Writing Iambic Dimeter Poetry

by Fitz | Feb 19, 2018 | Journal, Poetry, Teaching

I am sitting here realizing how hard it is to ask you–a bunch of fifteen-year-old boys–to write iambic dimeter poetry, a form of poetry that is more or less ignored nowadays. I (literally) played around for a couple of hours penning these poems, which are at least minimally worth keeping. (My other attempts were horrid and insipid.

I am sure you will come up with some good stuff, but writing poetry under pressure [aka: last-minute] is like trying to eat Cocoa Kripsies while juggling on a unicycle in beach sand with the tide coming in.

Really–walk around with your phone on record. Get a beat–a rhythm–going. Start talking in iambic dimeter. Sooner or later some words that actually make sense will pop out. Settle for what feels good; otherwise, you’ve made a bad deal–but better than no deal at all.

The crazy thing is that it works. Sooner or later you will have made the world (and your life) a better place.

And then it is worth it after all.

Poems don’t flow out of the soul just because you want them to. They are pried out of the earth with pickaxes and teaspoons…

The Light Within

It’s hard to write
When asked to do
A task this night
That’s hard for you:

The mind goes still;
The light goes dim;
With time you will
Find words within

Here is a three verse one I just wrote with a different rhyme scheme and more use of words that are naturally iambic (each beat does not need to be a single word). Generally, a poem “reveals itself” in the closing stanza or closing lines. Everything else prepares the reader for this moment of insight.

The Jays Cry

The biting cold;
The drifts of snow–
Lone squawks of songs
In sounds we know.

The Jay and me
Both try to see
What’s right and wrong
With poetry.

We scream with words
(To each absurd)
And sing along
To just be heard.

These are not going to win me any poetry prize, but as a poet, at least I have won my own day.

Start with digging…

The Street I Never Go Down

by Fitz | Nov 18, 2017 | Journal, Poetry

As is often the case, I sit here with good intent to write my end-of-term comments–a dry litany of repeated phrases dulled by. obligation–and find myself instead writing poetry, the stuff I would rather share with my students who already know that I care dearly about them; who know that I give damn about who they are, how they struggle and when they shine in their ragged testimonies of perfection. Nothing in my comments will ever be as new and real as my own journey to chart the nuances of my day.

I live in a small town interwoven with roads I thought I often traveled, but one street caught my eye today–the long dead-end behind Haley’s garage–and I realized something I missed in these twenty years of suburban life.

It reminded me that I need to keep looking and not give up my greater job of seeking, and so became this poem–a simple exercise in counting syllables, which I hope they read this more deeply than the comments I about to write about them.

The Street I Never Go Down

Some old cart path I have never traveled, 10
Houses plotted onto unknown earth 9
Plushed in idosyncrancy 8
I avoid out of habit 7
More than benign intent 6
Or childhood fear, 5
And so promise 4
These last breaths– 3
remains 2
Of 1
This dry, 2
Regretful 3
Day of promise– 4
To live once more 5
In mysterious ways 6
Discerning shrouded secrets 7
Lurking like cats beneath porches, 8
The palpable breath behind drawn shades, 9
Somewhere on the street I never go down. 10