We bear the same initials, T. S. E. And so I thought we must be kindred souls I thought the words we’d bring the world to see Might mark the heights of reaching lofty goals But words are as directionless as thought If thoughts become our words, the world is lost Cacophony is music that we bought Before we knew, poetically, the cost These half deserted streets are mine alone “What is it?” was the thought I thought to speak But poetry is that to which I’m prone Poetic circus needs poetic freak The mermaid cunts were singing, each to each And I was hungry, so I ate a peach.
On the Poetry of Thomas Stearns Eliot and Timothy Scott Ennis
March 6th, 2023The Miller’s Daughter
March 6th, 2023
Tranquilina’s Paradise
March 3rd, 2023
Queer People & Their Kweer Kapers by Palmer Cox 1888
February 27th, 2023
The Porch
February 27th, 2023
Devolved Poetry
February 19th, 2023Importantly you turn to face the thing The thing that mocks your pain with gilded rage It knows the words to every song you sing Regardless of the way you flaunt your age As young as any seed before it sprouts As old as any wisdom in that seed It knows the grief of all its ins and outs It feels the callous charms of every need Wait, wait. Go back. Go back to quatrain one Lets talk of gilded rage and songs once more A volta doesn’t mean a sonnet’s done It only means that after comes before Before the end of poetry we sell The words that find their way to some new hell.
Waiting For Words
February 18th, 2023We wait for words like forests wait for trees And when we’ve waited long enough, we speak As quietly as honey waits for bees A metaphoric jar will crack and leak Our sense of equilibrium is spilled In sticky puddles on a shiny floor In time the time we sense can yet be killed If killing time is what your words are for Be quick if you must wait for words to pass Be more than less, unless you’re anymore Be anyone you want; be polished glass Regardless, you can shatter on my floor If love becomes a word that you must hate Your words will grow as forested I wait.
Fearful Symmetry
February 11th, 2023The sonnet's Fearful Symmetry is found Within both forests of the night and day Where similes and metaphors abound Where fourteen rows of iambs kneel and pray The prayers of Fearful Symmetry compose Pentameter that keeps the form in check And thus the prayers are forested as those Who twist their hempen cords around their neck Alas, a volta turns to find a Lamb Sonnettics Tygers turn to face the stars A cry is raised: "I am, my God! Iamb!" The spears are tears that find they're yours; they're ours Then back to Fearful Symmetry we're brought To learn the things the trashy rhymes have taught.
Tangle Street — Peggy Bacon — 1929
February 6th, 2023
Bold Turpin — 1903
February 6th, 2023
