September
The month of sonnets:
The long distance runners roamed the hills
recited their poems in the afternoon and kissed.
The poet-professor in corduroy cuffed pants
daydreamed of his evening flask of black whiskey
his nightwatch over the hourglass of metaphors.
The young man was cumbersome in his stall.
October
The month of sestinas:
The charm of lovers against the burred ivy walls
held the riddle of sixes and coaxed the student's heart
to a blackboard of pentagrams and tarot flames in chalk.
The griot's basket of apples, chestnuts, and maple leaves
held back the screen door of their teacher's writing studio.
Did she hide the laurel wild under her skirt?
November
The month of villanelles:
The young poet nods off in the back of the classroom
and a wooden pointer curled the cowlick on his head.
He was made to stand before the assembly and sing.
With long shadows and wings of the runners on the hill
into November's end and the town clock's vagrant hour
he lowered his head and begged a rhyme scheme for love.
December
The month of elegies:
They held the widow's wreath and opulent arms of death
healed the child's thumb that broke out of a wool mitten.
They waited under a rain of taps and six-gun salute
for the son to place his hand on his father's cheek
for the wry minister to rise from his narrow chair
and place the widow's glove and ring into the urn.
January
The month of blank verse:
They say he tracked a wounded animal
drop for drop for three and a half damn weeks
broke its long neck bare-handed dead and stirred
right strong coffee until he heard noises.
The hot prairie wind howled a fancy tune.
He knew it was a way of knowing things.
February
The month of ballads and woe:
The traveler brings a small gift to her screen door
and he barely remembers the song she whispered
sixteen years before under the lilac covered bridge.
Was that her low voice rising above the top of trees
or a meteor with its own articulation of the heavens
in the arc of falling embers that filled the brown field?
March
The month of pantoums:
She stood for hours in mud
for a handsome young man
who turned into a beer slug
not a fine bottle of wine.
For a handsome young man
who turned into a beer slug
not a fine bottle of wine
she stood for hours in mud.
April
The month of odes and affliction:
This was not the cruelest month Mr. Eliot
until a letter arrived out of nowhere from an old friend
the best damned drinking captain twenty-six years ago.
He wrote down poems that spent his failing heart
a hunger of gravity removed from the chest cavity.
He was on a waiting list for love and a new heart.
May
The month of heroic couplets:
Let there be thunder in his heart again
let a church bell's echo dance in his pen!
Where he erred once let him live twice
as he lived once let him parry twilight.
Let his breath shape the hourglass
and the last sailboat raise its mast!
June
The month of pastorals:
The poet met Art Pierce cliff-side at Ojo Caliente
a calligrapher of sandhill cranes in clay and arsenic
sent by the god of letters to the underworld spring.
They lifted their chalices to the crippled and mortal
who swam the miracle waters for the unkind rebirth
who sought refuge in the ghost chamber of the earth.
July
The month of stanzas:
This was the month of writer's block.
Nothing moved his fingers on the typewriter
until rain outside his studio in the burnt sky
formed a rainbow in the watchmaker's eyepiece.
There landed on his bad shoulder a poor white raven
found in his good hand a ruby from the baker's oven.
August
The month of verse libre:
The poet learned to dance inside forms
as feather and ink spread over the pages
one misspelled word in the spelling bee.
He studied the burial ground of images
how love was subtle and hidden in a line
how love was metered and love was rare.
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