Pyrrhuloxia in the desert
The pyrrhic is rightfully dismissed. Its existence in either ancient or modern rhythm is purely chimerical, and the insisting on so perplexing a nonentity as a foot of two short syllables, affords, perhaps, the best evidence of the gross irrationality and subservience to authority which characterise our Prosody.
Edgar Allen Poe: The Poetic Principal*
I would not be here either without looking like a juvenile from the north red cockscomb in the mesquite bosque picked up by a boy in a convertible for something I was not I would not be here either in this loosely built cup of fumes purple bark and grass but for 3 white eggs left by one mother saying daddy you take over today (you find a boy to feed) I would not be here either twit or daily casual to the west broken by the heat in the thorny bush liquid or lightly speckled in thickets I would not be here without the occasional barn and weevil without a thousand more fires (as substantial) aroused discharged and wet I would not be here either despite Poe in between needing a name bent and burnt billowed and rhapsodic by my swollen beak
Samuel Ace is a poet, photographer and educator, the author of three collections of poetry: Normal Sex, Home in three days. Don’t wash., most recently Stealth, co-authored with Maureen Seaton (Chax Press). He lives in Tucson, AZ and Truth or Consequences, NM.