A Few Things You Always Wanted to Know about Poetry and forgot to ask

A Few Things You Wanted to Know About Poetry But Were Afraid to Ask

Out of the goodness of my heart, as well as an inability to shut up, I will attempt to present a really rough guide for LitNet participants interested in getting more out of poetry and perhaps even attempt to write verse.

First of all, what is “Poetry”? Although it began as an oral tradition, poetry is a form of both spoken and written discourse. The subject matter ranges through every aspect of human civilization: from the loftily sacred to the low-down and dirty profane, from Paradise Lost to the notorious young lady from Nantucket. The quick definition is “any piece of crafted writing that isn't prose.” Coleridge described the difference between prose and poetry this way: “Prose is good words in good order. Poetry is the best words in the best order.”

In this thread, I will attempt to look at some of the ways poems can approach that ideal.

It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing:
Meter, Rhythm, and Rhyme

What do Paradise Lost, “Sailing to Byzantium”, and a limerick (clean or dirty) have in common?
They are all written in metric verse. When a poem has meter, the rhythm is regular, and there is a discernible, regular beat falling approximately in the same place in each line. It’s symmetrical in that the lines and the stanzas are all the same length, and the rhythm can be measured or “scanned.”

Ancient epics, such as the two Greek epics by Homer, had and have a different kind of meter than that of poetry written in the English language. In Greek and in Latin, for instance, the meter is quantitative as it derives from the length of vowels within syllables, whether they are long or short vowels. English prosody derives from syllables whether they are “stressed” or “unstressed.” For example, take an English word, any word. In the word “English” there are two syllables; the first is stressed and the second is unstressed. We say “ENG-lish,” not “Eng-LISH.”

In a line of poetry, we don't count vowels or syllables; we count “feet.” A metric foot is a group of syllables connected by their meter. It doesn't matter where the words themselves begin and end; it’s the location, location, location of the stresses.

The most common kind of foot in English verse is the iamb. An iamb consists of one unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. (“To BE”) If you write a line containing 5 iambs, you have written iambic pentameter, the most common metric form in English poetry. There are several reasons iambic pentameter is number one: first, Shakespeare employed it, and he was no slouch, but more importantly, iambic pentameter most closely resembles the way we speak. It mimics the rhythm of a beating heart and human respiration, breathing in and breathing out:

When I consider every thing that grows

As in this line the stresses often fall on the more important words. The lastsyllable of the line is almost always stressed, with some notable exceptions:
To be or not to be – that is the question.

There are other less common uses of the iambic foot, such as tetrameter, four feet in a line:

Come live with me and be my love

The opposite of the iamb is the trochee, a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable. Trochaic lines are rare in English:
Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple

I always thought that Longfellow was trying to mimic the sounds of drums in his “Song of Hiawatha,” which the use of the trochee suggests. According to the Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, the trochee is occasionally used to vary the opening of iambic lines, and such a line beginning and ending with a stressed syllable is sometimes confusing.

Another kind of metric foot is the anapest. Since it consists of two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed, it can occur as a prepositional phrase, when the object of the preposition is monosyllabic: “down the tubes”/ “up the hill”/” ‘round the block.” A word containing three syllables can be an anapest, if the final syllable is stressed: “interrupt.” But since syllables can often be connected to iambs, poems written entirely with anapestic lines are very rare in English. We can find them in limericks. (More about them later.)

The spondee is another kind of foot. It’s two consecutive stressed syllables, such as in the word, “childbirth.” Some modern experts on prosody might argue that not every stressed syllable gets the same amount of stress; there are weak and strong stresses. But to generalize, if you want to slow down the rhythm in order to introduce a solemn mood, you could throw in a spondee.
(Iambs and anapests are useful for “quicker” rhythms.)

The dactyl sounds like the name of a prehistoric reptile, but it really is a metric foot that has one stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables, such as in the word “carefully.” There is a relatively-recent form for light verse called the “double dactyl.”

If you want to put end rhyme in your poetry, you have to have meter. The rhymed words have to match up with each other and their stressed have to fall in the same place. This is why you seldom see end rhyme in free verse.

