Shapes Of Things To Come, Poetry In Forms By Kate Rogers

Shapes of Things to Come

AN EXPLORATION OF POETRY IN FORMS

Kate Rogers Spring 2009

Cover Illustration - Concrete “Shape” Poem: “Butterfly” by Kate Rogers Butterfly once intimate with flower flits away spys another Butterfly and is completed

Self-published in Guilderland, New York May, 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Catherine Ashworth Rogers All rights reserved

Table of Contents Introduction ....................................................................................2 Rhythmic Poems ............................................................................3 Sestina: Interplay .......................................................................3 Beladi .........................................................................................5 Divisions are Illusions ................................................................6 I Am Still Seeking ......................................................................7 Fairy Tale ...................................................................................8 Hamster Love ..........................................................................11 Haiku Variations ...........................................................................13 Dry May ...................................................................................13 Resting ....................................................................................13 From Your Artist's Best Friend ................................................14 Spring Reunion ........................................................................15 Spring Allergies .......................................................................16 Dedications ..................................................................................17 Ode to Sappho* .......................................................................17 House of Cards ........................................................................18 Elegy for Edith .........................................................................20 Facing You ..............................................................................22 Free Verse ...................................................................................23 4 A.M. ......................................................................................23 Creating Art .............................................................................24 Mehndi Magic ..........................................................................26 Steps........................................................................................27 Making a Detour in the Woods ................................................28 Garden Blues ...........................................................................30 Gravity of Vlomankill Trail ........................................................31

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Introduction On the ides of April, following the spring urge toward creative growth, I decided, rather on a whim, to challenge myself to write a poem a day for a month. In order to keep this challenge fresh and interesting to me, I decided to explore some of the many different forms and styles of poetry. The following pages represent a sampling of some of the poems produced during that fertile spring. Most modern poetry is written in free verse, and my own poetry has been no exception. This has been my poetic form of choice for all of my adult writing years. Free verse is so named because it frees the poet from stanza and meter restrictions that were the common structures for poetry since its earliest roots in classical Greek literature. Writing according to the rules of classical poetic forms can be quite challenging. Writing in forms forces poets to pay very close attention to natural rhythmic and musical intonations of language. It forces the poet to find creative ways to say what needs saying under the self-imposed limitations of the chosen form. Writing in forms makes the poet to pay even closer attention to word choice – by imposing limitations, the poet must make each word count. Free Verse is far easier in that regard. The cannon of great classical poetry is filled with poets who spent their entire lives honing the craft of writing poetry within forms. I maintain that these forms still have the power to transform language and elevate it to the realm of Art. Free verse poetry is represented in this collection, but standing alongside them, restored to their place of honor, at least within these pages, are also a collection of modern poems written according to some very old rules. Enjoy!

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Rhythmic Poems This opening section of poems are united by the power of rhythm which lies at the heart of all poetic meter. You should be able to tap your toes to these poems. The exception to this is the first poem, a sestina, written on the subject of rhythm. A sestina is a form of poetry that derives its power from the specific patterning of six key words that end each line of the poem in a particular order.

Sestina: Interplay They gather in the gloaming, hold their breath as in the center, flares ignite the fire. Bright sparks stretch skyward, toward the light stretch hands flexing fingers, rolling wrists, the dancers rolling hips in sample circles, drummers taking position, start the first rhythm. Toes begin to tap to catch the rhythm. Heart beats speed to tempo along with breath. Linked eyes communicate among drummers, lines of sight established from drums to fire, getting settled in to serve the dancers who hearing a hidden cue, raise their hands, Step into the circle, while drummers' hands follow feet that syncopate the rhythm. Bells chime from slender ankles of dancers who whirl and spin until they lose their breath, dripping with sweat, step away from the fire, revived by the steady pulse of drummers. Intricate patterns played among drummers, loving interactions of skin and hands, begin to find new energy from fire. Taking on a life of its own, rhythm romps around the circle. An indrawn breath follows the veiled form that parts the dancers,

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Zils chiming, hip cocked, she leads the dancers in a seductive reward for drummers. Dancing close enough to fan their warm breath upon the skin of drummers who use hands to answer the suggestion with rhythms that blur the lines between dancer and fire. Until the sun returns, they feed the fire that tightens skin of both drums and dancers lost in the interplay of their rhythms. First shift, second shift, third trade the drummers to sustain the energy in their hands until all who gathered are out of breath. Built of the fire, sustained by the drummers, woven by dancers with their knowing hands, rhythms of life renewed by their shared breath.

