form & function
Can you recall learning poetic forms in school? Perhaps sonnets spring to mind, or maybe the classic ode. Can you also recall the last time you tried to use one of them? Often the greatest ninja feats of poetic deftness get lost in the mind-numbing way in which they are taught, and as a result these badass displays of word mastery are left where they were found: in a dusty old English textbook, rarely to be seen again.
While it may not be every modern writer's cup of tea to write a Petrarchan sonnet or craft an electric epode, there is something liberating and exciting about using a set of rules that restrict but magically free your writing. Take for example the Pantoum, a poetic form derived from the Malay pantun. The format is simple and easy to follow (once you know how):
Line 1
Line 2
Line 3
Line 4
Line 5 (repeat of line 2)
Line 6
Line 7 (repeat of line 4)
Line 8
Last stanza:
Line 2 of previous stanza
Line 3 of first stanza
Line 4 of previous stanza
Line 1 of first stanza
You can have as many stanzas as you wish, but the ending stanza always repeats the second and fourth lines of the previous stanza (as its first and third lines), and also repeats the third line of the first stanza, as its second line, and the first line of the first stanza as its fourth. So the first line of the poem is also the last.
Pantoums are addictive. They are also a really effective way of conveying obsession, madness, and the cyclical issues that arise in relationships, work and life in general. The traditional pantoum poem adheres to a set rhyme scheme, but in our workshops we have been experimenting with prose pantoums as a way to investigate the form and its use in fiction without having to worry about rhyming. Of course a pantoum poem can also be unrhymed; the beauty of unearthing archaic poetic forms is that we can modify and play with a tried and true formula and hopefully produce some exciting new work. Here's an example of a particularly awesome pantoum:
While it may not be every modern writer's cup of tea to write a Petrarchan sonnet or craft an electric epode, there is something liberating and exciting about using a set of rules that restrict but magically free your writing. Take for example the Pantoum, a poetic form derived from the Malay pantun. The format is simple and easy to follow (once you know how):
Line 1
Line 2
Line 3
Line 4
Line 5 (repeat of line 2)
Line 6
Line 7 (repeat of line 4)
Line 8
Last stanza:
Line 2 of previous stanza
Line 3 of first stanza
Line 4 of previous stanza
Line 1 of first stanza
You can have as many stanzas as you wish, but the ending stanza always repeats the second and fourth lines of the previous stanza (as its first and third lines), and also repeats the third line of the first stanza, as its second line, and the first line of the first stanza as its fourth. So the first line of the poem is also the last.
Pantoums are addictive. They are also a really effective way of conveying obsession, madness, and the cyclical issues that arise in relationships, work and life in general. The traditional pantoum poem adheres to a set rhyme scheme, but in our workshops we have been experimenting with prose pantoums as a way to investigate the form and its use in fiction without having to worry about rhyming. Of course a pantoum poem can also be unrhymed; the beauty of unearthing archaic poetic forms is that we can modify and play with a tried and true formula and hopefully produce some exciting new work. Here's an example of a particularly awesome pantoum:
Pantoum in Which Wallace Stevens Gives Me Vertigo
-Oli Hazzard
In Wallace Stevens' poem 'The Public Square',
a languid janitor bears his lantern through colonnades
and the architecture swoons. I cannot read this poem
without being struck down with vertigo. I can only read:
a languid janitor bears his lantern through colonnades
and the architecture swoons. I cannot read this poem
without being struck down with vertigo. I can only read:
'A languid janitor bears his lantern through colonnades…'
before I start to feel sick, and suddenly aware of the earth's roundness.
Without being struck down with vertigo, I can only read
whilst strapped into my chair; I will read the poem, and
before I start to feel sick, and suddenly aware of the earth's roundness.
Without being struck down with vertigo, I can only read
whilst strapped into my chair; I will read the poem, and
before I start to feel sick, and suddenly aware of the earth's roundness,
I can remind myself that it's only a poem, I'm not going to fall over
whilst strapped into my chair. I will read the poem, and
triumph by making it to the end. But this is not my ultimate goal.
I can remind myself that it's only a poem, I'm not going to fall over
whilst strapped into my chair. I will read the poem, and
triumph by making it to the end. But this is not my ultimate goal.
I can remind myself that it's only a poem. I'm not going to fall over
myself just because of one little achievement. I don't really
triumph by making it to the end. 'But this is not my ultimate goal,'
I say – as if that were anything like the truth. Every day I celebrate
myself just because of one little achievement. I don't really
triumph by making it to the end. 'But this is not my ultimate goal,'
I say – as if that were anything like the truth. Every day I celebrate
myself because of one little achievement (I don't really!)
and the architecture swoons. I cannot read this poem,
I say, as if it were anything like the truth. Every day I celebrate
Wallace Stevens' poem 'The Public Square.'
and the architecture swoons. I cannot read this poem,
I say, as if it were anything like the truth. Every day I celebrate
Wallace Stevens' poem 'The Public Square.'
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