Free verse does not depend on any kind of metrical feet at all. The lines are irregular and asymmetrical. You can write free verse without meter, but you can't write it without rhythm. Free verse is the most common form of modern and contemporary verse. The ordered universe of centuries past was typified by metrical verse, but the modern age with its ambiguity and uncertainly calls for a less orderly response.

A popular misconception is that somehow free verse is “easier” to write than metrical verse.
You don't have to worry about having the appropriate number of syllables or whether the stresses fall in the right places. I think writing effective free verse is just as difficult; the poet has to invent a whole new form for his imagery.

You can't just cut up lines of prose and arrange themthe lines randomly on the page. When you work with the net down, when you take a restriction away, you have to substitute something else to ensure a certain degree of difficulty. When you take something away, you have to put something in to give your poem form. That’s where imagery and “line breaks” come in .

One more misconception: the term “blank verse” is not a synonym for free verse. Shakespeare’s 37 plays are all written in blank verse. Blank verse is unrhymed iambic pentameter.

Free verse lacks both end rhymes and regular meter.

In order to match up the end rhymes, some would-be poets disjoint the syntax and write lines that sound like Yoda from Star Wars. This is called a “wrenched accent.” A current television commercial for a online credit reporting company here on the east coast is irritating to the max. There’s nothing wrong with a jingle or a singing commercial, but this particular one, the stresses in the rhymes don't match. Thus, the stresses in the rhyming words are in the wrong place: Ba-BEE for instance instead of “Baby,” wrenched so it will rhyme with “TV.” To restate the obvious about end rhyme: in each of the rhyming words has to be stressed and be stressed on the same syllable. That is why these two words rhyme: regret/ forget but
these two do not rhyme: regret/egret.

Rhyme was initially designed as a mnemonic device in cultures with oral traditions to help remember the verse when it is recited. We can still use rhyme for aesthetic purposes, to contribute to the “sound effects” of the verse, but predictable and stale rhymes(“Moon/June” “true/blue”) can detract from and trivialize an otherwise good piece of poetry. Compared with other languages, English has a paucity of rhymes, especially for words – as the Oxford Companion to the English Language states – “as semantically important as God, spirit, and life,” concepts that frequently show up in serious verse.

On the other hand, “God, spirit, and life” are abstractions, which only the most adept poets can handle effectively. As a general rule, it’s best to choose more down to earth imagery, often composed of words that rhyme.

Line Breaks: Curse or Free Verse

When a poet writes a piece of free verse, he or she has chosen not use meter and end rhyme. One of the ways to bring form to unmetered verse is the line break.

Free verse is not a piece of prose with broken up lines arbitrarily arranged on the page. In free verse, emphasis is drawn to the first and last words of each line. The way the lines and words fall gives the poem a sense of rhythm, even though there is not a scannable regular meter.

There are three ways to break a line of free verse:
end stop, in which the last word in the line is followed by a punctuation mark, such as a period, a comma, a colon, or a semi-colon. These punctuation marks are not sprinkled upon the page like salt and pepper. In poetry the particular functions of each of these punctuation marks are similar to that of prose.

Enjambment, which can occur in both metered and free verse, is a line break which carries the previous thought over to the next line without punctuation. The next line is not capitalized. Some poets make excellent use of this device, which comes in handy for word play and setting up tension:
Here’s an example from Adrienne Rich’s “Necessities of Life”:
Piece by piece I seem
to re-enter the word: I first began

a small, fixed dot, still see
that old myself, a dark-blue thumbtack

pushed into the scene,
A line can end a certain way, and when the reader reaches the next line, he may be totally surprised at the change in direction.

Caesura is a pause or a space between words. At the end of a line of verse the caesura can be effective, especially in how the verse appears on the page. The poet can use the empty spaces the same way he uses words and thus give the poem shape. Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s lines have this zig-zag quality which creates a appealing effect for the reader’s eye. Creators of pattern or concrete poetry can use caesura to arrange the text so that it resembles the shape the subject. George Herbert’s “Easter Wings” and Appolinaire’s “Il peut” (“It rains”) are good examples.

Some modern and contemporary poets use a kind of reverse caesura and run words together, as in this e. e. cummings line about Buffalo Bill:

and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat

Speaking of Mr. cummings, he is known for his typographical quirks: the use of parentheses (both closed and unclosed), colons, hyphens, and capital letters in the middle of a word. But he’s known best for his use of the lower case, especially in his signature as well as in the first person singular pronoun. Cummings broke the rules of punctuation for artistic purposes, and it can be argued that he earned the right to do so. But it is the mark of an amateur poet, a “poetaster” to write the word “I” in lower case or type it without using the shift key.