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Form: Beladi When I was first learning to play the doumbek,a hand drum popular in the middle east, I was confounded by its very exotic Arabic rhythm patterns. To help me learn one of the most common rhythm patterns, the beladi, I created a little mnemonic phrase to help me remember where the beats and accents were. I decided to use that phrase to begin my poem, with the goal to write the entire poem using this rhythm pattern as its foundation. Each line has eleven syllables, and follows the drum pattern that can be said as "Doum-Doum-tekka-tek, Doum tekka tek, tekka"

Beladi Real good beladi is melody is a Repeat rhythm song, some sing along as they Play drum steadily, play readily, tap your Toes down, clap along; beats nice and strong. As the Dancers stomp their feet, pick up the beat. Watch the Zils ring merrily, chime verily truth in Rhythms played in synch, hearts join the link in a Drum-fueled rhythm fest for inner quest. When we Play our souls expand. Strike up the band for the Song of bellydance, now here's your chance to be Free of metronomes, pulse in your bones playing One more beladi, drum malady, so it Ends… With friends.

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Form: Chant Chanting, an ancient form of ritualized language, is one of the earliest forms of poetry. I love the highly rhythmic and repetitive quality of chants. I composed this with a mental drumbeat playing beneath the verses.

Divisions are Illusions Divisions are illusions because everything is one Divisions are illusions because everything is one The smiling face is blind to race, it's shared by everyone Divisions are illusions because everything is one Our hearts all beat with inner heat no matter what they've done Divisions are illusions because everything is one The air we breathe is made by trees, the wind through us does run Divisions are illusions because everything is one When raindrops flow then life can grow, the circle is begun Divisions are illusions because everything is one A mountain grand and grain of sand both see how far they've come Divisions are illusions because everything is one A candle flame is just the same that burns within the sun Divisions are illusions because everything is one Within each bone of stardust grown our unity is won Divisions are illusions because everything is one The universe and flowing verse both beating like a drum Divisions are illusions because everything is one For life to grow we all must know that we are all as one Divisions are illusions because everything is one

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Form: Ghazal The ghazal is an ancient Arabic form of poetry that relies on a specific pattern of repetition and rhyme.

I Am Still Seeking Looking for a path to set foot upon, I am still seeking. Emerging from darkness, embracing dawn, I am still seeking. Squirrel sways among branches, leaping above From limb to bough, rarely touching firm lawn. I am still seeking. Mouse tunnels among the beds of flowers. Winter survival, but by spring they're gone. I am still seeking. Mourning Doves spend a lifetime as a pair. Survival found as loving marathon. I am still seeking. Mighty deer of the forest find their way Where no eye can pierce lay the sleeping fawn. I am still seeking. Does Flame still fit the person I am now? Which name is the real me, which shall I don? I am still seeking.

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Form: Ballad Another very old form, the ballad was a popular form of poetry for hundreds of years. Used for story-telling, the regularity of rhythm and rhyme made for quick memorization and ease of recitation. It’s easy to imagine these forms of poetry set to music.

Fairy Tale It's often thought the fairy world Is only make-believe, A story told in childhood, A fantasy we weave. I tell you fair and honestly The Fey folk are quite real For I myself have witnessed one, This much I can reveal. It happened many years ago When I was still a teen. I took a trip to Ireland, The land where elves are seen. 'Twas Blarney Castle where I saw, In gardens lush and green, A sight that made me catch my breath And doubt what I had seen. It's often thought the fairy world Is only make- believe, A story told in childhood, A fantasy we weave. For peeking 'tween the woody shrubs That lined the garden way, I caught the rustle of a stem That caused a leaf to sway,

