BJZ Poems and Musings

I’m no poetry scholar, but have observed how rhyme, once a common and integral part of the work of many poets, fell out of favor, with free verse and other forms of flow and structure becoming more prominent and praised in recent decades. I have always been a big fan of rhyming poems – whether it’s Shakespeare’s sonnets, or the playful rhymes in some of Theodore Roethke’s brilliant work. Some people associate rhyming with light topics, but one of the most profound and serious uses of rhyme that sticks in my mind is “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death” by W.B. Yeats – “I know that I shall meet my fate / Somewhere among the clouds above; / Those that I fight I do not hate, / Those that I guard I do not love.” Somber, and worth a read in this time of war.

And I’m not a scholar of many languages, but the English language seems delightfully evolved for rhyme. I remember years ago on spring break in Fort Lauderdale listening too a group of British sailors converse and banter totally in rhyme – they carried on whole conversations this way. They didn’t even use many swear words in their rhymes. Not using rhyming when using the English language is akin to going 30 mph in a Maserati.

So, my poem to share in this post has what I think is one of my best rhymes – “I’d hate to see you bruise your shin/ On something Ordovician”. Iambic tetrameter never lets you down. I wrote this poem for my future wife, Dana, in 1984. I have revised a couple words since then, but it’s pretty much as it was 42 years ago.

I do hope rhyme makes a comeback in poetry. Please weigh in with a favorite rhyme, sometime!

Haskell Creek

In late July, walking with my bride to be
The puddly remnant of what most times runs
As Haskell Creek; the raspberry brambles
Snag our arms, little scratches bleed –
Directed to the ripened fruit – consummated seed.

We are navigating a bed of time-stamped stones;
Careful, my love, please don’t slip –
Those fossil rocks are algae-slick;
I’d hate to see you bruise your shin
On something Ordovician.

This is spearmint, trust me,
Rough and fuzzy, full of spice.
Put it on your tongue, breathe in –
Cool as ice.

Those little plunks are frog jumps;
I remember the ghostly sleeves
Of these over-hanging trees.
This was our old swimming hole –
Nascent engineers, we dammed the creek.

Let’s sit in willow shade on this little moss cushion,
Look at this rock – brachiopods in a pair.
That’s a muskrat hole dug in the far bank;
And a redtail hawk just floating in the air.

Are you wondering? Why did I bring you here,
This time of year, to this not even a creek,
With the rocks, strewn and clicking, just like I think.
This place just is, and is what it should be;
Understand this trickle, you’ll understand me.

Brian J. Zink Copyright rules apply