallying to be our fate,

 

But pastimes do cause moments to elapse

Even if pursued between our naps

And daily duties of our normal state.

 

We come to find our eggs all in one basket,

And it may look a lot like someone's casket

Where readers of the works that we create

 

Come to mourn them lying in their covers.

It may be true that we deserve these lovers,

But, alas! they all have come too late,

 

And they must see our efforts come a-caper

Upon these wads of tearful, smeary paper.

We wish them well, but we are out-of-date --

We have discovered time and rime won't wait.

 

--- Lewis Turco

 

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Form of the Week 30 – The Monsourelle

SCHWA  

On Saturday, February 23, 2013, Leslie Monsour wrote me, “I wonder what to call the form of the poem…below or if I even ‘invented’ it.  It's not really an invention, because, although I've published three poems in this ‘form,’ it hasn't caught on, and nobody else has used it.  Also, I don't know that other poets before me haven't already thought of it.  It's sort of a "terzamonorima" with the monorhyme coming at the end of each stanza.  The example below appeared in Poetry and in my first book [Earth’s Beauty, Desire, & Loss, R.L. Barth 1998], as do the other two I've written in the form.  It's awfully close to terza rima:  

 

 

 

NIMIS COMPOS MENTIS

 

 

 

The paper table cloth was tastefully bleak,

 

The misty morning light shone on his cheek,

 

And made him look alone and masculine.

 

 

 

He talked of Seneca and bad translations,

 

Of modern critics’ lightweight observations;

 

A bread crumb rested sweetly on his chin.

 

 

 

Behind him, through the glass, the ocean’s heave

 

Uncurled against the sand, beside his sleeve,

 

As Eros aimed his toxic javelin.

 

 

 

I ducked out of the way to no avail;

 

It glanced my flesh, injecting quite a cocktail

 

That blurred my sight and gave my head a spin --

 

 

 

Never mind the coffee we were drinking,

 

Whatever I said was not what I was thinking:

 

I wanted to become his mandolin,

 

 

 

And lie across his lap, a dainty lute,

 

And sing to him and feed him ripened fruit,

 

While light upon the sea turned opaline.

 

 

 

Instead, this conversation about art

 

And formal education -- God, he’s smart!

 

Such rationality should be a sin.

 

 

 

The hour was up, he had to run, of course;

 

A handshake and a peck of shy remorse --

 

Outside, the sea was gray and dull as tin;

 

It ruled the shore with tedious discipline.

 

 

 

-- Leslie Monsour

 

 

 

 

 

I replied by sending Leslie this:

 

 

 

 

 

OUR SELVES AND SHELVES

 

A monsourelle, a form invented by Leslie Monsour

 

 

 

We put our minds to pen to pass the time,

 

And then, perhaps, we add a bit of rime

 

And meter here and there to complicate

 

 

 

Our effort and to add some ornament.

 

At first it was in no way our intent

 

For this sweet dallying to be our fate,

 

 

 

But pastimes do cause moments to elapse

 

Even if pursued between our naps

 

And daily duties of our normal state.

 

 

 

We come to find our eggs lie in one basket,

 

And it may look a lot like someone's casket

 

Where readers of the works that we create

 

 

 

Come to mourn them lying in their covers.

 

It may be true that we deserve these lovers,

 

But, alas! they all have come too late,

 

 

 

And they must see our efforts come a-caper

 

Upon these wads of tearful, smeary paper.

 

We wish them well, but we are out-of-date --

 

We have discovered time and rime won't wait.

 

 

 

-- Lewis Turco

 

 

 

Leslie responded, “Wow, Lew!  You just came up with this?  It's very good.   ‘We come to find our eggs lie in one basket, / And it may look a lot like someone's casket.’  What grim, fun sense you make.  And how quick you are...but I already knew that.  Does this mean the terzamonorima is now an official form?  I'm speechless.  (Also tired.  We just got back from a night out with friends.  And what an excellent message to find waiting!)”

 

 

 

Dear Leslie [I wrote back],

 

 

 

I think it should be called "the monsourelle" and kept to 19 lines [like the villanelle and the terzanelle]. Last night there was nothing on teevee, so my wife read while I wrote the first draft of "Poets: Our Shelves," on my iPad, and when I was finished I handed it to Jean who read it and she seemed to like it okay. When she handed it back I got ready to copy it and send it to you, but I pushed the wrong button and lost the whole thing! I cursed for a while, then decided to write it again. This time I saved it before I showed it to Jean. She said the new version isn't as funny as the first but it moves along okay. I think I liked the first better, but of course I can't be sure.

 

Then I went to bed and woke up in the small hours because I had a horrific, murderous nightmare (someone was trying to murder me). So I lay in the dark trying not to go back to sleep and continue the dream. Instead, the first few lines of another monsourelle began to build, and finally I had to get up and write them down so I wouldn't forget them. When I finish it I'll send it to you. It's 6:38 a.m. now, and I didn't have a good night, so I may take a nap after breakfast before I go back to my monsourelle about the schwa

 

This is the finished poem:

 

 

 

DISCHWASHING: A MONSOURELLE

 

 

 

Though indeterminate, I like the schwa

 

Much better than refrains like "tra-la-la";

 

Its sign's an "e" that's standing on its həd;

 

 

 

Its sound's the first "e" found in "diffərent,"

 

Which many may think sounds indiffərent --

 

And they'd be right: it has the feel of ləd,

 

 

 

But it dəs yeoman work -- it's everywhəre

 

Excepting in the alphabet. Not thəre

 

At all, although it is quite often səd

 

 

 

And hərd in people's ordinary speech,

 

And you will find that too few pundits teach

 

Its mere existənce: one might think it's dəd,

 

 

 

But you'd be wrong. The schwa's ubiquitəs,

 

For instənce in the word "existənce." Thəs,

 

Its English lifetime is unlimitəd.

 

 

 

In fact it's very likely to outlast əs,

 

And if it doesn't that might be disastrəs,

 

But that is something we need hardly drəd

 

As we enjoy our daily buttəred brəd.

 

 

 

-- Lewis Turco

 

 

 

“Dischwashing” appeared in http://lifeandlegends.com/lewis-turco/, December 29. 2014. All poems are copyrighted by the authors and all rights are reserved, 2015

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suggested writing exercise:

 

 

 

Write a monsourelle or two.