Poem of the Month - April 2015

Copying the Bard

Over the years, I have had a number of sonnets published. Since my basic model has always been the classic “Shakespearean” sonnet, I thought it might be of interest to readers for me to dissect the form and make my own brief comments upon it.

Actually, I find that Shakespeare’s own sonnets don’t thrill me much anymore. Recently, I re-read his famous collection of 154 sonnets (pictured above) and found myself, frankly, underwhelmed. I find I can still read some of his plays with delight (which of course have a great sense of story to them, as well as being couched in stirring language). But his sonnets I find are often too idiosyncratic in theme to interest me now, and even the word order is often too convoluted to satisfy my twenty-first century ear.

But the form of the Shakespearean sonnet still enthralls me. And it was the form that was drummed into me (again and again!) as I re-read those 154 sonnets recently. Let me quote for you a typical example (Sonnet 71) and then I’ll briefly deconstruct it.

SONNET 71 (by William Shakespeare)

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it, for I love you so

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O, if, I say, you look upon this verse,

When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

But let your love even with my life decay;

    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

    And mock you with me after I am gone.

The first thing to notice is that it has exactly fourteen lines, as sonnets almost always do. But the structure is much more formalised than just the number of lines. Each line has ten syllables, and those ten syllables are generally arranged in five pairs of unstressed-stressed syllables, which means the lines are (formally) lines of Iambic pentameter. Actually, this stress pattern is not followed slavishly by Shakespeare, or by any other sonnet writer. He lets words and phrases have their own natural stresses so that the “unstressed-stressed” pattern quite often disappears for a moment and then returns.

There is also a subdivision of the whole sonnet into four distinct parts, as is typical in a Shakespearean sonnet. There are three four-line “quatrains” followed by a final two-line “couplet”. The three quatrains all feature alternating rhyming lines in the pattern A-B-A-B. The final couplet has two lines that rhyme with each other. You can also note that the couplet not only rounds out the theme of the whole sonnet, but adds its own new point while doing it, which again is typical of the Shakespearean sonnet form. They like to end with a bang.

But what thrills me about the form—and what has thrilled so many other poets over the past four hundred years—is that this fourteen-line structure is so incredibly versatile. It’s like a matrix capable of being infused with infinite variety, depending on the theme and word-choice of the poet. You can write a sonnet about just about anything! A few weeks ago I shared with you a poem of mine called “Kangaroo Sonnet”. In that blog I was more concerned with the way the topic (kangaroos) was already set up in the mind of a reader by past experiences. Let me now share that sonnet with you again. But this time notice the sonnet form: the fourteen lines; the ten syllables of every line; the three quatrains with the rhyming pattern A-B-A-B; the end rhyming couplet (with its final image). But most of all notice how a four-hundred-year-old form gave me a “matrix” I could work with in the 21^st century on the other side of the planet! That’s why I’m so thankful to Mr Shakespeare.

KANGAROO SONNET

They are—at first—unseen, just like statues

and as grey-brown as the eucalypt trunks.

But then they spring into action, these ’roos

rousing the forest with their thumps and thunks.

Most of their movement is flight; they barely

touch ground—instead they are bouncing, bounding

between trees, through blank intervals of air:

leaves fly—dust dances—amidst the pounding.

And then the action telescopes away

into the distance. The great disturbance

recedes like a train on a lazy day

and the bush unbends from its perturbance.

There is nothing left but some broken sticks

and some leaves, swinging, from those giant kicks.

“Kangaroo Sonnet”© Peter Friend. First published by the NSW Dept. of Educ. in The School Magazine (Touchdown, November 2010)

A purple cat (and all of that)

TWEEDLES

Tweedles is a purple cat.
   (Well, fancy that—
   a purple cat.)
And he sits calmly on his mat,
   and it is purple too.

You cannot see him on his mat.
   (Well, how about that.
   An unseen cat!)
In fact, when Tweedles lies real flat,
   he feels quite mat-like too.

So, if you see a purple mat
   (and it seems flat,
   and all of that),
take care! It’s Tweedles (Aah! That cat!)
   just waiting there, for you.

A couple of weeks ago I published this poem as my poem of the month on Facebook and Blogspot. It’s about a rather tricksy purple cat. The poem had first been published by the New South Wales Department of Education back in 2009 in a magazine for primary schools (Countdown, July 2009). Of all the children’s poems I have written, “Tweedles” remains one of my favourites. I’m not sure why. Probably, it is for two reasons, both of which might be worth recording,

Firstly, the poem paints a picture (and quite a vivid one I think) of an interesting character.  The whole poem is only fifteen lines long. Yet from the very first line the reader is startled—or at least I still am, when I reread it—by the fact that the poem is not merely about a cat, but about a purple cat. “Cats” and “purpleness” are two categories that normally never meet in the real world. Thus the reader realises (with a start?) that Tweedles is out of the ordinary; he’s the sort of cat that a reader is only ever going to meet in literature (as in this poem) or in art (as in the illustration at the top of this blog, painted by my wife).

