Written on September 30, 2012; subsequently forgotten entirely; rediscovered, titled, and published on April 14, 2o14…
It was a dark and stormy night,
And novel quips took turns
Unseating six successive quests
To reinvent the wheel.
Poems die from introspection —
Not the poet’s, but their own.
There’s no serif sharp enough
To fend away the cloud
Of lack of reference. And
Enjambing does not bring relief.
Nor knowledge of triameter,
Is there a there there?
Why, dear reader?
Derrida? Oh, there you are.
That’s irony for you.
We can’t keep going on like this.
A truth’s a truth, and that’s a fact.
Tetrameter is more emphatic —
Maybe it will bring us back.
Adding end-rhyme seems to help,
But, still, what is this all about?
Beauty, mayhap? Truth and goodness?
Seriously. Help me out.