Dulled, by reading (too much poetry), I write.
Desultory words drag down by inertia;
gravity does the rest. Energy does
not equal mass, raised
to the power of
light.

My mind, a box of disconnected wires,
inconstant, inconsistent, in aimless
rambling mode, flips channels,
remotely controlled; finds no
foothold.

It is a fine evening, I could purr like a cat,
stretch my limbs, scratch your back;
draw blood. Play scrabble, juggle
letters in a brown paper bag –
warm like French fries.

Draw out the letters I O U.

E-V-E-N-I-N-G wraps its arms around N-I-G-H-T.
The word on the board is D-A-R-K. I add
S-O-U-L & S-U-B-S-T-A-N-C-E
to H-E-A-R-T, cover B-O-D-Y 
M-E-C-H-A-N-I-C-S

step outside:

The stars are chartering their own course
in metaphoric similes. Orion the hunter
tightens his belt, raises his sword
in assonance, Taurus the Bull
runs in consonance, chasing
the deadly Scorpio, lying
flat in alliteration.

Betelgeuse, red in the face, has just confessed
he’s a homonym. The Pleiades are huddled
together in confusable heteronyms.
Canis Major, the old lecherous
dog is going for
Pollux.

I’m laying a banquet for poets tonight, no less
enigmatic than the stars. Riding their own
ecliptic, elliptical paths. Their long
sensitive fingers in epileptic
ellipsis, eclipse the sun
& moon.

Electrifying the atmosphere, they jab the air in emphasis.
Subject of discussion: the self inside the self – outside
& objective. Light salads, subtle dressing, fragile,
frayed, highly strung nerves, deserve the
best bone china with slivers
of eel.

After the meal, the virtues of the Sestina over a Sonnet.
Villanelle with vanilla topped with hot chocolate.
‘The audacity of Eliot’, exclaims a blonde,
‘rhyming ‘go’ with Michelangelo
Why! We hardly discuss
the man!’

A poet without attitude is a wet goose, darling,
pipes a poet who rides in parataxis & suffers
from palindrome syndrome diagnosed as
phanopoeia. His pantoums are parodies
in paradoxes. His pindaric odes in
pyrrhic meter are a pathetic
fallacy full of 
bathos.

Frankly my dear I don’t give a damn, says a bard
who looks like Clark Gable gone to seed – bucolic
& bacchic, writing burlesque ballads in Byronic
verse, bawdy & baroque. Full of himself
& negative capability.

Frankly I’ve nothing left to write. I'm sad but merry.
So drink up. Tomorrow? Why tomorrow I might
feel more panegyric, steal a fellow poet’s line or
two, write pastiche, pastoral or performance
poetry in pentameter under my own pen-
name, some might think I’m a poetaster
drinking poems like wine, which is not
what it means, actually in French
I’m a poete maudit which
literally means:
'cursed'.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow is an-
other poem, an other
an other an
other...




 

"I'm sad but merry" sums up this tone for me, Rashmi, and while this whole structure seems to have lots of twigs sticking out at all angles, despite its neatness, it accumulates so nicely and strongly evokes a complex mood that can't otherwise be put into words. Which is, for me as reader, an accumulating surprise. Very enjoyable and interesting. Tom

rashmi, I was just thinking that--that I have nothing to write about, although there's plenty left to write.

with this, I love verse 3.  think you should take it out of this and let it stand alone.  there are many good points in this write, however I'm not sure how far it will go in the world of poetry.  but of course, that's exactly your point.

now I think I'll watch "Gone With the Wind".  there's nothing left to watch.

cheryl

Rashmi,

I think there's poem in here, and scaffolding.  Which is which will become more clear as the poem tries to fly.