Robin Helweg-Larsen's Blog, page 30

Using form: alliteration: RHL, ‘How Brashly Brave’

How brashly brave, embroiled in this brief life,
we chance our challenge to the unchanging gods!
Strike poses, strut the strident stage of strife,
take optimistic oaths against all odds.

Fearless of foes, false friends, futility,
we wrack our reason to reach, undestroyed—
though usually of no utility—
a burst of brightness bettering the void.

*****

Although I prefer to maintain an unobtrusive persona myself, I subscribe to this philosophy of bravado existentialism. The florid alliteration suits the message.

This poem is published in the current issue of Light – thanks, Melissa Balmain and all.

Photo: “Flamboyant Emperor of the United States” by PeterThoeny is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Helena Nelson, ‘Dream’

I found myself in bed with an old man.
His beard was silvery, his scrawny chest
a rack of ribs, his loose-lipped mouth open
and toothless as a baby. There he was,
there in our bed, as if he owned the place.
He snored and grunted like some ancient king
asleep after a banquet. But what feast
had led, dear heart, to this? What partying?
He turned his head to me. I saw his face—
a travesty. Some metamorphosis
had happened in our sleep, my love replaced
by a bag of windy bones. I need a piss,
he muttered, and got up. O then I knew
what age had done to us, and who was who.

*****

Helena Nelson writes: “Everyone experiences it eventually. You glance at your own reflection in the mirror and get a shock at how old you look. So that’s one of inspirations for this poem. The other spur to write this was a dream I had one night, though in the poem it’s intentionally unclear whether the experience is or isn’t real. I started with near rhymes in the octet and moved towards perfect rhyme at the end to convey the shock. I do hope the reader feels that shock at the end.” 

Helena Nelson runs HappenStance Press (now winding down) and also writes poems, one of which appears in the Potcake Chapbook, ‘Lost Love’. Her most recent collection is Pearls (The Complete Mr and Mrs Philpott Poems). She reviews widely and is Consulting Editor for The Friday Poem.

Casual form: Lisa Marshall, ‘Lust’

Under the moonlight’s magical hold
Lust prowls like a wolf, hungry and bold

Slinking by with a wink of the eye
Slowly drawing me in on the sly

Into temptation’s cunning allure
Tainting even the purest of pure

Whispered confessions into the wind
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

*****

Editor’s comments: I’m classifying these lines as ‘casual form’: the meter is undisciplined by classical standards, but the beat is clear and the rhymes are straightforward. The verse is as natural to English as nursery rhymes, noted for their ease of memorisation without being classically regular. Look at the varying numbers of syllable per foot in the four lines of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, for example. English speech is very forgiving regarding unstressed syllables, while still maintaining a rhythmic flow – as we know from rap. By that standard, adherence to beat and structured rhyme is adherence to form.

Lisa Marshall is a poet and author who resides in beautiful Dartmouth, Nova Scotia – also known as the City of Lakes.  She is the author of Black Olive: A Novel and Poetry for the Feminist’s Soul, both of which are available on Amazon Kindle. 
Read more at Not Another Nice Girl Blog.

Photo: from Lisa Marshall’s blog.

Using form: SF sonnet: RHL, ‘On a Dead Spaceship’

On a dead spaceship drifting round a star,
the trapped inhabitants are born and die.
The engineers’ broad privileges lie
in engine room and solar panel power.
The fruit and vegetables and protein co-ops
are run by farmers with genetics skills:
the products of their dirt and careful kills
help service trade between the several groups.
Others — musicians, architects — can skip
along the paths of interlinking webs.
Beyond these gated pods that the rich carve
for their own selves (but still within the ship),
in useless parts, are born the lackluck plebs.
Heard but ignored, they just hunt rats or starve.

*****

This sonnet was republished in Bewildering Stories in April 2024 – original publication had been in Star*Line five years previously. I find something very satisfying about using a formal sonnet structure to express science fiction and speculative fiction ideas – the ideas are by nature open-ended, unconstrained, and it feels good to tie them down as in a neat package with a bow on top. Topiary.

As for what political comments can be read into the poem, read away!

Photo: “Deepstar 2071 at Io” by FlyingSinger is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Tom Vaughan, ‘The Great and the Good’

Why sing of the lives
of the fortunate few
whose gong-heavy entries
weigh down Who’s Who ?

They’re smug on their summits
and on Footsie Boards,
Permanent Secretaries
or rotund Law Lords;

generals, merchant bankers,
Top Brass at the Beeb,
dons, doctors, bishops. . .
You can spot the breed

by their ability
blind obedience to claim
from drudges and drivers
and shy, single, tame

PAs who sacrifice
lonely weekends
to type bland speeches
for skimpy stipends.

O don’t be deceived
by the Great and the Good –
you’re a rung on their ladder
on their fire, wood,

grain for their harvest,
a wheel on their car,
corpse on their D-Day,
night for their star.

