I Cheated the Prompt, and then I Cheated Myself: April 14 Poem

There is only one entry under “J” in William Packard’s The Poet’s Dictionary: A Handbook of Prosody and Poetic Devices, but all is well.  My inability to write anything illustrating the particular tradition described therein has led me back to an old mountain song my grandmother used to sing, to Peggy Seeger’s website, and, ultimately, to a new poem … and maybe even a series of new poems.  Today’s device:

Jongleur:  Roughly from the fifth to the fifteenth centuries, throughout France and Tuscany and northern Italy, Jongleurs were entertainers (acrobats, actors, musicians, singers) who originally wandered from town to town offering their arts for a fee.  Later, these Jongleurs became official fixtures of the various European courts as jesters, clowns, and  reciters of poetry.

At first the Jongleur did not create his own poems but drew from a repertory of ballata and canti and chansons de geste, but by the twelfth century the minstrels or trouvères or Troubadours of Provencal and Tuscany were writing their own poems to be sung.

So, the Jongleur tradition is a tradition of sharing poems through song.  Packard further explains, about the Troubadour:

The Troubadour poet (from tobar, to invent; also from trouvère, to find) usually sang of courtly love – the ethereal, extramarital praise of any Lady who inspired the poet to virtue and to moral excellence and achievement.  Sometimes the Troubadour’s songs followed specific conventions, as the following list indicates:
canzo – song of love
balada – story in verse
plante – elegy or dirge for a lost lover
serenade – evening song
alba – dawn song, when lovers realize day has come and they must part

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Poem for April 12: Back to the Dictionary

Today’s poetic device from William Packard’s The Poet’s Dictionary: A Handbook of Prosody and Poetic Devices, is

Haiku: Japanese short form poem, sometimes called hokku, with origins as far back as the thirteenth century. Haiku are written syllabically with seventeen separate syllables arranged in three STANZAS according to a 5/7/5 count.

Every traditional haiku uses a kigo, or season word, to specify whether the poem is of a winter, spring, summer, or autumn mood. Traditional haiku will also be characterized by rensō, or loose association of disparate images, and contain an elliptical leap from the second to the third line which simulates sudden zen satori, or enlightenment, illumination of the true nature of reality.

I was thinking about the word “Spring” earlier today, so I’ll just stay with that idea.  Here is my draft haiku for today.

“Spring.” Such a plain word.
Take note: green leaves, new buds, grass.
“Spring.” The perfect word.

Under the Wire

I traveled home today from being out of town, so forgive me for skipping the poetic device prompt today.  Here is a poem that was published in Wellspring a few years back.  Thanks for reading!

Kaibab Trail
by Suzanne Baldwin Leitner

We went to what the Pink Jeep Tour guide
called the big crack in the birthday cake –
the Grand Canyon.
Headed north out of Sedona
with hordes of others:
loud and irreverent or
quiet pilgrims. Once there, a few
focused like astronauts
seeking that jumping off place
that grants vista to the whole universe.
Others couldn’t bear to turn
from their lives, bawling out the spouse
pushing their children
whining about food, weather, bathroom facilities
perpetuating fascination with gas mileage-
taking up space. Wasting film.

We were like souls departed:
boundaries fell away so we were in many times
and one thousand places.
With every fraction of a turn
of the head, a new world.
Red and flat – white and ridged – scrub green and peaking –
gold and glowing, painted with the brushes
of clouds’ shadows and sunshine
by ravens and raindrops, a copper river.
Even the heavens were desultory.
White cumulus north – gray stratus east – wisps, piles, and feathers south –
to the west, only blue or bluer.
We crept way down
into the canyon in some vain
attempt to be part of it,
trying to touch the sky, as it seemed to go down
with us – this place so vast, so mystic
we – mere parasites scuttling over its surface
incapable of understanding our host
like flies on the back of God’s hand.

April 10 Poem

I have said many times that the region where I live is thickety-full of talented writers and poets.  My home state has boasted many a fine writer, and given shelter to other fine writers who have come here from elsewhere, but have made North Carolina home.  I have no doubt that the beauty of the state, in part, lures some and convinces them to stay; but I am also certain that the discovery of so many “of their own kind” is a big part of the reason some writers settle here.

I consider myself fortunate to be acquainted with many of the writers in my region;  I am blessed to call a few of them “friend.”

One such friend is the talented poet, Ann Campanella.  Ann is the author of three books of poetry and has many credits to her name, not the least of which is having been named the recipient of the North Carolina Poetry Society’s Poet Laureate Award – twice!  One of those poems is the poem I choose to share today.

Today’s poetic device, from William Packard’s The Poet’s Dictionary: A Handbook of Prosody and Poetic Devices, is

Georgic:  Any didactic poem that instructs or teaches a skill in some art or science.

I might make the argument that every good poem is Georgic, either directly or indirectly.  Of course, I’ve been known to make quite a few arguments.  I have also been known to bend rules until they are unrecognizable.

As I read the above definition, I thought, “Oh!  A ‘How to’ poem.”  As soon as those words came into my mind, so did the title of Ann’s 2001 award-winning poem, How to Grieve.  I don’t know whether it is, technically, Georgic, but I do know it is beautiful.  I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading!

Robert Frost Hates My Guts

How’s that for a title? Today’s device is Free Verse. It seems an obvious choice, since that is the kind of verse I mostly write; however, I did not choose it for that reason. I chose it because of the detailed definition Packard offers. From The Poet’s Dictionary: A Handbook of Prosody and Poetic Devices, by William Packard:

Free Verse:  Poetry of any line length and any PLACEMENT on the page, with no fixed measure or METER.

Of course there are those for whom the very idea of free verse is anathema – from T.S. Eliot in his essay “Reflections on Vers Libre,” where he says “No vers is libre for the man who wants to do a good job,” to Robert Frost, who once commented caustically, “I’d as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.”

The lack of any imposed or a priori form in free verse does not necessarily mean the poet has license to do anything he or she wants; on the contrary, the poet must concern him- herself even more attentively with the organic requirements that grow out of the materials at hand. […]

This is to say that the poet, in a purely intuitive state, may not necessarily be aware of external requirements of form but can trust to creating his or her own order simply by following the impulse of his or her own genius in action. […]

This being the case, a poet may be said to have an even greater responsibility to him- or herself when departing from metered lines and strict end-rhyme to embark on the uncharted terrain of free verse.  The poet must now at all points stay attuned to the peculiar form and shape of his or her own impulse or breath line or process poetry, and will independently create line placements, STANZA breaks, and all the other external manifestations of form that previously had been given to poets.

Surely some of the greatest examples of free verse writing in our literature occur in the Psalms of the Old Testament – in language that is unaccented and unmetered, having only breath units and and clusters of images and ideas to tie them together.

Wow.  I did not know that about Robert Frost.  Did you know he played tennis?  See, you can learn something new every day.

I love this discussion of free verse.  When I do workshops in the schools, I tell the students that I mostly write free verse.  I explain the difference between that and formal poetry, and when I describe free verse, I say that there are no rules, except for those rules which make for good poetry.

What follows most definitely is a draft, but since I had hoped to use this as a kind of forced writing exercise, I won’t apologize.  This draft poem is not yet titled.

Continue reading Robert Frost Hates My Guts