10 Poetry Myths–Busted.

Originally posted on April 6, 2011 at 3:41 PM

1. Poetry is boring.

You zombied out during the entire poetry semester in high school. You’d rather be poked in the eye with a spoon repeatedly that sit through an open mic. You use a book of poetry to help you fall asleep every night. I get it.

Busted: the juicy stuff.

• War poems. “The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Alfred Lord Tennyson
• Erotica. “may i feel said he” by ee cummings
• Horror poetry. “Lamia” by John Keats

2. Poetry is all the same (There’s nothing new to say).

Flowers. Love. Loss. Nature. Barf.

Busted: fresh ideas.

• your beloved dog actually wants to kill you: “Revenant” by Billy Collins
• “You Can’t Write a Poem About McDonald’s” by Ronald Wallace
• tricking oysters: “The Walrus and The Carpenter” by Lewis Carroll

3. Form poetry has contrived word choice.

You’ve seen one too many poets cram a senseless line into an otherwise decent poem to fulfill formatic requirements. You’ve heard one too many bizarre rhymes. You yourself have written one to many crappers in an attempt to pop out a sonnet. Form poetry just kind of blows.

Busted: poems that use forms (rather than being used).

• “Pity me not” by Edna St. Vincent Millay (sonnet)
• “In Flanders Fields” by Lieut-Col John McCrae (rondeau)
• “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas (villanelle)

4. If it doesn’t rhyme (or have meter), it’s not poetry.

There are purists who will adamantly argue this. I am not one of them. They are quibbling technicalities. I may not be able to define poetry, but I damn well know it when I see it.

Busted: beautiful free verse.

• “in Just-” by E. E. Cummings
• “Forgetfulness” by Hart Crane
• “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T. S. Eliot

5. Poetry is cryptic.

You’re tired of hearing professors ask you to “read between the lines.” You roll your eyes when hipsters in bars say, “But what does he mean by that?” You’re least favorite phrase is “What I think the poet is really trying to say here…”

Busted: poems that mean exactly what they say.

• “High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
• “Funeral Blues” by W.H. Auden
• “How Did You Die?” by Edmund Vance Cooke

6. Poetry is pretentious.

Poets tie their sweaters around the shoulders instead of their hips. They drink special coffees at indie shops. They refuse to shave various body parts on some moral/social/economical/intellectual principle. They have secret clubs.

Busted: down to earth poems.

• “Hangover” by Billy Collins
• “My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke
• “Sick” by Shel Silverstein

7. You can’t make money off of poetry.

Starving artist. We’re all familiar.

Busted: money-makers.

• Maya Angelou is a millionaire.
• In 1999, Random House gave Billy Collins a six-figure sum for a three-book deal.
• The Academy of American Poets alone gives over 100,000 in grants and awards every year.

8. Poetry is a dying art.

No one writes poetry anymore. Or if they do, they’re going to die soon.

Busted: poets under 30.

• Ellen Kennedy (1989 – )
• Chelsea Martin (1986 – )
• Daniel Bailey (1984 – )

9. Anyone can write poetry.

The implication, with this myth, is that anyone can write poetry well. It’s hard to deny that anyone can write it; it’s hardly an exclusive sport. But the idea here is that the big names are crocks, that they could easily be replaced by no-namers, and that this poetry thing doesn’t really take skill, work, or dedication.

Busted: awful poetry by famous people.

A Night without Armor by Jewel
Touch Me by Suzanne Somers
Will I Think of You by Leonard Nimoy (Star Trek’s Mr. Spock)

10. Poetry can’t be critiqued.

Poetry, at its most glorified, is straight expression from the heart. It is Art. With the capital “A.” You can’t touch that, man.

Busted:

You totally can. And if you’re trying to be a professional about it, you should. Fiction, painting, sculpture, music, and acting are all “Art” too, but people give them the respect of critique. Why should poetry be any different?

More on critiquing poetry in Friday’s guest blog.

