
With its loping equine cadence, amphibrachic tetrameter holds morbid fascination for the doggerel-besotted. No one knows what it is until they hear it. Then they go, “Oh yeah. There once was a girl from Nantucket.” But they’re wrong, that’s only trimeter. Keep up, people, we need four triplets.
Is there such a thing as front-rhyme? you ask. Should there be? What would it look like?
He grabs by the vitals whomever he chooses.
The slabs of endeavor are redolent ruses.
There you have it: an AB front-rhymed couplet. To your untested ear is rhyme even present? Not so much, right? That’s the genius. English has long since said eff it to Nantucket. But what’s to fill the empty bucket? Say hello to head rhyme.
I grant you, the couplet is flawed. The incidental rhyming at end-of-line — chooses/ruses — is unfortunate. It has no place in the model of a new paradigm. English, like Italian, is almost impossible to versify without rhyming. Let’s try to improve the couplet…
… first, by altering line 1:
He grabs by the vitals whomever he wishes.
The slabs of endeavor are redolent ruses.
Wishes and ruses are still too close to rhyming. Let’s try altering line 2:
He grabs by the vitals whomever he chooses.
The slabs of endeavor are redolent mimsies.
Close enough. Do not fret over the poetic license of line 2. A “slab of endeavor” explains itself in a manner of speaking. Mimsies, plural of mimsy, may be a recherché nonce word or not. Verse allows such ambiguities. Only poetry takes them seriously.
Embrace new vistas in versifying, messieurs-dames. Where there’s a will there’s a way. Dream hard, dream big, dream on. It’s the right thing to do.
(c) 2025 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved





















A Poem Is a Sketch
A friend I’ll nickname Stardust, avid prose reader, has remarked that relatively few people have a taste for poetry nowadays. I surmise it’s always been so, even in this or that era when <name-your-Great-Poet> flourished. The Great One would have been lionized by a coterie of fans in a populous land of nonreaders.
Poets are a few obsessives bent on strewing words just so, in a way the next person can’t, applecart-tipping and necessary. Their readers are a peculiar lot bent on stewing over those words. I like to think of doggerel, tangentially, as poetry’s running dog. Hail to thee, blithe mutt! Bird thou never wert.
The pivot point in this spiel is that Stardust is a skilled artist who can reify in line, value and hue what a poet does in words:
I did not want / the moment to end / then stopped wanting / so I could / be, not yearn,…
(Lia Purpura, from “Intersection”, Poetry, September 2025)
“Did not want… then stopped wanting… be, not yearn,” Impossible to say differently that’s better. Both Stardust and Lia Purpura can turn a flash of perception into a thing that lingers, and completes itself in the psyche of another human.
If Stardust is ever pierced by a poem-moment, and there’s no special need for that to happen from where I stand, there’s hundred’s of feet of fertile loam accrued in my friend’s delta of sensibility for it to root in. Stardust will have perceived the poem as lines, akin to a sketch that works unusually well.
(c) 2025 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved