Pitching Poetry

Just when I think my office is under attack by a horde of iambic zombies, I get a sonnet or villanelle that reminds me of everything those old forms can do.
      —Christian Wiman, Editor, Poetry, November 2003

Scene One: we open in a crypt,
Van Helsing and this babe, equipped

With flickering torches, lights that play
Along these rows of . . . what're they?

Books. Jesus Christ, he says, I fear
They're gnawing on these dead. Look, here.

Cut to her feet. You're one of them!
There's couplets dripping from her hem.

Pan up (we'll use a shaky-cam)
And she can only croak, Iamb!

© Frank Osen