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~
I like the look of your new blog. It's an excellent vehicle for your work and for comments from people. I have been a fan of Housman's poem since I was a little green-haired lad.
ReplyDeleteThanks for turning me on to "Terrence, This is Stupid Stuff" -- enjoy Housman a great deal too. Later, Gator.
DeleteThanks for posting the Housman poem, I enjoyed it and agree it is a fine example of rhyming poetry. I think we all probably started with rhyming poems - at least if you count reading nursery rhymes, children's poems and writing poems in grammar school. My mother used to leave a poem on my bed when I would occasionally make it before school - something like, "How surprised I was to see, that Angela made her bed, but when I looked upon her floor, my heart was filled dread." She is quite the rhymer. :) When I am in the mood for rhyming poetry, I always turn to the first poet I ever loved, Edna St. Vincent Millay. I came to love poetry - real poetry - later in life (my mid-thirties). I was in an antique store and came across an old copy of Edna's poems. I originally bought it for the look of the book, but after reading it became curious about her, read more and then went on to other writers.
ReplyDeleteMy favorite poem of hers, and one that still makes me cry:
An Ancient Gesture
I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope…
Penelope, who really cried.
As for what form I write in - I suppose free verse sums it up best. There are those who like to call it prose poetry - those who are entrenched in the battle of poetry vs. prose; rigid, engulfed, unable to do anything but cling to their own processes. I usually find their poetry dull, so quid pro quo. My poems have often been called confessional. I suppose that is true sometimes but not always.
Does anyone enjoy writing in the occasional form? Sonnet? Villanelle? Anyone see any reason (other than pleasure) to it? I have tried it occasionally and look at it like practicing scales on a piano - a good foundation.
Thanks for the invite, Sherrie.