You Fix My Poem - I'll Fix YoursCarol Taylor
Carol Taylor You Fix My Poem—I'll Fix Yours Don't know a trope from a hole in the ground, wouldn't know a dactyl if it swooped down and bit me, wouldn't touch something a dead poet had written, but I know the rules, and the rules are all sound. I can't climb stairs without missing a beat; I have a slight problem with coordination; conversion to metrics is major frustration; iambic, trochaic—they're two left feet; But I can deliver a killer critique; I can spot a cliché in a New York minute though I can't write a line without putting one in it. What about it? I'll help you if you'll help me. And by the way, I must tell you, my dear, poems on writing are passé this year. Sam Home Dear Poet - I liked your poem. Of course, it could be improved if you just make a change or two, nothing major, a slight rearrange- ment: try putting the cart in front of the horse. The view is much better that way you will find. And nothing improves a poem so much as taking the time for that delicate touch which will make it more like one of mine. Your little poem is clever and cute, but maybe too clever. Here's my advice: start over from scratch and write about mice, one black and one white, both gnawing the root of a banyon tree grown on a steep precipice and someone high in it picking the fruit. Carol Taylor You make a point that I must think about, suggesting I decrease my wit by half. It may be best to throw this baby out along with suds and grit and take a bath. I like your idea of the rodent theme, their little noses sniffing out the prize, their busy teeth engaged in nibbling, a crafty sparkle in their small bright eyes. But on the other hand, I may stand fast; I'm of two minds and can't decide what's best. The writer's done her part, albeit fast. Perhaps I'll let the reader do the rest. I guess I need more time to think upon it. But first I've got to ask you—what's a sonnet? Sam Home The sonnet is an octopus to those who try to count its feet while in its arms. A hapless diver fleeing from it shows the imprint of a morbid fear of forms. To some a sonnet is a monument that lies, half sunk, in history's dry sand. A thing for study and for measurement, an artifact not to be read, but scanned. Yet that old race of poets still exist for whom the little song's a pretty thing. And in the hands of such ventriloquist the dumbest creatures animate and sing. This sonnet, though, is simply casual rhyme to make it soar would take a lot more time. Carol Taylor I do believe my sonnet's been maligned, although I have no brief with what you say about its rocky rhythm and slant rhyme, for, after all, I wrote it yesterday. I quite concur that if one writes a sonnet he ought to keep those rules he cannot bend and spend at least a pair of hours on it before he deems it worthy to defend. But I am shocked and sadly disappointed to see the subject matter misconstrued, and wonder why it seemed to be on sonnets-- unless because that was the form I used. I think you've got the wrong antagonist; please read again and tell me what I missed. Carol Taylor Rebecca, David, Ernest, Rachel, glad that you enjoyed my humble little poem. The trouble is I've started something bad, and now it seems I'm forced to keep it going. My mind has gone iambic, thanks to Sam, who makes it look so easy; he's a pro. And now I'm in a metrical wasteland with no way out and six more lines to go. This week I've poured out all my meager skill composing verse in windows marked "Reply," and though it's fun it may be overkill; you never really know until you try. Fair warning, all who would embark upon it: You may wind up as I have, Hooked on Sonnets. Carol Taylor Mr. Alsop, you're sadly mistaken, for in fact Mr. Home did revert. 'Twas I who in this conversation found myself at a loss for more words. I pictured a tenacled puppet, landlocked and half-buried in sand flap and soar like an eight-legged Phoenix, strings pulled by a smooth-talking man. The image for once left me speechless, convinced there was no way to top it. Now you stir the fire's ashes and feed it, while Sharon insists that I stop it. So I dance and dangle forever here in the hands of a clever sonneteer. Jim Hayes Dear Poet, you have asked me to advise you, on where your sonnet poem went awry, please understand, I was but trying to rise you, your effort was a very worthwhile try;-- even if I thought your couplet easy, and your meter like a choppy sea. (Now I must pause, my stomach's gone