Playfully Formal Verse

Jan 30, 2025 | Poetry, Writing

Yesterday’s chosen poetry form was the Contrapuntal – which seemed much easier than I thought, at first, being essentially the solo version of a Tapestry form – a collaborative form that Necia Campbell and I wrote together last year, and which appears towards the end of the recently released, Poems from the Rebel Outpost. The previous link will take you to Barnes & Noble; to buy from Amazon, click here.

But then again, the Tapestry form might have been easier because it was a collaboration, and in the Contrapuntal, the left hand knows exactly what the right hand’s doing, destroying the element of surprise and risking too much cohesion, in a way. In other words, the counterpoint may be less of a counterpoint for knowing exactly where the poet wants to lead.

Progress, They Call It (a Contrapuntal Poem)

progress, they call it: slashing, burning, progress—
      can’t stop the forward motion of a nation!
encroaching, elbowing, uprooting the living
      who would want to thwart the people’s will, or kill the
canopy of verdant sunlit trees that once breathed
      sweet aroma of crisply minted bills enrobed in leather with
our exhalations. we breathed theirs until they gasped
      the faintest whiff of manliness, invoking will,
their last, until they fell to saw and ax, bulldozed
      determination. ancestors’ words forgotten as new money’s
burned to make a way for strip malls and
      wealth, unfettered by past sense, decorum, grows,
power lines—such progress don’t go well with pines—
      it goes to feed the engines of industry that only thrive
incinerating cedar selves in swirling smoke
      coal-fired on the backs of miners, steelworkers, “little people”—
their ashes drifting heavenwards and carried
      those dispensable, extra mouths to feed until
on the santa ana winds to add a colored layer
      the robots shove them off the ledge
on the cliffs of palo duro choking out the summer sun.

I was first introduced to the form by the poet Mervyn Seivwright, who is kind enough to let me call him friend and mentor. He made it look easy, with poems like, “Manhood’s Gambit,” but that’s the trick of any good writer. It should look natural and almost effortless. It’s not.

Today’s “alphabet challenge” poem, which I won’t publish here (I have other plans for that one!), uses the Diminishing Verse form.

The following poem was inspired by another participant in The Stafford Challenge who, bafflingly, was advised by AI to “doglificate their love life.” I suggested that even if the mean girls couldn’t make “fetch” happen, maybe a bunch of poets could make “doglificate” happen and in the process, confuse the hell out of the machine. I have never claimed not to be mischievously subversive.

Doglificate

We have been ill-advised in this, AI’s insistent
urging to “doglificate our lives.” Imagine
docile canine friends pontificating
from a coffee table soapbox or
the nearest fragrant hydrant hoping
they might radicate the notion that
the dogs should be in charge? Oh, woe
to cats and tender, tasty humans then –
our fate, thus sealed, as we
are slowly licked to death, complacent,
grinning, thinking we had any say at all.

Please – whether you consider yourself a poet or not – join in the fun. Let’s make this word, “doglificate,” a thing. Short story writers, you, too! Come back and post a link to your doglificate creations in the comments so we can all enjoy them.

Holly Jahangiri

Holly Jahangiri is the author of Trockle, illustrated by Jordan Vinyard; A Puppy, Not a Guppy, illustrated by Ryan Shaw; and the newest release: A New Leaf for Lyle, illustrated by Carrie Salazar. She draws inspiration from her family, from her own childhood adventures (some of which only happened in her overactive imagination), and from readers both young and young-at-heart. She lives in Houston, Texas, with her husband, J.J., whose love and encouragement make writing books twice the fun.

12 Comments

  1. Necia Campbell

    Buried Treasure, an Asefru

    “Don’t be a scientist. Doglificate your love life.”
    ~InspiroBot

    Analytics, bland routines,
    rigid self-restraint–
    love bones stripped and buried deep.

    Dig them up and toss them high,
    messy, dirty fun—
    playfulness that fortifies.

    Loyal, unconditional,
    treasure ripe with joy—
    slobbered feelings visceral.

    Reply
      • Necia Campbell

        No, no…I’m just late in joining your form challenge…

        Reply
        • Holly Jahangiri

          Well, okay. But from that link, above: “The Isefra tradition is tightly linked, at least in western culture, to Si Mohand ou-Mhand n At Hmadouch, referred by colonials -er-sorry, by French scholars as the “Kabyle Verlaine”, and who, according to history, frequently took his Isefra and engaged in epic poetry duels, such as with the pious Cheikh Mohand ou-Lhocine.”

          Reply
          • Necia Campbell

            Well, I totally missed the link AND just realized I totally STP on the form. The rhyme is AAB AAB AAB not ABA ABA ABA. 😩

        • Holly Jahangiri

          Well, you know what that means…

          KEEP TRYING.

          Reply
    • Holly Jahangiri

      Marvelous! Thank you for joining in the fun, Vince. And welcome to my blog. Make yourself at home.

      Reply
        • Holly Jahangiri

          I did. I usually do, when someone comments here. I left a comment for you there, too.

          I did notice something – first time I visited, on mobile (which I usually do with portrait mode locked, since I’d rather read tiny text than only a few lines at a time), it cut off the entire right side of your blog. So then I tried switching to desktop version (still on mobile – Android) and it STILL cut off the right side of the text. It displays fine on my PC or on Android in Landscape mode.

          Hi again. 🙂

          Reply
  2. Cheryl Haimann

    I skipped the origin story and made up my own possible meaning for doglificate. I was inspired by a friend who fosters Newfoundlands, and is currently dealing with a busy boy who is challenging for the entire household.

    Sully’s Song

    One hundred pounds of
    unrestrained teenage pup energy.
    Food in the garbage? Excavate.
    A stuffed monkey toy? Devastate.
    Pounce on older brothers? Indelicate.
    His humans? Tempted to
    defenestrate
    this profligate
    doglificate.

    Reply
    • Holly Jahangiri

      I think that the “origin story” leaves plenty of room for creative interpretation!

      Reply

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