Let’s throw some words at the fridge and see what sticks…
The “Assignment”
As VP and Program Chair of Poets Northwest, in Houston, Texas, it’s my job to come up with interesting activities for the group once a month. Last month, we enjoyed a reading and workshop presented by Courtney O’Banion Smith, who won the Catherine Case Lubbe Manuscript Contest with her book, In Fidelity.
This month, I tossed the group what I hope was a fun little challenge, meant to get the creative juices flowing:
The topic for this month’s program is “Refrigerator Magnet Poetry.” Please go to Random Word Generator – WordCounter.net (https://wordcounter.net/random-word-generator) and generate 25 random words. Write a poem on any topic, and any form, using as many of the randomly-generated words from this list as possible. (Bring the list with you to the meeting.)
As discussed in our August meeting, prepare a brief (and unapologetic!) introduction for your poem. Consider including: Of your 25 random words, how many did you manage to work into your poem? Did you find inspiration in the randomness? Was it especially challenging? Were there any surprises? What form did you choose? Was it fun to write?
Try to keep the introduction under 2 minutes.
~ From Meetings – Poets Northwest (poetsnw.com)
You should know, by now, that I would never issue a challenge I wasn’t game to try, myself. In fact, a friendly challenge is a great way for me to pull myself out of a writing slump. These were my random words: lumber, library, impose, coherent, languid, furtive, learn, descriptive, harmony, abstracted, pencil, contract, change, match, bear, kiss, measly, level, sulky, occur, aboard, rewind, curb, obedient, wrench.
The Result
Did I have a moment, looking through the list, where I wondered, “What the hell have I done?” Yes. Yes, I did. I’ll admit that I was tempted, like the gamer I used to be, to “re-roll” until I got a list I liked. A list that made more sense on its surface. Instead, I pulled on my big-girl panties and I used all 25 words, in 25 lines of iambic pentameter just to add to the fun. It may have helped that I’ve been limbering up with the New York Times game, Connections.
I’m not sure if I found inspiration in the words, themselves, but as I cobbled them together, they suggested images. The images began to take shape, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I think I found inspiration in the challenge of making them fit together in a coherent whole.
Coherent! That was one of my 25 words! I only had 22 lines, to start. There was nothing in the challenge about line count. But the idea of 25×25 got stuck in my mind, and this seemed “too close but not quite” for my tastes. So, this morning, I began to edit.
Monday Morning Married Life
Sleep lumbers, languid, like a bear. I wake, But barely there, at 4:00 AM. Cast off Warm downy blankets of repose. Impose Harsh winter’s chill: descriptive, like a kiss Of ice to slap the hungry belly-growl, To wrench the hoar-frost breath from sulky lungs.
The starving hunter roars his ravenous rage And wakes, at last – a yawn, a furtive scratch – To ask if I want coffee, strong and black. I nod assent; coherent speech must wait. This is the contract, secret to our match: Love’s language is a library of grunts, Half-smiles, nods, and gentle touch. We’ve learned To read each other’s thoughts as they occur Ignoring measly, petty quarrels there. To climb aboard the week in harmony Obedient to the rhythm of the rails that run Our parallel and level days, routine.
Abstracted from our hibernating den My teddy-bear requests I pencil in A moment’s time to change, rewind – to dine Togetherin the evening’s hush – and I In eagerness to curb this waste of life Pursuing other people’s goals say, “Yes,” And raise a glass to married Monday mornings.
This turned out better than I thought it would. I shouldn’t be surprised. About a dozen years ago, I found Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge (wordpress.com). There, the challenge involved only 10 words and participants were encouraged to post, as comments, anything from a sentence to a story to a poem. It was a good way to jump-start the brain; occasionally, I got the bones of a good story from it. Even before that, I had a college instructor who would provide a list of “fifty dollar words,” the kind of vocabulary-builder words that no one uses in everyday conversation, and the assignment was to try to use five of them together in “one grammatically correct, non-run-on sentence, demonstrating understanding of the meaning of each word.”
