note: scroll halfway down for wordplay, and all the way to the bottom for the translations

Surrealism

ㅤBeer Truck Heaven
ㅤPareidolia Cucurbita

Sonnets

ㅤThe Ballad of White Boy Rick
ㅤThe Ballad of Rhonda from Customer Support
ㅤa see-through wall made of shiny steel
ㅤBare Naked in a Sleepy Village
ㅤthe pointy stack o’ bricks
ㅤHe Won Because …
ㅤThe Cologne Wars

Nonets

ㅤGetting Hot and Steamy on a Sunday
ㅤHigh Expectations Nonet
ㅤNonet the Starry Night

Villanelles

ㅤVertigo
ㅤOf Waffles and Attempted Burglary
ㅤMetro North Gothic — Nuts

Limericks

ㅤYour Helmet is So Big
ㅤAge, the Final Frontier
ㅤJustice League
ㅤAdam’s Retort
ㅤGrand Old Clusterf#ck
ㅤThe Ill-Advised Blow Job
ㅤChanneling Kayleigh…

I’m alone, as the golden yellow
sunflower patch’s lonesome sorrow,
as one begot to life down and low,
to voice words lax and loose,
thus by the fistful I’ll dispense them,
my glossy grains — onto rocks barren,
or fertile soil, treasured therein — 
as destiny may choose.

As one begot to life down and low,
I’m alone, as the golden yellow
sunflower patch’s lonesome sorrow — 
as destiny may choose.
My words — my blood I dispersed loosely,
I replied, though no one implored me,
(such was my lot) hapless and clumsy,
one forever accused.

Alone, toward the sun…

poem by Zsuzsa A. Túri, translated by Joe Váradi

You know
it’s all been
written
countless
times,
no
matter
how you
craft those
lines,
or
weave your
fanciful
vines,
every
sentence
a
chain-bound
sentiment,
every
phrase
a
time-trapped
experiment…

the original:

Tudod

Tudod,
mindent
megírtak
már
százszor,
a
szavakkal
te
akárhogy
játszol,
képzeleted
is
akárhogy
táncol,
minden
mondat
láncra
verve
lépked,
minden
sor
időbe
zárt
kísérlet…

I’ve used Robert Berény’s distinctive paintings for other translations:

P eriscopes raised, sweeping, surveying round
E very angle, straining atrophied nerves the
R etinas of the lucky, the few, take in decay
C aved-in civility, strewn-about cadavers of
Y oung and old, who marched to the beat of that

B rave new world, of hubris colossal
Y et went down with the epic wreck
S quandering reserves thought boundless
S ixty days huddled in the bunkers … and
H eat from the Blaze still lingers, laying bare
E very extinguished hope the

S urvivors dared to keep alive, lone
H omesick with no home left and
E xiled with no place…

traditional form poetry:
a more cerebral exercise
than modernists who write free verse
will tend to care to recognize

you see what I am doing here?
I’m writing this in verses of
i-am-bic (doh!) tetrameter —
four pairs per line: start low, head up

I hope you catch the drift, dear friend,
this stuff should come at you in waves,
our brain’s a complex instrument,
a plethora of treats it craves

the mind starts out by parsing words
to grasp for hooks semantical,
but leaves some room for just desserts:
discoveries climactical

there’s more to form than meets the eye
on that initial perusal —
half-rhymes and broken meter too
can bring about arousal (see?)

that feeling when the bulb lights up
(to finish with hyperbole …)
you’re not just simply reading lines — 
you’re belting out a symphony!

a poem by Jenő Dsida, translated by Joe Váradi. This is not only a gorgeous, deeply personal poem, it is also meticulously crafted, 13 verses, each adhering to a 8–8–7–7–8–8–7 syllable structure, a-a-b-b-c-c-b rhyme scheme.

I came across it on Easter Sunday, and set out to finish the translation by Pentecost.

By your tomb with trepidation,
fearfully I man my station,
oh - the charge is great, no doubt,
burns and crushes with its might:
for the skeptics and the doubters,
for your sacred law’s deniers,
empty grave, a ghastly sight.

By the mouth of your open grave
sitting amid sighs…

If I were a rose, to hide I’d have no reason,
I would bare my flowers each and every season,
I’d blossom for the boy, I’d blossom for the girl,
I’d blossom for true love, and for the passing world.

If I were a portal, I would always welcome
Every traveler, no matter where they came from,
I would never ask them, “hey, who sent you here,”
I would be delighted, if everyone were near.

If I were a window, wide open and grand,
You could gaze right through me, all across the land,
I’d reveal the world to understanding eyes
Show you…

there is this one Medium publication
punctuation their fiendish fixation
they shun parentheticals
and ostracize ellipticals …
fomenting much writer consternation

lately a backlash is a-brew
tongue-in-cheek rants, more than a few
a minor mutiny of sorts
(which I’m here to endorse)
among the brave contributing crew

and what’s with the whole pirate symbolism,
ship metaphors and outlaw-wannabeism?
you’re no rogue captain, in my book,
without a parrot, a hook,
and a leg lost to scurvy or botulism

now, as for your chosen sobri-quette
a name I don’t entirely get —
is it a portmanteau? …