Calling Me Home (Chicago Is)

There's something about mountains in the sky
Half-hovering above a field of trees
That makes my breath catch in my throat as I
Fly out of here. My vision strains to seize
A last glimpse of the fading vision, see
One more peak capped with snow before I leave.
Yet even as the airplane banks and we
Are born away, I cannot claim to grieve:
I'm leaving where I come from, but that phrase
Only has meaning if I go away.
It does not mean that I will cease to gaze
In longing back for mountains on my way,
But that where I am going is home too
Far from that longed-for, well-remembered view.

Goner

While you wander I must wonder where;
The simple fact of absence makes it plain
That, when I looked for you, you were not there,
And that alone might be sufficient pain,
But then I had to search to find you out,
Wondering the while where you'd gone,
Fighting back, successfully, the doubt
That you had figured out you should move on
And find other diversions worth your while,
More valuable than my poor conversation;
I tell you all of this with a small smile,
Because you have returned from your vacation,
And come again to me - or if not, I
Have thought you have, and much prefer that lie.

Level Up

It's nice to have a purpose now. Not like
I didn't earlier: the transient
Day to day to which we all are bent -
The groceries, or pumping up the bike,
Figuring out how to plug in the mic,
Replying to the email someone sent,
Doing my homework, which was clearly meant
For someone younger, driving down a pike
To run an errand, all those little things.
I even had a goal before - that too
Was somehow smaller than now having you,
And all the purpose that possession brings.
I have so much to, and equal time,
And it's so much more fun than cleaning grime.

Still Not The Sun

On days like this the sun may never shine
But it's less crucial than it used to be;
I used to think the daylight was all mine
And night belonged to others utterly;
As such, dark days seemed terrible to me:
Washed out weak sunbeams threatened who I was,
And grey clouds covered what should probably
Have seemed sufficient sunlight with a fuzz,
As freezer mold the ancient orange does,
And blocked my joy by making it seem night
To my demanding eyes. Now I find, because
Your love has made my nighttime fill with light,
I can walk happily through darkened skies
Cheered with the recollection of your eyes.

A Note on Feminine Rhymes and John Fletcher

It has been quite a while since I sullied this blog with something other than a poem, but the itch has come again and will not be denied. In today's edition, I will ponder an aspect of rhyme that I have come to reconsider since this blog began: the feminine rhyme in the style of John Fletcher.

For those of you who are looking at the page very blankly, John Fletcher is a playwright - or was a playwright, as far as I am aware he is dead, buried, and gone, sans Zombie Fletcher, though that would be cool but I digress - from the late Elizabethan, Jacobean, and even Caroline periods of the English Renaissance. He was a major force in his day, especially in collaboration with Francis Beaumont (so much so that after Fletcher's death {he outlived Beaumont} a large number of his solo works were bundled into a Beaumont and Fletcher joint folio), Philip Massinger, and William Shakespeare, among others. He is supposed to have had a hand in many of Shakespeare's later works, including the lost Cardenio, but his reputation has faded with the years as the kind of showy, mixed genre theater he primarily wrote has waned in popularity and critical acclaim.

For those of you looking a little less blankly, or who just read that, Fletcher had a somewhat distinctive writing style, characterized for our purpose by a particular verbal tic: the tendency towards feminine rhyme (or at least feminine endings of lines) with a monosyllablic word at the end of the line. That is, "I am a poet though I did not know it": 11 syllables, iambic, and therefore with the stress on the penultimate rather than the ultimate syllable, despite the last syllable being a word in and of itself.

Now, as far as I know Fletcher published no sonnets (he was big a little after the late 1500s sonnet craze) but that does not in any way reduce how associated he is with that style. I have no doubt he would have used it in sonnets had he published them, and the question still remains of what to do about the style within the sonnet. Are these rhymes useful or appropriate to the sonnet?

I have for years disliked this choice and considered it inartistic and ugly, especially in rhyme (I have fewer reservations about blank verse in the style, though I still try to avoid it). This is because I have always felt that rhyme should use new words each time as much as possible (I am not of the Homer Simpson bowling episode position that rhyming Homer and homer deserves applause), and this style results in rhymes like "know it" and "blow it" which use the same rhyme word at the end. I am less troubled by "poet" and "know it," assuming your dialect makes it a true and not slant rhyme, because they are different words.

However, recently I have come to a greater comfort with this style, as I have reasoned that certain words are almost unrhymeable without it, as they have difficult stress patterns to match or complicated internal assonance or consonance. Also, I have had to confront the fact that my idea that the restrictions on form should be pared down to the minimum necessary in order to highlight the chosen restrictions more brilliantly conflicts with this prejudice. As such, I am now much more open to this style, which I hope in the fullness of time will be a good thing, artistically and critically.

Shalom Haver

It's always been a miracle to me
That you're my friend; I wanted it so much,
But when I want, well, anything in such
A definite, devoted way, I see
The barriers in front of it (and we
Had barriers aplenty). As I touch
Those walls, they seem to stick and clutch
At me; I always doubt that it could be.
But here we are, and friendship has matured,
Grown into something better and expanded.
And as I look at where we two have landed,
And what, in coming hither, we endured,
I'm happy with it all, and would again
Go past the bars that were against it then.

Washing

Months flow by like water down the street,
The days, like raindrops, tinkle in the stream;
Refuse piles up, rain turns to sleet,
Oil skims the top like fetid cream,
Bad moments are remembered. Yet below,
The swift smooth stream still runs, and carries past
The dams of diseased memory the flow
Of good intentions, deep, clear, cold, and vast.
If we can dip beneath the ugly crust,
Skim off the scum and see the joy beneath,
We can be happy - and we know we must,
To feel the cool cold tingle in our teeth
Of liquid happiness. We must forget
The worse parts of the stream before they set.

Once More Into the Breach

It's obvious enough the way I feel,
And yet I feel compelled to yet again
Tell you in detail of your deep appeal,
The way you make happier, and then,
When your eyes roll in sarcasm to hear
Once more the way I smile in your sight,
Still not shut up. I think that you, my dear,
Must be so tired of it, and you might
Well be; but I am not, and so I will
Continue 'til you tell me to desist;
And even if I do, I'll love you still.
So since my love continues to persist,
I might as well tell you; and telling of
My love itself expands my growing love.

Nightwalker

I keep odd hours and I like 'em so;
Awake? Asleep? They hardly matter here.
I do not let the early morning's glow
Control me, and I think it quaint and dear
Precious, even, that some others may
Give such a weight to what the sky outside
Dictates. Who cares if it is night or day?
Day has as many tricks as night to hide
Wrongdoing, and night can be just as clear
If you're tuned to its rhythms. What is he
That lets the turning of the planet bear
Responsibility? I wake when I
Am ready to, and sleep the same. For me
Is not this lazy thralldom to the sky.

Christmas

I hardly hold with Christmas as a day
(It likely doesn't help I disbelieve
And therefore doubt the stories that they weave
To make it all make sense). I do not pray,
Nor honor it in any other way
Except that forced by others who, from Eve
All through the celebration, won't receive
My business, present it how I may.
But in another sense, I will observe,
I value it, I want it, I desire
To see a chestnut roast within a fire
And call it Christmas: for that name will serve
To conjure with to speak of joy and peace
And work towards times when violence will cease.