Poetry Exchange by Jesse Doiron and John Rutherford
November 8, 2026
About the Poets
Jesse Doiron has worked in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia as an educator and consultant. His teaching experience ranges from English for international business at the UC – Berkeley Extension in San Francisco to creative writing at the Mark Stiles Maximum Security Prison for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
John Rutherford is a poet writing in Beaumont, Texas. Since 2018 he has been an employee in the Department of English at Lamar University.
Poet to Poet
John Rutherford and Jesse Doiron have a yearslong friendship that has grown from their working relationship in the Department of English at Lamar University.
Regarding poetry, their personal connections also span years; both have been published in Pulse, the University’s Literary Journal. They also share publication histories through Laurence Musgrove’s Texas Poetry Assignments and his TPA Quarterly.
While John was working on his magisterial studies at the University of St. Thomas, he often shared his work with Jesse and other poets for criticism. Sometimes, Jesse shared his own poetic efforts with John.
One day, while reminiscing about his former place of employment – the Institute of Public Administration in Saudia Arabia – Jesse told John about a British colleague there with whom he had concocted a creative way to pass the desert time by exchanging original poetry – competitively.
They called it the “Texas Poetry Duel.”
Following on that conversation, Jesse reminded John that Laurence Musgrove had placed a similar poetry exchange challenge on his Texas Poetry Assignment – Assignment #12 Poetry Exchange. When Jesse suggested to John that the two of them collaborate on a joint submission, John readily agreed to join forces – in an amicable duet rather than an adversarial duel.
Eventually, over several coffees, John and Jesse decided to develop poems reflecting on their different approaches to the art of poetry. Here, they present their collaborative work – a poetic conversation that is plaintive and complaining – and hopefully amusing.
The Poetry Exchange
The two poets exchanged poems about their varying approaches and attitudes toward writing poetry, specifically, how they engage with that ephemeral aspect of writing – inspiration.
See below their finished poems and examples of their various comments recorded during the drafting of their work.
A formalist’s plea
by John Rutherford
Each morning I sit down, pick up the pen,
or else set fingers to the clacking key
in search of what’s been left by other men:
the light of life, my love, my poetry.
My friend, the Muse arrives without warning
then leaves as soon as she is done, and quits
my mind as though a lover spurned, to find
a fresh man at his height, with glam and glitz
and ducks my calls, abandons me in mourning
and seeks me out again when, I, scorning
thought we were through. But secretly I pined.
How do you manage it, that strong desire?
That pull towards an immortality
that burns with the refiner’s smokeless fire
and gives us light in our banality?
After all, that is what we do: we seek,
in words, a balm, an everlasting life
so when we die, the young will know we lived,
and recall us on quiet nights, and speak
of works we wrote, words cut as with the knife
of wit. So poetry is as a wife
to me, a comforter whose love has shrived
and blessed, but cannot set me free. And she
haunts my dreams when I seek to rest, no freedom
from her can I find in sleep or chablis.
I am a serf, a thrall bound to her Queendom.
Is this the price we pay? This suffering?
The Greeks called it a madness in the past,
and likened us to Sibyl in her cave
amid the noxious gas, the fumes smothering
to bring about a vision at long last,
to foretell the will of those divines passed,
of rain or fortunes of the Spartans brave.
And so, my friend, I write this note to you,
out of frustration and a little fear
and hope that this will jump your too-long queue
and you will tell me what I want to hear.
If not, then still reply, I want to know
what wisdom you are willing to impart,
something that’s new to shine the light of day
some new philosophy of life or art
to summon Muse away from her new beau
and bring her back, renew my needed glow.
What do you think? What do you have to say?
Advice to New Formalists
by Jesse Doiron
Iamb whoamb, and I don’t get it up in the morning anymore unless I take a pill the night before.
The bitch you’re fooling around with can kiss my ars poetically, and I still wouldn’t feel a thing.
Musen’t do this and musen’t do that and ream the rhyme inside the line insidiously out – no way.