Truth: “I can’t write it, so I don’t like to read it.”

Busted:

Okay, so this isn’t exactly a myth. But it is a barrier. And a silly one, at that. Do you not look at paintings because you can’t create them? Don’t eat gourmet food because you don’t think you could cook it? Don’t be a goof ball. You don’t have to be an excellent poet to read and appreciate excellent poetry.

Truth: “73% of all poetry is not worth reading.” – Billy Collins

Busted:

This is no excuse. There are a lot of crappy everythings out there, from seamstresses to musicians, but people haven’t vowed to stop getting things altered or stop listening to music. Just let the passionates do the weeding out for you, and read the poets that other people have already shown to be good. Ain’t no thing.

Have a poetry myth to add and bust? Or something to disagree with? Comments.

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Poetry 101: A Crash-Course on Poetic Devices

Originally posted on April 4, 2011 at 2:31 PM

I thought I would take this opportunity to highlight some of the most important basics of poetry. For some of you, this might be old hat, and for others it might look a little like hieroglyphics. But don’t get overwhelmed. There’s no need to memorize this information all at once (in fact, I recommend that you don’t). The best way to learn about poetic devices is by reading poetry. Applied learning is always more practical than memorization. *And as you read, perhaps you’d like to check back here as a reference.

The two most basic things to understand about poetry are rhyme and meter. They are not to be confused, and are not always used together.

Rhyme

There are two options when it comes to rhyme: rhymed or non-rhymed. Rhymed types include traditional forms (such as the sonnet, villanelle, and pantoum) and created forms. Non-rhymed types include free verse, blank verse, and prose poetry.

There are several types of rhyme. When people speak of a “rhymed poem,” they invariably mean end rhyme. End rhyme is just what it sounds: the last sounds of the line rhymes with the last sounds of the next line. Assonance and consonance are both types of slant or near rhyme (impure). If that rhyme is vowel-based (peck/met) it’s called assonance. If it’s consonant-based (maximum/taxes) it’s called consonance (alliteration is a form of consonance where the consonance occurs at the beginning of the words- please/play). Slightly more sophisticated than end rhyme is internal rhyme, as seen in Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” where words in mid-line rhyme with one another.

Meter

Meter is, most simply put, formally organized rhythm. (The most well-known example of meter is iambic pentameter, like Shakespeare often used.) When you could guess the stress (emphasis) of the next word based on a line, that line is most likely metered. There are three options when it comes to meter: metered, non-metered, or syllabic. In English and French forms, meter is the clear preference. In many Asian forms, syllable count takes preference over meter (as in the infamous haiku). In free verse, meter and syllable count are ignored completely.

The components of meter are called feet. There are four types of metrical feet: the iamb, the trochee, the anapest, and the dactyl. (I will underline the syllable that gets the emphasis.) The iamb is unstressed/stressed (he sang). The trochee is stressed/unstressed (sing it). The anapest is unstressed/unstressed/stressed (and they sang). The dactyl is stressed/unstressed/unstressed (after the).

Whether a foot has two syllables or three (dissyllabic or trisyllabic), the number of them in a line determines the #meter. One foot is a monometer, two is dimeter, three is trimeter, four is tetrameter, five is pentameter, etc.

So if you combine the type of foot with the number of feet, you get the meter of the lines. Iambic pentameter is a line composed of five iambic feet. Trochaic tetrameter is a line composed of four trochaic feet. You see? The possibilities are endless. Learning to scan (read a poem and determine its meter) does take some time, practice, and patience. And honestly — if you want to get advanced — perhaps a natural ear for it.

