Well, I know THAT. No, I was just thinking you probably knew about it in a background history kind of way, given your obvious knowledge of forms. As in, at what point did meter and form become less important and who first broke away from those constraints. Evans had mentioned not being keen on "modern poetic forms".

Like all things it is an organic process, Rick, but D H Lawrence has a lot to answer for in this regard.

Beachy, I like that Kyrielle very much (and had never heard of the form!) It reminds me of a Louis Macneice poem called A Girl Can't Go On Laughing All The Time, the text of which seems to be unavailable through Google.

The puzzle aspect of the tighter poetry forms appeals to me.

I do like the lines that echo in subtly different ways.

Is this it? Seems to be written by Empson:

Reflection from Anita Loos

No man is sure he does not need to climb.
It is not human to feel safely placed.
“A girl can’t go on laughing all the time,”

Wrecked by their games and jeering at their prime
There are who can, but who can praise their taste?
No man is sure he does not need to climb.

Love rules the world but is it rude, or slime?
All nasty things are sure to be disgraced.
A girl can’t go on laughing all the time.

Christ stinks of torture who was caught in lime.
No star he aimed at is entirely waste.
No man is sure he does not need to climb.

It is too weak to speak of right and crime.
Gentlemen prefer bound feet and the wasp waist.
A girl can’t go on laughing all the time.

It gives a million gambits for a mime
On which a social system can be based:
No man is sure he does not need to climb,
A girl can’t go on laughing all the time

I like it whoever wrote it.

No that's not it - I hadn't realised there was an earlier poem that used the same refrain. It is by a Scottish poet who was a contemporary of Auden's called Louis Macneice and I had it in a collection called Poetry of the Thirties which I have long since lost track of.

I also like the two repeating lines.
I may have to try one of these.

Is this one earlier? I was wondering at the quoted line, so I'm thinking that
it was quoted because it was taken from Louis Macneice's piece maybe?

I'm feeling as though is the poem I was thinking of now Beachy - Empson was a contemporary of Auden's too and I think I have mixed it up with Macneice's Bagpipe Music in my mind for some reason. I could have sworn that the lines were different from that though - it has been twenty years since I read it, mind...

I like it, too.

FYI, if you did not know, Anita Loos wrote "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes".

It's theme is similar to Macneice's poem, too, so I may have mixed the authorship up because they were placed next to each other in the anthology...who knows? At any rate I am not a big fan of Epson' s knowing obscurantism but do like this poem a lot...as a sidenote how great is it that the internet can instantly allow us to find out things like ' Who the fuck is Anita Loos?' when I had no idea when I read it years ago...

Gots to love the Google search.

I actually knew who Anita Loos (what a great name!) was without looking it up. But, then I looked it up anyway to be sure it wasn't a brain bubble.

Last Bike Trip of the Year

I'm riding… along a wet, empty trail
through puddles, over thin carpets of snow.
December sun breaks through the cloud and pale

memories. Everything is quid pro quo.
Deeds weigh and balance against the thoughts dragged
through puddles. Over thin carpets of snow

and barren patches, it seems life has lagged,
spun like tires on ice. But, inside, I know
deeds weigh and balance against the thoughts. Dragged

headlong over jagged thickets, I grow
strong, deliberate, unfurl my whole cloth
spun, like tires on ice… but inside. I know

darkening despair draws to flame the moth.
I rise on the burning thermal's caress
strong, deliberate, unfurl. My whole cloth

is a patchwork sail of strife and success
I'm riding. Along a wet, empty trail,
I rise on the burning thermal's caress:
December sun breaks through the cloud and pale.

...And then he fell off the cliff.

Not THIS time. That was three bike trip's ago.

I was worried about that.

Villianelle

At the Saturday, ten-cent matinee,
newsreels, features, cartoons, and serials
show that true valor beats trecherous play.

Selfless acts vanquish deeds most cynical.
The lines are sharp, distinct. Black and White war
newsreels, features, cartoons, and serials

nuture us. We feed on henchmen galore,
brain- and action heavies, guns and punches.
The lines are sharp, distinct, black and white. War

wages on big screens over our sack lunches.
Saddle pals and sidekicks join in against
brain- and action heavies. Guns and punches

jam, are thrown wildly. Justice will dispense,
despite horse-tramplin' hooves and lit fuses.
Saddle pals and sidekicks join in against

the underworld. The good never loses
at the Saturday, ten-cent matinee.
Despite horse-tramplin' hooves and lit fuses,
show that true valor beats trecherous play.

What Burns along the Via Flaminia

Somewhere, there's a museum. You are mine
to display, and I am yours, and we're both
gorgeous works of art—signed. Your valentine

to me is an embrace of steam, an oath
to be my pillar, to support, to lift,
to display. And I am yours. And we're both

highly-sought after, each of us a gift
who keeps giving and likes to be unwrapped.
To be my pillar, to support, to lift

me above the flames, you are strong and apt.
Passion comes from within. You're a giver
who keeps giving and likes to be unwrapped

—and tied—always ready to deliver.
And, inside, our warm flesh presses into
passion, comes. From within, you're a giver.

Your deep love percolates: the finest brew.
Somewhere, there's a museum, you are mine,
and, inside, our warm flesh presses into
gorgeous works of art. Signed, your Valentine.

Two Halves of February

Living—it's so brief, and art comes so long
in the learning. Life's hard and sharp. There's fear
when we compose the lyrics for our song
 
of love. The doves have come early this year.
They come to choose their mates and lose themselves
in the learning. Life's hard and sharp. There's fear
 
that hearts are just outlines, cards off the shelves,
newsprint under a Parliament of Birds.
They come to choose their mates and lose themselves
 
in the process: flowers and borrowed words,
cupids and confections, all wrapped up in
newsprint. Under a Parliament of Birds,
 
you cling like silk, and I tassel, begin
growing new corn from old fields. They devour
cupids and confections all wrapped up in
 
themselves, while we harmonize, empower
living. It's so brief. And art comes so long
growing new corn from old fields they devour
when we compose the lyrics for our song.