There was a poetry program on the radio during my drive (was it just yesterday?) and I found myself irritated to hear much of what I thought they were saying. That there are worthy poems and (is it me making a leap or did they say unworthy poems?) that anthologies make or break poets (and anthologies are tools of political correctness?). I got out of the car feeling annoyed. I love poetry. Teen angst fueled journals and slammed on stage and Shakespeare and Emily of Amherst and especially the words of those who use poems as healing medicine for the body, mind and spirit.
Poems may be worthy of criticism in some hallowed hall, but to me, they are prayers. And perfect even when (or especially when?) the authorities roll their eyes with disdain. I like poems of all colors and sizes and shapes, and when I don’t understand, I give thanks that someone had courage to put pen to paper to say something that mattered to them at the time. It is risky business to express what’s growing, dying, hurting and fresh. So no more (I hope) beating up myself (or others) who rise to the challenge of poem making prayers. The form is enough. The metaphoric, overwrought, overwritten, under rhyming, wrong count sestina all matter in the chapters of my book. May it be so.
Writing Prompt: a different type of invitation today: try a triolet
The triolet is a short poem of eight lines with only two rhymes used throughout. The requirements of this fixed form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance: ABaAabAB, where capital letters indicate repeated lines.