Tuesday, May 27, 2014

                                                            WHACKS POETIC
There once was a woman so crazy
as she aged, her world became hazy
she liked to drink wine
but she fell on her spine
now she’s crabby, frumpy and lazy.

What happened to profound verse like the above? Poetry has changed since my day. Back then, there was a concept called rime and meter. You were supposed to determine a riming scheme and use iambic pentameter or pandemic barometer or something like that so that there was flow to the syllables. That is all gone. Poetry is totally different. It’s now really a story told in half sentences without punctuation using big words juxtaposed to slang no one over 25 understands. I don’t get it. Poets are not supposed to write about nature, joy or love; that’s passé. Subjects now range from seashells to swamp life.

Help me out, here. I will quote some lines from random poems I have found in journals and on bookstore shelves. I have absolutely no clue what these lines mean:
“my closet is a refuge for talons”
“his tongue swelled sweet with sweat”
“the truth lay naked in the dank abyss”
What? I guess we’re supposed to visualize because “dank” and “sweat” have never been poetic to moi. What happened to “Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.” I never really got that either, but at least Shakespeare made it sound erudite.

From my first poem published in the National High School Journal of Terrific Poems in 1956, I knew I had talent. That is, until my big-time-editor uncle saw my contribution and labeled it ”Doggerel.” After I got over my hysteria, I looked up the word: banal, trite. Well, that man had no sense of humor, much less decency. He scarred me for life, and I haven’t been able to write a maudlin verse since. The world might like some of that now. At least, they could understand it, and it rimed.

With these frustrated thoughts, I will close with one of my favorite originals:
There once was an author unknown
whose poems made everyone groan
but when her acclaim
brought her great fame
her doubters put her on a throne.
(just sayin’)


In tiny fists unrelenting
on toddler cheeks and hopscotch squares
in whirling jumpropes and swaying hammocks
innocence meets serenity.

Pasta letters float in liquid
white cream cookies beg licking
an apron string pulled by a spaniel
gives energy to routine

Nightly news in many tongues
“whose turn to clear the table?”
sauteed onions linger
whining siblings prickle tempers
“time for bed.”

“Do we need milk?”
errands with road rage
melt into low blood sugar at four
empty cartons match hollow hope

A celebrity saves a child
a vet comforts a victim
a stranger gives an organ
a puppy is born.

by sandra moulin

Judge me not

Look beyond my earth suit
See through the threads of my presence
to the fabric of my being
Feel the essence of my energy
sewn to the seams of my integrity
Be open to the intent of my gifts
Observe the stitches of my experience
Be warmed by the quilt of my soul

                                                            by Sandra Moulin