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free verse - A New Poetics

Free Verse Diction

April 24th 2009 01:15
Raindrop


"Gravity"

Amoebic bits of weightless gray
Are wrested from the womb
And flung to face the world.

The naked fall freezes and forms
Defaulted pilgrims, heavy burdens
For airy heights to keep in check.

Pulled to their deaths,
These powerless harbingers
Molt their light while on the move--


In tombs unsung, their movement spent,
They’re moved once more
To break the seal
And taste the sun again.

This is probably one of the most obscure poems I've ever written. The poem is about raindrops, which I hope the title and imagery help to bring across. I was thinking of implicitly comparing raindrops to early Church martyrs, and Gravity being like "Fate" sort of (or divine will). And despite the relentless motion (which can be interpreted as Fate pulling them along, or their choice to accept their fate) they still molt their light. Just like how raindrops shimmer as they fall if the sun is out somewhere. The end of the poem is extremely ambiguous; I'm not even sure of the exact reason I made it that way. From the literal raindrop perspective, I think it means that they return to the surface in plants and other life. From the metaphorical martyr perspective, it means that they have life after death; going to heaven and such.
This is definitely a free verse poem. Aside from alliteration, diction (word choice) is the key for this poem. In all poetry--but especially in free verse--it's important to pick great words that fit the surface meaning of the poem, but might have various connotations beyond the obvious meaning. It helps if the word is a "nice" word, too, to fit in with the meter and make the poem flow. My keywords in this poem are "defaulted," "harbingers," "molt," and "seal." Defaulted can mean several things, including failure;neglection of action, or failure to appear in court or perform some legal action. A Harbingers is a person/thing/event that precedes something else; like an omen-bringer, or a herald. Raindrops can be harbingers of life or death, and the saints/martyrs were harbingers in a religious sense. Molt means an act of shedding or casting off in the process of renewal. A seal is something that keeps something shut, and possibly secret. So with these words' various definitons, and the levels of metaphor in the poem, it's possible to read quite a lot deeper than the surface and still have a valid interpretation. I love ambiguity.

The only problem I had (and still have) is coming up with a proper title. I wanted a concise title that captures the essence of the poem and maybe helps readers understand it better. Did I do a good job with this one? If anyone has a suggestion for a different title, feel free to share! Have a great day everyone!
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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: free verse
   


Poetic Pruning---Redemption

February 7th 2009 04:40
winter tree


This, "Redemption," is the newest incarnation of my old "Entropy" poem, which I posted earlier on the blog:

“Redemption”

The leaves of summer heave in the heat
And give their gasps to drowning limbs
Which lend them drinks to calm their breaths--
Affairs of helpless, seedling love;
Leaf and limb cavort in golden light.

Solstitial wells begin to dry;
Weathered limbs withdraw their wine;
No tiny drops of Spring ambrosia
Will they spare in fading light
For leaves that quake in cooling wind.

Flushed with dim autumnal color,
The leaves expel their final breaths,
Then wither, curl, and die; the feeble limbs,
Soon gone cold, release the shriveled
Corpses into winter’s barren hands.

Naked branches, shaking in the cold,
Are kept from new baptismal wine,
Frozen manna stacked in mounds
Of white about their feet--

Suspended healing hangs
Between the shadow and the light,
Waiting for the resurrection
Of the sun to plant the seeds of Spring

And give repentant trees their leaves,
Restore the breath to broken lungs,
Give life to frozen hearts,
And send redemption
Back to the blood.

I added everything from "Naked branches" and on, stretching the poem to have more meaning and ambiguity. I altered some phrases and words, deleting some things and substituting some things to better enhance the flow of the poem. There are lots of little changes, which I won't go into in detail. Here is the first version for comparative purposes:

The summer leaves gasp in the heat,
Giving their breath to drowning limbs
That offer them drinks in return:
A symbiotic love affair.
Painful pleasure, helpless helping;
Breathless branches grip the sighing leaves.

