Ballade: Gail White, ‘After the Opera’

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Although we came in hopes to find
the most amazing staging yet,
the final act still filled the mind
with all the trappings of regret.
Although the happy lovers met
with joyous singing – hers and his –
we’ve seen from Carmen to Cosette
how sad the ending always is.

Why do we cry for womankind,
for Tosca on the parapet,
for Butterfly, her love declined,
for Manon and for Juliet?
Haven’t we seen the sweetest pet
fall victim to the wily Wiz?
Haven’t we seen – from death to debt –
how sad the ending always is?

The villain always lurks behind
the arras, holding out the net
that will entrap the golden hind,
the mark of arrows ready set.
At first we didn’t feel the threat;
we never thought our hopes a chiz,
But now we’ve learned our alphabet:
How sad the ending always is!

But pour champagne, my friends, and let
the golden bubbles rise and fizz!
For just a moment we’ll forget
how sad the ending always is.

*****

Gail White writes: “It was Barbara Loots who called my attention to the fact that the plots of many operas could end with the words “and then she dies.”  Being an opera heroine is almost always fatal.  My first poem on this theme was a short one,  “Opera Rondeau”.  Then it occurred to me that the same idea would support a ballade.  Writing this was fun, as finding enough rhymes for “is” pushed me into the realm of slang.  And, of course, life is indeed a process of finding happy distractions from an inevitable tragic ending.”

‘After the Opera’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Gail White is a widely published Formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light. Her new chapbook, Paper Cuts, is out on Amazon or from Kelsay Books. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats.

“This picture makes me happy” by James Jordan is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

Sonnet: Melissa Balmain, ‘Solidarity. On a recent explosion of fireflies across the US’

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Even my ordinarily blank lawn
is flashing this July—no bottle rocket
or Catherine wheel could match the pleasant shock it
gives me each time a tiny lamp turns on
to help a bachelor find a blinding date.
The bugs can’t read, of course, about pollution
and other woes that might spell dissolution
for all their kind, but as they mate and mate
I like to think they somehow know what’s looming,
deep in their chitin—that their sudden blooming
is nature’s way of putting up a fight,
and that these living fireworks before us
can make us hear, and heed, a timely chorus:
When darkness threatens you, crank up your light.

*****

Melissa Balmain writes: “For some reason, I’ve written a lot of bug poems lately. And I’m starting to suspect this has given insects the wrong idea about me. Memo to the ants infesting my kitchen: if you think my plans for you involve writing an ode, think again.”

First published in The New Verse News

Melissa Balmain edits Light, North America’s longest-running journal of comic verse, and teaches writing at the University of Rochester.  Her poems and/or prose have appeared in Crab Orchard Review, Ecotone, The Hopkins Review, Literary Matters, McSweeney’s, The New Yorker, The New York Times, Nimrod, Poetry Daily, and Rattle. Her latest book of poetry is Satan Talks to His Therapist (Paul Dry Books). 

Photo: “Fireflies and Star Trails No. 3” by ikewinski is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘Fairytale’

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Sweetheart, let me tell ya
I don’t need a Cinderella,
no coach from lowly pumpkin
or fairy godmother will do,

Rapunzel’s hair from prison tower,
no magic lamp or ring of power
and I don’t agree it’s freedom
having nothing left to lose,

I know that I’m not much
but if you think that I’m enough
then we’ll be happy ever after,
writing our story me and you

we can steer clear of poisoned apples,
fight the dragons, choose our battles,
but sweetheart, what kind of a halfwit
goes out dancing in glass shoes?

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “I wrote this one years ago, for the sweetest person I’ve ever met, after promising that I would write her a poem every week. In the end they filled a book, writing just shy of a hundred for her.”

‘Fairytale’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Lindsay McLeod lives by the Port in South Australia where he is driven by his cattle dog, Mary. Lindsay’s most recently published work can be found in Rat’s Ass Review, Snakeskin, and Meniscus. Currently, he is said to be considering a life of crime to support his poetry habit.

“Cinderella Glass Slipper” by Tsts Sheng is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Susan McLean, ‘Mending’

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Her cashmere sweater, navy blue,
was passed to me when Mother died.
Though soft and warm, with little wear,
it has a hole that needs repair.
Mending it from the other side,
I spot another, then a few.
I hold the sweater to the light.
Small holes shine out like stars at night.

From her I learned this homely art,
as well as not to toss or waste
what might be saved. I thread and sew
and knot and thread again. Although
I salvage what the moths defaced,
I cannot patch my threadbare heart,
for I can never, never, never
suture what is gone forever.

*****

Susan McLean writes: “I got the idea for this poem and began writing it in my head as I was mending the sweater, and since, as I mention, the mending took quite a while, I had several lines completed before I was done with the sewing. The rhyme scheme, ABCCBADD, rather mimics the activity of closing up a hole and tying off the thread with the final couplet, though that was not something I was conscious of as I was writing it. My unconscious does its own thing while my conscious mind struggles with finding what to say. However, I was quite conscious of echoing Lear’s lament for Cordelia in the repeated “never, never, never” of the next-to-last line. That repetition and negation have always struck me as being the epitome of grief.”