If you think “run-on sentence” means “way too long,” go brush up on the definition. My challenge to you all is to see who can leave the longest grammatically correct, properly punctuated, non-run-on sentence in the comments. And don’t use weak words like “very.” Don’t pad it with excessive conjunctions. Aim for interesting – see if you can hold the reader’s interest. The record-holder for my challenge managed to write, if I recall correctly, a sentence having 157 words.
The poet’s job is to “write tight” and we do it better than most, when we do it at all. Our job is to make each word carry the heavy freight of meaning and emotion, sometimes stacked like containers on a cargo ship.
I hope this newsletter inspires you to pick up a notebook and a pen, or open Word, and write something. Remember: It doesn’t have to be “good.” But it will be – to someone. I once entered a “bad poetry contest” that was only open to people whose deliberately awful poems were accepted for publication by poetry.com, only to lose because my poem wasn’t bad enough. I tried hard, too!
Go forth and have fun!
My own theory has been that people don’t hate poetry at all – they hate bad poetry. Pompous, pretentious, precious poetry. Unfathomably deep metaphors. Tongue-twisting, time-traveling language and syntax. Contrivance. But they lack the self-confidence, or feel it would be too rude or too harsh to say, “I have no idea what this means, and it’s such a chore to read it that I no longer care to contemplate it.” The fault may lie with the poet, not the reader.
Is There Such a Thing as “Bad Poetry”?
Oscar Wilde claimed that “All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.” In “The best bad poetry out there,” Dan Chiasson writes of a 1930s anthology of bad poetry called, The Stuffed Owl, that “Excess of love often leads, in poetry as in life, to worse results than neglect. Most of the worst bad poems here are so fragrantly and moistly loved that our supercilious amusement at them seems savage.”
But I would suggest to the reader that there are many poets and many poems – far too many to be read by one person in one lifetime. If you’ve attempted to make heads or tails of several poems by one poet, find another. All poets can be a little hit-or-miss. And readers’ tastes vary. There’s nothing wrong with that, or with you, Dear Reader. I may write one poem that truly touches another soul, and the next will, quite frankly, suck. I am glad of PCs and pixels; if I were still feeding dead trees to a wastebasket every time I wrote something bad or barely adequate, I would feel an unrelenting guilt. God forbid I should turn you off poetry altogether.
Does Poetry Leave You Feeling “Stupid”?
There’s something between “deep” and “doggerel” and I aspire to find my happy place on that spectrum. A poet might make more money writing “greeting card verse,” and might have more admirers writing overly “deep” navel-gazing verse full of symbolism nobody really understands – in the same way that the naked Emporer had “admirers” who were too terrified of him to tell him the truth.
Honestly, I don’t understand every word of “The Waste Land” by T. S. Eliot, either. But if you listen to him read it, himself, a few times, if you think about it, and read what’s been written about it so that you understand the references in context, it becomes clearer. A young adult in 2023 does not share some of the specific experiences that Eliot talks about. A little more effort is required of us, today, than might have been required by the reader who lived through World War I. That effort pays off, I think. Keep in mind that poetry is meant to be read aloud and heard, because it is naturally metrical, lyrical – it was never meant to be solely for the eyes and brain.
Listen, too, to Maya Angelou, performing her famous poem, “Still I Rise”:
Now, find yourself a favorite poem and try reading it aloud. Get someone else to read it aloud. See if you can find a recording of the author reading it out loud. It may be impolite of me to say this, but I think Fiona Shaw performed Eliot’s poem better than he did! I’m not sure anyone can perform Maya Angelou’s better than she did, though!
“The words on the page are asleep or dead until a human voice breathes life into them. Even the poems that I didn’t understand, or care for – as a pupil at school – sounded better read out loud. Their rhythms, rhymes, the sound of the words is often hypnotic and mesmerising – and that’s how it should be. Poetry is the magic of everyday words.” – Paul Cookson
Not all of us enjoy “performing” poetry. Or speaking in public. Whether we are competent – or even quite good at it – it’s just not our “thing.” If you enjoy performing at open mics and poetry slams, this newsletter may not be useful to you, but I hope you’ll add your tips and techniques to the comments, as I’m bound to miss a few.
