Why to poets write in such a structured methon, often making the reader search for meaning

J

jerry old

Texas Crude
To write poetry you need to clear your mind and learn a new method of writing.
You need to learn about: stressed and unstressed syllables, feet, foot meter... Learning to write poetry is as difficult as fifth grade grammar.
You can ignore most of the rigidity by writing blank or free verse, or just plain prose using versification (The purist will thumb their noses at you.)

I’ve never understood why you have to use a form which makes the content difficult for the reader to understand (for me anyway)
There are those that can do it well, but I’ve always wondered why they choose to pursue this complicated method of communication.
Adherence is mandatory-why?

To me, certain poets pen emotive lines that take you to a place you did not know
existed until you read the lines. Miss Emily Dickson wrote quatrains that crawl around in you mind.
She often did not follow the dictates of poesy, which was heresy.

The question is, why does a poet have to lean a technique wherein the structure is as important as the words?.
(It reminds me of one trying to learn calligraphy.)
 

This is not a poem, it’s prose in quatrains It has a semblance of poetry, but it is prose







PURPLE STALLION



He rides a purple stallion
Never crossed the Ohio
Dreams of Mexican maidens
Boots with silver dollar rowels


He plows the fields of Ohio
Looking at the sky to roam
Where he sees his purple stallion
And silver dollar rowels

Riding a plow horse
Ain’t what he had in mind
But a wife and three squallers
Keep his dreaming at home


For now he will plow
seed and harvest
Keeping his eye on the sky
Where he sees the purple stallion


And silver dollar rowels



(Rowles Are the sharp part of the spur, with which you gig the horse)
 
Structured poetry was the accepted standard way of writing until recent decades and it might be the best way for many poets. When I began writing poems in high school I wrote in meter, iambic pentameter, and Iiked Wordsworth, still do. Then in college I wrote free verse which is much easier, but the form is so overused and most poetry is not very good...partly because it is stream of consciousness, and can be harder to follow and understand.
Shakespeare is very difficult to understand for me and he he wrote his plays in meter to make it easier for actors to remember their lines. Plays are written to be seen, not read.
With structured verse, the stress is on the right syllable and that is important, and the rhyme makes it flow and remembered easier. I prefer this approach among traditional poets of the past, English and American. Much free verse makes no sense to me like words jumbled up. Try Longfellow, Coler idge, Whittier, Poe and for bawdy poems, Robert Herrick, renaissance poet.
, I doubt that a structured metered poem could get published now. The free verse rebels are the established
doctrine. Does this answer your question?
 

I spoke poetry before I was old enough to read and write. I can only speak of my own experience. I
paint pictures of emotions through the medium of language. I want my readers, if any, to experience something on that level. I rarely use rhyme, I find it constraining. But, I do my best to

avoid stream of consciousness, preferring to build a framework of interactive connected images, which link together forming a painting. A lot of discipline goes into the effort of building something that others can experience in whatever fashion works for them. I use structure, although I attempt

to cover the architectural bones of my poetry with decorative language. Being a person who plays by ear, I attribute the heartbeat sound of my poems to the music within. Whew, I feel vulnerable, never exposed this side of myself before. 😊
 
Victor:
Yes, in
[QUOTE="Victor, post: 1137481,
Shakespeare is very difficult to understand for me and he he wrote his plays in meter to make it easier for actors to remember their lines. Plays are written to be seen, not read.
With structured verse, the stress is on the right syllable and that is important, and the rhyme makes it flow and remembered easier.

, I doubt that a structured metered poem could get published now. The free verse rebels are the established
doctrine. Does this answer your question?

1. We are all victims of our history: I had a very nice English Teacher in 9th or 10th grade; however she had a quirk about Shakespeare:
"Okay, were going to memorize Anthony's Funeral Speech in Julius Caesar Act III, ," and learn it we did. Every member of the 30+ class got 'the opportunity' to share their oratory skill with their classmates and be questioned by their classmates after their delivery. Three-and-a-half days of listening to Mr. Shakespeare. Never again, will I read anything by that man!
A poor decision in that Mr. Shakespeare keyed the English Language into what has become Standard English, But!

