Poetry
Enjambment
A poem about poetic limits
I dabble in all forms. Poetry lives in the build.
Villanelles, terzanelles, and sonnets thrill me,
Terza rima too (though in Italian they’re easier).
I think my choriambs would win Sappho’s smile.
I craft lyrical odes with Horatian style.
Of course I have tried the simpler forms —
your tankas and haikus — but I want much more.
I want more than counting or limits placed on
rhyme or structure. Those are sparks, not flames.
Oulipo? Lipograms? Gimmicky poetic play.
I know the techniques and their names.
I have gone deep. I have written ecphrases
in hendecasyllables; I have honored the dead
in acrostic epitaphs and dignified wedded love
with epithalamia. But however I reach
I can’t extend this art across to you.
My meters and rhymes do less than
a cup of coffee ready when you wake,
less than taking your hand when we cross
a busy street, less than a smiling wordless
“I love you.”
Thank you for reading, my friends.