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Revealing first a tiny hand That held the leaf aside, And then a tiny face appeared Though clearly meant to hide. Her little mouth a perfect O, I thought I heard her squeak. Her tiny eyes were open wide. I jumped, my knees grew weak. It's often thought the fairy world Is only make- believe, A story told in childhood, A fantasy we weave. For several seconds long we stared, Her eyes locked onto mine. I could not move, nor breathe, nor think As though too full of wine. But I was stone cold sober then, 'Twas only early noon. This wasn't shadows playing tricks, Illusions of the moon. One moment more she stared at me As though to weigh my soul, An icy shiver traced my spine. This meeting took its toll. It's often thought the fairy world Is only make- believe, A story told in childhood, A fantasy we weave. Her little walnut face stared back. I meant to do no harm. Perhaps it was my pounding heart That signaled her alarm.

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Then faster than the eye could track, Her hand released the leaf. An instant later she was gone. I stood in disbelief. No bird nor chipmunk did I see, But what was I to do? For I had kissed the Blarney stone So who would think it true? It's often thought the fairy world Is only make- believe, A story told in childhood, A fantasy we weave. So now on all the Quarter days When elves are thought to roam, I offer milk and little treats To fairies at my home. For little giggles have I heard While sitting in my yard. They know that I believe in them Though seeing them is hard. It's often thought the fairy world Is only make- believe, The realm of Fey remains well hid, More than we can conceive.

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Form: Ballad variation Not all poetry needs to be serious. Forms of poetry such as the ballad are perfectly suited to more light-hearted themes. Poetry can serve an important role as entertainment. Laughter is necessary to good living. In that spirit, here is a variation on the ballad form.

Hamster Love All my daughter wanted was a hamster. "Hamsters carry germs," I sort of lied. "Vicious creatures, they will take your hand off, Keep you up at night" I weakly cried. Hamsters are like rabbits - they like mating Two of them will soon be getting more. I had visions of their reproduction, Overrun by rodent love galore. She persisted, did her rodent research, Told me they were gentle and quite tame Other pets had more traits that could kill youShe thought my excuses were quite lame. Finally I agreed to let her get one. One alone can't lead to bigger things. How she talked me into getting two, though I don't know. I know what mating brings. Hamsters just aren't used to lonely living. This is how she justified the pair. Knowing my objections to them mating, She said, "Let's get males," and that seemed fair.

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It's a calculated risk with rodents, Always ready, engines always hot, Get a female, it's already pregnant, Pretty soon you've got yourselves a lot. Getting two males should have been the answer. They would be less lonely as a pair. Little did we know that this solution Wouldn't stop the love that didn't dare. Mother Nature knows what she is doing. Only fools dispute it, come what may. There is no denying that those hamsters Hercules and Humperdinc are gay. Day and night those little buggers rotate Which one squeaks and which one gets the cheese, Appetites that never satisfy them, Rolling in the sawdust, aimed to please. Everyone just loves a happy ending This one ends with smiles all around. Happy hamsters making love, not babies, Sharing love wherever love is found.

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Haiku Variations Haiku is a form of Japanese poetry that relies on a tightly restricted number of syllables in each line, rather than a particular pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables as is common in English forms of poetry. Here are several poems written in forms inspired by Haiku. Form: Tanka Tanka is composed of a Haiku plus a couplet. The haiku focuses on an image, and the couplet focuses on the inner world of the poet. The two should be reflections of one another.

Dry May Scanty scattered drops Barely wet the drought-tight soil Too hard to receive. Too long since love softened me Kisses roll off my surface.

Resting Black ball of sleeping kitten Nose tucked into tail Purring deeply into dreams Poet gazing inwardly Contented by simple things

Form: Linked Haiku

From Your Artist's Best Friend Inner artists need Nourishment daily; Body, mind, spirit Tending to such needs Awakens body wisdom, Deepened through movement. Mind is awareness Paying attention to life, Convey what you see. Inspired to speak, Write, paint, dance the truth you see, Express your vision. Body/mind balanced, Ineffable connection, Spirit becomes one. Awaken the soul By seeking moments of joy, Small gasps of delight. In breath of wonder, Tingling awareness of life, Three selves in balance. Each day in small ways Stay connected to what's real. Awake. Move forward.