Another mark of the amateur is ending each line of free verse with an ellipsis. The ellipsis, characterized by three periods in a line (. . .) is a punctuation mark used to acknowledge the fact that part of a quoted passage has been left out. The punctuation used to signify a pause
is a comma or a caesura. A dash is used to suggest for an abrupt interruption or to leave one hanging.


Conscientious use of the line break shows that the length of the line in free verse is not supposed to be arbitrary or random. The length of lines can be long, as in the poems of Whitman and Ginsberg, or short, as in some of W.C. Williams’ short poems and in the works of A.R. Ammons, who according to legend, typed his poems on adding machine paper to keep his lines from getting too wide.

great idea, AuntShecky, explaining the mysteries behind poetry :D
I'll keep checking back on this thread.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by AuntShecky

First of all, what is “Poetry”? Although it began as an oral tradition, poetry is a form of both spoken and written discourse. The subject matter ranges through every aspect of human civilization: from the loftily sacred to the low-down and dirty profane, from Paradise Lost to the notorious young lady from Nantucket. The quick definition is “any piece of crafted writing that isn't prose.” Coleridge described the difference between prose and poetry this way: “Prose is good words in good order. Poetry is the best words in the best order.”

---

Yes great idea Aunty. I'll definitey be comeing back to this thread. ;) I do still think my definition (not really mine, but something I came across and have kept with me for over twenty something years) is the best. I define poetry as charged language.

Go Figure: Imagery, Figurative Language, and Tricks of the Trade

In a good poem, form and content are as connected as inoperable Siamese twins. This is true for both metered and free verse. The poem’s subject and the way it is presented can't be separated, the “what” and the “how” are equally important. Here’s an analogy. Go listen to an instrumental version of your favorite song. I bet you can't listen to it without filling in the lyrics I your mind.

A poem’s heart and soul is its imagery. Imagery is a concrete expression of the idea behind the poem. The “thought” of the poem is represented by a person, a place, or a thing that can be discerned by the mind’s eye; the plausible subject could theoretically exist in time and space and as such could be seen, heard, smelled, tasted, felt (in a palpable sense.)

The catch-all phrase to describe what happens in a poem is figurative language. The poet “draws” an image just as a painter paints one or a sculptor sculpts one. A figure of speech goes beyond a literal understanding of what a word means. For instance, the cliche “she’s as big as a house,” doesn't really mean that a woman’s size encompasses real estate acreage. (And by the way, some speakers incorrectly insert the word “literally” in front of figures of speech, perhaps in the mistaken belief that the word “literally” is an intensifier: “He literally brought the house down.” “It was literally hot as hell.”)

There are numerous types of poetic figures of speech (called “tropes.”) Some times the entire poem extends a trope for a extended passage or for the entire poem; this is called a “conceit.”
In other cases, a figure of speech may be an added embellishment, like the icing on a cake (the hackneyed phrase itself is a figure of speech.)

The metaphor is one of the most common tropes. A metaphor sets up an equivalence between the object described and the figure invoked, without using the word “like” or “as”:
My love is a red, red rose.
The simile sets up a near-equivalent comparison by the use of like or as. Use “like” for nouns: My love is like a red, red rose and words that modify nouns, such as adjectives: "Mighty like a rose. "
Use “as” to compare verbs and verb-modifiers:
I wandered lonely as a cloud.

Other important tropes include metonymy, which substitutes the name of an object with something closely associated with it. For instance, when Tim Russert “Meets the Press,” he doesn't go one-on-one with the machine that rolls out newspapers; he confronts reporters. When a detective in a 1940s movie refers to “ a skirt,” he’s not making a fashion statement but referring
to a woman character.
Synecdoche (pronounced “sin-NEC-doe-kee) is a kind of metonymy in which a part is substituted for the whole: “All hands on deck.” (By the way, the title of a current American movie hitting the festival circuit, “Synecdoche, New York ” stole a joke I made about “Schenectady” years ago. If I had the energy, I'd sue.)

