Some time ago, I read a criticism on modern poetry posted online. It was the author’s opinion that today’s poets are unable to write verse in classic forms such as sonnets and the like. He held that bards in our present era had abandoned poems with deep meaning that utilized rhythm, rhyme and structure, preferring instead, undisciplined lines of rambling, obtuse emotions.

There is some truth in this: the last Kenyon Review I read did not contain any Ballads, Odes or Epics. However, relinquishing classic methodology does not necessarily translate into ineptitude as the author implied. Rather than piling on with his many detractors in the comments section, I chose to prove that I was capable by composing a villanelle.

I mostly forgot all about it until this weekend when I received news that I had lost one of my dearest and oldest friends unexpectedly. He and I grew up together and formed the type of bond you might find between brothers, one that created a secret language, codes and references understood only by the two of us. He was a talented musician, playing the guitar was effortless to him, he simply channeled divinity. Despite his gift, he was never conceited, and was always charitable to the ham-fisted way I approached my instrument.

At the time I wrote this poem, I would have thought it inconceivable that I would be dedicating it to his memory one day.

I will blow a trumpet bright
To summon this old man from sleep
I will beat a snare drum tight

He slumbers on as if it is night
While all around the ladies weep
I will blow a trumpet bright

If cacophony helped him reunite
With life from his silken box he'd leap
I will beat a snare drum tight

My towhead has grown slowly white
I've watched friends go as the clock hands sweep
I will blow a trumpet bright

Now you have gone, my dearest light
Tears rise from the well of sorrow deep
I will beat a snare drum tight

I have grown old but yet not erudite
And still try and wake what I wish to keep
I will blow a trumpet bright
I will beat a snare drum tight