*****

Tom Vaughan writes: I’ve long been fascinated by the phrase ‘the Great and the Good’, having reached the conclusion during long years of government service that the great cannot generally also be good, given the demands of the exercise of power. But I am also intrigued by the loyalty such people can inspire, and the longing for leaders that reflects, despite the advice given by my favourite political commentator, Bob Dylan, in Subterranean Homesick Blues – ‘Don’t follow leaders/Watch the parkin’ meters’.”

‘The Great and the Good’ was first published in Snakeskin 265, October 2019.

Tom Vaughan is not the real name of a poet whose previous publications include a novel and two poetry pamphlets (A Sampler, 2010, and Envoy, 2013, both published by HappenStance). His poems have been published in a range of poetry magazines, including several of the Potcake Chapbooks:
Careers and Other Catastrophes
Familes and Other Fiascoes
Strip Down
Houses and Homes Forever
Travels and Travails.
He currently lives in Brittany.
https://tomvaughan.website

Photo: “MPs and House of Commons officials stand in the House of Lords chamber at the opposite end to the throne, the bar, to listen to the Queen’s Speech” by UK Parliament is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Melissa Balmain, ‘Notes From a Jaded Traveler’

I dreamed I went to Heaven–
it wasn’t all that great.
The angel choir was tone deaf;
its harps were second rate.
St. Pete was glumly scrubbing
the bird shit off one gate.

I dreamed I went to Hell next–
it wasn’t all that grim.
I’d felt worse heat in Brooklyn,
worse torture at the gym;
Satan and his minions
were belting out a hymn.

I dreamed that neither visit
surprised me much–oh sure,
the Bible promised plenty
that wasn’t on my tour,
but what location ever
lives up to its brochure?

*****

From Walking in on People © Melissa Balmain, 2014. Used by permission of Able Muse Press.

Melissa Balmain writes: “This poem, first published in Light Quarterly (now Light), sparked one of my rare disagreements with LQ‘s founding editor, John Mella. He balked at the term “bird shit.” It might offend older readers, he said, and he asked for a substitute. This led to the following message, which is undoubtedly the sort of high-toned correspondence that poetry readers imagine happening behind the scenes:

Dear John,
Thanks for your latest note on “Notes from a Jaded Traveler.” I think we may have had a communication glitch—my preference is “bird doo,” not “doo-doo.” I agree with you that the latter does smack of the nursery. Plus, it doesn’t make the bird connection clear.
“Bird doo” is a fairly common expression—a Google search of the term yields more references than “bird poop.” But the main reason I prefer it to “bird poop” is that—at least among parents I know—“poop” is the nursery term for diaper contents.
So… if “bird shit” is out, I vote for “bird doo.”
All best,
Melissa

John went with “bird doo.”  When ‘Notes from a Jaded Traveler’ ran in my first collection, I finally got to change it back.”

Melissa Balmain’s third poetry collection, Satan Talks to His Therapist, is available from Paul Dry Books (and from all the usual retail empires). Balmain is the editor-in-chief of Light, America’s longest-running journal of light verse, and has been a member of the University of Rochester’s English Department since 2010. She will teach a three-day workshop on comic poetry at the Poetry by the Sea conference in Madison, CT, in May 21-24, 2024.

Photo: “Life’s Trail” by quinn.anya is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Ekphrastic sonnet: RHL, ‘Ghosts of Dead Parents’

Her ashes spread on Skirrid that she loved;
and his bones buried by the Harbour bay…
Why choose views for the dead? Once in earth shoved,
dirt in the dark is all they’d see, not day,
even if they lived. And if cremated, well…
So is it for our own guilt’s absolution?
Or status, that their graves our standing tell?
Or rites for social change’s resolution?
Those who were always here are here no more –
Their alwaysness runs out when they decease,
and life will now sound different from before,
like insect shrills not heard until they cease.
Dead ghosts sleep twittering in our heads’ domed caves,
waking to fill night skies from dreams and graves.

*****

This sonnet was published by The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press as a response to their ekphrastic challenge for the illustration, a painting by Žofia Katriňáková. It was written for my parents who, although they died decades ago, are still a background to my thoughts. My father is buried by the bay of Governor’s Harbour, my mother’s ashes were scattered on Skirrid Fawr, the Welsh mountain she loved and lived within sight of in Abergavenny. And I have another short poem for them, published in the Amsterdam Quarterly:

In the night’s jam jar of my memory
my long-dead parents live as fireflies.
My thoughts of them worn by time’s emery,
their faint light still suggests where my path lies.

Is it reasonable to hope to be a firefly for your children and grandchildren?

Barbara Loots, ‘Villanelle for the Road’

The true way may be found, but at a cost.
The dashboard deity presides and judges.
Recalculating really means You’re lost.

Is this a bridge that I’ve already crossed?
I wonder as the snake of traffic nudges
between the tollbooths.  What’s it going to cost?

I have my doubts, refusing to be bossed
by bland advice a nagging voice begrudges,
recalculating how you got so lost.

This muse would never suit you, Mr. Frost.
Bear left.  Turn right.  Take ramp.  She never fudges.
The road not taken clearly has a cost.

