I set this short poem by Ezra Pound when I was 19. The poem is one of Pound’s Provençal translations, from an anonymous troubadour; my setting favors fourths and fifths.

People seem to like epiphanies.

EPIPHANIES

I walked out to the back acre
Where the hawthorn climbed shyly over the sagging fence
Like a little girl at a birthday party
I looked off to the east
At the darkening clouds
And realized
Why my mother was never home on Sunday

I walked out into the anxious city
Where used Toyotas honked at sad-eyed drunks
Like a goat that needed milking
I looked up at the tall buildings
With their winking neon
And realized
Why my father always kept his desk locked

I walked out on the open farmland
Where the young green corn rustled in the wind
Like a truck with a stalled motor
I looked down at my threadbare jeans
And saw my fly was open
And realized
Why the farmer’s kids were laughing

I don’t know what to do with these epiphanies
Perhaps I’ll try to market them at Tiffany’s

I’m currently translating Alfred Jarry’s operetta Le Moutardier du pape for Black Scat Books; it should be out later this year. I’m translating Jarry’s rhymed verse as rhymed verse; it always requires some compromise, but I hope the result is more faithful than a literal, unrhymed rendition would be (and more faithful than Jarry’s own rhymed translation of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”!). Jarry called his operettas his théâtre mirlitonnesque, his “kazoo theater,” and his verse is suitably lively, filled with rhymes, alliteration, assonance, wordplay, and varied meters. The subject is the medieval legend of Pope Joan; Jarry turns it into a bawdy farce, and Joan becomes an Englishwoman named Jane.

Here’s an aria from the end of the first act, in which Jane’s husband, Sir John of Eggs, describes his runaway wife to the pope, and gradually recognizes her. I’ll give the first stanza in the original, so you can see what I’m up against.

Elle a de tout petits petons,
Petits, petits… comment peut-on
A sa pantoufl’ de Cendrillon
Trouver la paire?
Petits, petits… hé mais, Saint Père
–Que m’excuse Sa Sainteté
De la très grande liberté,
Successeur du princ’ des apôtres–
Petits, petits… comme les vôtres.

I
She has such pretty little feet,
So elegant and so petite,
No Cinderella could compete
Or could compare.
But Holy Father, if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness.
Successor to Saint Peter’s throne,
Those little feet… are like your own.

II
And when she smooths her satin skirt,
Her finger’s such a little flirt,
So debonair, and so alert
For an affair.
A little finger… if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness,
Successor to Saint Peter’s throne,
A little finger… like your own.

III
Her waist is like a shoot in spring,
A scepter worthy of a king,
Her belt is like a narrow ring
That brings despair.
So narrow, narrow… if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness,
Successor to Saint Peter’s throne,
So narrow, narrow… like your own.

IV
If once again I saw those eyes,
If to their level I could rise,
So somber, wicked, wild, and wise,
A savage lair…
But Holy Father, if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness,
To put it plain…
(Pointing to the POPESS.) But you are Jane!

Here’s another new poetic constraint: the anagram rhyme. As the name says, anagrams are treated as rhymes. Here are seven examples:

Whenever we go out, the post
Beside the park is still the spot
Where our retriever always opts
To tug upon his leash and stop.

The life of urban man is tame:
He earns his wage; he cheers his team;
He swigs his beer; he eats his meat;
He quarrels with his chosen mate.

When he complained about the rates,
The agent shot him with a taser.
A crowd of idlers stopped to stare
And ridicule him for his tears.

The kitchen strictly must debar
The men who knead and bake the bread
From working with their faces bared,
Especially those who wear a beard.

Escape from all the city’s bustle,
And stop to sniff the blooming bluets;
For their aroma is so subtle,
Their pigmentation quite the bluest.

The savvy goose and cautious gander
Knew not to wander from the garden.
Beyond the paling, there was danger,
For that was where the foxes ranged.

The poet who had once aspired
To be admired and widely praised
Now wipes his kids and changes diapers
In resignation and despair.

Instrumentarium is now available from Black Scat Books! This delightful volume collects the drawings of imaginary musical instruments I contributed monthly to Le Scat Noir, plus many previously unpublished. Among the 180 selected here are such inventions as the Painpipes, the Sprinkler Trombone, the Sponge Marimba, and the Calfbell.

As our culture grows ever more reductive and conformist, this celestial orchestra brings to you the almost forgotten pleasures of musical variety. Available from Black Scat Books or Amazon.

Here’s another entry in my continuing search for new poetic constraints. Monosyllabic haiku contain three one-syllable words, with 5, 7, and 5 letters. And here are seven examples:

moose
springs
forth

tweak
twelfth
shelf

cheap
schlock
sells

bears
scratch
backs

white
wraiths
whirl

swill
thrills
swine

frail
scrolls
crack

A five-part round, setting a French proverb on the danger of eating eggs.

I’m currently collecting my cartoons of imaginary musical instruments, which appeared in the PDF magazine Le Scat Noir, into a book. I also drew some new ones. Here are a few.