The Triolet

One of the elements most important to me in poetry is the sound. I have a definite taste for doggerel.

As a kid, I did myself a real favor by filling notebooks (literally) full of sonnets, rondeaux, whatever I could find. I didn't generate anything for the ages, but I did learn a lot about meter and sound.

Lately, I had the feeling everything I had learned about structure had kind of melted into advertising jingle. Advertising jingle is a nice feel for certain kinds of irony and frantic energy, but it isn't everything that I would like to achieve.

So when I ran across The Rondeau Roundup blog and its Triolet contest, it gave me a good excuse to practice again with a new form.

So for the last few weeks, every time I get a few minutes on a train or at night, I've been writing a triolet. Some of them are very bad. Some of them have promise. The exercise is the point. Getting to the moment where I internalize the voice of the structure is the point.

It may be the natural human need to justify how I spend my time, but this feels like a good idea.




*****

I’ve lost the memory of pain.
I hate the doctor who harried you—
All alone on every train,
I’ve lost the memory of pain.
Release the blame into the rain,
our clenching grip on what was true.
I’ve lost the memory of pain.
I hate the doctor who harried you.

*****

The cat came down and stalked the room,
I rubbed the rug to feel the spark.
The clumps of hair stuck to the broom,
the cat came down and stalked the room.
She came out spitting from the womb;
she likes to hobble in the dark.
The cat came down and stalked the room,
I rubbed the rug to feel the spark.

*****

White-backed birds outside the glass
circle flapping over trees.
Crickets sing us to the mass,
white-backed birds outside the glass.
Bow your head and pray ‘alas’
for muted earth and humming seas—
white-backed birds outside the glass
circle flapping over trees.

*****

The smell of orange on fingernails,
olive boredom of office rooms.
Time passes by with all entails,
the smell of orange on fingernails.
I switch this here when that life fails
and sweep the week with rusty broom.
The smell of orange on fingernails,
olive boredom of office rooms.