the open form class

I complain about form but when given the chance to write in open form, still find some rhyme, some repetition etc.  But it’s not regular rhyme, meter, line length, or number of lines per stanza.  It just now and then finds order, which is how we find life isn’t it?  Life comes with occasional poetry – meeting the right person, at the right time etc.  But in even in this open form... the editing process felt the same as editing everything else, including prose.  I pulled out a lot more than thought I would.  With editing in general, I often remove what was the seed of the thought – grown itself into redundancy. 

It is a chaotic world, but we do occasionally find order.  The God I believe in gave us brains to sort out our universe as best we can… and perhaps much of the meaning we find in our existences is from this discovering of occasional poetry – creating families, art, relieving suffering for our fellow humans.  Perhaps chaos, like our own mortality, is the sweetener of our lives - and poetry would not be possible without it. 

Paul says to seek great images.  What a great way to think of language… and doesn’t it help conceptualize voice.  If what we recall are not phrases but images, necessarily it let’s us prioritize effect over words.  And doesn’t an image express an emotion so much better than describing the emotion… picture worth a thousand words etc, Maybe the more a writer focuses on effect, image, mood, the less likely he/she is to stray into exhibition, the less tempted he/she will be by lovely metaphors, which don't serve the story. 

However… when seeking this image, I have to remember that poetry doesn’t have to tell a story.  In a story, you necessarily root it in time, place.  Without these roots, you get no mileage from the uncertainty you conjure with suggestions, hints, ambiguous winks to the reader.  But a poem may have a lyrical strength, unanchored by scene.  This seems an obvious point when you read Neruda or to some extent Langston Hughes – both have a staggering ability to freeze an instant, spin it on it’s side, expose it.  But, on the other hand… would the Love Song of J. Alfred Profrock be the same without it’s loose fitting story, the momentum it rolls out with even with its simple “Let us go then, you and I,” isn’t this a narrative device?  Doesn’t a collection of short stories boil away in Ginsberg’s America?  Doesn’t Levertov’s Uncertain Oneiromancy read like a story?  So... note to self... don’t be afraid to prioritize the lyrical.  Don’t be afraid to discard the narrative?  Just know what you’re doing.