‘Mending’ was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

Susan McLean has three books of poetry: The Best Disguise, The Whetstone Misses the Knife, and her latest, Daylight Losing Time (Able Muse, 2026). She had also published a book of translations of Martial, Selected Epigrams. Her poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Crab Orchard Review, Able Muse, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.

“darning a sweater” by henna lion is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Sonnet: John Gallas, ‘Ascension Sonnet’

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you can’t unload the caravan for one lame donkey

It’s six a.m. We’re swarming up a drain.
Someone up the front knows what we’re doing.
Me and Tich are flying up the flueing.
Snap! My leg falls off. You can’t complain:
you can’t expect an army on the trail
of half a dog and sugar-sick to stop
and say Oh dear, Goodbye. I squirm and flop
along the gutter’s edge. A wizened snail
laced up in cobwebs grins across the slime.
I hear a million footsteps fading. Tich!
The sun smacks like a snare-drum. Life’s a bitch.
My head goes dry. I’m running out of Time.
I climb a twig to face the Ant Unknown.
We have to face our last few pricks alone.

*****

John Gallas writes: “Ascension: a slightly cruel Proverb to modern ears, but of course often the case as we all bustle forwards in life. The sad demise of this Ant is done in a cod-Existential drama, and tries to mix some black humour with the Final Stand (even with a leg missing). The also-once-left-behind snail a warning to us all. Who knows how Ants talk, but they are sociable, so …”

Ascension Sonnet is one of the 100 sonnets collected in The Coalville Divan (part of John Gallas’ ‘Star City’ from Carcanet), which use as their beginnings Persian Proverbs from the Wisdom of the East series by L.P. Elwell-Sutton.

John Gallas, Aotearoa/NZ poet, published mostly by Carcanet. Saxonship Poet (see www.saxonship.org), Fellow of the English Association, St Magnus Festival Orkney Poet, librettist, translator and biker. 2025 Midlands Writing Prize winner. Presently living in Markfield, Leicestershire. Website is www.johngallaspoetry.co.uk which has a featured Poem of the Month, complete book list, links and news.  

“Trail of Ants” by McLevn is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Call for Submissions: ‘Extreme Formal Poems II’, ed. Beth Houston

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From Beth Houston: “I’m writing to let you know that I’ve changed the latest Rhizome Press anthology I’m currently reading for from Extreme Sonnets and Villanelles to Extreme Formal Poems II, and I’ve extended the submission deadline to January 15, 2027.

I’m making the change to give more poets the opportunity to be included (by request) and to give me a chance to get the word out. I’ve been supposedly permanently kicked off Facebook for no specific reason even after going through their protest process, so I’m trying a new outreach approach, including some advertising, which takes additional time, hence my need to extend the deadline. 

I’m confident that Extreme Formal Poems II will be the best Rhizome anthology yet, and I’m excited to read all you submit to contribute to its success.”

***** 

Beth Houston (www.bethhouston.com) has taught writing (mostly creative writing) at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida and has worked as a writer and editor. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She writes free verse and formal poetry, mostly sonnets, and has published a novel, two nonfiction books, and six poetry books (out of print). She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies via one of her indie presses, Rhizome Press (www.rhizomepress.com).

RHL, ‘R.I.P. the English Girl in the Bahamas’

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There was a young girl who married a pirate
They boarded a ship called La Mouette.
They had a ship’s cat and also a parrot –
Well, if not a parrot, a noisy old rooster –
And a couple of cabin-boys who called her Mum –
And a sea-dog of course, or at least they used to.
They dressed up in finery, drank lots of rum…
They sailed ever sunwards, and they’re sailing yet.

*****

People who move to the Bahamas are an odd and interesting bunch, which is fine because it’s an odd and interesting country… but then, so is everyone, everywhere. Anyway, this particular lady (or one somewhat similar in some ways) and her family lived across the street from me, growing up.

This poem was first published in Snakeskin‘s recent edition of short poems.

“Pirate family” by Graham Ó Síodhacháin is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

R.I.P. Chris O’Carroll, ‘Ballynagaul, County Waterford’

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A graybeard and a girl walk on this beach.
She’s his grandmother; she’s not really here.
He stoops for shells and pebbles. His hands reach
Across a family’s distances and years.
Of her eleven children, three are left —
His father and two aunts back in the States.
He pockets bits of Ireland, reverent theft
Of relics for her blood to venerate.
She lost two brothers here, both fishermen
Who labored daily on this chill, gray sea
That one day failed to bring them home again.
That’s when her childhood ended. That’s when she
Booked passage for her children’s native land.
She’s not here; she can’t hold her grandson’s hand.

*****

Chris O’Carroll was largely known as a poet for his light verse, but even a volume with the title ‘The Joke’s On Me‘ would contain more reflective work such as this sonnet. As an expatriate child of expats, I enjoy his appreciation of the back and forth across the seas, a family aware of its roots and far away. I included this poem in the Potcake Chapbook ‘Families and Other Fiascoes‘.

