Letting yourself get constricted by a poem form might seem limiting. But the rules and barriers can force you to squeeze out words you didn’t know you had stored up. It’s like bowling, actually. You have to aim right and then hope for the best.
Here are a couple I’ve written for the poetry slam portion of the annual Weekend With William summerfest I’ve been organizing over the years.
First a double dactyl, next a sonnet.
I’m not saying they’re good, but I do insist that I enjoyed working them up.
Malmsey Clearest: A somewhat defense of Richard III
Richard the Crookedback
Cleared out his obstacles,
So says the Bard,
Having his brother go
But, to the doubters, it’s
A sonnet toast to supper clubs
The heedless space of a bulbous Chevy
Encased them. Find a spot. They see the host.
Two gimlets to start, drained clean as Evvie
Lowers oil-basked meats. More drinks. They toast,
Lost in cackles and haze and paneled murk
And highballs; an extra plate for bones – “Daddy,
Lookit me!” – A drop-by from Ern (and wife) from work,
And heavy creamed drinks near the silver dressing caddy.
The building’s a kind of warehouse today.
The drop-ceiling’s sallowed. Waste oil out back.
Corrosion, from gin and smokes, has its way.
But mostly time. (In us, years find a snack.)
Yet – in prudent cars – we came: To* their spirit,
Shining fresh as a relish-tray carrot!
* All, please lift glasses here.