So much attention is paid to sound and word choice in poetry that we often forget that other, equally vital ingredient to a successful poem: how it looks on the page. When it comes to format, different approaches have different benefits and risks. One form might build energy by incorporating line breaks that slow the reader down and create the possibility for double-meanings. Another approach might sacrifice line breaks but build tension by forcing the reader to read more quickly, more frantically. Still another approach can isolate certain words and phrases for extra emphasis, irony, etc. Since this is an art form, not an exact science, experimenting with wildly different forms can help us make a more informed decision. To see this in action, let’s compare the original format of Stanley Kunitz's famous poem, "The Portrait," with some other versions I made (though obviously, I prefer the original).
The Portrait (original version)
by Stanley Kunitz
My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
The Portrait (non-Kunitz version 2, a prose-poem)
My mother never forgave my father for killing himself, especially at such an awkward time and in a public park, that spring when I was waiting to be born. She locked his name in her deepest cabinet and would not let him out, though I could hear him thumping. When I came down from the attic with the pastel portrait in my hand of a long-lipped stranger with a brave moustache and deep brown level eyes, she ripped it into shreds without a single word and slapped me hard. In my sixty-fourth year I can feel my cheek still burning.
The Portrait (non-Kunitz version 3, mostly couplets)
My mother never forgave my father for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time and in a public park,
that spring when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out, though I could hear him
thumping. When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand of a long-lipped
stranger with a brave moustache and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds without a single word
and slapped me hard. In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek still burning.
The Portrait (non-Kunitz version 4, dropped lines/weird spacing)
My mother never forgave
my father
for killing himself, especially
at such an awkward time
and in a public park, that spring when
I was waiting
to be born. She locked his name in her
deepest cabinet and would not
let him out,
though I could
hear him
thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave
moustache and deep brown
level eyes, she ripped it
into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel
my cheek
still burning.
10 IDEAS FOR DOWNRIGHT BAD-ASS POEMS
By Michael Meyerhofer
I’ll show you another revision exercise later, but first, here are some prompts to get the ball rolling.
Write a love poem in which the following words do NOT appear: love, heart, soul, moon, eyes, clouds, rain, blessing, dream.
Write an ode to a body part, object, or activity not normally praised or discussed. Examples: “Ode to the Tampon” by Sharon Olds, “Ode to My Socks” by Pablo Neruda, “In Praise of the Potato” by David Williams.
Write a poem to someone you have deeply wronged. Make it clear that you’re regretful WITHOUT using the following words: regret, sorry, forgive, mercy, please, mistake.
Write a poem in the voice of someone who is dying, or about someone who is dying, without ever actually telling the reader that the poem is about death.
Write a poem either about or from the perspective of a villain. Try to make them sympathetic to the audience WITHOUT making it too obvious what his/her crime was.
Write about something that literally or figuratively scares you. Note: if you feel uncomfortable while you’re writing it, you’re doing it right!
Write a poem that seems to be poking fun at a serious topic, but has some serious lines throughout, then ends on a serious note. Example: “Suicide Song” by Tony Hoagland.
Similar to #3, but this time, address someone who wronged you. Say whatever it is you’ve been dying to say. Be specific so an outside reader can tell roughly what you’re getting at. More importantly, be blunt as you like. Remember, the subject of your poem doesn’t ever have to see it if you don’t want them to.
Write about a place you have never visited, something you always wanted to do but never did, or something that you wish had happened but didn’t actually happen. Start off by vividly describing this place or event, so the reader will think you know it firsthand. Then, in the second half of the poem, pull the rug out from under us. Make it clear that you never actually saw this place and/or this thing never actually happened, but you wish you had. Optional: add a third stanza rectifying the first two. Example: “Like Riding a Bicycle” by George Bilgere.
Eavesdrop on someone’s conversation and/or jot down the actual phrasing of a piece of conversation that struck you as bizarre, wise, stupid, or funny. Write a poem in which that exact phrase appears. Put italics around it if you’re writing a narrative poem that contains a quote or conversation.