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Form: Haiku variation

This form is modeled after Haiku, but has an extended syllable count.

Spring Reunion Woodpecker drumming love songs, Daffodils reflecting yellow spring, Variations on a theme. Bird, flower, bright spring sunshine, Different parts of a much greater whole, Sharing endless energy. The rhythm of the calling, Life seeking out ways to love itself, One essential unity.

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Form: Double Etheree The standard Etheree is a ten line poem with a progressive syllable count, so that the first line has one syllable, the second line has two, and so on until the last line has ten syllables. It is focused on one idea or subject. The double Etheree is an Etheree and reverse Etheree combined. Therefore, it is a twenty line poem with a progressive syllable count that grows then shrinks.

Spring Allergies Sneeze Sneaks up, Tickles nose Slightly running, Warns of its approach. A deep breath gets pulled in, Tensing in expectation, Hand pulling another tissue Like magicians with rabbits from hats As pollen is transformed into mucus. Comes the explosion of sound and wet spray Barely caught by the white paper net. Pause - is another one coming? Then blow - shake the pollen free From sensitive nostrils. Another breath in, One last nose wipe, Gesundheit Sniffle Thanks.

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Dedications It is common for poetry to be written with someone specific in mind. Here are poems that were written and dedicated to people both known and unknown, both living and dead.

Ode to Sappho* Poet of Lesbos, she Who loved women, but who Loved words even more, wears Love displayed like flowers Blooming. Her song attracts Modern ears to hear the Music danced to, happy To invoke the Graces.

*Sappho was an ancient Greek poet. She was a woman in a man's world, engaging in the manly business of composing verse. Only fragments of her work survive, but it is clear that she spoke with a voice that still echoes through the ages. This poem was inspired by a fragment of her verse, found in the last word of each line.

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Form: Sapphic Verse This poem returns to some of the earliest roots of classical poetry. Sapphic verse is named for the ancient Greek poet Sappho, who favored this complex pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables.

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Carol “Mimi” Jones.

House of Cards Empty now of thoughts that still burn, they're gone now Finally gone, stilled by the place where thought ends A light gone out, dark that consumes all that is Everyone ends here. Every pulse is stilled by the passing darkness An indrawn breath held as we peer in the void Silence yields to thoughts and emotions that don't Ever expect death. We erect a barrier stopping us short At the threshold, death is a trip we avoid Packing bags for, knowing it comes unprepared. Better to pack light. Unload sorrow, pack up the joy that was built Out of little memories, moments only Fragile net constructed from time together Trawled through the vast dark. Approaching end, silence that swallows heartbeats Topples over carefully built house of cards Each face card streaked now with traces of dust Suddenly blown down. We are built by stacking our lives on the edge At right angles, holding up corners of love Depending on factors outside our control Permanent like clouds.

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Blown by the wind, all will come down in the end Gather them up blowing through the darkness, together We will build a new house, a new shape will form Shuffle the stacked deck. Finding balance, making our peace with the dark Own the fallen, honor the dead, gather strength In the shape of things that had been, holding on Learning to start over.

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Form: Elegy, Elegiac Verse An Elegy is a poem that reflects on the death of someone, regardless of what particular form the poem takes. This one is additionally written in Elegiac couplets, with lines that alternate between dactylic hexameter and dactylic pentameter.

This poem is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Edith Ashworth Ward.

Elegy for Edith Sitting here moodily, flipping through cellophane pages of images, Trying to sift through the jumbled up toybox of memoriesMother's day conjures up visions of children revering the feminine. What if the woman in question was bad at the mothering? Rites of remembrance are held where we mention her role as our matriarch All that is left are some photographs sticking to picture frames. Grandma, that bitch, Granny Strange are just some of the nicknames we called you by What are your hidden names, whispering secrets I never knew? What comes to mind when remembering she who would sacrifice happiness? She who worked hard to do right as was thought was her heritage. Father was killed by the Flu epidemic of Nineteen Eighteen, said he Came home on Friday, was dead by the following holy day. Mother, a midwife, who set the example, unwavering fortitude, Working, supporting her family as loneliness distanced her. Brewed her own gin in a bathtub and gave away bottles as Thank You gifts. Everyone learned to make do in depression economies.

