Poem on the Range

Some ideas about building better verse

As you probably saw, this newspaper recently published its annual poetry competition issue, printing the winning poems from among lots of local entries.

The winning poems were okay. Some of them were actually quite nice, but I had problems with the variety represented. None of the winning poems rhymed. Not one.

I thought most people understood that clever rhymes are what make something a poem, instead of just an oddly spaced run-on sentence without end, otherwise known as free verse.

Grandpa went to Myrtle Beach,

And sent us back a turtle each.

Thank you, Shel Silverstein, for that superb example of what I'm talking about. Now, that's what I call poetry!

I gently pointed out this apparent lapse to the SFR editor, and she said, "Well, Mr. Smarty Pants, why don't you just shut your cakehole and show us how it's done?" She calls me Mr. Smarty Pants a lot, I believe as a term of respect.

The winning entries include a number of haikus. That is a Japanese verse form of 17-syllable poems that not only don't rhyme, they often don't even make sense. Haikus vary, but generally they are three lines of five syllables, seven syllables and five syllables. For example:

S
arah Palin speaks. 
When will that nutjob shut up?
Probably never.

See, that's a haiku. You can find entire books of Santa Fe-themed haiku, thanks to the strong Japanese influence in Northern New Mexico's history. Sorry, I meant to say, thanks to the fact that 96 percent of our residents call themselves poets.

Traditionally, many haikus deal with nature or the seasons, like this one, Santa Fe Summer: It's hot as hell here.

Yes but it’s only dry heat.
Still sweating, ain’t I?

Or this one, about Santa Fe's very brief springtime:

When will we have spring?

I think we already did.
You were in the john.

In addition to the embarrassing lack of rhyming couplets among this year's winners, there was a major style of poetry missing altogether from the results. The mighty limerick, that venerable five-line workhorse of traditional poetry. Many people don't realize that the great William Wordsworth wrote almost nothing but limericks, including his most famous, with the iconic first line, "I wandered lonely as a cloud …"

The absence of prize-winning competitive limericks is especially noticeable here, the home of the Santa Fe Limerick Society, a group of witty men and women who meet weekly at Evangelo's and start every meeting by reciting, "There once was a man from Nantucket …"

I went to one of their meetings, and after buying numerous drinks, I walked away with some fine samples of Santa Fe limericks, written on napkins.

Let's see, here's one, if I can make it out through the tequila-stained blur: A vegan who lived in Tesuque

Made Thanksgiving, but the fare tasted pukey. 
Her stuffing, of curds, 
Had the texture of turds, 
And no one could eat her Tofurky.

Nice, huh? Vivid, honest and appealing to all the senses. Here's another: This guy went for drinks at La Fonda

With his lover, a redhead named Rhonda. 
But at the Bell Tower
He lost track of the hour
So a ticket got slapped on his Honda.

Here's another one I especially like:

A tourist who came here for pleasure 

Ended up finding wealth beyond measure. 
Was the great Holy Grail
On the Santa Fe Trail?
Nope, she stumbled on Forrest Fenn’s treasure!

So there, you see what real poetry is supposed to look like? You should pay attention, boys and girls, because I'm pretty sure Mr. Smarty Pants will be judging next year's competition.

Robert Basler’s humor column runs twice monthly in SFR. Email the author: bluecorn@sfreporter.com


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