And They Despise Villanelles, Too

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The near rectangularity of shape

Of sonnets tempts at least a few to scorn

Them: “Set too strict!’’  “Too much like freedom’s rape!’’

They scream.  “We don’t want Poussin!  We want porn!’’

They yell.  “At least we want the right to change

The rhyme scheme or the scansion, or to cut

The number of the lines, expand their range,

Or muck them round some way, and make a mutt

Of Sonnet!’’  (Poor wee thing.)  “It isn’t good

Enough for us.  For Shakespeare maybe, not

For me, Me, ME! ! !  It’s far too much like wood.

I want some playdough!’’   (Hear the brat-like tot!)

  “I worship Rimbaud!  Give me Whitman lines

    Of staggering length and nothing that confines!’’

———–

The longest so-called line in SONG OF MYSELF (me Me ME) begins at the very beginning of section 15 of that so-called poem,  a so-called line which is actually spilled molasses on the fine linen tablecloth of proper poetry.  I advise you not to waste your time trying to read it and advise you to take an anti-vomiting medicine before you do, if you do.