I do not like these poems of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I don't like them because they start like this:
THE BLESSÈD Damozel lean’d outShe's bless-ed (I can't figure out how to do the accents), she leans out from Heaven, and "Heaven" rhymes with "even." It's like listening to a crooner from the late 40s, like Vaughn Monroe, and realizing they had to invent rock'n'roll.
From the gold bar of Heaven:
Her blue grave eyes were deeper much
Than a deep water, even.
The only one I didn't mind was this one, which I am excerpting in full:
Just because I like the idea of beauty, physical beauty, as a kind of creative genius equalling to the best of poets (and far better business, I might add). And, because living in L.A. one becomes much more cynical about the business of beautiful women, and because I couldn't think of anything else to write, I came up with this travesty. Because I'm in a hurry, I don't apologize for errors of scansion or torturings of grammar. Indeed, I think it makes my verse more rich:
Beauty like hers is genius. It takes pains --
The surgeon's silicone, the salon's dye,
The trainer's sweat, and every tool whereby
She turns all heads in preschool dropoff lanes.
Her husband's ex, a gossipy mom explains,
Was the woman who brought him his first script
Which starred this wife. (Remember? Her space suit, ripped?
And how she wore those glasses to show brains?)
As many men are horndogs in their youth,
But tamp it down to taste responsibility,
And discover depths in their connubial she;
Her husband, like a sophomore, without ruth
Will ditch this trophy wife if she gets gray
Hence her pains with art and science Time to stay.
Shit, I just realized I used a different rhyme scheme in the sestet. Don't you hate it when that happens? Too late now.
PS -- I also apologize for the weird formatting, which I can't figure out how to fix.