Revision,
and revision, and revision
clots
on this putrid piece from page to page,
to each
blasted syllable refusing to rhyme;
and
all my time is spent where blighted bits
drag
on to fusty death. Flop, flop, short scribble!
You’re
but a whining whisper, a saddo squiggle
that
mopes and pouts a path along these lines
and
then becomes a blot. Such is your life,
an
inked-on folly, full of rot and slop,
implying
not a lot.
If,
in walks on poesy’s paths, you see
a
hinterland that’s clogged with tangles, which you’ll
unravel,
don’t push past brambles, blackthorn or more
matter
that pricks. Stop at the edge of the flush
and
eye the easy; that you trust. Start there -
a
rhyming couplet, even upstart epigrams
or
free verse, provided the latter’s not cluttered
with
hearts or plodding prose hauled from thickets
guised
as rosy growth. There’re spikes enough
without
bristling, falling for the first fair you spy,
as
you’ll notice above. But do I care?
Blank
verse can be a bore. It flops along
its
footed way, all iambs when I am not
hooked
on stresses for ‘if’ or ‘be’ or ‘that.’
First
learn the rules, we’re told, before you find
a
way to rebel. I’m not so sure it’s true.
A
briar or three will leave you bloodied, sure,
but
bloody iambs will get you down at last.
Rebel
as you will. It’s your verse, after all.
For
me, it’s always buggeruppance time.