Personification means just that: blending inanimate objects, animals, or abstractions with human characteristics. “Procrastination is the mother of invention.”

Poets often borrow poetic devices from the realm of rhetoric. In the original Greek irony meant “pretense against the lesser.” According to The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, irony is a seemingly straightforward statement consciously undermined by the context. Often , but not always intended to be humorous, irony is an extremely important aspect of postmodern literature.
It can– according to context – have a tone of sarcasm or poignancy, or even, going back to the original source, Oedipus Rex, cathartic tragedy.

Litotes is an understatement. When a poet uses litotes effectively, that’s no small feat.
Meiosis is a refined type of litotes, meant to belittle or minimize. The Oxford Dictionary uses as an example Mercutio referring to his fatal wound as a “scratch.”


Hyperbole (“Hy PER bo LEE”) is an overstatement, puffing up the subject to a position of greater importance. If you use millions of tropes, you will write the most magnificent poem the world has ever seen.

Making Sense from Sound Effects

After examining some of the ways a poem can look good to the eye, let’s turn our attentionto the techniques that help a poem appeal to the ear.

In the centuries since the invention of printing, poetry has been considered to be primarily a visual art rather than an aural one. Yet the fact remains that poetry was born as a spoken medium, hence the historic importance of meter and rhyme. The rhythmic origins remain in several types of “sonics” or sound effects that poems use. Except for the “beat” of ametrical poem in which the stressed syllables fall in a prescribed regular pattern, the following
poetic devices can be found in both metered and free verse.

Repetition is the main way of pounding rhythm into lines of verse. Most sonics depend on repetition of phrases, words, syllables. In a sense, most sound effects are a form of “rhyme.”

Alliteration refers to the repeated first letter of words within a line or passage of verse. This is also called “head rhyme” or “initial rhyme.” In a single line the alliterative words follow each other or at least are close by. Now considered to be an embellishment or a way to give otherwise formless lines some form, alliteration was a requirement in Old English poetry (such as Beowulf) in which end rhyme was virtually unknown. Here’s a more relatively-recent example from Swinburne (1866):
B lown buds of barren flowers

When the repeated sound is a vowel, the alliteration is called assonance. Assonance can occur in the
middle of words, usually on a stressed syllable. Here are examples of assonance from The Oxford
Dictionary of Literary Terms:
sweet dreams, hit or miss.

Consonance is repetition of similar consonants in neighboring words when the vowel sounds are different. According to the Oxford Dictionary again, the term consonance is “for the special case when
the words are identical except for the stressed vowel sound (group/grope, middle/muddle, wonder/wander); this device, combining alliteration and terminal consonance, is sometimes . . .known as ‘rich consonance.’ “ Writers of free verse may use it instead of end rhyme at the end of
lines.

Another type of repetition uses words rather than syllables. Anaphora (an-AN-a-for-a)
is the repetition of the same word at the beginning of lines, such as this example from Emily Dickinson:
Mine–by the Right of the White Election!
Mine–by the Royal Seal!
Mine -by the Sign in the Scarlet prison
Bars– cannot conceal!

Epistrophe (e-PIS-tro-phee) repeats words at the end of lines. Oxford offers this example from
Walt Whitman:
The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place.
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.
To be continued, next time: More About Rhyme

moved to the end of the thread, at AuntSheckys request

Time to Rhyme

“[P]oetry exists in a realm between song and speech: if it leans too far toward speech, it is merely prosaic.”

Those are wise words from the late Judson Jerome who was a long-time poetry columnist for the Writer’s Digest. In an article written in 1989, he reminded us that “ancient poetry probably took the form of chanting, a component of magic, in the effort to control the supernatural forces that rule.”

That sounds really ancient, but in truth, what we think of when we hear the word “rhyme” is end-rhyme, which really didn't appear in English verse until the 14th century. Up until then, poetry depended on alliteration.

Just like a magic spell, when a poem rhymes well, it almost seems to have some mystical power. If nothing else, the power of rhyme is kinetic – moving the lines along and edging them closer to song and farther away from ordinary, everyday palaver. But the secret is making rhyme not merely pleasant-sounding embellishments but making it essential to the poem.