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Art school, a dream that came true, but impractical, meaningless. Value defined by the pennies you managed and multiplied. Happily married her childhood sweetheart, who left her to fight a war. Conjugal visits on furlough resulted in motherhood. Artist proclaimed with each project - creative ideas were her specialty, Channeled from life as an artist to art of good housekeeping. Sewing her daughter fine party gowns, always attentive to excellence, Ripping apart her own daughter with venomous bitterness, Captured the grace of a seagull who tips up his wing as a wave uncurls, Paints a scene tenderly, but is abrasive all other ways. Hidden beneath growing layers of obvious dust and impermanence, Art supplies molder, paint hardens as dreams go unrealized. Cutting remarks were her specialty, everyone came under scrutiny, Though she knew how to behave and was quick to make point of it. Questioning tactics were frequently used to interrogate hostages, Logical arguments lost to emotional blackmailing. Insecure frustrated artist, you tried to manipulate all but those Memories linger. You can't pretend everyone honored you. Honoring happens in spite of the damage you willfully did to us, Teaching us beauty is found in the pain of imperfect lives.

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Form: free verse in quatrains This poem is dedicated to my mother, Margaret Button, on the occasion of Mother’s Day.

Facing You I wear your face, always Through my ever-changing decades, Future mirror of your face Knows what is to come. Cheekbones lift lips into the Same smile, same eyes that see The same world differently Standing a generation apart. Your bones, my bones Rising from rocky New England Old English blood, your blood My blood running hot and secret. We burn differently, yearn Toward different horizons, But you taught me to sail, To tack into the wind, To brace my bones against The hurling sea, to turn My face, your face Toward unseen shores. Different shores, same blood A compass needle of DNA, No matter which direction faced I'm always facing you.

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Free Verse Free verse does not have a set meter; The rhythms within the lines are more irregular. Rhyme may or may not appear, but the poet is free to vary the pattern. Free verse does not mean the poem is utterly free of forms that underlie the work, however. Free verse does not do away entirely with structure, it just opens the structure to more variations.

4 A.M. This is where the poem begins Or maybe not here but Just as you think it's about to It shifts again and keeps moving. The poet's dream lied, Said there was a poem here Found in sleeping lines Repeating, repeating, Until the pressure pushes Off the blankets, feet on Floor, pencil in hand, Attentive scribe obeying Muse Who fades in the light. This is where the poem ends With unresolved grains of sand Slipping away, lost In the space between.

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Creating Art Pride, ego, misplaced self-esteem Or Justifiable? Ambiguous boundaries Merge where hearts yearn, hands construct, Minds manifest or not What comes seems meant to be, birthright, kismet, or ego protecting itself From shards of failure, sharp as mirrors, Many selves reflected in rejection? Faces of fear, justify creation When the price is self, and the world. Creation is born of love, imagination The world is thick with brainchildren, some Spawn of man, brutal thoughts Conceived as toys of violence, war games Dreamchildren of art barely survive. Deliberate ugliness is mindrape, Conformity and haste abort seedling ideas. Love is not the catalyst then But passion that drives us to create Which is neither good nor bad, but both. Following passion feels right, The calling, the lure, the inner pull That keeps moving us forward Past fear of failure, into each New act of creation, a consummation Of heart and will - So it must be, The inevitability of creation fulfilled, Satisfaction of parent eyes shining Light on what was wrought, certainty That what has come forth is right. Are all children good, right, necessary? Look away from that question. Deflect The pain of not being fruitful. Not Bringing forth the products of Imaginations, longings, passions.

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Children are people. People are flawed, As is the art that flows through them In the pulsing passions of creation, each Accompanied by the painful knowing That each child is sent forth to die.