Even if it’s not a joy, most of us can muster the wherewithal to read, recite, or perform our poems. And most of us can get better at it.
I asked poets, “What are some of your pet peeves when listening to poetry spoken aloud?” The first answer I got made me laugh out loud:
“People who suddenly acquire a mid-Atlantic accent when they read their poem aloud.”
He’s heard me read and swears he didn’t notice me doing this, but I tend to acquire an awkwardly British accent, which gets weirder as I self-consciously attempt to stop talking that way. Another poet suggested that perhaps that’s because poets were more likely than the average viewer to watch BBC dramas. That’s a kind theory, anyway. I have noticed others affecting accents and speech patterns that are not their normal way of speaking, and I wonder if they’re even aware that they’re doing it? Here’s a fun bit of trivia that came out of this discussion – did you know that there has emerged an Antarctic accent?
My pet peeves? I have two:
“Rambling preambles and self-conscious disclaimers.”
Avoid making excuses, disclaimers, or apologies. When reading your own poems, don’t say, “I wrote this in 15 minutes last night but kept getting interrupted by my colicky baby,” or “This isn’t very good, but, well, you’ll see…” If an introductory note is needed for context, prepare one as if for someone else to read. Keep it short and sweet – let the poem stand on its own legs. Prefacing a poem with an apology for how good it’s not is like arguing with a compliment even before you get one. Don’t do it.
“Stumbling over unfamiliar words.”
Sometimes we read others’ poems and stumble over unfamiliar words; sometimes, we write poetry containing familiar words we’ve only read in books – they’re not unfamiliar, but we’ve never heard them spoken aloud and don’t know how to pronounce them. Sometimes, we know how to pronounce them, but our tongues trip over them, anyway. That may be an indicator that we ought to rewrite the poem, if it’s one of our own. I once wrote a speech for Toastmasters that contained the word, “encephalography.” I know the word and its pronunciation, but my mouth just won’t cooperate. Before giving the speech at a contest, I changed it to “brain scan.” The technical term was not the point of the speech, and there was no point in drawing so much attention to it.
Another mentioned:
“Speaking too quietly.”
Yes! This is not the time for “inside voices.” Imagine that you are speaking to a person at the back of the room. Stand up tall to make room for your lungs. Use your diaphragm when you breath, speak, or sing – see Diaphragmatic Breathing Exercises & Benefits (clevelandclinic.org) to support your voice.
For many listeners, their pet peeve is:
“Speaking too fast.”
Ugh. I’m often accused of speaking too fast! And it’s hard to slow down, because I feel like I’m exaggerating every word and syllable, and it feels to me like I’m being condescending. It feels unnatural. Speaking slowly takes practice, but it is important if you want listeners to understand what you’re saying.
And finally:
“Speaking in a monotone.”
Speaking in a monotone robs the poem of its energy and loses the audience’s interest quickly. Practice reading the poem silently, several times. Then practice reading it aloud. Try standing in front of a mirror, watching yourself as you read, or reading it to a friend across the room. Record yourself, then play back the audio or video to listen and watch for any rough spots. You might imagine that you are acting out the poem, or saying it as lines in a play.
In all cases, practice makes…better.
Tips for Reading Poetry Aloud
Suggested by Billy Collins: Read the title of the poem and the author’s name. Read any introductory notes given by the poet (but see #2, below). Repeat the title. Read the poem, then repeat the title again.
Avoid affectations, such as taking on an accent you don’t use in everyday speech.
Avoid “rambling preambles,” excuses, disclaimers, or apologies. Let the poem stand on its own legs. Never argue with a compliment and certainly never argue with one before you get it.
Look up unfamiliar words and practice their proper pronunciation. Consider a rewrite if it’s still causing your tongue to trip and poem is your own.
Speak with enough volume everyone in the room can hear you clearly. You don’t have to shout, but make sure people at the back of the room understand every word. Practice diaphragmatic breathing and “project” your voice.
Speak s-l-o-w-l-y and clearly. Talking too fast is a sign of nervousness. Never let ’em see you sweat!
Use vocal variety and energy in reading the poem to hold the audience’s interest and attention.
Memorize the poem if you can, so that you can make eye contact with your audience.
Practice and don’t be afraid to ask for feedback on your delivery.
Just for Fun: “The Exquisite Corpse” Game
Oh, that sounds ghoulish, doesn’t it? The name comes from one of the lines that resulted when a group of Surrealists played the game in Paris in the 1910s and 1920s: “Le cadavre exquis boira le vin nouveau.” (“The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine.”)
I tried this out with family, recently, and the only other person who had heard of the game was my 9 year old grandson, who had played it in Art class in 3rd Grade.
We wrote a collaborative poem following the traditional adjective-noun-verb-adjective-noun format on a theme of “water.” No structure or theme is required, but I thought it might lead to a somewhat more coherent result that a group of mixed ages (9 to 60) and interests would enjoy. And here it is:
We also created two drawings: an alien creature and a train. Interestingly, the first person’s alien head had no eyes, nose, or mouth, but the second person (without peeking at the first section!) gave the alien eye-stalks in the armpit beneath a tentacled arm.
Give it a try!
And please, if you have any pet peeves or suggestions for reading poetry aloud, let me know in the comments.
Today, I want to talk about sonnets. Whatever you prefer to read or to write, I think there’s value in learning to write poetry using fixed forms. It’s like hanging your hat and coat on a rack, rather than tossing them artfully across the sofa like a decorative throw. It’s a discipline that requires you to think imaginatively within strict constraints.
I used to say that writing a grammatically correct, properly punctuated Tweet in exactly 280 characters was an excellent exercise in writing tight, chopping off every unnecessary character. Writing formal verse is similar, in that respect; every word must pack a punch and land it.
The rules of the form are deceptively simple. Two major sonnet forms are the Shakespearean, or English, sonnet and the Petrarchan, or Italian, sonnet. These are the basis for all variations:
Shakespearean / English sonnet:
14 lines (divided into three quatrains – 4 lines each, and a couplet – 2 lines).
Typically, there is a volta – a turn or shift in thinking or emphasis in the third quatrain. You may want to think about starting with the word, “But…” or “Yet…” or “And yet…” though you needn’t signal the turn of thought so obviously.
Petrarchan / Italian sonnet:
14 lines (divided into an octave – 8 lines, and a sestet – 6 lines)
Typically, there is a volta – a turn or shift in thinking or emphasis at the start of the sestet. You may want to think about starting with the word, “But…” or “Yet…” or “And yet…” though you needn’t signal the turn of thought so obviously.
The Miltonic and Spenserian sonnets involve minor variations of these two, and the four together are generally regarded as the major sonnet forms; however, there are many varieties of “sonnet,” and you can peruse 179 of them at Every Sonnet – Just another Poets Collective site. Can you invent one that doesn’t already exist? Can you write one that is achingly beautiful but conforms perfectly to the prescribed rhyme and meter?
Remember: Practice never makes perfect. But practice makes good. Perfectionism never means attaining perfection; it just means you’ll die (and drive others nuts) trying.
Question: If reading formal verse, is there a form you prefer?
Critique and Feedback FTW!
In a previous post, I asked which term readers preferred for “constructive criticism”: criticism, critique, feedback, or analysis. Critique and feedback tied for the win. It was a very small sample size, though, so before giving any, I suggest asking the recipient which term they’re most comfortable with.
I don’t want any of you having to enter the witness protection program like R____:
Apparently, the English decided (erroneously) that “criticism” was primarily a fault-finding exercise, and that connotation has stuck. The French word “critique” has retained the more objective sense of analysis, identifying both the strengths and weaknesses of a work.
Some may prefer the word “evaluate,” but I would argue that “evaluation” has its roots in the determination of the value or worth of a thing, the sum total of its merits and deficits, rather than an objective analysis of its strengths and weaknesses, giving an opportunity for improvement. Evaluation is what we do when we choose to buy one apple and not another from the same bin. Evaluation is what a publisher does when deciding whether to accept or reject a submission.
