It’s just four lines
Of four words each.
Can’t be that hard.
I mean, come on:
Not like the sonnet,
The villanelle, the ode
And not even close
To the wicked sestina;
No rhyme, no metre,
No stressed, counted syllables;
No getting stomped on
By careless iambic feet
And no limits, either:
Gorge yourself on stanzas;
Let rip, cut loose
Because here, anything goes.
Even the ending’s easy:
You just quit when
You’re no longer inspired
(No rhyming couplet required).
Is it a poem?
Depends what you mean.
OK, so it’s not
Shakespeare, Shelley or Sassoon
Wordsworth, Whitman, Browning, Blake,
Marvell, Masefield, McGough, Muldoon,
Hardy, Hughes, Heaney, Holmes
Or Gerald Manley Hopkins;
But if every word
Is carefully, thoughtfully chosen
Earns its rightful place
Carries its full weight
Adds to the story
Hooks them, holds them
And, were it missing,
You’d feel the loss
It seems to me
That it must be.
As to this one
You be the judge.
I haven’t written a jorio for ages: I’d forgotten how much fun this simple form can be. A good warm-up for the brain before getting down to something more exacting; or, as with this one, the perfect cool-down after being shackled to the keyboard until late by the day-job. Glad to have rediscovered it. N.