I had this poem published a long, long time ago in a journal called Iambs & Trochees, edited by William F. Carlson. I read that Mr. Carlson had died about a year after putting out this issue. Of the short contributor biographies at the back of the issue, my favorite reads, “Joseph Barker is a prison inmate who fills his void by writing poetry.”

Here’s the text typed out for all the spiders:

In every line are five iambic feet,
Which pair a stressed with every unstressed bit.
In every other line will two rhymes meet,
To give each couple interlocking fit.
The octave is the poem’s initial part,
Wherein the poet tries his wordy hand.
He may address what’s closest to his heart,
Or tackle what his mind can’t understand.
The sestet shows its face in number nine.
Its body turns the sonnet on its head.
The purpose here is purely by design:
To clarify, by contrast, what’s been said.
The couplet’s last, and serves to summarize
The rest, or give conclusion otherwise.

But it’s time to back-burner all this for a while. I’ve got bigger fish to fry, apparently on one of my larger front burners, and the pretense I’ve been sleepwalking under has now collapsed under the wonderful weight of reality.

I’ve written more in the last year than I had in the previous three or four. The last time I had written regularly, and then taken a decisive break from it, was just about six years ago. Things changed for the better for me within two months of doing so and I’d welcome a similar turn anytime now.

This isn’t a huge deal, or a huge break – I hope to be back in early November (and just maybe putting links on twitter) – but I’m writing like this because I need it to feel like this.

Thanks for checking in over the last year. We’ll see you next time.

The better heading for this essay is probably “Classic and Underappreciated,” because when Marshall Crenshaw’s self-titled debut was released in 1982, it sold pretty well, had a single that charted and made enough of a dent in the minds of enough listeners for Crenshaw to make an ongoing career out of it. Still, for all his talent and for all his good songs, Crenshaw’s is not a name that pops up as often in conversation as other tunesmiths’ might. Among glasses wearers of his generation – not the most scientific way to parse this material, but hey – he had more in common with Buddy Holly than Elvis Costello or Warren Zevon, both more biting in their wit, though not appreciably more intelligent, at least compared to the persona put forth in the songs on this album.

Read the whole thing here.

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