Thanks for helping, Sam. I’m guessing there is no proper name for it, and I’m delusional to think I ever knew one. I appreciate everyone’s time and effort, though.
Here’s the answers for those who asked.
[spoiler]In the order they appear:
Poe, Wordsworth, Kees, Emerson, Sandburg, cummings, Browning, Frost, Hughes, Shakespeare, Shelley, Shaw, Pound, Nash, Dickinson, Holmes, Lovelace, Keats, Yeats, Longfellow, Williams, Rumi, Elliot, Thomas, Ginsberg, Barret, Plath, Asimov, Chaucer, Parker, Thoreau, Bronte, Lawrence, Neruda, Bishop, Arnold, Burns, Gluck, Housman, Kooser, Stevens, Ovid, Milton, Howe, Coleridge, Tennyson, Millay, Kipling, Whitman, Bukowski.
Alphabetically:
- Matthew Arnold
- Isaac Asimov
- Elizabeth Barret (Browning)
- Elizabeth Bishop
- Emily Bronte
- Robert Browning
- Charles Bukowski
- Robert Burns
- Geoffrey Chaucer
10.Samuel Coleridge
11.ee (edward estlin) cummings
12.Emily Dickinson
13.T.S. (Thomas Stearns) Elliot
14.Ralph Waldo Emerson
15.Robert Frost
16.Allen Ginsberg
17.Louise Gluck
18.Oliver Wendell Holmes
19.A.E. (Alfred Edward) Housman
20.Susan Howe
21.Langston, or Ted Hughes
22.John Keats
23.Weldon Kees
24.Rudyard Kipling
25.Ted Kooser
26.D.H. (David Herbert) Lawrence
27.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
28.Richard Lovelace
29.Edna St. Vincent-Millay
30.John Milton
31.Ogden Nash
32.Publius Ovidius Naso
33.Pablo Neruda
34.Dorothy Parker
35.Sylvia Plath
36.Edgar Allen Poe
37.Ezra Pound
38.Jalaluddin Rumi
39.Carl Sandburg
40.William Shakespeare
41.George Bernard Shaw
42.Percy Bysshe Shelley
43.Wallace Stevens
44.Lord Alfred Tennyson
45.Dylan Thomas
46.Henry David Thoreau
47.Walt Whitman
48.W.C.(William Carlos) Williams
49.William Wordsworth
50.William Butler Yeats
In the poem:
When po/’ little Dick writes words worth/ reading
we find keys/ to immerse on/ beachy dunes,
which form like sand-berg/s against the comings/
of tone and tide. Browning/ in frost/ed hues/,
his soul shakes pier/s on shelly/ shore/s of sense.
We pound/ our fists, gnash/ our teeth at Dick. In
sun/ soaked homes/, where they love lace/ and pink eats/
what the fairy eats/, this long fellow/ can
will yams/ to eat his roomy/. Hell, he ought/
to mass/ produce the one that begins Burg/.
‘Bare it/.’ says Plath/, which soon has him off/ to
gnaw chaws, her/d ma to park her/ off the ro/ad.
Brown tea/ drips lore, ens/nared in a rude a/rc,
his job is: shop/ for that darn, old/ rhythm.
It’s stubborn s/tuff, but with big luck/ he will
house man/y haikus, er/, um, poems - the best!
Even s/o, no vid/eos pummel ton/nage of this image.
When asked how/ coal ridge/s can play* tennis,
son*/ said, “M’la/dy, skip ling/uistics, use
your wit, man/. Say ‘Boo cow. Ski/.’ and it will.”
[/spoiler]