Category Archives: poetry month

April poetry (sort of)

Here’s a poem ‘cause it’s April

Not so sure that I am cap’ble

Yet the dare is inescap’ble

Seeking the wordsmith’s life!

 

The search is on for words that rhyme

Possibly chime, sublime or lime

In a pinch there is always slime

Seeking the wordsmith’s life!

 

Ought to settle on a topic

Expound on the philanthropic

Hope the reader is myopic?

Seeking the wordsmith’s life!

 

Maybe come up with something sage

Philosophically all the rage

No, wait! Not time to turn that page

Seeking the wordsmith’s life!

 

Up to now I am shootin’ blanks

Thinking that my cerebrum shrank

Certainly not something I drank?

Seeking the wordsmith’s life!

 

One option is just surrender

Admitting I’m a bard pretender

Pulitzer chances mighty slender

And that’s the wordsmith’s life.

Nothing good rhymes with “pandemic”

It’s that challenging time of year again. National Poetry Month. And this April also is the 14th month of the pandemic. So…..

Back before this Covid-19 thing

We were just as free as birds,

With no longing to participate in

The immunity of a herd.

 …

People weren’t yet made of cardboard,

Weren’t dressing up like Jesse James.

There was no such thing as quarantine

Or looking for whom to blame.

… 

So we’re locked up in our houses

Preoccupied with getting the shot.

At least that’s those who aren’t suspicious

That this is all a government plot.

 …

Now there’s warning from the doctors

There might be another surge.

Just as we are all reminded

Some folks aren’t known for fighting the urge.

… 

Here’s where optimism is needed.

Send the word out on the Zoom.

There must be a call for patience

Or corona will lower the boom.

 Again.

A sickly little rhyme

If it’s possible that there is something worse than a communicable disease, that something very well could be bad poetry.

Nevertheless, I persist…

There now is a virus, corona

It’s spread by anonymous donors

So shelter in place

And don’t touch your face

It’s the Whale and you could be Jonah

Perchance, create a soliloquy

As long as you stay six feet from me

With everything closed

No folks juxtaposed

Lock your door and throw out the key

In this pinch at least we have Zoom

To virtually fight off the gloom

But the raging pandemic

Is downright systemic

Optimism is key, I’d assume

We miss shopping and concerts and sports

As well as group things of all sorts

But listen to Fauci

It’s not just about ye

In this storm all need a safe port

Stay healthy…..

 

But not necessarily for everybody…

As April wanes I wax poetic

Concern myself with things aesthetic

Like rhyming onomatopoeia

With maybe an encyclopedia?

But as this month for special language

Comes to a close I always anguish

Over beats, syllables, also grammar

And iambic pentameter.

I think that you shall never see

Good poetry composed by me

But that won’t stop me e’ry April

To see if I am sudd’ly capable

Because it would be really fun

To write as Ogden Nash had done

Except a diphthong for me to coin

Might pull a muscle in my groin

Suppose I try for assonance

And wind up being half a dunce?

Or strain to conjure up a dactyl?

It’s just not feasible, not practyl

So poetry is not my deal

It’s hard to write, somehow not real.

Let Kilmer match a poem and tree

That seems a stretch, I’ll stick to free

Verse.

Or worse.

Rhyme time?

Poetry Month is circling the drain, almost gone, so I figured I ought to get busy. My stock in trade is sportswriting—pretty low-brow stuff compared to most composition, especially poetry—but who doesn’t aspire to something loftier, to be more than just one of those who only knows prose?

A motivation was the recent essay by Garrison Keillor, the grand humorist who created radio’s delightful Prairie Home Companion. Though “we all suffered under English teachers who forced us to pretend to be sensitive and sigh with appreciation” over poetic metaphors and similes, Keillor wrote, and though “many police departments now use Walt Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’ instead of pepper spray,” he offered encouragement.

“You can do it,” he coaxed. Write poetry.

So I Googled “how to write a poem” and came across some tips (have a goal, avoid sentimentality, use images, rhyme with extreme caution) and stumbled onto some examples from the only poet I recall ever really understanding, sly Ogden Nash, whose piece entitled “Fleas” goes:

    Adam

    Had’m.

I can’t do that. But I was heartened by the knowledge that Nash was a baseball fan. In 1949, he published a poem in Sport Magazine that paid tribute to the sport’s great players in alphabetical order, from A to Z, including these nifty lines:

    C is for Cobb, Who grew spikes and not corn. And made all the basemen Wish they weren’t born.

    D is for Dean, The grammatical Diz. When they asked, Who’s the tops? Said correctly, I is.

    E is for Evers, His jaw in advance; Never afraid To Tinker with Chance.

    F is for Fordham. And Frankie and Frisch; I wish he were back With the Giants, I wish.

The Garrison Keillor piece suggested attempting a poem “for someone you dearly love,” but that seems risky for an amateur. I wouldn’t want to scare her off after all these years. Better, too, I decided, to avoid puppies, grandparents, young lovers and other clichés. Rather, just start by attempting verse mixed with familiar sport. Maybe with a nod to Joe Hardy on an old theme:

    There once was a team from the Bronx

    Known for its homers, big bonks.

    Its demise a temptation

    That was shared ‘round the nation,

    But a Faustian bargain? No thonx.

Or perhaps something fit for playoff time in winter sports leagues:

    A little haiku

    To describe hockey action.

    Skate, shove, punch, punch, punch.

Or an observation about an old basketball star’s new job:

    Patrick Ewing

    For years was stewing

    Yearning to be a coach.

    His old school has hired him

    (Eventually to fire him)

    That’s generally the sports approach.

Call this one “ESPN:”

    Turned on the TV,

    Sat in the lounger,

    Heard all the quacking, pre-game.

    What about real insight?

    Beyond the sound bites,

    Why’s commentary sound so lame?

     —

    The heads are talking,

    Loud’n caffeinated.

    Time to grab the ol’ remote.

    Only a din glutton

    Eschews the mute button.

    It’s for the players to showboat.

Well, I tried. Good enough for pepper spray, at least?

    I’ve showed so little poetic muscle

    The highest compliment I could get

    Would be backhanded.

    “Way to hustle.”

Next April, maybe.