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redheadedfemmeI'm not a poet. I tried my hand at it during a creative-writing class I took a few years ago, and the results, while not cringe-worthy, were not impressive either. I think I'm too right-brained to make a good poet--I can't fall into that unhinged, free-floating, image-inducing state so many of them talk about.
Nevertheless, I still like poetry. I'm particularly fond of the structured rhyming types, sestinas and villanelles and of course the sonnet. For me, shorter is better, which is why Emily Dickinson is hands down my favorite poet. That woman can say more in four lines than most other ramblers can spout in an entire page.
For me, free verse is problematical. I think most free verse needs structured beats (which of course turns it into something else). I also don't like poems that stagger on for pages without getting to the point. Frankly, they bore me, and they usually have way too many scattershot images, floating free like colorless little mind-balloons beyond my reach. I like one or two strong metaphors with variations thereof. That's what I try to do in my writing (without laying it on too thick; you can get carried away real easy).
One of my favorite poems is Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." I know this has been quoted by just about everyone, but my God, it packs a punch. The rhyme pattern draws you in--lines one, two and four matching, with line three providing the rhyme for the next stanza--culminating in the fourth stanza, with its stark, repeating final line. The last line suggests all sorts of shadowy things, at least to me: something sad and tragic and inevitable, as unstoppable as the proverbial irresistable force meeting the immovable object. You just know when the narrator reaches the end of his "miles," all hell is going to break loose.
That's the benchmark of a great poem--what it doesn't say, as opposed to what it does. I guess that's why I can't relate to very much free verse. It lets too much hang out as opposed to keeping secrets.
For those who've never read the aforementioned poem, here it is.
"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
There. Bask in the glow of the master.
Nevertheless, I still like poetry. I'm particularly fond of the structured rhyming types, sestinas and villanelles and of course the sonnet. For me, shorter is better, which is why Emily Dickinson is hands down my favorite poet. That woman can say more in four lines than most other ramblers can spout in an entire page.
For me, free verse is problematical. I think most free verse needs structured beats (which of course turns it into something else). I also don't like poems that stagger on for pages without getting to the point. Frankly, they bore me, and they usually have way too many scattershot images, floating free like colorless little mind-balloons beyond my reach. I like one or two strong metaphors with variations thereof. That's what I try to do in my writing (without laying it on too thick; you can get carried away real easy).
One of my favorite poems is Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." I know this has been quoted by just about everyone, but my God, it packs a punch. The rhyme pattern draws you in--lines one, two and four matching, with line three providing the rhyme for the next stanza--culminating in the fourth stanza, with its stark, repeating final line. The last line suggests all sorts of shadowy things, at least to me: something sad and tragic and inevitable, as unstoppable as the proverbial irresistable force meeting the immovable object. You just know when the narrator reaches the end of his "miles," all hell is going to break loose.
That's the benchmark of a great poem--what it doesn't say, as opposed to what it does. I guess that's why I can't relate to very much free verse. It lets too much hang out as opposed to keeping secrets.
For those who've never read the aforementioned poem, here it is.
"Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening," by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
There. Bask in the glow of the master.
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