formal poetry – Sarah Stoltzfus Allen

Stepping into the Ring, Having Just Been Kicked Out of the Boys’ Competition, PYTHAGORAS OF SAMOOOOOOOOOOOS!!!!!!!!

There once was a Lickety Split
who knew how to take a hard hit.
He’d wiggle and shake,
refused all the brakes,
and got out of there, fast with his wit.

“His wit,” you ask and you scratch,
“is no good in a fisticuffs match.”
But he made them all dizzy
when he whirled in a tizzy
while spewing mathematical facts.

The aggressors were no good at sums,
they should have been sucking their thumbs.
They thought he’d gone crazy,
but always got hazy,
and with one calculated punch, they succumbed.

***

This is based on a true-ish story. Historians disagree about the identity of Pythagoras of Samos, who won men’s boxing at the olympics (after he was kicked out of the boys competition because he was too effeminate). Some believe that this Pythagoras was the famed mathematician. Some believe that it’s a completely different dude. I like to think it was the mathematician.

Middle-ish Age

or, Sonnet 2, if Old Bill Shakes had Considered Reality

When forty winters crown my aging head
and crow’s feet line the smile around my eyes,
my youth will start its journey down the drain,
and I don’t care who knows that I am old.
And if you ask me where my beauty lies
and where the perk of youth has run off to,
I’ll pull my glasses down my nose and free
the pent-up truth I’ve kept behind my teeth:
we’re sold the lie that beauty should endure
without a single dimple on our skin,
but beauty lies in pure embodiment
of simple joy in every season spent.
I do not covet spring, its blooming rose,
I’m well content in autumn’s golden clothes.

***

I have been responding to and rewriting Shakespeare’s sonnets as a writing exercise. It’s been challenging and fun and makes me feel a bit…uh…conceited (is that the right word?). Anyway, I hope you love it! Read the original Sonnet 2 here.

While Trying to Read a Novel on My First Free Afternoon in Months

I do not wish you death or pain or sorrow.
I do not wish for you to toil in fear,
but if you, dear friend, don’t leave until tomorrow,
I might be forced to kick you in the rear.
And since all you can do is interrupt,
I’ve started thinking of unpleasant scenes
that cause no harm, but really could disrupt
your peace, your comfort, and tranquility.
I hope you find yourself with sticky fingers
that thorough soapy scrubbing can’t erase.
I hope your silent stinker always lingers
and recognition makes you a disgrace.
May your socks always be bunched up at your heel,
and if you’d lose your voice that’d be ideal.

It’s not that I dislike our friendly gabs.
I understand your need for frequent breaks,
but if you don’t hush I’ll feel the need to stab
my just licked finger into your slice of cake.
It’s possible that this may seem unkind,
to wish unpleasantness upon a friend.
And if you think my words should be refined
feel free to ignore me until the day’s dark end!
Please zip your lips and head to another space
so I can stop these hateful, annoying thoughts.
‘Cause I still want your cheeks to clench as you race
into a crowded bathroom with the trots.
Come back in a hour and I’ll be dandy and fine
I really just want to finish chapter nine.