2. I've never considered that the actors and troubadours of Shakespeare's era may have been illiterate. The application of meter certainly
is informative.

3. Poet's of merit will return every generation; Emily Dickinson was 'discovered' in the 1890's
Rediscovered in the late 20's disappeared during the depression (The economic climate and poetry cries out for an explanation.)
She reappeared again in late 50's and early 60's. She knew a good deal about' proper structure', but none will ever read them...I will write as I please.

4. The poets you've mention, are not lost, merely sleeping; they will return.
 
Shalimar said:
I spoke poetry before I was old enough to read and write. I can only speak of my own experience. I
paint pictures of emotions through the medium of language.

Starting! I had an office mate that could do that, I thought he was unique, apparently not!
When just the two of us in the room, he would mutter, if I listened close I would conclude, That's poetry!
"What, what did you say...say that again." My attempts to discuss this were thwarted, he found the topic embarrassing.
He had a Master's in Lit and a Theological Degree, very closed-mouth about his history for the first couple of years we shared an office.

Once he started discussing his history it was absolutely hilarious, provided you like black humor. He had been a Lutheran Minister, had become
an alcoholic, defrocked, sent to detox...once 'cured,' declined offer to return to pulpit.
Apparently, got back on the jug as chaplain in very large Dallas area hospital:
, 'Counseling relatives of the deceased or those soon to be deceased... Just because I was drunk, didn't mean I didn't make sense those grieving"
I asked, "Did you speak poetically when drunk?" He really got pissed off. Never again would he let the topics drift to this question.

Poetry to me, is a phrase, a few lines that bring an emotive response. It does not have to be spoken, nor does it require recognition at the time. Your brain will recognize the significant aspect of the line or lines, directing your recall at the appropriate time.

You and stuck a responsive cord on my piano; I have to retire to my think shack and see what comes out.
However, the key words 'architectural bones' are a great introduction to the study of poetry.
.
"...avoid stream of consciousness, preferring to build a framework of interactive connected images, which link together forming a painting. A lot of discipline goes into the effort of building something that others can experience in whatever fashion works for them. I use structure, although I attempt///to cover the architectural bones of my poetry with decorative language. Being a person who plays by ear, I attribute the heartbeat sound of my poems to the music within. Whew, I feel vulnerable, never exposed this side of myself before".
Click to expand...
 
Found this in documents, saved from 2007,
I thought it was mine, but after a close reading it was
written by a wordsmith far better than I.
(Tried to find author on Poem Hunter-nope)


CODE

The mother spoke in code
the father not at all
The child’s choice was half of none
or nothing at all

She hid her words in
private places, far from minds
that nose----in culverts or dark holes,
where culprits can’t go

When she tried to excavate
she’d lost there place and know.
Now she has no words at all
nor hint of code.
 
The Fragrance Of Eternity

I have trouble remembering their faces.
They were young, young as me.
Their skin so tight and firm
it made my fingertips burn

And their smell!
Cheap perfume, exotic then
Ivory Soap, leaving them smelling brand new,
making your senses whirl away

White blouses buttoned to the top,
skirts-tight to show.
practicing being women,
the learning was slow

They’ve all merged into the one
but their smells remain strong.
Those scents of the young,
whiffs of immortality.
 
I have a great interest in communication, how it is achieved and how it fails.

One of my pet activities is attempting to communicate as Emily Dickinson did in her correspondence. Her letters were queer items, a studied peculiarity that could only have been the results of intent and effort.

August 18, 1864

Dear Helen:

The sun came today, bringing lights, which many scurry from.

It is dry here, the sun cracks the earth. I think one day the ground will protest, shooting lave from the cracks, challenging the sun. A celestial battle none will ever know the victor.

Mr. Edward’s, bull broke through his fence; many men came with ropes and halters, as I watched from my window.
Their steps were afraid and they cursed loudly to hide.
The dust puffed, the men hide -but one who haltered the bull
Once secured, many of the men kicked at the bull, though from a distance.
Bound now, the bull was of no concern; the men crowed, swaggering with their ropes unused, returning to their land where they were masters.

