Secrets to a Happy Life

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, octave, Petrarchan sonnet, sestet

~~a Petrarchan sonnet~~

On a wide variety of topics
ranging in breadth, diversity, and scope
from hopes and dreams of a modern zygote
to climate trends in Belizean tropics;
from last year’s indie top pick biopics
to Hittite methodologies for grope
as practiced by a hundred lusty popes,
I could spew a font of vague specifics,
work us up a head of steam, but no, thanks.
These days, I spend all coming revenue
on nourishing my limbic streams with joy,
ignore the creaking politics of cranks
who think resentment somehow clears the view.
To love, to learn, these hold my full employ.

~~~

The Petrarchan sonnet, despite the name, was not created by Petrarch, but by Renaissance poets who enjoyed composing in Italian. The structure is octave and sestet: eight lines to introduce the problem or premise, and six for the solution. The rhyme scheme ABBAABBA CDECDE has a different feel from Shakespearean. I’ll need to write a few more before I can explain that difference in words.

© Elaine Stirling, 2019
Image: Lisa Bobechko

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Why Poets Think (erroneously) They are Unread, Pt. III

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Elaine Stirling, fixed verse, narrative poetry, octave, ottava rima

Would you read my poems, kind sir?
You’ve commented before. My heart’s
in chaos, life’s a hurtful blur.
Oh, please, I’m not sure that it starts
to rhyme quite right. You cause a stir
with all you write—you’re off the charts.
Why do you walk away from me?
I thought we were a family.

I watched the hungry poetess,
her hands outstretched, creative gain
ignored and trampled. Caring less
than what I ought, I looked again
at clustered groups around her, pressed
into each other’s words, their drain
of spirits puddling at my feet,
thin shoulders sagging in defeat.

I turned to face my priestess friend.
I thought you said that poetry
is welcome here. It’s a dead end.
What is this place? Poems for free,
but no one cares. Is this a trend?
If so, I’d sooner talk to trees,
pin my verses to a cedar
where reception will be sweeter.

She replied, this is the beggars’
market, where no one gets to choose.
You’ll learn the rules from your betters,
pick up a trick or two, and lose
your bearings as they slip fetters
around your authenticity,
in staggering complicity.

We passed a man knee deep in tears,
known for the world’s best love sonnets.
Crowded by lust and stung by fears,
his voice drones like dying hornets.
He writes sometimes of bygone years,
living in a battered Comet.
All he can do now is seduce
new virgin talents of their juice.

If you can figure out who owns
this marketplace of beggars, you
might stand a chance of writing poems
to transcend the spies and thieves who
served you for awhile. Not all loans
are bad; not all friends are untrue.
I hope to see you when the fourth
of the distorters runs his course.

I walked along the poets’ stalls
avoiding eyes and plaintive cries,
read posters plastered on the walls:
Poets never make a buck. Prize
for best free verse—twin kewpie dolls!
Artists starve while big business thrives.
Forget your hopes, come live with us.
There’s lots of room in this big bust!

I snuck away while poets slammed
each other’s work to keep the good
ones down; crawled under bleachers crammed
with talent petrified. I could
not say yet how they had been damned,
but staying would not help. The wood
I reached was of some thorny tree.
Smiling, I pinned my poetry.

to be continued…

© Elaine Stirling, 2014