all queasy, I think your beat does not agree with me.) Oh Carol, namesake of a teenage song, I learnt so many many years ago, if my mistaken riposte did you wrong, forgive me, I don't want to be your foe. I grovel, my erstwhile antagonist; your late, newly reformed mysoginist. Sam Home A sonnet's like a woman newly met, let her seduce you if you'd share her bed. She will not give herself until she's whet her appetite, so bring her wine and bread. Some like their metaphors served on a plate, well done, and smothered in a mushroom sauce. While others want it raw and will not wait for it to heat or even to defrost. The sonnet is too corseted, some say, to make a heart race in these easy times. But those who love her find that ties and stays can titillate when bound with sleazy rhymes. O love's a wondrous thing! And so much sweeter than going home alone to beat your meter. Jim Hayes A sonnet is a sleazy little tryst? A passing thing of but slight consequence, to be furtively met and quickly kissed? A sonnet lover might take some offence. Sonnet rules can be authoritarian, it's true that they can also be straight laced because their fundamentals are Spencerian, and some English and Italian can be traced. But to describe a lady as being easy because you think her antecedents mixed, is fine but don't expect her to be sleazy;- or she'll have you genitally fixed. I agree there's some slight fun in beating meter, but treat a lady well; she'll let you eat her. Carol Taylor Dear chauvinists, your technique lacks finesse; it's plain you're looking for an easy lay, a sleazy lass to to pass an hour away. You only care what's underneath her dress. As blunt as Henry Higgins or Alceste, you call a poem a poem, a spade a spade, and rip aside her laces and her stays with half their sublety or their success. A sonnet is a lady, and as such insists on being courted with respect. rejects the heavy-handed macho touch of those who see her as the weaker sex; Misogynist or misantrope, her charm will redirect your beaten path to form. Sam Home Apology My dear, a thousand pardons to your sex. If I've offended, let my tongue be lashed by fourteen jackboot maidens in spandex with leather jerkins and a blond mustache. Ten strokes from each I'll bear in servitude, atonement for my ill-considered jest. I'll take their blows for those words you found lewd and beg no mercy of a bloodless breast. From this day forth her honor I'll defend - this queen of forms, this sonnet ingenue. My own behavior I shall fast amend and think of her now as I do of you. I swear, good lady, when I tried to kiss her I did not know the strumpet was your sister. Jim Hayes The lady doth I think too much protest, and falls upon a canard " chauvinist" My words were most carefully expressed, to have no gender bias, I insist. What was not at issue in this case was disposition of a poem or writer, no mention of a pretty face, with words that could be construed to incite her. All that I implied was based on fact, the simple basics of unsullied sonnet if it is to be Virgo intact and not have aspersions cast upon it. I "sought an easy lay" in truth is wrong unless as defined by Webster: poetic song Envoi; Now I pledge to fall upon my sword and offer this good poet her last word, tarred by her brush I may as well think upon my ' naked villanelle' Carol Taylor Let innovation marry with tradition. Why must all sonnets look and sound the same? It's worthier to create than maintain; there's nothing in a name but repetition. Perhaps a future poet generation will strive to imitate a Georgian sonnet, while critics and professors lecture on it, and frown upon the slightest deviation. So write whatever style of verse you choose and let the critics designate a name. If it's successful, you'll win lasting fame, and if it isn't, what is there to lose? But bear in mind the miserable attempts of countless poets' failed experiments. Carol Taylor Dear Critics: I concede Sam and Jim my defeat; I've decided it's time to say uncle, although I contend, disgruntled, it was only themselves that they beat. To Karen and Rachel, a bundle of big hugs was sent C.O.D. for suggesting we made forum history, while watching the tight rope act tumble. I haven't had such fun in ages, don't know when I've been quite so tired. To my sister the Sonnet I'm grateful; your lovers were truly inspired. Thanks to all you who participated. To my ass-dragging muse…You are fired!
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