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Poetics

Christine

Definitions

Writing this column has inspired (a nice word for forced) me to take stock of my own poetry and expand my range. I have gone to the library and checked out books on the writing of poetry, explored some new and old poets, and have come to the conclusion that I can only share with you things I have learned and revelations that have occurred to me. I recently ran across a definition of verse in an old book, Three Genres by Stephen Minot, that struck me as cutting to the core of it all. Minot says that verse is distinguished from prose by its special use of the line, the sound of words, the rhythm of phrases, and compression of suggestion.

I have elaborated on a couple of these below, and taken the liberty to work on a couple of other things that I found worth thinking about.

Rhythm

All poetry has rhythm. I know, some of you free verse poets would take exception to this, but wait a minute. It is easy to find the rhythm in Thayer's Casey at the Bat or Little Things by Fletcher. Harder is to find rhythm in free verse - but it is there. It is the rhythm of life. All life has rhythm - listen to your heart if you don't believe me. We all have a little drum inside. This is what makes the poetry flow - the knowledge of where to stop a line, to breathe, to go to the next stanza. Without it, you have nothing but a story broken up into choppy lines and paragraphs, and I have read some free verse that is just that. When you are exploring this venue, watch for the natural rhythms of words and phrases, of the "thought stops" and the breathing. This is what will give your poetry rhythm and make it flow for your reader.

Don't get me wrong, all poetry is not simple phrases and images. If you are telling something violent or heart-stopping, then again listen to your heart. When it gets excited, the rhythm changes, going non-stop like a runaway horse. This is the rhythm you will give to your piece - making us out of breath when we reach the end.

Rhyme

O.K. Now you free verse guys are going to really get me - but there are all kinds of rhyme. Sure, Kipling, Thayer and the others all have nice rhyme and rhythm going, but what about internal rhyme? Alliteration, the repetition of sound within our lines, such as "slow, sure signs of spring" (the s's have it) or the use of words that rhyme or roll - 'light and bright', 'wild and woolly' bring rhyme to your poem, even if it is not a formal piece. These things all help your reader understand your poem - I don't know why, but the mind latches on to these things, makes the reader able to put the whole thing in his mind and live, see or understand.

Repetition

All my life, in creative writing and English Lit, I was told not to use the same word twice, to find different words for the same thing so the reader would not get tired of what they were reading (you know - the girl had beautiful eyes, her hair was beautiful, her smile was the most beautiful - how beautiful can you get, anyway?) But in poetry, repetition is a good thing. It can reinforce your idea, giving the reader focus on your meaning. It can also set a mood, tie things together, or define a rhythm. Good examples would be Poe's The Raven and Kipling's Boots.

One last thing, now-

Clichés.

Find new words, new thoughts, new experiences to give your reader. In Goldberg's book Writing down the Bones she gives the reader exercise in which she applies verbs not normally connected with the noun she is using. One of my favorites is "Irises slicing the sky with purple". While this does not always work, sometimes it can give you a new slant on what you are trying to say.

Take the standard story of the babbling brook and the leaf. The leaf falls from the tree and goes on a trip down the noisy stream. Got the picture in your mind? O.K. Is the leaf an oak, maple, elm, or what? Is it red, brown, yellow or perhaps a green leaf that simply could not hold on to the tree any longer? And now that you know that - how red, what shade of brown, how bright the yellow? Now, animate the leaf. Is it a bumper car careening through the water, ricocheting and spinning as it goes? Does it have the company of other leaves? Perhaps it is one of a group of young children playing tag among the rocks.

And the brook - is the water shallow or deep, clear or muddy (or green?), fast, slow, crooked steep, - what exactly does the brook look like? Is it winking in the sunlight as it darts into the shadows, playing a game of hide and seek? Does it sound like a bunch of pre-teens at a sleep-over, giggling and gossiping in an exhaustive effort to not be the first to go to sleep? My brook plays a reckless game of uncontrolled volleyball with the leaf - slapping it against the rocks to accomplish set-ups and spikes, laughing and crying Foul! My point! as it slings the leaf on to the next player. This could be a hockey game, too, with the leaf as the puck. Boy, sports opens up a whole new world of imagery, doesn't it?

As a poet, you owe your reader more than the story of the babbling brook. You owe him the experience of being that leaf and knowing what it is like to be caught in that helpless, maniacal trip, to be catapulted, pressed, wrenched through the gauntlet. Tell him exactly what he would be feeling, tasting, thinking as he spins to the end. But try to be different. If you tell it the same way as everyone else, he will be easily bored and go to something else.

Well, that's all I have for now. Hope this helped remind you of what you already knew, and to sharpen your focus. If any of you have thoughts to share, please pass them on! Until next time, keep listening to your heart - and write!