Solstitial wells begin to dry;
Breaths are fewer, drink is scarcer--
Clutching limbs begin to wither.
They cannot spare a drop for leaves
That blush with slowing, weary breaths
And quiver in the cooling wind.

Flushed with dimming evening colors,
The leaves have ceased their troubled breaths.
Branches clasp the lovely corpses;
They grow cold. Winter’s icy hand
Tears them away; the limbs are left
Naked and alone, swaying in the wind.

And here is the second version:

The summer leaves gasp in the heat,
Giving their breath to drowning limbs
That offer them drinks in return;
A symbiotic love affair--
Sighing leaves caressing breathless boughs.

Solstitial wells begin to dry;
Breaths are fewer, drink is scarcer.
Clutching limbs begin to wither--
They cannot spare a drop for leaves
That blush with slowing, weary breaths
And quiver in the cooling breeze.

Flushed with dimming evening colors,
The leaves soon cease their troubled breaths.
Branches clasp the withered corpses;
Soon grown cold, the hand of winter
Tears them apart, leaving the limbs
Alone and cold, swaying in the wind.

Now compare these two with the newest version, the one at the top. Can you see what I did? Some of the changes are subtle and small; they're obvious to me, but of course they are, since I'm the one who made the changes in the first place. I changed some phrasing, altered some images, replaced some words and deleted others to better preserve the poem's integrity. Once a poem's word-choice and structure call attention to themselves instead of enhancing what the words are saying, then the poem is shoddy and needs revision.

Did I do a good job with this newest version? Well, I like it; but that's not saying much, because most writers like what they write--at least at first they do. If any of you have comments or suggestions to make about the poem, I'm all ears--well, eyes, really. One thing I won't change ever is the word 'solstitial.' It fits the rhythm perfectly, and it fits nicely into the puzzle of the poem. Solstitial is the adjective form of the word Solstice, which is twice a year when either the day is longest--in summer--or the night is longest--in winter. In this poem it could be taken either way, really. The wells of winter would be like melted snow, and the wells of summer are summer rain. Summer is more likely here, since it's referring back to the first stanza during summer.

Hope you all enjoy the poem, and if you have any comments, don't hesitate to say something! Good night everyone!


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Cinderella by Anne Sexton

January 29th 2009 20:03
You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.

Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son's heart.
from diapers to Dior.
That story.

Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.

Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.

Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother's grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.

Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That's the way with stepmothers.

Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince's ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn't
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.

As nightfall came she thought she'd better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax
and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
They just don't heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.

At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.

Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.


I love this poem. It's funny and dark and is everything a free verse narrative poem should be. It has meaning, but it's not didactic. It flows well--has a lovely, well-crafted meter--not clunky at all, but the meter doesn't call attention to itself. Rather, it ushers the reader through the poem like a good host should, instead of bashing the reader's head into walls and doors. Don't just read this poem and laugh. Laugh first, then read it again and think about what it might be trying to say, about culture, love, marriage, family, all that stuff. There's a lot there that is said without actually being written.

Tomorrow I'll delve deeper into my Memory of the Night poem, but until then, I have a ton of work to do, and not enough time to do it. Hope you all have a very nice day.
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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: free verse, criticism
   


Memory of the Night

January 29th 2009 02:19


The memory of the night when


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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: free verse
   


Cavernous Night-a narrative poem

January 22nd 2009 01:43


“What do you think?” she asked. The fire


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Metaphors by Sylvia Plath

January 21st 2009 02:42
I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils


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Posted By: Andrew Kerstetter - Category: free verse
   


Darkness Deposed

January 15th 2009 18:31
That time of night when you might behold
a slit of light, gray and cold, slowly
opening the east, the dawn is told


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Trapping the Stars

January 13th 2009 19:07


Soul’s door spreads wide


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Coffee Stains

January 9th 2009 20:01


The coffee-maker grumbles its birth-pains


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Condensed poetry- Howl

January 8th 2009 18:00
Here's another poem which I changed since its original incarnation. Thankfully I changed this one in time for it to be put in the chapbook. It's called "Howl," and this is the original:

Orchestral keening kicks blood


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