The Last Village Threnodist

Oh woe unspeakable 
That has befallen us— 

She who kept alive for years 
That ancient dying art has left us 

With no one to better 
Charon’s bitter, 

Bitter song. 

One Last Look Back

Time running out, 
The last time 

You looked, the world was still 
As moving as you hope 

It will be the last time you look. 

Cul-de-sac

You near the end 
Of your life thinking where 
You first went wrong— 

By the time you finish, 
There’s only one signpost left 
And it’s always the right one. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Poets Sounding Out Their Voice

No, no, you’re doing fine 
Mates, plumb no deeper— 

You’ll find that buoyant 
Voice you’re looking for bobbing 

Right here near the surface, not 
Sinking at the end 

Of one last desperate line. 


Moderator’s comments: Cinquor twitching like a catastomid on the end of a gaffe(sic)—this guy doesn’t know Trout Fishing in America from The Compleat Angler. Why he presumes to be such an authority on the murky current state of American poetry is anybody’s guess, but there’s a strong possibility it might have something to do with his piscine-sounding name.

A Coronach for Niedecker

There’s a livelier shine on the dead 
Leaves of autumn than in this lair 
And many a time my bonny 

Lorine had seen it there.