His Rhyme, His Spell

I found the Quirk who makes me rhyme today;
or rather, I should say, the Quirk found me:
he’d heard I wondered why he wouldn’t go away.
Other poets often will astound me

with their naked rolling free audacious verse
untrammeled by an iamb or an assonance!
Had I been under some strange demon’s curse –
some antiquated fashion? Since

I first had picked a pen up or had typed a line
I couldn’t help but hearing symmetry
of sound and meter pitch its ringing fine
and chiming rhythm in my ear: sleek gimmickry –

neat feat – of soothing, rocking to-and-fro.
Though sometimes dangerously listing here –
some unseen avid oarsman seems to row
me there, aware: a wave away from fear.

I think the Quirk who makes me rhyme takes form
because he knows to see him is to answer why
I still depend upon his engine: to help warm
and coax a living equanimity from ground and sky –

to sneak me into the unspeakable – return
alive: to try to glimpse the heaven and the hell
without resorting to psychosis. A strange cool burn
of gallantry, perhaps: his rhyme, his spell.


 
 
 
 
 
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