“A Burlesque of the Makers” by Sherry Chandler

211 Replies

W. S. Merwin was feeling fine and frisky
back in 1996. He
wrote a string of rhymed quatrains, fifty-
one, and every verse ended with me.

I think my meaning needs to be refined.
The terminal me was his, it wasn’t mine.
Though I’m sneaking up on seventy,
no one clamors for that much of me.

He says it wasn’t he who started it,
confesses his model was William Dunbar, a Scot,
who, in the sixteenth century,
cried timor mortis conturbat me

over poets then deceased. This refrain
graced a paltry twenty-five quatrains.
Well, every one’s afraid to die.
Merwin, Dunbar, Chaucer, I

(a form of me) lament it
and worst of all when life is spent it
leaves us open to unskilled parody
by those whose ego outweighs sense, like me.

-Sherry Chandler

211 thoughts on ““A Burlesque of the Makers” by Sherry Chandler”

  6. Leatha

    You can make quatrains dance a jig and still feel profound. That is an art, for sure. Love this poem so much I wish I’d written it. (How’s that for honesty?)

    Reply ↓

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *