After

It's hot in the shade
And the breeze brings no relief --
Dry grass and dust

On the sparsely travelled road
That leads to some distant hills

Where moonlight bathed cliffs,
The banks of an ancient sea,
Gaze indifferently

Past the houses by the stream
A fox tiptoes cautiously

On the wooden bridge
He pauses to consider
Just what he should say

It's not just the choice of words,
It's also the spoken tone

She is delighted
And accepts his proposal
With laughter and tears

The first cooling wind arrives
Then lightning with a downpour

Rattling the windows
In the old office building
That is now for rent

Where new stalks of grass emerge
In the empty parking lot

A coyote strolls
Looking for some bigger game,
Perhaps a rabbit

In the shadow by the tree
White against the drifted snow

The old picket fence
(Missing a few of its slats)
Needs some repainting

After cherry blossoms fall
It feels like there's plenty of time

Tracing Back the Radiance

The sun has set --
The celibacy of love
As stars shine above

Free Verse Mind: Part 1

Free Verse Mind: Part 1

I want to take a few posts to think about what I sometimes call ‘free verse mind’.  What I mean by ‘free verse mind’ is an inability to see the function of form.  More, I mean the inability on the part of free verse practitioners to see the beauty of form and why form has a power which transcends any particular example of that form.  At times I think of this as akin to being deaf; only in this case it is being deaf to form.

This is not universally true.  There are significant free verse poets who also compose formal verse; Dana Gioia and Edith Shiffert come to mind.  So I’m not saying that writing in free verse inevitably leads to form deafness.  But there does seem to be, at least in my observation, a connection between form deafness and writing free verse poetry.  Perhaps the relationship is something like this: if someone is form deaf and they become attracted to poetry, then such a person will write free verse.  On the other hand, someone who is not form deaf may or may not also write free verse.

Perhaps it will be clearer what form deafness means by exploring what it means to compose poetry using the parameters of a previously existing form.  I think the best example for English poetry would be the Sonnet.  To write a Sonnet in English means to enter into a conversation with the Sonnet tradition.  I mean by ‘conversation’ that a Sonnet writer will be aware of the heritage of the form; to a greater or lesser degree.  In general Sonnet writers know of famous English Sonneteers who have preceded them; such as Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Dunne, Millay, etc.  Often a contemporary Sonnet writer will have previous Sonnet writers in mind; at times they may have a particular previously composed Sonnet as an ideal.  It is my experience that sonneteers have often memorized their favorite sonnets.  When Sonnet writers get together, either in person or online, discussions of the tradition and how previous poets have constructed their Sonnets are the main topic.  There is a strong sense of being embedded in a tradition.  And there is a strong sense of being part of a living community based on that Sonnet form.

With free verse, it seems to me, the situation differs.  There is a tradition of free verse.  There are also favorite free verse poets from the past; e.g. Whitman.  But the discussion differs from the kinds of discussions that take place with formal verse, it seems to me.  Though there is a free verse tradition it is not a tradition of form.  In a sense it is a tradition of anti-form. 

The difference I am pointing to partly centers on the hope of being original.  If I am writing a Sonnet I am not primarily focused on being original with the parameters of the poem.  For example, if I use a Shakespearean rhyme scheme, that is a rhyme scheme that is given, inherited; I didn’t invent it.  Others have used it and now I am using it as well.  The rhyme scheme is not my property, achievement or something I can own, nor is it distinctive of my personal expression.  It is part of the inherited Sonnet Recipe, if you will.  In contrast, if I write a free verse poem in the style of Whitman (say by engaging in a long series of parallelisms that mimic some of Whitman’s poems), that would be seen as being derivative; it would be looked at as a flaw.  Or if I adopted some of Bukowski’s syntax, that would also be seen as derivative and unoriginal.  My point here is that by its very nature free verse poetry undermines the idea that mimicking the structures of past poets in the free verse tradition is something to aspire to.  It is, rather, something to be avoided if one wants to make a name for one’s self in the field of free verse poetry.  In contrast, with formal poetry, adopting the structural features of previous poets is part of what makes formal verse formal verse.

Part of what I think constitutes free verse mind is a certain unexamined view of the past.  It is a characteristic shared by both moderns and post-moderns that our current time and age are in some important sense different from ages past.  I refer to this view as ‘chronocentrism’; I mean by ‘chornocentrism’ an exaltation, or inflation, of the present at the expense of the past.

