Category Archives: quatrains

Morri Creech, ‘An Ordinary Childhood’

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Our mother was a mousetrap under the stairs.
She used as bait the things she never said.
We’d hear a snap and find three silver hairs
in an old passport, pinned like something dead.

Our father was an occupying force
in a town of collaborators. Good
behavior meant not signaling in morse
enemy troops camped in a distant wood.

Our parents paced—her mind a radio
playing the classic dirges until dawn,
his heart a spider web spun in the snow
catching the dusk sun before it was gone.

For supper, they would feed us each a crumb
of moonlight. Our house was a moving train.
Evenings they danced in a delirium
of silence, drunk on a thimbleful of rain.

*****

Morri Creech writes: “I don’t really have comments for this poem. The first line came to me, and the rest of the poem found its way as I continued to search for context to support that sentence. I didn’t know what I was going to say until I was saying it.”

‘An Ordinary Childhood’ was the 2025 Rattle Poetry Prize Winner

Morri Creech is the author of five collections of poetry: Paper Cathedrals (Kent State U P, 2001), which received the Stan and Tom Wick Poetry Prize; Field Knowledge (Waywiser, 2006), which received the Anthony Hecht Poetry prize and was nominated for both the Los Angeles Times Book Prize and the Poet’s Prize; The Sleep of Reason (Waywiser, March 2013), a finalist for the 2014 Pulitzer Prize; Blue Rooms (Waywiser, October 2018); and, most recently, The Sentence (LSUP, September 2023). A recipient of NEA and Ruth Lilly Fellowships, as well as grants from the North Carolina and Louisiana Arts councils, he is the Writer in Residence at Queens University of Charlotte, where he teaches courses in both the undergraduate creative writing program and in the low residency M.F.A. program. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with the novelist Sarah Creech.

“Chocolate Ice Cream Temptation” by h.koppdelaney is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

Lindsay McLeod, ‘Blind Date’

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It’s a roll of the dice
it’s the turn of a card
makes me feel Jesus Christ
it shouldn’t be this hard,

to find someone who’s nice
and attractive to me
but on this carousel
I’ve found only… let’s see
 
Trace was full blown racist
I suspected Venus had a penis,
Enid was a children’s author
ironic, Enid was the meanest,
 
dear Scarlet near insisted
we should hop straight into bed
but I resisted because her eyes
rolled round like marbles in her head
 
met Quasimodo by the tower
then there was Cerberus by the gate,
met Manson then met Alice
(Alice, she was running late)
 
mother Mary was still in mourning
she outlined all she chose to hate,
next came Tessie (that got messy)
who posted me her ‘target’ weight
 
nasty Stella the astrologer
could not believe that I’d refuse,
‘You must have Neptune late in retrograde.’
I told her, ‘That’s not it… it’s you.’
 
Some were happy, some were damaged
(and now I know that I am too),
some were easy, some were hard
some wanted things I couldn’t do.
 
So why put myself out there
why should I bother, even try?
 
I suppose it’s because,
initial hellos can be awkward
but it’s better than
living inside of goodbye.

*****

Lindsay McLeod writes: “‘Blind Date’ was my attempt to chronicle my search for love via the internet with a humorous spin. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it without some small warning of its darker side.”

‘Blind Date’ was first published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Lindsay McLeod lives down the Port in South Australia with his cattle dog, Mary. His writing has won awards and been published all over (in spite of rhyme and reason) and found homes most recently with THE HUMAN WRITERS, MENISCUS, EPHEMERAL ELEGIES, TIPTON POETRY, SNAKESKIN, PULSEBEAT and THE MARTELLO. Forced into early retirement, Lindsay is said to be considering a life of crime to support his poetry habit.

“Blind Date 2 with Ahmed the African American Attorney” by bbcworldservice is licensed under CC BY-NC 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)

J.E. Flecker, ‘To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence’

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I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words as messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maimonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

*****

Herman Elroy Flecker – who switched his first name to James – was born in England in 1884 and died in Davos, Switzerland in early 1915. Flecker is one of those poets with 4 or 5 memorable poems, with the rest being very dated stylistically and thematically.
‘To a Poet a Thousand Years Hence’, ‘The Piper’ (barely), ‘War Song of the Saracens’ (for the rollicking rhyme), ‘Yasmin’, ‘The Old Ships’… but, especially, ‘The Golden Journey to Samarkand’ (Prologue and Epilogue, part of a stage play produced after the poet’s death in 1915). If you don’t like those poems, don’t even bother with the rest.
He worked in the British consular services in the Eastern Mediterranean, and his work is loaded and larded with Greek, Ottoman and Arabic influences.

