You Can Write Poetry - Jeff Mock [31]
Not all poems are written in meter, nor need they be. In chapter eight we'll look at traditional forms, such as the sonnet, that make use of meter. We'll look at free verse, too, which isn't metric, but establishes its own rhythms. If you're drawn to formal poetry, meter is an indispensable aspect of your poems. You'll find your words slipping naturally into the iamb. From there, you substitute other feet, a trochee at the beginning of a line to set it in motion, or a spondee to emphasize a pair of consecutive words. After a substitution, you return to the iamb, the predominant rhythm. Or you may establish the trochee as your rhythm, or the anapest. Whichever meter works best for the poem, that's the meter that lays down the beat.
PRACTICE SESSION
1. Write a draft in iambic tetrameter, at least twenty lines in length, with one metric substitution per line in at least half the lines. Include four slant rhymes and the word Bermuda in the draft.
2. Write a draft alternating iambic pentameter and iambic trimeter lines. Make metric substitutions only in the pentameter lines. Use the word down in the first line and repeat its o sound five times within the first five lines. Select a different vowel sound and repeat it five times within the second five lines. Include two similes in the draft.
3. Write a draft in a meter of your choice. All lines except the final line must be enjambed lines. Include two similes and put a lucky gold medallion in the draft.
4. Write a draft in a meter of your choice, with a combination of five true rhymes and five slant rhymes. At least half the lines must be end-stopped lines.
7
AN ASIDE:
ON LOOKING OUT
THE WINDOW & LOOKING IN
Edgar Degas, the nineteenth-century French painter, said that one must commit a painting the way one commits a crime. Whenever I'm trying to spark a new poem, looking through my journals for a flash of inspiration, I rediscover Degas's comment, just when I need to be reminded that writing poetry is an act of daring. One must also commit a poem the way one commits a crime. We must be sly and foolhardy. We must forget caution and reason. William Stafford said it well: "Writing is a reckless encounter with whatever comes along."
One year Joan asked for a poem for her birthday. I hid away in my writing room, thought and wrote, slashed out words, thought more. I had several ideas vaguely in mind: that Joan's birthday is on Valentine's Day; that a celebration of one's birth is also a reminder of aging; and that Joan and I have quite different personalities, which is, I think, why we're attracted to one another. Her strengths redeem my weaknesses, and vice versa. After much scribbling, this poem took shape:
JOAN'S BIRTHDAY
14 February
Here's a day, darling,
To dread and love. The snow's
Piled in luscious excess
Against the door and the peg-
Legged man's foot-
And peg-prints circle
Round the house. I heard
Him mumbling last night
Outside the window. What
He has to say we'll never
Know unless we listen.
But, darling, he leaves his gift
For you in snow: this marriage
Of flesh and wood. And in air:
The crisp frozen stars
Of breath. Somewhere he's asleep,
Dreaming now of you.
Bless him And his leg, asleep too, dreaming
Of the lathe. And for you, darling,
Happy birthday. Here's
The sun come up, blinding
And everywhere, and here's the snow
Made already less
Than perfect so we can live,
Unlikely companions, with it.
When "Joan's Birthday" appeared in print, I sent a copy to Marylen, my mother-in-law, because Joan is her daughter, but also because I knew Marylen would be quizzical. She'd ask about the peg-legged man. And she did: Who is he?
Since the poem takes place on Valentine's Day, I think that he must be some odd manifestation of Cupid. There he is, blessing Joan on her birthday and blessing our marriage, a union of two different kinds of people, a pair of unlikely companions. That's what I told Marylen, anyway. I haven't the faintest idea, really. My peg-legged Cupid, or whoever he is, simply