Her kind’s unkind, and unenlightened men love her kind of pain – need the disciplined approach.
They think they shine but they don’t know shit from Shinola. Can’t pour piss outta cowboy boot.
Let her go.
You think someone’s gonna remember you because of what you wrote? You wrote what? What?
Then you’re not writing poetry. You’re jonesing for posterity. And listen, kid, she’s on the pill.
Leans on the bar in a red dress, with a decolletage that should stop right here, but she won’t let it.
In one hand, a scotch and half a slow-burn cigarette, in the other, a pen that just ran out her ink.
Come on now. Get off it now. You can’t see bad news, boy? She’s teasing your pricked interest.
Use a pencil; they got erasers.
Responses to the Poems
After their initial exchange of rough drafts, the two poets offered comments and concerns to each other, in candid conversation and caustic emails. They noted the aspects that they most enjoyed as well as the aspects that called up confusion. Through these exchanges, the poets were able to improve upon initial drafts, honing what one partner felt most effective or cutting what one felt ineffective. Some comments were clarifications; some were suggestions. At times, the poets focused on technical elements of structure. Diction, of course, became an important part of the conversation.
John Rutherford’s Comments on Jesse Doiron’s “Advice to New Formalists”
I've made some edits. They look radical, very radical, but in truth they aren't. I've softened it a bit, but the punches still land. Here’s my rewrite of your poem.
“Advice to New Formalists”
Iamb whoamb and I don’t get it up
unless I take a pill the night before.
The chick you want around can kiss my arse
poetically and I wouldn’t feel a thing.
Musen’t do this and musen’t do that
and ream the rhyme inside the line – no way.
Her kind’s unkind, and unenlightened men
love her kind of pain – need the hard approach.
They think they shine but don’t know shit from Shinola.
You must let her go. Don't think someone will
remember you because of what you wrote.
You’re jonesing for posterity. And wait
listen, she’s on the pill. See how she leans
on the bar in her red dress with decolletage
that should stop right here but she won’t let it;
in one hand scotch and half a cigarette,
in the other, a pen that's out of ink.
Come on now. Get off it now. Can’t you see
that she's bad news my boy? Keep an eye out:
Her game is teasing your pricked interest.
Use a pencil; they got erasers.
It was great catching up with you. I really like "Advice for new formalists" for a couple of reasons, but not least among them because it calls back to a poem by Richard Wilbur, "Advice to a prophet" which Sam liked and taught, and both of my professors at UST taught too. While the two poems share little in similarity besides the title, I think it makes a nice connection, especially the contrasting nature between our poems.
I appreciate the opportunity to work with you in this way. I haven't been writing nearly as much as I should, and I've felt rather blocked. This has helped.
I did really show both poems to Caitlin again, and she confirmed her earlier opinion, and said we shouldn't change a thing.
Jesse’s Comments on John Rutherford’s “A formalist’s plea”
You pissed me off with that erudite poem. See my poetic response to it.
You put your poem into four stanzas of 11 lines each – I sought a reason in numerology, and came up with: Bhagavad Gita Chapter 4, Verse 11: “As all surrender unto Me, I reward them accordingly.” An ironic connection to the plea from the young poet?
Then again, you are the formalist in our duet, so maybe I am missing some sort of arcane poetic formal arrangement – a foureleven? a ballad? a pastourelle? a bastardized chant royal? or the eald englic “just-because-I-thought-it-looked-cool”?
And it has an envoi of sorts.
So it looks formal. And traditional. It reminds me of those longish poems in college textbooks – the good ones. You know, Swinburnesque. My wife said much the same. Not Swinburne. She said Wilde.
The dominant image you put forth is the speaker in thrall, desperate for love. Of course,
I put your face on the speaker’s head. You are the poor poet yearning for Miss Muse to kiss your lips so that they speak more lovelily. You – early morn, gasping for a rhyme, forlorn.
