In it’s natural French state, the rondeau was purely syllabic, with each line, besides the refrain, having the same number of syllables, usually eight or ten. In English, this was adapted into iambic tetrameter or pentameter. Thomas M. Disch made the observation, “most rondeaux in English are apt to come across as greeting cards.” And with its repetitive rhyme scheme and a rollicking tetrameter, I can definitely see the potential for some Hallmark moments. However, I also see the potential for some very subtle poetry that uses a refrain sparingly yet at crucial moments at the beginning, middle and end of the poem. The symmetry of this form can be breathtaking. Like the Villanelle the rhyme scheme's a little limiting (A's and B's) but it's French, whatcha gonna do?
Spiced Ginger
the spiced ginger was packed with care
her parchment hands, her vacant stare
that never fully quite awoke
after the sixth or seventh stroke
now shook from some unknown affair
her sister living otherwhere
had sent the package now aware
that laden words no longer spoke
like spiced ginger
age stole her strength and features fair
age crowned her head with bone white hair
but age alone can never choke
those memories sweet scents provoke
recalled with every nostril flare
of spiced ginger
the god part of the brain
The god part of the brain exists
observed by owl-eyed scientists
measuring spikes in EEG's
that pierce the channeled prophecies
of heebie-jeebie spiritists.
"Aha!" they claim, "we get the gist -
like wisdom teeth and hairy wrists
no modern man should ever need
the god part of his brain."
And while less love than warring fist
has flown from backwashed prejudice,
why waste when we can knowingly
employ our minds' abilities
and one day learn to wisely twist
the God part of our brains.
Agave
“Don’t touch that bush” my mother said
“your hands will bleed with creeping red”
and though I heard what she did say
I know I touched it anyway
With hands of quaking, shaking dread.
As on my blood the shrubbery fed
A voice within my fear reared head
Replayed those words of owl-eyed grey
“Don’t touch that bush.”
She’d like me safely tucked in bed
I’d rather have the wounds instead
I’ll touch, I’ll feel, I’ll grope, I’ll lay
My hands upon in obscene ways
And try to forget she ever said
“Don’t touch that bush."
The War on Terror
The war on terror has begun:
a color coded explosion
of red white and blue patriotism
splotched o’er black and white dualism
with fear the primary weapon.
Beware the panoply of dun
warnings and slipshod suspicion.
Beware the hounding, pounding drums
of the war on terror.
For every threat they claim undone
will rise again a vengeful sun
to ever stoke blind nationalism—
hearts dis-solved by ser-vile baptism.
And all minds numb, they will have won
the war on terror.
Let Go
Let go, let go and grab me where
the you and me begins to share
a common self, a common gaze,
a body slightly out of phase
that remembered to remember.
And let our heart release its care
to climax calm without compare
and let the tyranny of days
let go.
In the infinite afterglare
our heart divides without despair
into two diaphanous rays
that even apart will always
cling to their union and never
let go.
This is not in Klingon. This is a made up language exercise I like to do to concentrate on the effect of different sounds. The first two are octosyllabic, these two are in iambic tetrameter (yeah I know, real hard when you make up the words)...it's not Klingon.
Bakash ni grak ni balas dram
apogo skree aleef walam.
kraem zumi kram. Vulvarkef krief
uz wursh. Og snarkoot valvalneef
kugprindal bak, bulak ur vam.
Ur kosh yik bok ver kalaram.
Bularfit zoot og zoot gur-sham
av midan og av grillik. Djeef
bakash ni grak.
Hollagar drig, ver garvid am
ze drillig gru? Fekalayam
verashni, Fekalayam pleef
balasik verm av gurgureef.
Dam ur drookit bak, ur stram
bakash ni grak.
The jungle awakens at nighttime
and sly it crawls in crabgrass rime
a wolf that prowls in cowboy boots
amongst the sheep whose drunken hoots
shout more tequila, salt and lime.
Sipping tea, black turtle-necked mimes
in vain will search but find tired rhymes
describing its decaying roots.
The jungle awakens.
Raffle soaked crones up down a dime
dark-eyed cattle that graze in grime
wander home alabaster, mute
a nativity scene set in soot
and lit by crescent smiles sublime
the jungle awakens.
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