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Mehndi Magic It's the alchemy of the paste Essential oils, organic henna Smelling of camel humps Dusty tents, silken veils, That breathes life to art that spans ages and cultures. It's the alchemy of women gathering To adorn each other with our stories, To paint the whirls and folds Of our experiences Onto each other's flesh. Hands offered, Breasts bared, inviting Blessings for each petaled blossom, Love for each leaf that curls, Tendrils of ourselves to vine across our skin, Patterns traced above our bones By ancient arts of inspiration. Mehndi needs time to cure Time enough for stories to be told, wisdom shared, Laughter - as necessary as the paste. Then, the tender peeling back to see what is revealed; If the henna is good, and the traditions honored, Faint patterns become clearer over time.

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Steps Alas, life is cluttered with paths not taken What Ifs rain about us A hail of paralyzing darts. It's hard to keep stepping daily into the unknown Yet we must The only other alternative is to stop Stagnation sets in That way lies death No there really isn't anything we can do but keep moving forward Keep stepping into the next new thing. Stepping past fear, frustration, fatigue Dancing between darts In the direction of Whichever feels best Hurts least, harms fewest Leads to hope For some elusive Someday dream Of joy.

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Making a Detour in the Woods

Which way now? Bootsucking mud, Black, shiny clay cupping Greasy water in ruts and Former hiker's failed footsteps, (is that a shoe?) Halts forward momentum. Impassable. One piece of log lies abandoned, improbably, Perhaps hurled desperately, Into the middle of the mess, but Too far away for even the longest legs To hope for a stepping point. Impassable. Toes tap at the edge where Sure footing ends. The woods on either side Yield no passage. Tangled whips with thorns Show clear menace A price exacted in blood To try that route ahead. Go back? Stop the hike? Retracing steps, Eyes dig through trees, Higher ground, dryer ground, And find a way Possibly - still hard to tell, With fallen branches, brown paper leaves, Saplings cluttering what might yet be, The chance to continue on.

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Leaf litter yields in soggy sweeps Of walking stick - stout oak, gnarled Sturdy foot clearing the way. Some long dead trees refuse to budge And lay across the new path They lay where they fell, Become an event to be stepped over. Found wood is shifted, dragged, hauled To line the detour, marking the way For other boots to tread the new way through.

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Garden Blues Sit in May amid vivid blue forget-me-nots Wearing fallen cherry blossom petals that Carpet crushed pine needles on footpaths That wind in the garden, blowing fiddleheads unclenching in the air. Let enter wind that unlocks petals from the bud Husks of soft pink pulled Among clouds of forget-me-nots Bleeding hearts rise gracefully From the frothy sea of solemn blue faces, Rows of arching white hearts, teardrops, wings. Welcome that wind bending blue Swirling iridescence to glowing Like an ache of color, blue Like sky when the last memory of gold bleeds From evening , blue that hasn't forgotten Just how deep space is, How much blue it can hold.

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Gravity of Vlomankill Trail A spirit pulls me into the woods Captured again, enwebbed by life Seeking life, willing To be enchanted, possessed By a singular mind that sees beauty As worthy of pursuit, gaze

Pulled into a riot of violets grabbing eyes Away from lacy allure of veils of fern Deeply fronded fingers outspreading Welcoming me to the change That cannot be resisted, the need Pulling me deeper

Taking over, moving through trees Shedding skin, ambitions, self Animal alert, slipping into this Ancient skin of knowing, mindspeak Bark encrusted columns of pulsing green Pulling up, pulling in

Beauty - Heatflash squirrel, preening wood duck, Emerald beetle on log, flying into Beams of angled sun , rays igniting Rock arrayed in glowing moss All seen with animal eyes that shine Through shadows.

Streamside reveals roots of time Ancient seasons of seabed layered like tree rings Millions of years compressed into rock, folded Rolled by some distant earthly turmoil Beauty creases, though my years scarcely a skin of moss clinging to the eroded face of time.

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Bedrock sung to surface by stream, Rock channeled melody, perfect duet As water, obeying its imperative Seeks its own unutterable truths Repeatedly questioning each broken layer On its way to the all knowing sea.

I am pulled through these woods As this woodland stream Inevitably, without intent Questioning stones for truth in beauty Swept along ancient fault lines, seeking sea level, Making a song of my passage.

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