Castle & Sun by Paul Klee
Pundits of Prosody
“All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms
of prosody, is prayer.”-- Merriam-Webster.
Prosody has its
origins in Latin and
Greek; revered by some.
As if to
imply that “serious” poets must
study form like
Rabbinical scholars, like
medical students dissecting corpses to
understand Nature’s secrets.
Listening to linguists discuss poetics
saying that sans classical form-aesthetics
all verse pales, becomes almost pathetic,
to me is delusional, leagues from prophetic--
because poetry that finds its own way,
foraging through language, keeping form at bay,
can emerge as muscular, inspired, simply majestic,
miraculously just much more energetic.
It is said/written that without adequate knowledge of the art of
versification, a poem can become barren, static, & soulless, like
a computer simulating music versus an accomplished musician
interpreting it emotionally, but speaking only for myself, to rely
too heavily on pedantic parameters is stifling. In High School,
when it became apparent I had a talent for writing, my English
“Glenn, you have already developed a writing style that violates
many of the rules of grammar even before you fully understand
them. You attack language like a berserk bear in a bakery. You
should not attempt to write like Faulkner or Ginsberg when you
are only 15 years old.”
Each time that I approach classic poetic forms
& have to be concerned with tempus & morea,
become obsessed with the prosodic principles
of feet, meter, & pernicious syllable count, using
the pyrrihic, trochee, spondee, dispondee, &
sapphic--merging into dactyls & anapestes, possibly
morphing into the troglodyte state of being a hoary
spiny-scaled pungent Dactylic Hexameter,
my head swims with the artificiality
of the limp & lame language,
the hollowness of the murky mandates
& damned diatribes-- and my POEtic spirit
becomes enraged at the
& the malicious manacles;
because my poetry rises
like dew on mountain meadows,
not from some fenced-off,
plowed, tilled, & sown parcel of platitudes;
it is written to be spoken, to be sung, & like jazz, it creates its own
measures during the act of creation--& I tell you enthusiastically that
when prose copulates with phonetics rather than merely being bound
by prosaic prosody, it embraces pitch, volume, tempo, & rhythm more
naturally, viscerally, & organically.
It is born.
It is alive.
Although I respect
poets who study their art, still I
roam free, & off leash.
Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB/FFA
Our guest host at dVerse is asking for us to write with Prosody in mind. This
poem is my maverick version of a Haibun, opening with a haiku, followed by
two stanzas of Collom Lunes, followed by a stanza of rhyming verse,
AAAABB, that becomes a sliding list of AAAAAA, followed by a pure prose
stanza, followed by a dialogue stanza, followed by a Wave stanza, ebb & flow,
descending & ascending, capped with creative spacing of line breaks and stops,
followed by a straight-up free verse stanza, followed by another prose stanza,
capped with an epilogue Haiku.
Would you like to hear me read this poem to you?