Examples of “types” of poems having rhyme and/or meter:

• traditional Shakespearean sonnet: rhymed and metered
• blank verse: metered but not rhymed
• created forms: rhymed but not metered
• Englyn: rhymed and syllabic
• haiku: syllabic but not rhymed
• free verse: not rhymed, not metered
• prose poem: not rhymed, not metered

Using different requirements of rhyme and/or meter gives us the different poetic forms. The sonnet, for example, is the most well-known traditional form. Other forms that employ rhyme and/or meter include the pantoum, the villanelle, the englyn (syllabic), the rondeau (my personal favorite), the rondel, the rondeau redouble, the ballad, the cinquain (syllabic), the haiku (syllabic), the minute (syllabic and metrical), the limerick, the ottava rima, the triolet…

Some other terms worth knowing:

ekphrastic poetry– poetry that comments on another form of art (a painting, sculpture, novel, etc.) For an example, go check out the Merging Visions Exhibit.
end-stopped– when a line has a logical pause at the end (i.e., there is a period at the end of that line)
enjambment– when a line “runs over” into the next line for full meaning (the opposite of end-stopped)
shape poem– a poem where the arrangement of the words on the page is vital to the meaning or interpretation of the poem. (i.e., a poem about a tornado in which the poems create the shape of a twister visually)
wrenched accent– pronouncing a word unnaturally to force it into a metrical pattern (in my opinion, this can be the fault of the poet OR the reader)

And remember, the whole point of this is to better understand poetry – not to be overwhelmed by it. If all else fails, skip what you don’t understand, skip what you don’t like, and read out loud.

*For more expanded reading, my favorite terminology resource is a book recommended to me by a friend: Poetry Handbook, A dictionary of Terms, by Babette Deutsch (mine’s the 4th edition). It hasn’t failed me yet!

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Asking for What we Need

Originally posted on March 28, 2011 at 3:35 PM

There’s a certain lesson that I keep relearning in every facet of my life over and over again since I was born. It’s very simple, yet I never seem to remember it until I reach the point of “OMG DO IT OR I WILL DIE RIGHT NOW.” The lesson? Ask for what I need.

I’ve recently been planning and working on a blog series coming up starting Friday. It’s something that I’m really excited about and really want to be great. I had several ideas that were, well… ambitious. For me. At this point in my blogging endeavors. I had two ideas that would only work if other people helped me. But that meant – you guessed it – that I had to ask for help. *insert sounds of disagreement here*

Well, I did. I approached four people who I really wanted to do guest posts for this blog series. I was terrified. A little because some of them seemed almost “out of my league.” And a little because I know some of them quite well, and was afraid that I would be taking advantage of our relationship (i.e. making it too hard for them to say no). So in the request emails I made it very clear that I wouldn’t be offended/hurt if they declined (at least partially a lie).

They all said yes.

I am very excited. Now I have 4 AMAZING guest bloggers coming up! And how else could I have gotten them? They didn’t even know about the series. And even if they had, they wouldn’t have volunteered out of nowhere for it; that would have seemed intrusive. So I had to ask. And I’m so glad I did.

Likewise, I needed a favor from a handful of family and close friends. I was nervous to ask, thinking it might seem demanding or overly intrusive, but I did it anyway, based solely on the positive results from the above experience. 4 out of 5 have said yes so far, and they don’t seem to be put out by it at all. Because I expressed to them the importance of what I was asking, they were happy to help. Of course they were. They love me. Why do I get so silly about these things?

If someone you love, care about, respect, or like approaches you and tells you they need something you can give – something not too big a request but important nonetheless – are you going to say no? Not unless there’s a really good reason to. Because we, as good people, want to help each other out. Most of the time we just aren’t sure how. So if you need help, tell someone how. Specifically. (Don’t abuse it.)

So whether it’s for your fledgling career, your friendships, your health, your sex life, your emotional contentedness, your critique group, or your household chores – I’ve found it’s best to ask for what we need.

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Writing. Living. Reality.

Originally posted on March 22, 2011 at 7:16 PM

“Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.” –Catherine Drinker Bowen, Atlantic, December 1957

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” –Ray Bradbury

I’m in between projects. I’m working on an awesome blog series coming up in about a week, but it’s nonfiction. I have a handful of fiction and poetry pieces started, but they all seem to be… well… not stalled, exactly, but perhaps receded. I like them, I remember them, but I don’t want to write on them. At least not right now.

