Octometer. What happens if every poet wrote in octometer on Tuesday for one year?

A movement is afoot -- Octometer Tuesday. Making the rare, common.


Not to be outdone, every Tuesday the cook will prepare dishes with 8 ingredients. No more/no less.

Tuesday breakfast #1

sliced Persian cucumbers
basil
pepper
olive oil
sliced tear-drop tomatoes
chevre
on top a corn tortilla
&, of course, tea

Accent. Does the poem or the poet decide where the accent falls?

Both. Hopefully, in tandem.


The knowing cook accentuates the ripe/the fresh which has the edge on articulating the accent. Of course, rot, too, but hopefully the cook wasn't part of.

Phoneme. Is there an finite number of phonemes to each poem?

Not in general. Specifically, ask each poem for the smallest bit of distinguishing speech. As my grandmother used to say, "Watch your silk and milk."



In cooking, milk and it's exquisite relative, cream, can make a soup sing of silk.

Sprung rhythm. When poetry lets loose, can it be said that it has sprung itself?

No, not inception as much sporting variety. Not only is variety a condiment of life, it helps ensure the orchard continues to be robust, year after year.


In the kitchen there is the sprung pan, of course. Or am I imagining. Anyway, returning to tapas, which I am oh so happy to do, is a panoply of sprung dishes. Nothing short on panache to the littlest of plate or bowl filled so.

Enjambent. How else does poetry makes of itself more?

Letters are the first line of enjambent. One into the next. A word. Another. The line breaks and meaning intensifies. Just listen to the master: Joni Mitchell. Yes, fashion is in the mix. And conversation.


Meals are meant to intensify. Think about what breaks your taste into its sublime echo. For me, all of the above commingles into an exquisite shade of blue. You know who is singing?

Caesura. Are there more beautiful breaks in a poem?

Doubtful. Just there, outside of meter's grasp. In the palm of meaning. And, of course, breath. Which is to say meaning. Comma or no.


Plenty caesura and commas in a meal. For instance, that unmistakable ping of pepper stops and then jump starts the tongue. Or the sigh after conversation & wine. Of course, after the crab has been cracked. Examples, innumerable. Always something is in season. Silence, respite & blessing, never more so.

Acatalectic. At the end what saves poetry from being defective?

Broken bits of syllables catch the light from which the whole, expectedly hums.



A bit of grated cheese transforms broken bits of pasta. Splurge, add fresh basil. The proper weight of word and meal. A good hum, also.

Canto. Is silence the canto in a small poem?

Large & palpable is silence and has been known to deliciously stain a page. Inhabit the digital as well. Thus, are all poems large?



Oh, a meal of tidbits. On small plates. How this fills the senses. A bowl brims with fruit.

Hum. Do most poems hum?

On their own volition? Hum being a category of sound color. Partial to n, m, ng. And where is the hum in a fully realized echo?


Meals, of course, are bastions of humming. A gentle boil is a circular hum, don't you agree? And why are you whistling?

Scansion. Does a poem need an outside force to perform scansion on itself?

Internal scansion? Yes, not internal combustion. Although when a poem implodes, there is an organic rhythm heard.


Regarding fruits and vegetables, the ripe always performs self-scansion. How else could we be privy to its essence.

Slack. Does most poetry today suffer from being too unstressed?

Slack and unstressed? Or strident & rant-ish? Perhaps, one might consider a fence. What is one side might not be on the other.


Slack food? Mild tastes & casual appearances. Minimal heat. My eyes are tasting quiet, miniature peppers with only the stress of bold color: yellow, red, and orange.

Molossus. When was the last time someone said this poem would benefit from molossus.

(Editor's note: in no way connected to mollusks.) The larger question: which poems benefit from a classically long start? Or a slow finish?


So similar to a meal, isn't it? Should desert linger or ping & bite as in citrus sorbet? How much hinges on what came before.

Morpheme. Does every poem contain at least one morpheme?

Nonsense, you say. But don't say uncle.


In cooking, it's olive oil heating up and ready for what comes next. Olive oil is never unwanted.

Aubade. Can an aubade by recited in the evening?

Poetry is all about timing, especially the delivery of. Is there such a thing as "proper time." What happens when a lover's duet written for dawn, is read in the evening?


Is this similar to eating pizza for breakfast. If so, I'm all for it. Have a discernible track record.

Kymograph. What measures the acoustic qualities in a poem?

Now that the kymograph is obsolete are we left to our ears -- individual and collective? Sound can be silent but is it ever singular? What do decibels of sound reveal?


Look to the meal. In the kitchen, the crispness of carrot & celery. Various salad greens ripped into smallish and uneven pieces. The name snap peas says it all, doesn't it. The kitchen is a laboratory of sound. And smells. So you ask, what measures the smells in a poem?

Anacrusis. Does a poem always have a lead-in syllable?

Yes, though sometimes unarticulated. Specifically, the breath before the first word spoken aloud or silent. Sometimes, the collective breath of an audience after the final word.


And of food. The lingering moment before the hand grasps the knife. Reaches for the spoon to stir soup. And all during, the cook's breath.