Chris passed away earlier this month. Christopher O’Carroll Obituary (1951 – 2026) – Pelham, MA – Daily Hampshire Gazette. The world of light poetry will retain his glow.

“Annestown Beach, County Waterford” by mwmosser is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

J.E, Flecker, ‘The Golden Journey to Samarkand. Epilogue’

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At the Gate of the Sun, Bagdad, in olden time

THE MERCHANTS (together)
Away, for we are ready to a man!
Our camels sniff the evening and are glad.
Lead on, O Master of the Caravan:
Lead on the Merchant-Princes of Bagdad.

THE CHIEF DRAPER
Have we not Indian carpets dark as wine,
Turbans and sashes, gowns and bows and veils,
And broideries of intricate design,
And printed hangings in enormous bales?

THE CHIEF GROCER
We have rose-candy, we have spikenard,
Mastic and terebinth and oil and spice,
And such sweet jams meticulously jarred
As God’s own Prophet eats in Paradise.

THE PRINCIPAL JEWS
And we have manuscripts in peacock styles
By Ali of Damascus; we have swords
Engraved with storks and apes and crocodiles,
And heavy beaten necklaces, for Lords.

THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN
But you are nothing but a lot of Jews.

THE PRINCIPAL JEWS
Sir, even dogs have daylight, and we pay.

THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN
But who are ye in rags and rotten shoes,
You dirty-bearded, blocking up the way?

THE PILGRIMS
We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,
White on a throne or guarded in a cave
There lives a prophet who can understand
Why men were born: but surely we are brave,
Who make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

THE CHIEF MERCHANT
We gnaw the nail of hurry. Master, away!

ONE OF THE WOMEN
O turn your eyes to where your children stand.
Is not Bagdad the beautiful? O stay!

THE MERCHANTS (in chorus)
We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

AN OLD MAN
Have you not girls and garlands in your homes,
Eunuchs and Syrian boys at your command?
Seek not excess: God hateth him who roams!

THE MERCHANTS (in chorus)
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

A PILGRIM WITH A BEAUTIFUL VOICE
Sweet to ride forth at evening from the wells
When shadows pass gigantic on the sand,
And softly through the silence beat the bells
Along the Golden Road to Samarkand.

A MERCHANT
We travel not for trafficking alone:
By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:
For lust of knowing what should not be known
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

THE MASTER OF THE CARAVAN
Open the gate, O watchman of the night!

THE WATCHMAN
Ho, travellers, I open. For what land
Leave you the dim-moon city of delight?

THE MERCHANTS (with a shout)
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

[The Caravan passes through the gate]

THE WATCHMAN (consoling the women)
What would ye, ladies? It was ever thus.
Men are unwise and curiously planned.

A WOMAN
They have their dreams, and do not think of us.

VOICES OF THE CARAVAN (in the distance, singing)
We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

*****

Yes, it’s laden with archaic stereotypes; yes, there are plenty of women who would go, and plenty of men who would not; yes, the world has moved on… But I make no apology for loving this poem, colourful, vibrant, a call to adventure, an anthem, a true romance.

The Wikipedia entry on James Elroy Flecker deals with his life, and with this poem in the context of his play Hassan, and the influences and references the poem spawned: a lovely mix of Saki, Borges, Agatha Christie, Flashman, Nevil Shute, Neil Gaiman, Vikram Seth… and memorials in England, India and New Zealand.

This is my third blog post on Flecker’s poems. Don’t worry, I’ll stop now.

“Bowl Camel Caravan (late 12th-early” is marked with CC0 1.0.

J.E. Flecker, ‘The Golden Journey to Samarkand. Prologue’

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We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage
And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die,
We Poets of the proud old lineage
Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why,–

What shall we tell you? Tales, marvellous tales
Of ships and stars and isles where good men rest,
Where nevermore the rose of sunset pales,
And winds and shadows fall toward the West:

And there the world’s first huge white-bearded kings
In dim glades sleeping, murmur in their sleep,
And closer round their beasts the ivy clings,
Cutting its pathway slow and red and deep.

II
And how beguile you? Death has no repose
Warmer and deeper than that Orient sand
Which hides the beauty and bright faith of those
Who made the Golden Journey to Samarkand.

And now they wait and whiten peaceably,
Those conquerors, those poets, those so fair:
They know time comes, not only you and I,
But the whole world shall whiten, here or there;

When those long caravans that cross the plain
With dauntless feet and sound of silver bells
Put forth no more for glory or for gain,
Take no more solace from the palm-girt wells,

When the great markets by the sea shut fast
All that calm Sunday that goes on and on:
When even lovers find their peace at last,
And Earth is but a star, that once had shone.

*****

Following on from my previous blog post on James Elroy Flecker, this is the Prologue to ‘The Golden Journey to Samarkand’. It has some nice lines, but the piece that contains the stirring lines that get quoted and misquoted and truncated out of context, that piece is the Epilogue, which I will post next time.


Painting by Richard-Karl Karlovič Zommer: ‘Samarkand’ (19th/ 20th century)