The way you looked when I would find you asleep on the couch in the Eleanor Poetry Room in the Department of English, in your olive-green mackintosh, curled up in fetal position.
When I complained to the Department secretary “There’s some guy asleep in the Elenor Poetry Room,” she said, “Yeh, it’s John.” Like I was supposed to know who the hell you were and forgive you for sleeping on the couch in the Eleanor Poetry Room.
The fellow in the poem (you) seems perturbed if not downright disturbed – a scary kind of obsessed fellow. That line “cut as with the knife of wit” gets the maniacal across. Makes me think of self-harm or maybe me-harm if I don’t watch out.
Well, now, you don’t impress me as a suicidal maniac. I mean, I’m not afraid to be alone with you, but you can get a little excitable – when you’re on a jag. You definitely impart an oddly, excited pathos to the speaker in your poem – terribly despondent from the loss of miss Muse.
Hell, I’m getting teary-eyed just remembering your poem, the Eleanor Poetry Room, you – OK. I’m going to stop here for a moment, get myself together. And a scotch straight up.
This obsessive distress bothers me, all the way through the poem. In the last stanza, the speaker sinks into a profound lamentation, reaching out, like a bum on the street, “Got somethin’, buddy, anything?”
I’m getting another scotch. Want one while I’m up?
Punctuation
title A formalist’s plea = A Formalist’s Plea / caps / no italics
comma Each morning [comma] I sit down, pick up the pen,
My friend, the Muse [comma] arrives without warning
dash How do you manage it [dash] that strong desire?
upper case chablis = Chablis
Words and Phrases and Meaning and More
Clacking keys I like the palpable term, the sound evokes the feel as well
Glam and glitz pop alliteration catches me off guard when contemplating Muse
Ducks my calls slangy
smokeless fire evoking the refinery flares
Our banality the right word for the poor fellow to use at the right time
Balm alliteratively following up on banal, the oily stuff, refinery stuff
As a wife to me here a paradoxical effect ensues, intrigues
Shrived and blessed absolving, forgiving, ritually, formally
In sleep or Chablis hints at French form, the envoi, and the metallic taste of refinery
A serf, a thrall a slave to the Muse
Sibyl stoned in the refinery, lost in a metallic sea,
Spartans brave was it the Delphic oracle – Pythia who prophesied Thermopylae?
Too-long queue nice, hyphenated emphasizer
Poets Defend Themselves and Beg Forgiveness
Comments from John Rutherford
Started working on this poem early this morning. What do you think? I used Keats' "To Autumn" Stanza. Standard pentameter but a whacky rhyme scheme. Keats used three of these 11-line stanzas in "To Autumn," and changed the rhyme scheme after the first stanza (ABABCDEDCCE to ABABCDEECDDE) for the other two. I followed his example, and then did a fourth stanza using the initial rhyme scheme.
I'm a formalist (and have adjusted my title in response to yours; the earlier title was too wordy and just plain bad) so I based the stanza on Keats' "To Autumn" which I've found very flexible. Yours definitely calls to mind poets like Weldon Kees, Robert Pinsky, and Bukowski. Caitlin is my first reader and also the most critical. I mentioned our plans for the project and showed her both poems, and she said the contrast between my "dainty, technical poem" and your “grouchier” reply make for interesting reading. I hope they do.
I'm not familiar with Russel Edson or E. L. Masters, but I am familiar enough with Lenny Bruce for that comment to make me see your poem in a new way. My attempts to formalize a non-formalized poem didn't really work, and I recognized that at the time. I was just trying to throw something out there because I thought you indicated you were unhappy with it. But in the end, your analysis of your own poem is the correct one: the Pseudo-Jesse of the poem is speaking to the Pseudo-John of mine. And I really liked the line about the erasers.