In contrast, traditionalists tend to look at the past as offering lessons, advice, examples both positive and negative, which one can apply to one’s own life.  Underlying this traditionalist view is that our time is not that different from times past, that people haven’t changed in any basic way.  If one has this kind of traditionalist view then those who lived in the past are part of an overriding humanity, part of a community that is inclusive of one’s self. 

Another aspect, connected to chronocentrism, of free verse mind is a kind of hyper individualism.  One can see this, at times, in Whitman and I think Whitman has set a kind of precedent for this hyper individualism.  I mean by this those long passages in some of Whitman’s poems where he goes on at length about himself in praiseworthy verses.  To be honest, at times I find it embarrassing; but I know I’m a minority here.

Working with an inherited form undermines hyper individualism.  Instead there is a tendency to see one’s own efforts, say in the Sonnet, as just one contribution among many.  There is an inherent modesty in working with an inherited form.

All of this combines, I think, to make the transcendental beauty of form something that many free verse poets simply are unable to access; the psychological barriers are too great.  If, as a poet, you think of yourself as a rugged individualist, and your goal is primarily self-expression, it isn’t too difficult to see that this would make one inclined to reject pre-existing forms because a pre-existing form limits the range of self-expression.  In addition, if one believes that one’s own time is fundamentally different from past eras, that would effectively raise a barrier to using a form from the past because the past has nothing to offer this new era in which we live.

The above analysis is not universally applicable.  It has been my observation that for many younger poets today, trained at universities and various poetry workshops, connected with the contemporary poetry ‘scene’, free verse is simply the way they do poetry.  I mean that for many younger poets there has been no opportunity to learn about formal verse and their acceptance of free verse norms is thoughtless.  I don’t mean ‘thoughtless’ in the sense of lacking in intelligence; rather I mean not really considered or weighed.   Many younger poets have never been introduced to formal verse (metrical or syllabic) and write free verse simply because that is what they have been taught.

One can, however, observe how strong the psychological barriers are to formal verse in an individual when they are shown how formal verse works.  This sometimes happens accidentally by running across some formal verse that is also contemporary, or through an auspicious friendship, or, sometimes, a teacher they respect.  If the poet responds to this kind of information with openness, then the above analysis does not apply.  If, on the other hand, they respond with sarcasm, or trumped up ideological critiques, then, I suspect, something akin to the above analysis probably applies.

Most poets I know, including myself, who compose syllabic verse in specific forms, came to formal syllabic verse from free verse.  In my own case, recognizing the potential of syllabic verse came slowly; it was a long process.  Others I know have plunged right into a syllabic approach.  So the transition is possible and, from what I have observed, rewarding.

But for the free verse poet who is trapped by their own chronocentrism, such a transition remains highly problematical.  For such a poet to compose poetry in a pre-existing form would mean, from their perspective, to be ‘going backwards’; a phrase I have heard several free verse poets use.  They mean that formal verse is in some sense backwards, of another time, or not relevant.  Because they remain trapped in their own chronocentric ideology, they literally are unable to see the beauty of form and its attractiveness.

Granite

It's already warm
Though it's still early morning
No clouds in the sky

As the August heat rises
The automatic sprinkler starts

Same time every day
He continues his studies
Of mathematics

Under the light of the moon
Minds settle, clarity dawns

They decide to part;
Even though they love each other,
It isn't enough

Workmen build the new off ramp,
Blocking the flow of traffic

Not much rain last year;
Apple trees are blooming late
And bees are hard to find

Googling an obscure ref'rence
Yields too much information

The obsessive child
Tries to count the flakes of snow
Passing his window

All the layers and sweaters
Can't stop the brutal May wind

"Ruthless honesty?
So that is what you call it,"
Anger in her walk

The hardest of granite cliffs
Will soon be reduced to dust

Haiku Commentary #2: David Hoopes

Haiku Commentary #2

David Hoopes

The first book of Haiku I read was “Alaska in Haiku” by David Hoopes and Diana Tillion, published by Tuttle in 1972.  I was going to school at that time at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks.  As I recall the book was sold at the school bookstore and that is where I bought it.

I still like it.  I think it has staying power.  Here is one of the Haiku by Hoopes I keep going back to:

Night below zero,

And the long valley’s echo

The sound of the stars.