Ode to the Tampon
by Sharon Olds
Inside-out clothing;
queen’s robe;
white-jacketed worker who clears the table
prepared for the feast which goes uneaten;
hospital orderly; straitjacket
which takes into its folded wings
the spirit of the uncapturable one;
soldier’s coat;
dry dock for the boat not taken;
seeker of the red light of stars
which have ceased to be before we see them;
bloodhound;
unhonored one; undertaker;
secret-keeper;
you who in the cross-section diagram,
before the eyes of a girl child,
glide into potential space,
out of the second-stage rocket’s cardboard cylinder,
up beyond the atmosphere,
where no one has gone before;
you who began life as a seed in the earth,
you who blossomed into the air like steam from a whale’s blowhole,
you who were compressed into a dense calyx,
nib which dips into a forty-year river;
mute calligrapher—we write you here.
In Praise of the Potato
by David Williams
Potato, sojourner north, first sprung
from the flanks of volcanoes, plainspoken kin
to bright chili and deadly nightshade,
sleek eggplant and hairy tobacco,
we could live on you alone if we had to,
and scorched-earth marauders never bothered you much.
I love you because your body's a stem,
your eyes sprout, and you're not in the Bible,
and if we did not eat your strength,
you'd drive it up, into a flower.
Suicide Song
Tony Hoagland
But now I am afraid I know too much to kill myself
Though I would still like to jump off a high bridge
At midnight, or paddle a kayak out to sea
Until I turn into a speck, or wear a necktie made of knotted rope
But people would squirm, it would hurt them in some way,
And I am too knowledgeable now to hurt people imprecisely.
No longer do I live by the law of me,
No longer having the excuse of youth or craziness,
And dying you know shows a serious ingratitude
For sunsets and beehive hairdos and the precious green corrugated
Pickles they place at the edge of your plate.
Killing yourself is wasteful, like spilling oil
At sea or not recycling all the kisses you've been given,
And anyway, who has clothes nice enough to be caught dead in?
Not me. You stay alive you stupid asshole
Because you haven't been excused,
You haven't finished though it takes a mulish stubbornness
To chew this food.
It is a stone, it is an inconvenience, it is an innocence,
And I turn against it like a record
Turns against the needle
That makes it play.
Like Riding a Bicycle
by George Bilgere
I would like to write a poem
About how my father taught me
To ride a bicycle one soft twilight,
A poem in which he was tired
And I was scared, unable to disbelieve
In gravity and believe in him,
As the fireflies were coming out
And only enough light remained
For one more run, his big hand at the small
Of my back, pulling away like the gantry
At a missile launch, and this time, this time
I wobbled into flight, caught a balance
I would never lose, and pulled away
From him as he eased, laughing, to a stop,
A poem in which I said that even today
As I make some perilous adult launch,
Like pulling away from my wife
Into the fragile new balance of our life
Apart, I can still feel that steadying hand,
Still hear that strong voice telling me
To embrace the sweet fall forward
Into the future's blue
Equilibrium. But,
Of course, he was drunk that night,
Still wearing his white shirt
And tie from the office, the air around us
Sick with scotch, and the challenge
Was keeping his own balance
As he coaxed his bulk into a trot
Beside me in the hot night, sweat
Soaking his armpits, the eternal flame
Of his cigarette flaring as he gasped
And I fell, again and again, entangled
In my gleaming Schwinn, until
He swore and stomped off
Into the house to continue
Working with my mother
On their own divorce, their balance
Long gone and the hard ground already
Rising up to smite them
While I stayed outside in the dark,
Still falling, until at last I wobbled
Into the frail, upright delight
Of feeling sorry for myself, riding
Alone down the neighborhood's
Black street like the lonely western hero
I still catch myself in the act
Of performing.
And yet, having said all this,
I must also say that this summer evening
Is very beautiful, and I am older
Than my father ever was
As I coast the Pacific shoreline
On my old bike, the gears clicking
Like years, the wind
Touching me for the first time, it seems,
In a very long time,
With soft urgency all over.
An Alternate Approach to Revision
by Michael Meyerhofer
Let’s start by reading one of my favorite poems, Read This Poem from the Bottom Up, by Ruth Porritt. But first, let’s read it the normal way, i.e. from the top down, then read it in reverse and notice the differences in energy.
