It sounded good at first but went too far, their mad confusion.
Now deviants wave flags and shriek. We hear only delusion.
Social justice meets mental illness; a blind date in the street;
Mix and recombine to make a flamingly bad confusion.
These violent clowns could burn it all down and STILL they’d be enraged
As smoke clears on the rubble of their sad confusion.
The worst of all assume they had a monopoly on Progress
But the malevolent misfits only ever had confusion…
Perversity hailed as diversity, victimhood applauded;
Nations subverted and brought to a sad conclusion.
To Weimar, San Francisco, Babylon and Tel Aviv
We could certainly, at this point, make unveiled allusion…
PROMPT #8: try writing your own ghazal
Five to fifteen couplets that are independent from each other but are nonetheless linked abstractly in their theme; and more concretely by their form. And what is that form? In English ghazals, the usual constraints are that:
the lines all have to be of around the same length (though formal meter/syllable-counts are not employed); and
both lines of the first couplet end on the same word or words, which then form a refrain that is echoed at the end of each succeeding couplet.
Art history matters. New Master’s degrees
Lead to dull innovation in poetry. Please
Try to write us a poem where meaning is plain
And no MFA patriarch needs to explain.
a statue carved by Bernini/a plate of eggs painted by Velázquez
Jane, dear Jane, you’re a porcelain idol.
The time has arrived for your verse to unbridle
Itself and reveal some slight traces of life;
We know you are smart, but that dull butter-knife
Of your poetry, smearing the references ’round
Is like Sylvia Plath/Gertrude Stein/Ezra Pound…
personal pan pizza with unlimited free toppings
Those weird sudden line breaks confuse us, in fact,
And the rarefied dishes you name-drop get cracked
On the floor of your poetry, leaving us shards,
Risking splinters for muses and mystified bards.
my arm breaks off like the shell/of a freshly-filled cannoli
You deadpan in monotone, stunningly brave,
But your tortuous verses go straight to the grave.
Academic obscurantists murmur and nod
As they lower the corpse of your work in the sod…
carelessly thrown baby/a designer toilet cistern
You ought to re-frame and then tighten your lines,
So replete with Old Masters and euro-trash wines:
(…weirdly-named liqueurs in a Rococo palais)
Why would you not, then, aspire to coherence,
Dismissing the need for white male interference?
Your verses cry out for some fatherly guidance
To try and make sense of your history of silence.
Jane Yeh’s Why I Am Not a Sculpturehas a […] sense of playfulness, as she both compares herself to a sculpture and uses a series of rather silly and elaborate similes, along with references to dubious historical “facts.” Today, we challenge you to write a similar kind of self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet)
There will probably always be a conflict between obscurantism and populism in American poetry. The more obscure poets can in some cases claim inheritance from modernism. Their poems are toppled columns of a former empire. More reader-friendly poetry has a long tradition in the twentieth century that continued unabated directly beneath the grand experiments of modernism. There are those who still prefer the poetry of Rudyard Kipling to anything written after. If poetry has fallen out of favor with the general public, at least to the extent that it held with poets like Edwin Arlington Robinson or Walt Whitman, it is generally because of its purported difficulty. “I don’t get poetry” is a refrain often asserted even by avid readers. In the conflict between obscurantism and populism, populism would seem the way to the hearts of the many.
CONNECT/HOOK 