The opening line gives us the season: this is a winter Haiku.  It also gives us a sense of geography with the ‘below zero’.  ‘Below freezing’ is also winter; but ‘below zero’ is a deeper winter, the kind of winter one experiences in Alaska.  (As this is an American Haiku, I’m thinking in terms of Fahrenheit rather than Celsius; ‘0’ Degrees Fahrenheit is about ‘-18’ Degrees Celsius.)

The ‘long valley’ gives the Haiku more focus.  My feeling from reading this Haiku is that I am looking at the valley from an elevated view; perhaps not a mountain top, maybe more like a hillside.  In my mind’s eye I am looking at a frozen river valley spread out below me.  Perhaps I am wearing snowshoes, walking from my own cabin to the cabin of a friend.  I lived for two years in rural Alaska without a phone and there were no cellphones at that time, so I can see myself doing something like this. 

I pause and notice that the sound of my steps echoes in the valley.  When winter plunges to below zero snow takes on a crispness that warmer, though still below freezing, temperatures don’t impart.  There’s no feeling of slushiness; the snow is dry and brittle and can form a thick crust over the more powdery snow beneath.  In this still night the smallest sound fills the valley and bounces back.

I look up.  The night is clear; perhaps it is moonless, or maybe just the sliver of a moon.  And the sound of my footsteps and the vision of the stars seem to blend.  I am poised between earth and heaven, between the winterscape and the stars, and all of it seems to be speaking to me in the reverberant silence.

**

I don’t know much about David Hoopes.  I never met him when I was in Alaska.  And the only other publication besides ‘Alaska in Haiku’ that I know of with his Haiku is an early volume that Billie at the Alaska Haiku Society kindly sent to me when I requested more information.  It is called ‘Haiku Drops from the Great Dipper’ and was published  by the Poetry Society of Alaska in 1973; it is an anthology of Haiku by Alaskan poets.  That’s the year after Tuttle published ‘Alaska in Haiku’.  But the ‘Foreward’ states that ‘Drops’ was seven years in the making.  It also states that all of the submissions for ‘Drops’ were ‘judged and critiqued’ by Harold G. Henderson.  Nice connection.   Hoopes’ Haiku in ‘Drops’ have many of the same characteristics found in ‘Alaska in Haiku’.  Hoopes seems particularly fond of rhyme.  Here are two examples:

Spring winds and warm rains,

Blossoms can begin to grow –

Two new teeth also.

An unscreened window –

Humming unseen past my bed

The first mosquito!

Interestingly, at least two other poets in the collection use rhyme as well:

Bumblebees stumble

Over clusters of clover

Drunken with summer

                        Billie Perkins

Marauders of night,

Rearing and pawing you go . . .

Wild wind-horses whoa!

                        Frances Anater

As readers of this blog know, I’m a huge fan of rhyme and think of it as generally underutilized in short-form syllabic verse.  So it’s intriguing to me to find rhyme used in this early collection by a number of authors.  Hoopes is the most consistent rhymer, but clearly whatever group put this anthology together was open to rhyme in Haiku.

Returning to the ‘Night’ Haiku: the construction of this Haiku is syllabic, in classic 5-7-5.  Each line has a distinct focus; there are no run-on lines.  Line 1 gives us the weather and the season.  Line 2 gives us the setting.  Line 3 places the setting in a cosmic context.  There is a movement in the Haiku from the constricted sense of cold, to the valley scene, finally opening up to heaven above. 

Rhyme is used to define the lines: zero/echo.  And there is also internal rhyme with ‘below zero’ having a particularly euphonious effect.  The rhyme is used with ease.  There is a gracefulness about this Haiku, a lyrical quality which I particularly like.  And it is this lyrical quality which makes Hoopes’ Haiku so memorable and so enjoyable.

Pond

Breakfast
In the morning
Sunlight
Through the windows
The sound of the roses
Delays my plans
I stretch my arms and yawn
I decide to take a day off
They don't need me at work
I absent myself from the web
(I fondly recall some friends who are dead)
And listen to the wind instead
While I fold my clean clothes and make my bed
On the branch of the oak a sparrow has landed
We speak to each other before he goes

On the Other Side of the Mountain

Ev'rything is forgotten
History as memory
Can't hold back the tides of time
All returns to mystery