Yet the “cat-ness” of Tweedles also remains. This only adds (I think) to the interest, for cats are, by nature, intriguing. Cats are moody and individualistic; they display a “don’t care” attitude (which their owners either find endearing or infuriating); they create their own stubborn little worlds in the homes in which they live. All of this makes for interesting characters, and I make full use of this “cat” background in my poem. Tweedles, you see, sits on his mat as if he owns it (like all cats do). He has attitude. He even has an agenda.

The fact that the mat is as purple as Tweedles not only accentuates Tweedles’ possession of it, but also allows the essential trickiness of this particular cat to display itself. Tweedles can disguise himself in the purple. He can disappear. He can lie hidden (with his claws at the ready!) for his unsuspecting owner, or for any unsuspecting visitor.

It is at this point that the poem simply ends. The character of Tweedles has been presented. And that’s that.

But there’s a second reason why I think I find this poem appealing. I enjoy the sing-song of the rhythm and rhyme. The rhythm is a definite one; it is almost entirely made up of pairs of syllables, where the first is unstressed and the second stressed, and these occur in groups of four (the literary term is iambic tetrameter) except for the last line of each stanza which has just three of these unstressed-stressed pairs (and is therefore called iambic trimeter). It’s a pretty common meter in English poetry. Actually, I have varied it a bit by dividing the second group of four stresses in each stanza into two half lines (lines 2 and 3 in each case), which strictly makes these lines iambic dimeter. It gives a short, punchy effect at that point in each stanza.

The rhyme also adds to the musical effect. Except for the last line in each stanza, every line in the poem ends in an “at” sound (cat, that, mat, flat). And the last line of each stanza ends in an “oo” sound (too, you). The limited number of rhyming sounds helps tie the poem together tightly (and none of the words were difficult rhymes—they were all common words).

Thus you end up with these two main features in the poem: a vivid character, and arresting rhythm and rhyme. Perhaps you’d like to try composing your own crazy poem along similar lines? Hopefully, by developing the same sorts of features in your own original poem, you will end up with something that you too will enjoy reading and re-reading into the future!

Imagining a land

This month marks two years since my first little fantasy novel,The Cliff Runner, was published by Blake Education (www.blake.com.au). It was a new genre for me. I have other ideas for fantasy novels—more elaborate, more adventurous—which I’d love to get my teeth into soon. But The Cliff Runner was a start, in which I imagined and built a land and set a story in it.

It began with a made-up map. But it was a map that intersected with the real world. You see, I wanted a landscape that was at least a bit like the coastal area in which I lived. That’s because I wanted to get out along the real coast for inspiration, where the cliffs rose and the waves crashed upon the rocks. The real coast was to be the beginning—though only the beginning—of my made-up land. So, when I began on that first day to sketch out a map of my fantasy land, it was a map with a long eastern coastline that ran right down the page, like my own known bit of coastline in eastern Australia. In fact, I made that first sketch overlooking the real coast, with the crash of waves sounding in my ears.

This, as a writer of fantasy, was my compromise with reality. It helped me stick to that old rule-of-thumb of writers that you should “write what you know.” But then—and here’s the important point—I stretched it all into fantasy. I made the cliffs higher and the surf more treacherous than the coast I knew. I added things too—new bays, headlands and mountains. The most dramatic of these was Mount Targ, an active volcano. In the novel, Mount Targ would often colour the night sky with a ghostly orange glow, and sometimes fresh lava would burst down its slopes to crash, boiling, into the sea. I knew nothing first-hand of volcanoes, but I knew enough in general terms to add it (without giving much detail) to the landscape I did know. Beyond Mount Targ, to the north, I created the Bay of Thularn, strewn with boulders; its treacherous waters had been the graveyard for many vessels. To me, it was reminiscent of a real bay that I had visited, where I had seen rusting wreckage on the rocks from a hundred-year old steamship called the S.S. Maitland.

I created a little fishing village too called Leoden. That’s where the main character of The Cliff Runner was to be based, for Arun was an apprentice runner. He was tasked—in thismedieval-style world—with running vital messages along the otherwise inaccessible coastline. That’s what would lead to his adventures; for the day would come when the sails of enemy ships would be sighted across the sea, and a message would have to be raced along the cliffs to the military commanders.

At least one more detail is worth mentioning. High above the real cliffs of my own world, I would sometimes sight a White-Bellied Sea-Eagle (Haliaeetus leucogaster). This is Australia’s second largest bird of prey, just slightly smaller than the famous Wedge-tailed Eagle of the outback. The Sea-Eagle is an impressive bird. With a wingspan that can measure more than two metres, it glides swiftly on the heights above the cliffs, a master of the air currents. It is also a formidable predator, with knife-sharp talons and beak. I can’t remember now if it was this bird that specifically gave me the idea of the deadly flocks of korakim in my novel. But I knew, when I created the korakim, that they somehow fit the landscape, just like Sea-Eagles did along the real coast. But then I stretched my made-up birds into fantasy, just as I had stretched into fantasy my landscape: the korakim were to be trained by the enemy invaders to attack runners—like my main character!—on the cliffs. That’s why my main character had to become an expert fighter as well as a runner. There would be big battleson the cliffs before the novel reached its end!