Earlier in this thread, I mentioned how bad rhymes can trivialize an otherwise good poem, but apt rhymes can make a good poem better. The cardinal rule is that most rhymes fall on stressed syllables.

Jerome, however, offers the trisyllabic word, “reverence” as one in which the reader could “linger” on all three syllables, adding that the last one can take a stress and thus a rhyme. He offers another example, this time from Garrison Keillor: “From this, dear children, you should sense/The value of obedience.”

A “weak” rhyme occurs when it falls on an unstressed syllable, but in not every case is a “weak” rhyme a no-no. For instance, in “Sailing to Byzantium” Yeats has the word “wall” rhyme with the final syllable
of the word “animal.” Jerome explains: “The dictionary records no stress on the last syllable of animal, but, in metrical verse, any syllable stronger than the one that precedes it can bear a stress, and -al is certainly stronger than the i in animal. In this remarkable poem, the -al seems to howl with the heart’s long pain.”

Jerome concludes: “Any intonation that draws out unnatural stresses, sounds, echoes in words moves language toward song. . .Rhyme, especially end-rhyme (that is, at the ends of lines instead of buried within them), is one of the least subtle but potentially most powerful elements of that craft. It is to be used with caution–by experts and beginners alike.”

Types of Rhyme
(Source: The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms)

Types of “Full” Rhyme:
When the last stressed vowel in the line and all subsequent sounds compose the end rhyme, this is called masculine rhyme: love/above

Feminine or double rhymes occur in two-syllable words: together/ forever or in three-syllables: glamorous/ amorous (The Oxford Dictionary neglected to mention how that last rhyming pair was actually used by a great American lyricist, Johnny Mercer.)

When a feminine rhyme uses more than one word, this is a mosaic rhyme: famous/ shame us.

Departures from full rhyme:
Rime riche – the consonants are the same, though the spellings and meanings of the word differ:
maid/made

Eye rhyme: the two words appear to rhyme in print, but the actual sounds don't really sound alike: love/prove

and slant rhyme or “half-rhyme”: the vowel sounds don't match, but the end consonants do:

(love/have)
or the beginning consonants are identical: love/leave

Rhyme scheme
Certain forms of metered poetry prescribe set patterns of where the end rhymes will fall within the stanza. When designing a poem, the poet will have the pattern in mind, to which each of the rhyming words will be clustered. Thus, giving the end of each proposed line the same
letter of the alphabet: a or b or so on.
Thus the rhyme scheme of a couplet is “aa,” “bb” and so on. A quatrain (4-line stanza) with alternate rhymes would be: abab.

The Lazy “I,” Abstraction Distraction, and Other Poetic Demons

Those of us steeped in modern poetry automatically assume that the “I” of the poem – the speaker with his or her first person singular point of view and the poet him/herself are one and the same. Of course, this isn't always the case, even now in the 21st century.

This was certainly not always the case in English literature. The late medieval “courtly love” tradition of poetry had the speaker declaring his love for the lady, usually the very-married noblewoman of the manor, but there was no chance in Christendom that this “love” would ever be consummated in reality. That was a given. By the Renaissance, with the emerging romantic love sonnets, the line between the speaker and the “I” of the poem began to blur a little, more so for the metaphysical poets. By the appearance of the Romantic poets, the lines really seemed to merge.

But even Keats – a poet synonymous with the word “Romantic” – railed against making the poem too personal, and he warned against total surrendering to “feelings.” According to Edward Gordon, Keats tried to achieve an “imaginative discipline” which would “free him from . . .’the egotistical sublime’ –the setting up of a huge ‘I.’ “

Among the later Victorians, Browning’s dramatic monologues, such as “My Last Duchess,” featured narrators or speakers who were not the poet himself. (Cf. “Tweak Your Speaker.” )

Closer to our own age, T.S. Eliot as well weighed in on this issue in a famous essay, “Tradition and Individual Talent”:
"[T]he poet has, not a 'personality' to express, but a particular medium, which is only a medium and not a personality, in which impressions and experiences combine in peculiar and unexpected ways. . .
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. "
When Eliot considers "emotion" in a poem he means "emotion which has its life in the poem and not in the history of the poet."