Photograph of James Elroy Flecker [c.1911-1914], Oxford, Bodleian Libraries, MS. 21234/1

Marion Shore, ‘The Lies I Tell’

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The lies I tell you, little ones,
I hope may be be forgiven:
Of course there is a Santa, hon,
Yes, Tiger’s up in heaven.

When lies forsake you, as they must,
And leave you lost, alone,
Will you forgive the broken trust?
Perhaps when you are grown,

And try to shield your children from
The darkness and the cold,
You’ll find that you are telling them
The lies your mother told.

*****

Marion Shore is the author of For Love of Laura: Poetry of Petrarch, a collecion of Petrarch’s poetry in translation published by the University of Arkansas Press in 1987. Her work has also appeared in Poems from Italy; Petrarch in English; 150 Contemporary Sonnets; and Rhyming Poems: A Contemporary Anthology. Her poems and translations have been published in numerous journals including The Formalist, Light Quarterly, Iambs and Trochees, First Things, and Measure. Recipient of the 2010 Richard Wilbur Award for Sand Castle (from which this poem is taken) and two-time winner of the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award, she lives in Springfield, MA.

“Framed White Puppy Dog Angel with Wings, Luna, American Pit Bull Terrier, Staffordshire, In Heaven from the Rainbow Bridge” by Beverly & Pack is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Translation: Émile Verhaeren, ‘Storm’ translated by John Gallas 

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So there you are, clambering amongst 
the topmost golden apples when – ker-boom!
A storm! an avalanche! comes hurtling through, 
ripping round the orchard-side. And you? 

Down that ladder smartish. Catch your breath.
Shelter in the shed, whose wobbly walls 
squeal with lightning-snaps , whose old roof pings 
and rattles in the hail. And then? Then things

go back to normal. Rosy sky. The grass, 
perky with flowers, says No Damage Done.
So up you go again, and pick the fruit, 
that beckon, brighterwetter, in the sun. 

by Émile Verhaeren, translated by John Gallas

*****

L’orage

Emile Verhaeren

Parmi les pommes d’or que frôle un vent léger
Tu m’apparais là-haut, glissant de branche en branche,
Lorsque soudain l’orage accourt en avalanche
Et lacère le front ramu du vieux verger.

Tu fuis craintive et preste et descends de l’échelle
Et t’abrites sous l’appentis dont le mur clair
Devient livide et blanc aux lueurs de l’éclair
Et dont sonne le toit sous la pluie et la grêle.

Mais voici tout le ciel redevenu vermeil.
Alors, dans l’herbe en fleur qui de nouveau t’accueille,
Tu t’avances et tends, pour qu’il rie au soleil,
Le fruit mouillé que tu cueillis, parmi les feuilles.

*****

John Gallas writes: “Loved doing these – 3 months, off and on, 50 mornings, to do 50 Verhaeren poems – the ones from ‘The Flems’ (‘Les Flamands’) are wonderful, objective descriptions of loft, orchard, pond, farmyard, cow, cowherd, espaliers, milk, breadbaking etc. Did ’em all. So the whole 50 set is with Carcanet – just sent last week – awaiting a decision: the little feature for ‘Storm’ might be a good sign!”

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.  

Photo: “DSC08278” by Capt Kodak is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Quatrains: Melissa Balmain, ‘For My Mother-in-Law, Trapped in Her Nursing Home by Another Viral Outbreak’

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(after A.E. Housman)

Loneliest of trees, a cherry blooms
Unseen by you whose spartan rooms
Have windows that are far too high
For views of anything but sky.

Now with your nineties in full swing,
You’ve doubtless started wondering
If last year’s rides to see spring’s glory
Were the last ones in your story.

And so you’re gamely making do
With what’s available to you:
A faded sprig from Mother’s Day;
Pink sneakers; blushing fruit puree.