Poetry – indeed, all writing – might benefit from a SWOT analysis: Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, and Threats (to publication, perhaps). But whatever name we give it, it’s important to recognize what’s constructive and what is merely destructive.
It’s also important to realize that most of us are not expert critics; our judgment is just that – ours. It is not some objective Everyman’s. We may accidentally, though with the kindest of intentions, give critique that is not helpful or even representative of what the majority of readers might think. So, ultimately, the decision to employ our suggestions must fall squarely on the writer’s shoulders.
Do the suggestions ring true? Have several people, independently, given the same feedback? These are good indications of constructive critique.
Are the suggestions unclear, imprecise, or confusing? It’s up to the writer to ask questions until they understand what’s being said.
Is the feedback hurtful? Is it mean? Straightforward critique, given without sugar-coating, is not meant to be cruel. It’s up to the writer to consider the source and to recognize that defensiveness is never necessary. Each piece of feedback can be used or ignored. It need not be taken as a dagger to the heart. If I say “The language is unnatural and stilted,” this is not the same as, “Little old ladies have no business writing poetry. You should stick to knitting, instead.”
The former is intended to be helpful. You can work with that. It has to do with your word choices in a particular work, but not with your worth as a human being or as a writer in general.
The latter is useless, sexist, ageist, and unkind. Treat it as such – chuck it into the wastebasket and forget it, recognizing that there are some miserable people in the world who desperately want the company of other miserable people.
Smile and tell yourself that perhaps you’ve given their dog a brief reprieve from being kicked. You are a hero!
Somewhere, in between, lie people who truly want to be helpful but have difficulty eloquently and clearly expressing themselves, sometimes. They’re trying. They will never improve their critiquing skills if they feel they’ve hurt people’s feelings – they will only get better at it through practice. We might ask them questions and encourage them to be more specific. Odds are, the novice critic is more uncomfortable giving feedback than the experienced writer is at receiving it. They must feel safe if they’re to be honest and truly helpful.
The Red Pen
I learned to love the red pen in middle school. My English teacher “bled all over” my first essay. She marked up mechanical errors using proofreaders’ marks. She filled the margins with critique. And I was delighted! I knew that she had taken time out of her day to really read what I wrote, think about it, and to try to turn me into a better writer. In that moment, my love of writing was born.
I briefly took Taekwondo lessons from Grandmaster Dong Won Kang in Oklahoma. “Briefly,” because I was very, very bad at it. But he didn’t just teach martial arts. He would talk to the class, afterwards, and impart life lessons and wisdom. One thing he stressed was that when someone took precious moments out of their own life to help you improve your skills at anything, you should take it as a compliment and a gift. You should recognize that out of all the fun things they could be doing with their limited and valuable time on this earth, they chose to try to help you grow. He said that to give praise is easy. It costs us absolutely nothing to say, “Great job.” It takes time, thought, and effort to critique and offer suggestions for improvement.
Again, some people have had damaging and destructive experiences involving red pens, and have developed a fear of or aversion to red ink. To them, it represents negativity. It symbolizes their “failure.” Someone has led them to feel this way, and that someone is a negative and destructive force. Sometimes, it’s as simple as switching from red ink to green or purple. But the only real cure is kindness and trust.
I worked hard to make it that bad, and I am not even 324,567th in line for Poet Laureate.
R____, then, was to come along after I posted it and rip it apart — er, critique it constructively on all fronts, to show the class how it was done. Afterwards, I would graciously thank him, act upon his suggestions, and post my revisions.
You may already see the flaw in our plan.
True story.
Rest in peace, R____.
Till next time, practice giving and receiving constructive critique. You can use something as simple as the “sandwich method” – a few compliments, a few suggestions for improvement, and observations on strengths and opportunities for growth as a writer. When you’re feeling a bit more confident, try this: How to Analyze Poetry: 10 Steps for Analyzing a Poem – 2023 – MasterClass
Choose whatever option makes you happy. That's all that matters to me!
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