http://www.amazon.com/The-Outlaw-Bible-American-Poetry/dp/1560252278

I love this book...it is filled with well-known and lesser-known poets whose forms vary beyond my own experience and knowledge of poetry. Some of the poems I absolutely love, and others, not so much. I try to stretch myself as a writer/poet. I play in and with language. I am in awe of the written word, and I am blessed to be able to navigate in and through it.

Would love your insight about the poem below. I fell in love with it the minute I finished reading it for the first time.

Lineage

by Jeffrey McDaniel

When I was little, I thought the word loin
and the word lion were the same thing.

I thought celibate was a kind of fish.

My parents wanted me to be well-rounded
so they threw dinner plates at each other
until I curled up into a little ball.

I've had the wind knocked out of me
but never the hurricane.

I've seen two hundread and sixty-three rats
in the past year, but never more than one at a time.
It could be the same rat, with a very high profile.

I know what it's like to wear my liver on my sleeve.

I go into department stores, looking suspicious,
approach the security guard and say
what, what, I didn't take anything.
Go ahead. Frisk me, big boy!

I go to the funeral of absolute strangers
and tell the grieving family: the sould of the deceased
is trapped inside my rib cage
and trying to reach you.

Once I thought I found love, but then I realized
I was just out of cigarettes.

Some people are boring because their parents
had boring sex the night they were conceived.

In the year thirteen hundred and thirteen,
a little boy died, who had the exact same scars as me.

Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb's "Janis Ian"

Janis Ian

 

By Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb

The record revolves
on the turntable, a
relic from the past,
a past in which singers
made you face yourself
in the mirrors of their
45s, when music
was a solitary experience
meant to heal the wounds
of loneliness in the dark
rooms of introverts.

Introduction to Sojourners -- The Impossibility of Being Formless

Form is an important topic among poets. As a writer who likes to experiment with different forms, and as a rebel who likes to "break out" of forms, I've come to find out that breaking out of form is truly an impossibility. For example, e.e. cummings, while  viewed as a rebel, couldn't break free from the constraints of his primary language. Read one of his poems and you'll feel where the punctuation is, even without the symbols being present. We each write in the patterns of our speech, from the patterns of our primary caretakers. Just listen to the tonal inflections of your family of origin and hear your own voices as they speak. Even in long-term relationships, people begin to sound like their partners. Ben and I have been together for approaching 8 years, and we already have picked up each others language patterns. It's funny that we think we can escape form.

Sooo...I cut my teeth on Emily Dickinson's form. I followed her form closely as I took my first steps in writing verse of my own. I was floored when I compared the rhythm of one of my poems with hers, and it was the exact same rhythm and meter. I unknowingly mimicked her! I've since read so many writers, from so many eras, who write in many styles, and I'm developing my own. I owe my love of the written and spoken word to many people. Now, I'm no literary critic in the truest sense, which is to say, I am no expert on the technicalities of poetry. My husband could tell you all of that, and some of you contributors, I hope will kindly share your expertise here. I do know what I love, and I LOVE poetry. I write as a hobby, in between being a student and a whole lot of other roles I play, so just know that your work and your insight will be respected and appreciated and learned from here.

I'm not much of a rhymer these days, but early in my writing life I used rhyme often, and I am grateful for the rhyming poetry, which helped me find my own beat, in a manner of speaking. The late great Herbert Nehrlich, a masterful rhymer also helped me bring into finer form the offbeat rhymes I attempted over the past few years. In honor of Herbert, here's one of my favorite rhyming poems:

Oh Who Is That Young Sinner

by A. E. Housman

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his; In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is; Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair For the nameless and abominable colour of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade; But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare, And they're haling him to justice for the colour of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat, And between his spells of labour in the time he has to spare He can curse the God that made him for the colour of his hair.

Please weigh in on the form you think your work most closely falls into. Thanks in advance for your contributions. ~Sherrie Gonzales-Kolb~