Did I really stop the poems? (Did you think the pen in me was dead?) Do you not recall the lame foot night or the heavy stress of which I fight? The quick enjambment and the long quatrain or the burden that I felt from your one refrain? Times were black and bleak back then, remember slanted rhyme?


Did I really stop the poems? (Or had you not looked deeper?) I still was in the rhyme with you, the rhythm, verse and image too. Did you not hear symbols clash and see the metaphorplay flash before you married ears with eyes? Did you fail to look both ways before you crossed me?


Did I really stop the poems? (Did I lose my sense for style?) The perfect rhymes I had been planning, the silences and all the scanning. I thought I solved those strange designs, releasing them along those lines! Did I lose my image-making, my terza rima and the semivowels?


Did I really stop the poems? (But I think and pray in constant verse!) There is meter in my every action, dactylic feet in fict or faction! When I think and when I dream, I always have a bit of scheme or form ideas like paradelles or octaves in the making! Where were you when I designed the four-foot line for you?


Did I really stop the poems?

11/09/2007

Posted on 11/09/2007
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