Read This Poem from the Bottom Up
by Ruth Porritt
This simple cathedral of praise
How you made, from the bottom up,
Is for you to remember
Of Andromeda. What remains
Until you meet the ancient light
With your sight you can keep ascending
Its final transformation into space.
And uphold
The horizon’s urge to sculpt the sky
Puts into relief
Your family’s mountain land
Upon the rising air. In the distance
A windward falcon is open high and steady
Far above the tallest tree
Just beyond your height.
You see a young pine lifting its green spire
By raising your eyes
Out onto the roof deck.
You pass through sliding glass doors
And up to where the stairway ends.
To the top of the penultimate stanza
Past the second story,
But now you’re going the other way,
Line by line, to the bottom of the page.
A force that usually pulls you down,
Of moving against the gravity of habit,
While trying not to notice the effort
And feel what it’s like to climb stairs
Lesson: Writing should be fun but it also takes some sweat and dedication. Especially when we spend a great deal of time crafting our individual lines, though, it can be very easy to get tunnel vision. That means we end up tinkering with a few syllables when the hard truth is that the poem might require something more radical.
Earlier, we discussed how you can radically revise a poem (while keeping all the language the same) just by playing with the form. Another revision technique I developed for getting around this (not to mention developing a more conscious awareness of your own rhythm and style), inspired by the Ruth Porritt poem, Read This Poem from the Bottom Up, is to rewrite a poem backwards, starting with the last line and ending with the first. Then, tinker with the punctuation and word choice until it makes some kind of sense. When you're done, put the two drafts side by side. Which do you like better?
Incidentally, this doesn't just have to be a tool for radical revision; you can also use this as an invention exercise and produce a whole new piece, inspired by a certain line or imaginative leap you might not have otherwise made. To show you what I mean, I'll break the cardinal rule and demonstrate this with one of my own poems (The Birthdays of Ex-Lovers, from my third book, Damnatio Memoriae, aka “Damned Memory”).
Stage 1: the original poem
The Birthdays of Ex-Lovers
How they pinball through the mind
like the combinations of outgrown lockers,
a mishmash of Virgos and Cancers
on whose soft favor we once depended --
useless now like the few syllables
bored in from foreign language classes,
the equations of elementary physics
they swore we must memorize
if we held any hope for future happiness.
But no — the world knuckles along
whether we remember or not,
hauling everyone for whom the heart once
flounced like a broadsided schooner,
for whom we raised mythologies
all sin-sweet, proud as a dead religion.
Stage 2 (reverse the lines but preserve all the formatting, which at first looks like gibberish)
The Birthdays of Ex-Lovers
All sin-sweet, proud as a dead religion.
For whom we raised mythologies
flounced like a broadsided schooner,
hauling everyone for whom the heart once
whether we remember or not,
But no--the world knuckles along
if we held any hope of future happiness.
they swore we must memorize
the equations of elementary physics
bored in from foreign language classes,
useless now like the few syllables
on whose soft favor we once depended--
a mishmash of Virgos and Cancers
like the combinations of outgrown lockers,
How they pinball through the mind.
Stage 3 (now, tinker with punctuation, word choice, etc, until it makes sense)
The Birthdays of Ex-Lovers
All sin-sweet, proud as a dead religion
for whom we raised mythologies
that flounced like broadsided schooners,
hauling everyone for whom the heart,
whether we remember it or not,
once knuckled along as the world does.
If we held any hope of future happiness,
they swore we must memorize
the equations of elementary physics
and all those foreign verb conjugations,
useless now like the few syllables
on whose soft favor we once depended.
A mishmash of Virgos and Cancers
like the combinations of outgrown lockers--
how they pinball through the mind.
Overall, I find myself liking different elements in each of the two versions and if I hadn't already published the original, I might be hard-pressed to choose one over the other (which is a good problem to have). In the original, I like the pacing and beginning a bit better. In the reimagined version, I like the turn of it being our mythologies (instead of our hearts) that do the flouncing, as well as the ambiguity of what those "few syllables" actually are.
Try this with your own poems and see what you come up with!