I’m missing that one creative project that really calls to me – not in the front of my mind, but in the back of it. That mysterious voice that speaks separately from my mouth, to only my ears. My muse, if you’ll pardon the cliché.

You might think this is a good thing. I have recently finished a 100,000 word novel, edits and all, and submitted it to a handful of excellent agents, some of whom actually requested it specifically. I feel relieved, but not exhausted. It’s strange, but I still want to write.

I’ve still got the bug, but nothing to work on.

They (and who the hell are They, anyway?) say that you should take a break between big projects. That you should relax and enjoy “real life” for a while, to remind yourself what the real world is like with, you know, those three-dimensional, physically-existent people. Ha! As if they’re ever interesting. Okay, maybe a bit. But still, half of my life is in my head and in my Word documents – and I like it that way.

This has never happened to me before, this strange sense of floating. Maybe I’m being too impatient. I mean, it’s only been a few days. But I feel like a shell. Like half of my life is missing.

Writers, have you ever felt like this? (And does it happen to other types of artists too?) Do you find yourself floundering between projects? Does some idea usually stand up, wave its arms, and call to you, or do you sit down and choose one based on logic? I’m really asking.

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I Prefer My Authors Dead

Originally posted on March 17, 2011 at 3:37 PM

No, this is not some creepy, horrific, horror-creeper creep-fest. I love my authors alive, too. And I don’t mean to make light of those who have come before us. It’s just that, well… you can’t ask dead authors questions, that’s all.

And people do ask living authors questions, which is fine – most of the time. By all means, milk them for their knowledge. Everyone in any field should be so lucky as to get an opportunity to talk craft with an expert. This doesn’t bother me. Except when I hear a question like this, “Did you intend for the color of Falula’s shirt to symbolize her inner turmoil?”

Omg. Why would you ever ask an author if they intended for their book to carry a certain motif/symbolism/theme?

You see it enough to ask, don’t you? So it’s there. Who cares if they planned it? What difference does it make?

Any author worth his/her salt knows that people will see things in his/her book that he/she never planned to be seen. Maybe that they never even wanted to be seen. This is the value of interpretation. Otherwise, we would use a different word. Like maybe uncovering. Which is so High School English, isn’t it?

There are no rights and wrongs here. As an adult reader-by-choice, there are no tests for you to fail, essays for you to “get right,” or spur of the moment questions you must be prepared to answer in front of your peers.

I had this one English prof at UT who taught contemporary literature by authors such as Philip Roth, Toni Morrison, Lorrie Moore, and Don DeLillo. That was by far the most difficult class I’ve ever taken. It was the closest I came (ironically, it was also the very last class I took) to ruining my 4.0 GPA that I’d worked so hard for. I squeaked by with an A, but I’m pretty sure the fluid I was sweating during that semester was thicker and redder than water. But hey, I learned a lot.

The professor told us a story about how he was lucky enough to have dinner with Don DeLillo, which is, to be fair, a pretty huge deal. I know I would be cleaning house. But then he proceeded to tell us that he and the author stayed up till some ungodly hour discussing DeLillo’s books. And Professor Nameless was so excited to finally ask DeLillo if the deeper thematic considerations he’d been teaching to college students all these years were indeed intended by the author.

If you ask me, that takes all the fun out of it.

Each reader brings their own set of ideas, values, and backgrounds to the story. And furthermore, each reader has that right. I believe we should all be able to read a book and decide what the different parts of it mean to us, free of someone else’s preconceptions of such – even if that someone is the creator.

I might be in the minority here; I’m not sure. What do you think? Does it matter if the reader’s interpretation matches up with what the author’s intentions? Does seeing something unintended mean it isn’t there? Does that devalue the author’s work? You know my thoughts; what are yours?

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