When reading a poem from any age, the reader should perhaps not automatically equate the “I” with the poem’s by-line. We might do well to remember this when attempting to write verse ourselves. Long, self-pitying tirades or recaps of a love affair gone south may indeed provide the stuff of poetry; however, the subject matter requires the imposition of form to make it palatable for -- let alone resonate with -- the reader.

Often journal entries have import and value only for the journal-keeper himself. There is nothing wrong with the concept of “self-expression,” but the would-be poet should perhaps take care to emphasize the latter rather than the former.

Abstractions/ Distractions

When a poet sits down to philosophize about Life, Love, Spirit, God, Humanity, Death, and the other amorphous“ideas” floating around the cultural ether, he realizes that these concepts are as slippery to capture a soil-slicked eels. Unless the poet’s name is Yeats or Auden, it’s better to pare those abstractions down to manageable size and shape, to depict them in images that can be seen, heard, smelled, tasted and “felt” (in a tactile way.) Generally speaking, the more specific an image is, the more a reader can comprehend the intended concept which the image represents.

Another pitfall a poet should avoid is the cliche. If a piece of verse is rife with tired old expressions, phrases we've heard a thousand times before, how can the poet assume that he or she is presenting something new? What is it about “LOVE” that has never been written about before, or at least hasn't been written about it in a brand-new way? Young would-be poets, perhaps adolescents, arguably haven't had enough life experience to realize that the pleasant or depressing “feelings” they are currently experiencing are common to many, and that this particular experience has already been the subject of thousands upon thousands of songs and poems. The way to avoid this is to read hundreds if not thousands of previously-written poems; that way a versifier will know whether what he’s offering is indeed something unique. A quick – but not necessarily fool-proof – way to check whether one has written a cliche is to “Google “it, make an Internet search of the questionable phrase. If the words show up in several web sites, the poet knows it’s time to go back to the proverbial drawing board.

And speaking of time-worn phrasing, I've just checked my calendar and I see that it’s 2008. There’s no reason then for putting archaic words and expressions – such as “doth,” or “ e’er” or “ ‘twas” in verses that we compose today. They appear in poems of the past – long past – and contemporary amateurs feel compelled to use them because they seem “poetic.” Use a more up-to-date word or phrase for making your meter fit, and use the archaic words only when the subject requires it, such as in humorous or light verse, and even then, sparingly.

Conclusion
(and it’s about time!)

What started out to be a “few things” about poetry has nearly turned into a manifesto, but let me conclude with a “few” more things:

In a 1996 essay, Miller Williams (former U.S. Poet Laureate and father of Lucinda) recalled an incident from the Sixties in which a poet was “ booed for reading a poem in rhymed quatrains.” In those free-wheeling hippy dippy days, folks looked askance at formalism.

But – do you still think meter and rhyme are “passé,” like Disco fever? Think again. Over 90% of English verse is in iambic pentameter, and the other 10% are variations of that form. To give you an example, one of most emblematic representations of what we think of as “free verse” is “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by the aforementioned T.S. Eliot.
But as Miller Williams points out, that poem is actually iambic pentameter with line breaks. While you're at it, get a few poems by the ultra-modern e e cummings and scan some of his lines. You're in for a big surprise.

Perhaps you think formal verse somehow inhibits creativity or reins in free expression. Maybe it’s too rich or “artificial” for one’s earnestly sensitive soul. Here’s Miller Williams again:
“Of course the patterns of poetry are artificial. All art is artifice wrestling with ordinary life; all discussion of art is at heart a discussion of the relationship between the artificial and the natural.”

So in my humble opinion (English for “imho”) I believe that understanding the techniques of meter and rhyme open up a window for comprehending modern and contemporary poetry. I also truly believe that unless 90% of the verses I attempt to write aren't remotely like iambic pentameter, I am doing something wrong.

And finally, let me leave you (at last!) with more Miller Williams wisdom:

“Not every worthy poem is written in rhyme and meter. . .But all of the poet’s tools are there for us to use, and I can't think of any reason not to use them.”

This Thread is now open for comments, criticism, additions, subtractions, detractions.

Thank you for this thread. I enjoy it very much.

Here is a playful addition to your section "Go Figure: Imagery, Figurative Language, and Tricks of the Trade" , that I hope you might enjoy.