I want to meditate a moment about our speakers. I described the voice of your poem as being “grouchy” in line with my wife’s perspective on the poems. Having read them both over again I don’t think that’s quite right. The Pseudo-John of “A Formalist’s Plea” is a lot closer to real-life, 2026 John in some ways. I haven’t been writing as much as I would like. Too overwhelmed with job-hunts and house-hunts and arranging the next phase of my life and career. The stress of it all is really getting to me and I have found it difficult to connect with the mystical part of writing that I’m addressing in the poem, the Muse.
In Phaedrus, one of the Platonic dialogues, Socrates is hanging out under a tree, cooling his feet in a stream and is happened upon by an erudite young Phaedrus who has a speech in his hands, by one Lysias, on the subject of love. He gives the speech and asks Socrates what the old master thinks of it, and Socrates responds initially by refusing to critique the speech, and then by declaring it to be one of the dumbest things he’d ever heard. Phaedrus challenges Socrates to respond, and Socrates initially refuses but is eventually compelled, and calls upon the Muses to guide him. The content of the speech isn’t terribly important for our purposes, but the setting is. They’re standing by the stream together as Socrates really gets into a groove and he expresses a particular concern. I’m quoting from memory here but I think it’s something like “Don’t be surprised if I’m seized by the madness of Nymphs as I go on” He later comments about madness, and how in the people that invented the Greek language did not see madness as an inherently bad thing.
When I’m writing, I’ve been told by Caitlin and others that I seem to be in a trancelike state, counting syllables on my fingers or drumming on a table or whatever I happen to be holding at the moment. I am, according to them, entirely unreachable and on a number of occasions Caitlin has had to physically turn my chair around in order to get my attention. But I don’t feel Zenned out or calm or anything resembling a trancelike state. I feel frantic. I have to get the words down. It's only lately that I have been able to exercise significant control over myself when I’m writing, to give myself the time to develop a thought fully, to find the perfect word or phrase for a poem rather than what is merely good enough.
The Pseudo-John of “A Formalist’s Plea” needs that madness. He wants to be on the dragon’s back and ride wherever She wants to go. The Pseudo-Jesse is the experienced handler who knows that if you ride a dragon, you might just get burned. That’s the beauty of the poem’s advice: moderation, a “disciplined approach.” All of my teachers have advised the same thing, have warned that the madness is there, and can lead you down very dark trails with no clear way out. All poets(and I would venture to say everyone) need teachers, guides who can teach them to control their Muse rather than be led by it. The challenge is getting the young upstarts to listen. I’m still learning how to hear.
Comments from Jesse Doiron
Whoa! Did I piss you off again?
Let me take a pill and sleep on it. Looks like hard work ahead.
All right then! Let's submit what we have. Would you like to do it, or shall I?
So, I give over the final draft of our submission to you. You are the editor-of-poetry-anthology, master-of-fine-arts-in-the-making, soon-to-be Catholic – good friend – lovely man. Did I miss any hyphens? But here is my defense of my version over your obviously better-informed one.
My goal in this poem is to appear as unpoetic as Russel Edson – he’s the guy whose photo is in our Eleanor Poetry Room. I also want to emulate E. L. Masters. At the same time, I want to channel Lenny Bruce. That is where I am in the poem. Probably more Lenny than the other two guys. It is a “prose poem.” It should look like prose, not poetry. The block form is supposed to make formalists want to vomit. The cheesy puns should make anyone want to vomit. The lines set out by themselves should stand alone. They are commands. They are the words of wisdom from the cranky old man who has had it with just about everything and everyone and whose favorite pastime is thinking about eating the barrel of his 656 357 seven-shot Smith and Wesson with a fine-grain wooden pistol grip. The vulgarity – hell, I already tamped it down. Bitch is bitch – not chick, not girl, not babe, not slut, not whore, not mom, not angel, not woman. Bitch. As in a female dog. A howling animal that wants you to fuck her and then leave. A dog that you can’t help but want to pet but will bite. A dog that will run away and eat most of her pups. Hecate – the black she-dog of Greek mythology – but on a bad day. The end line is damnatio memoriae. What real good poets fear the most. OK. There you go.
