And Again On Getting Started

   What launched me on this form?  Go question her,
   though she'd be quick to say it's nothing new
   regardless if not actually done before
   like how pentinas oughtn't sport some claim
   as having been invented.  We revise.
   She never called it hers, nor is it mine.
   I only take the bastard out for kicks
   without pretending anything legit
   or forcing me to make this one achieve.

   She sent her notebooks when she chose to leave
   inviting use as I choose to concur
   for any sense I might could make of it
   to further my own pitiful debut.
   Ha, just another of her twisted tricks —
   she lures me off on some moronic chore
   I should have had the good sense to decline
   without thereby disclosing her real aim
   and while I'm thus distracted, off she flies.

   But not as though I mind the exercise —
   banal routine can help a person grieve
   as though such poems were therapeutic game
   where word on word on word becomes a blur
   of alternating line on line on line
   in bruises covering up where she'd last hit.
   Redemption or revenge, it's neither nor —
   it's only a device to get me through
   all by myself without her in the mix.

   You've seen this form before in sets of six,
   (and threes or fives've been done otherwise)
   a retrograde cross lining up the queue 
   creating classic patterns for its weave,
   the basis for this form's familiar lore
   that's given it such long-enduring fame
   as craftwork we so exquisitely knit.
   For this one instance, rhyming I prefer,
   and stretching out the form from six to nine.

   Can love emerge from logical design?
   The free expression of my heart conflicts
   with rules to which her rituals demur,
   allowing what its structure then denies
   how lives as strange as hers and mine might fit,
   one deck reshuffled and combined from two,
   an alchemaic practice that became
   the symbol of what lovers might conceive
   collaborating with such rapt rapport.

   Such form as hers I can't help but adore!
   the way her dreams and promises combine
   first from below, then back up to retrieve
   from higher levels, alternating picks
   then passing seed from frame to frame to frame
   sudoku-like — one stanza, one line per,
   with nothing out of place nor laid askew.
   What beauty!  What a delicate disguise!
   At once both truth and novelty are writ.

   Except that now her lines from mine are split
   and these attempts she'll probably ignore,
   each line forgetting where the next one lies.
   Her life and mine no longer intertwine,
   my words no longer merge with hers on cue.
   My poetry bleeds ink out on my sleeve
   where meanings their own metaphors deter.
   Our forms loom like a solid wall of bricks
   in interlocking tiers of guilt and shame.

   No matter what, I don't hold her to blame.
   It's difficult, that much I will admit,
   but that's the tortured curse my muse inflicts
   on broken cycles no poem can restore
   enough momentum to set hopes astir.
   At best we choose which lines to compromise.
   I only thought to grant her some reprieve
   by letting this small alley corner shine
   to coax its broken shades out of the blue.

   So why start these? They're here to say adieu.
   One needn't try to give each form a name
   nor to that form one's vagrant dreams confine
   nor through that form find cause enough to quit
   nor by that form one's agonies relieve
   nor with that form all broken pieces fix
   nor in that form find what its concept tries
   nor of that form create a piece much more
   than future glimpses through to what we were.

       (I'm too naive — it's you who wrapped this vine.
       The whirr and clicks my poems do ain't the same
       as scribbled shit you swore as your goodbyes.)


1 Response to “And Again On Getting Started”

  1. 2010.05.08 at 8:20 pm

    Not certain that his is a fond farewell…but an interesting poem and quite enjoyable to read…thanks for sharing.

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