less clear, less cold: here comes
the muddy murmur of Spring,
the gleam of my glassy rival:
who shaves believing that lovers
arrive in April, that omens
never cash out, that the
knotted fist of my heart
can hold its clench forever.
in response to this Morning Porch post. I forgot to post it here, till now. I'm thinking a lot about alliteration, these days, and this poem maybe mirrors the thought: I start deliberately in the northern style, with alliteration on the pounding syllables, and then ease off to unstressed consonants. Influenced maybe by Carolee Sherwood's brilliant backstitching with internal rhyme.
I did think of titling this poem "Miserable Clench": A miserable clench, in my opinion, for Horace to record; I have heard honest Mr. Swan make many a better, and yet have had the grace to hold my countenance. But it may be puns were then in fashion, as they were wit in the sermons of the last age, and in the court of King Charles the Second. I am sorry to say it, for the sake of Horace; but certain it is, he has no fine palate who can feed so heartily on garbage. --Dryden