Tilt-a-Whirl

A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms

Arrgh poetica

by Esther Greenleaf Mürer

When I try to write a poem in forms
I know the effort is bound to be intense.
The first thing is to cast aside all norms
regarding reason, logic, meaning, sense.
The sea of sound will buoy up my boat.
Trust the pattern to keep the thing afloat.

I know the effort is bound to be intense;
I know the chance is infinitely slight
that my poem will make a difference
in the cosmic scheme of wrong and right.
Yet though, Penelope-like, I must expunge
each line again and again, I’ll take the plunge.

The first thing is to cast aside all norms
or even better, heave them out to sea
and leave the the critics to their teapot storms
of how a poem should or shouldn’t be,
as I adroitly sidestep the abyss
of literary fads, and, blithely dis-

regarding reason, logic, meaning, sense,
I mix my styles or metaphors, or both,
combining Langpo with a Gaelic cadence,
and fuck with o’er and like, y’know with quoth.
My dictionary of poetic terms
will help me iron out this can of worms.

The sea of sound will buoy up my boat.
the crash of consonance, the ripple of rhyme,
and in another line, not too remote,
lapping alliteration forms a chime;
the murmur of innumerable meters
mimes the drowsy dream of lotus-eaters.

Trust the pattern to keep the thing afloat.
Follow whatever course the lines will take
and seize the trente-sei by its stroppy throat.
O reader, if perchance you’re still awake,
behold my magnum opus and rejoice,
for I have found my own authentic voice.



Esther Greenleaf Mürer lives in Philadelphia. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Able Muse, Umbrella, Pemmican, and Drunken Boat.



 

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