But I’m footloose again, my baggage tossed
behind me.  Good-bye, all you drudges!
Recalculating, nothing to be lost,

I roll along the road, a stone unmossed,
a stubborn certainty that never budges,
finding my way regardless of the cost,
recalculating, yes, but never lost.

*****

Barbara Loots writes: “A villanelle seemed like the perfect form to capture the frustration of getting around (or going around and around) with the “help” of a technology I reluctantly employ. This poem and another villanelle of mine appear in Extreme Formal Poems (Rhizome Press). I’m also pleased to be among the 60 poets in Love Affairs at the Villa Nelle (Kelsay Books), an anthology as delicious as it sounds.”

Barbara Loots resides with her husband, Bill Dickinson, and their boss Bob the Cat in the historic Hyde Park neighborhood of Kansas City, Missouri. Her poems have appeared in literary magazines, anthologies, and textbooks since the 1970s. She is a frequent contributor to lightpoetrymagazine.com. Her three collections are Road Trip (2014), Windshift (2018), and The Beekeeper and other love poems (2020), at Kelsay Books or Amazon. More bio and blog at barbaraloots.com

Photo: “gps fail” by marichica88 is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Using form: Sonnet: Max Gutmann, ‘How to Inspire a Sonnet – advice from the pros’

Inspire amore first, but molto forte
If in sonetti dolci you’d be sung.
Then see that you stay bella. You’ll support a
Passione deep and long by dying young.
— Laura

If thou upon his stage the Muse’s part
Wouldst play, each act thou study’st must prolong
Thy Poet’s pain. ‘Tis pain shall prompt great Art.
Then con thy lines with style, and do him wrong.
— The Dark Lady

Stay always by her. Never for a day
Be from her cherished side. ‘Tis paramount
To share the highest love. (And, by the way,
It helps to choose a lover who can count.)
— Robert Browning

‘Tis mystery that fires the crucial spark,
So make him wait–and keep him in the dark.
— Milton’s blindness

*****

Max Gutmann writes: “A reader of Light Quarterly (the marvellous Light back in its days as a print journal) was so offended by a poem of mine ridiculing a lousy president that he cancelled his subscription. Beloved editor John Mella forwarded a copy of the note to me. It was a sonnet! I’d never thought I could inspire a sonnet. I had a ways to go before rivaling Laura or the Dark Lady, but I’d taken the first step. That inspired this poem.

“John declined the poem, so it first appeared in a journal that didn’t specialize in light verse, one highly thought of. (Digging it out now, I see that contributors to the issue the poem appeared in included, among others I admire, Updike, Espaillat, Turner, Gioia, and Hadas.) But the journal goofed. They changed sonnetti dolci to sonnetti dolce (plural noun, singular adjective). This must have been a typo, I imagined, but when I asked, the chief editor not only admitted the change had been intentional, but defended the decision. Dolce being the more familiar form, he argued, it was reasonable to make the change without consulting the writer. I never sent them anything again

“This story calls for a shout-out to Jerome Betts, who reprinted ‘How to Inspire a Sonnet’ in Lighten Up Online (LUPO). (To avoid the impression that Jerome is less than meticulous about acknowledgements–or about anything–I should make clear that I asked him not to acknowledge the earlier journal, and I didn’t name it for him.) Jerome, like most editors I’ve worked with, always asks before making changes–and his proposed changes are usually improvements, often big ones!”

Editor’s note: This poem suggests what might be appropriate ways to inspire sonnets, according to the subjects of sonnets: Petrarch’s Laura, Shakespeare’s Dark Lady, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Robert and Milton’s blindness. Self-referentially, the poem is itself a Shakespearean sonnet, written in response to being the subject of a sonnet. Gutmann is therefore both sonneteer and sonnetee, and has the credentials to write a “How to –“

Max Gutmann has worked as, among other things, a stage manager, a journalist, a teacher, an editor, a clerk, a factory worker, a community service officer, the business manager of an improv troupe, and a performer in a Daffy Duck costume. Occasionally, he has even earned money writing plays and poems.

Photo: “IMG_0323C Frans Wouters. 1612-1659. Antwerp. The rural concert. 1654. Dole” by jean louis mazieres is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Using form: simple, classical: Sara Teasdale, ‘May Day’

A delicate fabric of bird song
Floats in the air,
The smell of wet wild earth
Is everywhere.

Red small leaves of the maple
Are clenched like a hand,
Like girls at their first communion
The pear trees stand.

Oh I must pass nothing by
Without loving it much,
The raindrop try with my lips,
The grass with my touch;

For how can I be sure
I shall see again
The world on the first of May
Shining after the rain?

*****

Sometimes clean and simple is best for capturing the uncomplicated emotion of appreciating nature. Sara Teasdale in her element. As Louis Untermeyer commented on her verse: its “beauty is in the restraint” of its “ever-present though never elaborated theme.”

Photo: “Leonardslee Lakes and Gardens May 2022 18” by Timelapsed is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.