04-07-2018, 05:55 AM
I write in form all the time. Though I think it's a disability in my head. And me thinking. My sense in form.
I'm no good at judging form, technically. But I don't think I write quite in free verse. I feel Leanne's poetry better when it's not in a structured, traditional verse form. But then again, they may have been but I might not have noticed it.
My own belief, is that Leanne writes better out of form, I meaning a strict rhyme and meter. And I don't call it free verse.
Leanne, for all your study and practice of verse, I think you write, and think, better out of verse. And I don't call it free verse. I just think you have a mind for working better that way. I think you have a little too much comedy, not a bad thing, immanent in your versifying. And your other stuff is more poignant and better, to me.
I think, and feel, it's easier for me to write in a strange verse form than to write in, what many people call, prose. I find that I have a handicap in prosaics. I find verse-like things more natural and in my kin. And prose, well-written, to be prose poetry.
And sometimes I worry that what I write isn't poetry at all. And that I should just write in prose and call it.
But, Leanne, I think you could make a name for yourself with your nontraditional forms. But that might just be my natural tendencies to relate and feel those more.
I like how Robert Frost skews his syntax to make it fit without making it sound jovial and funny (it does when he wants and don't when he don't). I almost am finding, not cleverly, but almost I'd say desperately skewed syntax and vicious, harsh diction to be as poetical as metaphor and allusion and verse. I like how James Dickey does it too.
This might not be the point of this thread. But I don't know how to judge technical things, and just thought of these things to say.
she wears the holes of crucifixion
from the years spent standing in place of a cock
at the mercy of the winds that swirled across the steeple
now fallen, her wings are torn from her back
and her breast is exposed from behind
so her traitor heart can pump its last
into the filth upon which this church perches
like an aged buzzard
too blind to do more than peck feebly for bile
beneath her hand, the shards of a once-sealed jar
stab at her skin, and within its shattered curve
is a single white feather
But then again,
We are the genetic dispossessed,
born not of man and woman, but of graft
and gutter; we are blown upon your draft
and rooted in the mud. We manifest
in khaki dreams of dark, forbidden breast
and echo on your screens. You used to craft
a turban from a towel – oh, how you laughed
and called us names. Would you have ever guessed
that when you’d grown, the names would be the same?
But not in jest -- in ridicule and shame.
Did you imagine children in the sand
with castles made of bone, a rousing game
of Blind Man’s Buff, or Little Lucy’s Lame?
It’s your turn at the dice: hold out your hand.
I just like you better when you're being dead serious. I think you can afford to.
I'm no good at judging form, technically. But I don't think I write quite in free verse. I feel Leanne's poetry better when it's not in a structured, traditional verse form. But then again, they may have been but I might not have noticed it.
My own belief, is that Leanne writes better out of form, I meaning a strict rhyme and meter. And I don't call it free verse.
Leanne, for all your study and practice of verse, I think you write, and think, better out of verse. And I don't call it free verse. I just think you have a mind for working better that way. I think you have a little too much comedy, not a bad thing, immanent in your versifying. And your other stuff is more poignant and better, to me.
I think, and feel, it's easier for me to write in a strange verse form than to write in, what many people call, prose. I find that I have a handicap in prosaics. I find verse-like things more natural and in my kin. And prose, well-written, to be prose poetry.
And sometimes I worry that what I write isn't poetry at all. And that I should just write in prose and call it.
But, Leanne, I think you could make a name for yourself with your nontraditional forms. But that might just be my natural tendencies to relate and feel those more.
I like how Robert Frost skews his syntax to make it fit without making it sound jovial and funny (it does when he wants and don't when he don't). I almost am finding, not cleverly, but almost I'd say desperately skewed syntax and vicious, harsh diction to be as poetical as metaphor and allusion and verse. I like how James Dickey does it too.
This might not be the point of this thread. But I don't know how to judge technical things, and just thought of these things to say.
she wears the holes of crucifixion
from the years spent standing in place of a cock
at the mercy of the winds that swirled across the steeple
now fallen, her wings are torn from her back
and her breast is exposed from behind
so her traitor heart can pump its last
into the filth upon which this church perches
like an aged buzzard
too blind to do more than peck feebly for bile
beneath her hand, the shards of a once-sealed jar
stab at her skin, and within its shattered curve
is a single white feather
But then again,
We are the genetic dispossessed,
born not of man and woman, but of graft
and gutter; we are blown upon your draft
and rooted in the mud. We manifest
in khaki dreams of dark, forbidden breast
and echo on your screens. You used to craft
a turban from a towel – oh, how you laughed
and called us names. Would you have ever guessed
that when you’d grown, the names would be the same?
But not in jest -- in ridicule and shame.
Did you imagine children in the sand
with castles made of bone, a rousing game
of Blind Man’s Buff, or Little Lucy’s Lame?
It’s your turn at the dice: hold out your hand.
I just like you better when you're being dead serious. I think you can afford to.