Of course, there’s much more that I could say about my writing of The Cliff Runner novel. I haven’t said anything much yet of my characters, or of my made-up back-story, or of my writing style, or of plot development. But the main point I’ve been trying to make is that the story itself grew out of the land I imagined. And the land I imagined was inspired by a landscape I had already often walked in.

Poem of the Month - March 2015

When the poem begins before the poem begins

In my last blog I talked about “straightforward” poem titles—titles that simply announce the subject of the poem (e.g. “Black Swan”, “Kookaburra”). But there are other poem titles where the title itself plays with words and ideas so as to integrate with the rest of the poem. These titles are not mere subject headings (as useful as such titles may be in other contexts). Rather, the poem actually begins in the heading; the playing with words and thoughts starts even before the first line.

This is the case with my poem of the month for February, which I recently posted on Blogspot and Facebook, and which I reproduce here (above). The poem, as you can see, is titled “Parachutist”. Yet it becomes very quickly apparent that this tiny poem is not talking about a real human parachutist. The illustration, for a start, shows it’s about a leaf; even if it didn’t (that is, if there were no illustration) the first two words would give it away. “Parachutist” is being used here instead as a metaphor. In fact, it is personifying the leaf for poetic effect. The image of the leaf being a parachutist is continued with the verb “launches” in the second line and with the final noun “sky-jump”.

Such economy of words is especially useful, I think, in a haiku poem (which is what this poem is). A haiku has just three lines. If it is composed according to the traditional conventions, the first line has exactly five syllables, the second line seven, and the third line five. This amounts to only a handful of words for the whole poem. It is thus extremely useful to have even one more word available—in this case the title. By choosing the word “parachutist”, I tried to make the title worth while, introducing the central image which would be deepened in the following three lines.

By the way, it might be worth noticing that the personification is not “complete” (personification never is). The leaf is still a leaf. Although it has been pictured as a parachutist in order (hopefully) to deepen the impact upon the human reader, yet the word “one” before the final word shows that a leaf is also very different from a human parachutist. The leaf can never fly up in the air again for a second or third or hundredth sky-jump; this one plunge is its one-and-only flight, which is, of course, what being a leaf is all about. Thus, by the end of this tiny poem, a tension has been observed between the leaf and its human counterpart. Yes, they can be compared in one sense, but in another sense they remain forever distinct. In the end, the title was not the whole story—but it did introduce the central image.

Dead boring poem titles?

I have quite often written poems with titles like “Kangaroo sonnet,” “Kookaburra” or “Black Swan”. Since I am a poet, it is quite legitimate to ask why on earth I would choose such bland titles for my poems. Why don’t I come up with headings that buzz with creativity and excitement? Why not bring all my poetic gifts to bear so that the title itself works a sort of word-magic on the reader? Actually, there’s a method to my madness. These “bland” poem titles are doing a job that no “creative” alternatives could really do. In fact, they are working a word-magic on the reader, though the enchantment is of a very ordinary everyday kind.

These titles orient a reader. They immediately inform a reader what subject—out of billions of possible subjects on planet earth—the poem is going to play with. Notice, for example, what happens if I call a poem simply “Black Swan”. Your brain immediately does something. It focuses in on what it already knows about a “black swan”. It begins to form an image of an Australian swan (they’re the black ones) perhaps floating on a lake, perhaps curving its neck in classic swan style.

Thus, even before the poem has properly started, the poet has got you. He or she has caused you to think of the one subject on earth that the poem is about. This not only saves a lot of words (for the poet doesn’t have to describe the subject at length) but it also means the poet can immediately get down to the task at hand, which is playing poetically with the subject in their idiosyncratic way. These dead boring poem titles thus help the reader and the poet meet half way. The reader brings all their prior knowledge of the subject to their reading, and the poet launches out from this starting point without having to rehash the obvious. Instead the poet creates (hopefully) a new angle on the subject—perhaps many new angles—that the reader has never encountered before.

By way of example, you might like to read the poem below which carries the title “Kangaroo sonnet”. If you’re like most readers who hear this title, your mind will already be starting to close in on the topic of “kangaroos”. You’ve probably seen kangaroos at the zoo, or even (if you live in or have visited Australia) in the wild. Now that you are thinking about kangaroos, in fact, these creatures are probably getting ready to hop through the air in your mind already … which is precisely what I intended! You’re already half there.

KANGAROO SONNET

They are—at first—unseen, just like statues

and as grey-brown as the eucalypt trunks.

But then they spring into action, these ’roos

rousing the forest with their thumps and thunks.

Most of their movement is flight; they barely

touch ground—instead they are bouncing, bounding

between trees, through blank intervals of air:

leaves fly—dust dances—amidst the pounding.

And then the action telescopes away

into the distance. The great disturbance

recedes like a train on a lazy day

and the bush unbends from its perturbance.

There is nothing left but some broken sticks

and some leaves, swinging, from those giant kicks.

Poem © Peter Friend. First published by the NSW Dept. of Educ. in
The School Magazine (Touchdown, Sept. 2011). All rights reserved.