Rereading the Poem at Dawn
Long hours of midnight versing done
I rise elated, greet the sun
and turn my red-rimmed eyes to see
my pearl of perfect poetry.
Its tragic heart-felt imagery
has altered amphigorically.
In terms of style and allegory
the only “taste” is gustatory.
Once perfect lines with angst replete
now sprout two unexpected feet.
I prune the extra-footed mess
and find my scansion’s in dis-stress.
Ferreting out an infestation
of infantile alliteration
I stumble on syllabic fractals—
shameful, ill-wrought double dactyls.
The final aching denouement
now ends in boredom’s gaping jaw.
And couplets I thought so sublime,
reek of mariner—minus rime.
Whence thou, elusive epigram?
Calliope, your bitch I am.