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“Let your soul stand cool & composed

before a million universes.”--Walt Whitman.

For me,

hell, for most

of us, while studying 

poetry in English class, it all

seemed so sappy, so effeminate; nothing

but forced rhymes, fey pale-skinned observances

about unrealistic romantic clap-trap, or a

bunch of dumb odes to nature and 

religion, written most of the

time by someone in the

privileged class.                                                                                                 But then

                                                                                               we discovered Whitman,

                                                                                        & it was like we were struck

                                                                            by language lightning--wow, we found

                                                                    our Champion, our earthly Liberator, finding

                                                         out that prose was never in dire conflict with form;

                                                          Christ, no, prose became our beloved foundation

                                                                    --the fallow ground, the fecund passionate

                                                                               pod our new poetics could blossom

                                                                                                              brightly out of.

And of course,

this dazzling journey

soon led us happily to the

Beat Generation, to the muscular

poetry of protest, where one’s own truth,

one’s literary essence could be cheerfully revealed,

exorcized, flexed, displayed, and yes,

promulgated as we nearly all

lost our voices screaming

with joy.  

                                                                    So many

                                                           of us really felt

                                                   this was our personal

                                            discovery, our very private

                            ephinany, that somehow validated our

                      gnawing need to write "poetry", but enabled

                           us to do so by unleashing our rebellious

                                     spirit, to pull the nets down, to

                                          trample antiquated fences &

                                            hoary parameters, to finally

                                               fully embrace our raging

                                                   outlaw sensibilities.

Years slipped                                                                              

by & prose poems began

to pile up in dusty corners, ring bound

folders, cigar boxes & wooden file cabinets,

& later in computer documents, &

how proud we were when they

numbered in the hundreds,

& for some of us, the

thousands.                                                           Our computers

                                                               enabled us to reach out

                                                  to countless poets everywhere,

                                    to join groups, to take part in reciprocal

                              readership--but then an odd thing began to

                          take shape as our poetic education started to

                                       expand, we found ourselves exposed

                                             to and began to participate within

                                                         various compelling classic

                                                                                           forms.

I laugh

now as I recall

those first timid forays

into myriads of corseted forms,

those nagging feelings of inadequacy, ineptness,

failure--that ever so slowly were overcome with modest

successes & a broadened knowledge base

as various talented & better educated

poets patiently shared their

extensive expertise.                                                         My God,

                                                                        the forms seemed 

                                                              to be endless, & yet with

                                                each attempt I began to feel more

                                      confident, empowered, enlightened as I

                              actually wrote poetry with classical structures;

                    Sonnet, Sestina, Villanelle, Pantoum, Rondeau, Ode,

                                   Tanka, Haiku, Lune, Ghazal,Triolet, Renga

                                                Epistle, Sapphic, Cinquain, Terza--

                                                              Rima, Haibun, & the Bop.

                                                           

Am I

now a better

poet for being brave

enough to expand my homegrown

horizons?  I would certainly like to think so, as my

lovely Muses appear in togas, armor, robes

& hooped skirts, & my very own poetics

can now flourish & appear from out

of a palpable plethora of classic

diversity. Who knew?

                                                                          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB  

Would you like to hear the author read this Falling Diamonds poem to you?