Poetry for People Who Think They Hate Poetry
By: Holly Jahangiri
Tags: Mindfulness, Poetry, Writing, Creativity, Reading Rhombus

Poetry | Writing

Poetry for People Who Think They Hate Poetry

It’s a way to kick-start your brain, learn to write tight, and practice good editing skills.

Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

I have a love-hate relationship with poetry. My own poems are no exception; they are somewhat hit or miss. Some have won multiple awards and appear in anthologies; others are maudlin drivel that should never have been allowed to ooze out of a drawer. But there is no denying this:

Poetry is a way to sneak around writers’ block and kick-start a sluggish brain by encouraging the writer to observe — to listen — to the world in thoughtful ways, from different angles.

Poetry, through meter and length, necessitates disciplined, spare, and descriptive writing. Every word has to pull its weight.

Poetry, when it’s a little “off,” sounds awful; it helps the writer to develop an ear for language and a ruthlessness in editing.

There is a lot of bad poetry out there

We’re not supposed to say that out loud. But the truth is, we all write it, from time to time. Don’t dismiss your writing as “crap,” even if it’s not great literature. And remember: You’ll never be Poet Laureate if you don’t write a lot of really bad poems along the way, because no one gets good at a thing without serious practice.

Do not listen to family and friends who tell you that your poetry is “amazing,” or “awesome” — in fact, simply release it, like a paper airplane, into the world and move on to the next poem or story. Let it go. Do not drop anchor and settle for less than your best. No matter how good this poem is, strive to make the next one better.

The following is a cautionary tale — funny, in hindsight, but a horrifying illustration of why you really should take praise and critique, both, with a grain of salt:

This story isn’t about “great poetry” and how to write it

There are many ways to learn to write poetry — you could even pursue a degree in Creative Writing, and focus on writing poetry. It’s an art, and like any other art, there are levels to it. Take painting, for example: On one end of the spectrum, you have a child’s fingerpaintings. On the other end, you have the Great Masters, and their best paintings, hanging in world-class art museums like The Louvre. Most of those artists painted over their less stellar works, because canvas didn’t come cheap, back in the day.

Look here — someone composed this list of “bad poems” by famous poets:

Don’t judge your own efforts too harshly, or with too much love.

Again, it’s about encouraging your brain to see the world in a new way. To slow down, observe, and listen. Paint what you see, using words. Will you write a Haiku — a tiny snapshot describing the veins on a single flower petal? Or will you compose an Epic Poem —the poetic equivalent of a novel?

Here’s an idea for you — create a “Found Poem”:

Good poetry is “relatable” — remember that you are (almost) never alone

“You need to be candid and honest if you want to evoke empathy or compassion from the reader. And if you’re writing something that you don’t think anyone will relate to, find the one thing that you think will spark a connection with any reader and use that to be the poem’s narrative.”

Poetry makes us feel things. And it reaches out to the reader, whispering, “You’re not alone.”

Writing really good poetry sometimes feels like scraping bone. But if it feels like evisceration, there’s no law that says you have to share it with the world. You’re in control; that is your choice. Just remember: You don’t owe your reader that much of your soul. You may just owe it to yourself, because there are insights to be gleaned when your innards are on display.

Take note: You can use those insights — just as you can do, if you keep a journal — to grow believable characters in your prose, or even to write more empathetic non-fiction.

Learn about meter and rhyme

One of the most abominable “poems” I ever read was a sing-songy rhyming verse about the murder of a toddler. It told a true and tragic story in a way that made it sound like a Dr. Seuss book.

Good God, please don’t do that.

Formal verse isn’t “easy.” But then, neither are blank verse or free verse — both of which have “form” of their own. Did you know that most of Shakespeare’s plays are written in blank verse? Or that free verse doesn’t mean to just jumble up a bunch of words, free form, without consideration for rhythm?

Poetry should flow like a river, naturally, not cramming itself into one form or another, awkwardly, like a man wearing an ill-fitting leisure suit from the 1970s. The form and the content should go together — some forms, like limericks, are playful and a little baudy; others carry gravitas, and are more suited to an elegy.

Meter, the rhythm of poetry

Wikipedia has a good overview (sort of a cheat sheet) on meter in poetry:

If you like music, at all, you’ll recognize the concept — the beats and downbeats, the tempo. Think of it as music, and it will make more sense.

Rhyme, not always needed — handle with care

As I said, earlier, rhyme can made a cringey poem worse. While sonnets have rhyme schemes and often deal with serious subjects, writers should take care not to make serious subjects sound like children’s nursery rhymes. Unless…

Well, there is the marvelous classic, Beastly Boys & Ghastly Girls. Being a writer is not for the timid. Experiment, play, have a little courage. But be aware: such things aren’t everybody’s cup of tea, and there will be a bit of backlash if you write a poem like Shelley (Shel) Silverstein’s “Nothing to Do?” and pass that off as a child’s nursery rhyme. You’ve been warned.

The second worst sort of mishandling of rhyme and meter is what happens when a writer tries to wring too much from a limited vocabulary — inverting the natural structure of language to fit the rhythm, and stretching “rhyming” words past all credulity. “Orange” and “forage” do not rhyme. They just don’t. Don’t try to force them to do the poet’s work — find different words.

Poetry is visual

Good poetry paints word-pictures. How might you wrap your poem-images inside visual images and grow your audience — for poetry and prose, as well?

This is another way I avoid “writer’s block.” Frankly, I don’t believe in writer’s block at all. I believe in creative urges that aren’t always best served through prose. That’s where poetry comes in. But if even the poetry is “stuck,” grab a camera and take some snapshots, then after a break from writing or thinking about writing at all, consider what it was that inspired you to take those particular photographs. Free write, for a bit, on the answer — see where that leads you.

Poetry forces you to look for just the right words, and only the right words

Once you have the bare bones of a poem, read it aloud. Read it aloud, while walking. Have someone else read it aloud, to you. Are there any little obstacles to the flow? Are they the natural geographic features of a thought — the rounded, polished rocks that change the flow of a babbling brook — or are they cast-off, rusted springs from a moldering old couch that someone threw into the river, unwanted?

Edit. Mold your words, like clay, until they mean what you want them to mean. You have less than a moment, here, to have a meeting of the minds. Make precious time count.