Within your response to Sirene you said:
I started writing poetry when I was about eight. A few years later I was fortunate to have teacher who was passionate about classic poetry forms, and taught me the structure, rhythms and rhymes of sonnets, haiku, cinquain, sijo, ballad… there may have even been villanelle in there, I don’t remember. She was the first person besides my parents who actively encouraged me.
Before anything else I loved Solitaire! This in more in the nature of a comment than a question. Sirene has hit on many of the things I loved about Solitaire and I would only add that the setting/s were interesting and real. I especially liked the uniqueness of the idea of the virtual prison and the twist on reentering the world.
I was surprised to learn that you have written a lot of poetry, especially using the different forms. I suppose real writers are the people who are able to follow the rules.
Being in a poetry workshop, we tried a villanelle at some point and I loved the experience. Unfortunately that poem got lost and of course I can’t recreate it. It was about the record industry and the progression of ways that music was recorded and sold. I chose this subject to go along with the rhythm of the form and it was quite fine and I’m sorry that I can’t find it.
I haven’t had as good results in other forms, must be my general resistance to rules. I am hoping to do better this year when we start up the poetry workshop again. The one member who was really into forms won’t be able to join us as she is a teacher and most of her time is devoted to all that that takes. I’ve truly missed her input for the last couple of years in the workshop since she got a steady gig at West High. Each person gives something different to the process and now I feel like a big piece is missing to bringing valuable critique of my writing.
I was heartened to learn how much work you put into your writing. I’ve heard from other writers that they have to work hard too with only the occasional person saying that it flowed out of them like honey. 😉 I was also a bit surprised at your comment about inspiration but thinking about it I have to agree. I have been inspired by many things and not able to create the very thing I have in mind. This was weighing heavily on me, making me think that I was some bold cow thinking I could write at all. So I guess this is also a long winded thanks for the kick in the butt. I guess I won’t give up just yet.
Sly in Anchorage
I’ve written my share of poetry, but I only worked with the forms when I was in school. The poetry I wrote as an adult was all free verse. I actually don’t enjoy working with the forms that much. I find them restricting, probably because I’m not a good enough poet to create at the level of people like Robert Frost or Shakespeare or Coleridge. But reading those folks, and experience the stricture of form, taught me a great deal about the power of rhythm and density. One of the best ways I know to test whether a sentence I write is “good” is to read it out loud: does it flow? Does the rhythm or word choice (the alliteration, the repetition of syllable or sound, the natural breaks for breath or emphasis) support the meaning? If it does, the prose becomes more rich even when read in silence.
Dialogue is different –” people don’t deliberately speak beautifully, as a rule, they speak with intent –” but it still has rhythm, and readers can tell when it’s not right. That’s the real benchmark for me. All the good form in the world is meaningless if it doesn’t work for the reader. I suspect most good writers are capable of following the rules, but I think the trick is knowing that rules are not the point. People don’t carry structure in their hearts, they carry story.
My poetry wasn’t particularly good, but it does ripple back into my work in interesting ways sometimes. A poem I wrote in the mid-80’s gave me the beginnings of Estar Borja’s character in Solitaire. It was a long poem, but this is the salient part:
in an elongated moment
the Lady Butcher passes by,
nods reservedly, and leaves us
with a quick assessing look
and a corner smile;
weighing our tendons’ strength
against her good left arm.
The poem was about a couple confronting the end of their marriage through death, but of course became something quite different in Solitaire (grin).
It seems to me that there are only a few good reasons to give something up: if you think it’s bad for you, if you don’t enjoy it, if it’s hurting someone, if it’s keeping you from something more important to you. And we’re all bold cows, Sly: how else would any of us have the guts to stand up in public and say, I made this.