If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her,
Epatering the goddamned bourgeoisie,
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster,
And either would require a huge sandblaster
To render all the product defect-free.
If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her.
If one’s experience had been deeper, vaster,
It might have been the stuff of poetry,
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster.
Ah well, Elizabeth was a past master,
Sylvia lost on her Sargasso Sea.
If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her.
Epatering could not have happened faster,
Save for a Sexton—do you disagree?
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster.
If poets be saints, why these be saints of plaster,
Deserving laudanumious reverie.
If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her,
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster.
*The first two lines were transposed almost exactly from their source, while "it's a disaster" also comes from Bales. The poem is not so much personal expression as teasing out the possibilities inherent in the lines, especially as they would stand at the head of their own poem. In such a way the sculptor is said to "bring out" the figure inherent in his uncut block of stone. The format is not new to me—my titles The Condemnation, The Arraignment, and The Recusal each consisting of 100 villanelles—and samples, perhaps less persnickety than the above, can be found on my Poetry page.