George Starbuck

 

Sonnet with a Different Letter at the End of Every Line

for Helen Vendler

O for a muse of fire, a sack of dough,   

Or both! O promissory notes of woe!   

One time in Santa Fe N.M.

Ol’ Winfield Townley Scott and I ... But whoa.

One can exert oneself, ff,

Or architect a heaven like Rimbaud,

Or if that seems, how shall I say, de trop,   

One can at least write sonnets, a propos   

Of nothing save the do-re-mi-fa-sol   

Of poetry itself. Is not the row

Of perfect rhymes, the terminal bon mot,   

Obeisance enough to the Great O?

“Observe,” said Chairman Mao to Premier Chou,   

“On voyage à Parnasse pour prendre les eaux.   

On voyage comme poisson, incog.”