The grand Irish mowed our meadow two weeks ago.
Such ruddy men they are, do they use rouge?
Their arms are not afflicted.
They joke and josh, as they labor; not a serious people, the Irish-ignoring work and living are serious occupations.

On the hill, a man is digging a grave. I watched as he disappeared into the earth. I wonder if the grave was for another, or will the man remain for eternity in his hole?

That we could all have the choice of time and place, but we would tremble, unable to decide.

It is dusk now, a fox sings in the dell, telling the small creatures that he has feed. I wonder if he means to betray?

Aunt Emily
 
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i guess I'm some kind of literary heathen. I don't like poetry. I can live without the veiled references to Greeks gods, Roman nymphs, and Norse kings. Nor do I believe every poem contains a profound, deep, universal truth, as much as the authors do, Like i said, I'm a heathen.
 
Fuzz, a lot of poetry is overdone stink good.
As a full endorsed redneck, I don't know how I got involved with this
peculiar form of communication. (I do, but it is not post-worthy)

A lot of it is 'hard stuff,' disguised in pretty words, a lot of it is mush.
There is a lot to be said about nymphs and a lot to be said for heathens-
I prefer the heathens.
 
Pepper said:
Do you like Ferlinghetti and Ginsburg? @jerry old

What is a Ferlinghetti?
Ginsburg was a sort'a okay-BUT, he went to smoking dope, old fart prancing around as a hippy...
He aimed his lines at a generation of dead-brains, twenty years his junior.
Nah, he was a dead-head.
So much for a redneck's opinion
Click to expand...
 
Fifteen years ago I met an extortionary young lady on a poetry site, long sense defunct.
I only have a small portion of her words.
Her user name was Leyla; my name was old eyes and I appear briefly in her lines.

I am presenting one of her lesser explorations (how i wish i had more, but my old pc crashed and i have only a
smattering of her words.) I hope you see the talent, not fully formed, but excellent thoughts, excellent form.
These are the words of a girl-15y/o or a bit older-how she does remind me of ms emily:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++`-==========================================================

Leyla (not a title, the name of the author)


:
The Catchee in the Rye
I haven’t written …anything…in so long, I am seething with emotions.
I am finding it hard to contort my brain into the beautiful patterns I can see with my heart.
You should see it, oldeyes; the city. The street art along the train line, the ````````````````````homeless people, the old Chinese women and the hookers. It is beautiful. Beautiful. Sometimes I am scared it will swallow me up, and I’ll be another prisoner to this place.
Oh, but the churches. And the Morton bay figs. And the buskers. And all the time this ominous strain underneath it all that tells you it is all just hollow. This sustained life is like looking at butterflies under glass. Perpetual life. Perpetual death. I am a prisoner of sorts. I am far too susceptible to the ebb of the current of people here. I feel that I shall soon be swept away….

What a metamorphosis I am making. I am working in the city now. And I’m thinking…maybe I can be something. I have already mastered one aspect of total power. But, on days like this, the softer side, the Dr. Jekyll side, urges me to let that go. Having control over men does not get you anywhere in the long term. Each pathway I choose is like this place. Shimmering, beautiful, perfect. But notice a crack one day, and the next you will fall through it.

But oh, oldeyes, I am going somewhere. Direction is of no significance- my life in limbo is no longer.
There’s a future.
Short, and immediate, as it may be.

I hope that you are doing well.
I think about your son.

I think…..

_________________
We are all of us living in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

- Oscar Wilde
 
Rabbi Burns worth a mention here, and his poetry takes some deciphering, but it is said in his day he became enormously popular, and remains so to this day.

I only remember one small verse to recite on "Burns night",(25th January?), and it is from his ode to a mouse.

Wee sleekit timorous Beastie,
What a panic in thy breastie,
I wud be laity he run and chase the,
with bickerin brattle....

(or words to that effect, and apologies for the errors, " they don't write them like that anymore!).
 
There are those that choose to communicate in their own way..
They hope their readers understand, but the diction and lexicon of their words
are as important as the message their trying to convey.
 

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