*****

Melissa Balmain writes: “This poem was indeed written for my mother-in-law, the irreplaceable Anne Cilurzo FitzPatrick. She died the following winter, in 2023, after a life devoted to family, music, writing, volunteer work, and the tireless pursuit of dark chocolate. Her obituary can be found here.”

‘For My Mother-in-Law’ appears in Melissa Balmain’s third poetry collection, Satan Talks to His Therapist, available from Paul Dry Books (and from all the usual retail empires). Balmain is the editor-in-chief of Light, America’s longest-running journal of comic verse, and has been a member of the University of Rochester’s English Department since 2010.  

“plum and wall” by OiMax is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Jeff Sypeck, ‘January Report from the Food Pantry Coordinator’

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The sign. The side door. Come inside.
We’re here by nine or ten. She sobbed.
Pack extra peas. The dealer robbed
His boss. No soups. They need a ride

To get their tags. Some coffee too.
He’s had a stroke. It’s just a sprain.
She can’t mow lawns for all the rain.
She’s starved, but not for food. She’s blue

But cackles. Eggs. A constant cough.
No chicken. You apologize:
We don’t have diapers in that size.
We’ll pay before they cut you off

And let you freeze. Her son’s on pills
And so’s the wife. For seven weeks
They’ll keep the kids. His engine leaks.
She’s out of propane. Bring the bills

But come by five. Her swollen knees
Are healing slow. His wife dropped dead
On Christmas. Have some frozen bread,
A bladder wash, a bag of cheese,

A pack of chocolate shakes, a pound
Of venison, a protein bar,
A couple sleeping in their car,
A case of noodles, barren ground

On farmhands’ faces, cracked and worn.
When silence falls, go find a shelf,
Collect your neighbors as yourself
And stack them up, like cans of corn.

***** 

Jeff Sypeck writes: “Usually I write about history, and my poetry tends to focus on the past, but sometimes the here and now come calling, with tough and immediate needs.”

This poem was originally published in Rattle.

Jeff Sypeck is the author of the pop-history book Becoming Charlemagne and co-author of I Have Started for Canaan, the first full-length history of a Reconstruction-era African American community in Maryland. His latest book is an annotated, peer-reviewed translation of a Carolingian calendar poem. He lives in an agricultural reserve an hour outside Washington, D.C.
www.jeffsypeck.com
www.quidplura.com

“Shutdown Food Line” by Geoff Livingston is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Aaron Poochigian, ‘The Old Man’

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The old man wakens to a mute caregiver
pushing his chair past gulls along a railing.
This is the morning when he gets the river.
Surrendering to wind and a prevailing

saline tang kicked up from the Atlantic,
he lets whatever strikes him resonate.
A taut rod wrangling with a snagged and frantic
flounder whisks him to a lake upstate

where he, a wee one, tumbled off the dock,
his virgin perch still flapping in his grip.
A ferry, then, so very on the clock,
transports him to the boxy convoy ship

he steered through moonlit breakers toward Pyongyang
with perfect timing: his approach kissed land
at dawn. He dropped the ramp, and roughnecks sprang
out of the gangway onto commie sand.

Joggers, though, tug him back home from the war.
Whole herds of them keep gallivanting by
as thunder like they own the slate-paved shore.
He has to sit there coveting their high.

Sneakered and young as far as he can see,
they just keep leaving him behind to long
for liberty and the serene esprit
he got to savor when his legs were strong.

*****

Aaron Poochigian writes: “About the poem, all I want to say is that I think of it as flash fiction. I’ve started doing more studies of fictional characters in verse.”

‘The Old Man’ was first published in Portico Quarterly.

Aaron Poochigian earned a PhD in Classics from the University of Minnesota and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. His latest poetry collection, American Divine, the winner of the Richard Wilbur Award, came out in 2021. He has published numerous translations with Penguin Classics and W.W. Norton. His work has appeared in such publications as Best American Poetry, The Paris Review and Poetry.
aaronpoochigian.com
americandivine.net

Photo: “Bognor Regis Pier – Mar 2011 – Portrait of a Working Man at Play” by Gareth1953 All Right Now is licensed under CC BY 2.0.