Metaphorazine
by Jeff noon

Johnny takes Metaphorazine. Every clockwork day. Says it burns his
house down, with a haircut made of wings. You could say he eats a
problem. You could say he stokes his thrill. Every clingfilm evening,
climb inside a little pill. Intoxicate the feelings. Play those skull-piano blues.
Johnny takes Metaphorazine.
He's a dog.

Lucy takes Simileum. That's not half as bad. She's only like a moon
goose gone slithering, upside-down the sky. Like a tidal wave of
perfume, like a spillage in the heard. With eyes stuck tight like
envelopes, an posted like a teardrop. Like a syringe, of teardrops
<sic>. Like a dripfeed aphrodesiac, swallowed like a Cadillac, Lucy
takes Simileum.
She's like a dog.

Graham takes Litotezol. Brain the size of particules, that cloud inside
of parasites, that live inside the paradise of a pair of lice. He's a
surge of melted ice cream, when he makes love like a ghost. Sparkles
like a graveyard, but never gets the urge, and then sings Hallelujah!
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! like a turgid flatfoot dirge. Graham takes
Litotezol.
He's a small dog.

Josie takes Hyperbolehyde. Ten thousand every second. See her face go
touch the sky, when she climbs that rollercoaster high. That mouth!
Such bliss! All the planets and the satellites make their home inside her
lips. It's a four-minute warning! Atomic tounge! Nitrokisserene! Josie
takes Hyberbolehyde.
She's a big dog.

Alanis takes Alliterene. It drags a deeper ditch. And all her dirty
dealings display a debonair disdain. Her dynamo is dangerous, ditto her
dusky dreams. Dummies devise diverse deluxe debacles down dingy
darkened detox driveways. Alanis takes Alliterene.
She's a dead dog, ya dig?

Desmond takes Onamatopiates.
He's a woof woof.

Sylvia takes oxymorox. She' got the teenage menopause. Gets her
winder-sugar somersaults from sniffing non-stick glue. She wears the
V-necked trousers, in the blind-eye looking-glass. Does the amputated
tango, and then finds herself quite lost, in the new old English
style!. Sylvia takes Oxymorox.
She's a cat dog.

But Johnny takes Metaphorazine. Look at those busted street lamp eyes,
that midnight clockface of a smile. That corrugated tinflesh roof of a
brow. The knife, fork and spoon of his fingers, the sheer umbrella of
the man's hairdo! the coldwater bedsit of his brain. He's a fanfare of
atoms, I tell you! And you know that last, exquisite mathematical
formula rubbed off the blackboard before the long summer holidays
begin?
Well, that's him. Speeding language through the veins, Johnny takes
Metaphorazine.
He's a real dog.

“If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.” –Emily Dickinson

First off, AuntShecky, I have very much appreciated this thread and the time you have taken to pass along these very worthwhile notes.

I do have to take some issue with your thoughts on rhyme and meter, however. Maybe it’s just my preference for free verse, I don’t know. I think I have to question the 90% figure. Maybe of all times, that may be true. But I just don’t see iambic pentameter or “variations of that form” as being what one commonly finds in today’s literary magazines.

That’s not to say that there isn’t some leaning towards structure of some description. I’m in the midst of reading Adam Kirsch’s “The Modern Element, Essays on Contemporary Poetry”, and he, for one, certainly seems to prefer a bit more structure, and certainly more meaning; over formlessness and abstract thoughts. (It’s my belief, though, that the two seem to get unfortunately lumped in together when people talk about modern poetry. Free form can be every bit as meaningful as more structured poetry.)

Some examples from my poetry subscription of choice over the past year:

Sorrows, Lucille Clifton: http://poetrymagazine.org/magazine/0...em_180005.html
The Train, David Orr: http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazi...em_180280.html
Repetition, Kay Ryan: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch...html?id=180543
Johnny One Note, W.S. Di Piero: http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazi...em_181180.html
The Pear, Jane Hirschfield: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/arch...html?id=181481


These are some of my recent favorites and taken together they represent what I (at least) am finding to be what is being published these days. That’s not to say they’re completely without structure. One can find some structure in anything. Such is the way the universe is built, I suppose.

But if one were to look just at Sorrows, for example, one would find – in my opinion – an exquisitely beautiful, painful poem; the likes of which I think, at least in this case, depend on its very freedom from the structure of rhyme and meter.