At the wise suggestion of our esteemed editor, Jim Lewis, I cordially invite you to take a moment to think back to some of the basics of writing poetry. Although you may have mastered many of these issues long ago—or perhaps not—it might behoove you to re-think a few of them—particularly those having to do with that old conundrum: Shall I write my next poem in free verse, or use a traditional form?

Let’s say you love reading and writing poetry—and most likely you do, or you wouldn’t have paused to get yourself past the title of this essay, right? So let’s say you write poetry all the time, but — outside of an occasional haiku or two — your poems tend to hit the page as free verse. My question to you is this: why not discover the fascinating strategies available to you for devising a sensational sonnet, a mesmerizing pantoum, an artful triolet,, or even an ingenious abecedarian? It’s fun and it’s finally time for you to find out.

Why bother? Because there are some very real and tangible advantages to knowing how to write poetry in traditional forms. The old forms, almost every sensitive reader will admit, often bring to a poem a linguistic power and a musicality that it would not otherwise have. Ergo (logically enough) — when formal devices are used with freshness and originality today, they absolutely still can. If you don't believe me, or if you think in your heart of hearts that no Poet of the Truly Cool would write in form nowadays, I encourage you to take a good long look at the anthology called Strong Measures (eds. Dacey & Jauss), and/or another one called A Formal Feeling Comes (ed. A. Finch.) These anthologies are not particularly new, but it's my opinion that their insights and examples still know no peer.

The poet Richard Hugo once pointed out that the restrictions of traditional poetry can actually free you, rather than hinder or restrict you. He added that merely deciding to rhyme can give you the chance to surprise yourself on the page, like suddenly realizing that immaculate rhymes with chocolate. Or that a potentially boring verb like increases will rhyme deliciously with Reese’s Pieces.

Another magnificent poet, Richard Wilbur, agreed with Hugo, adding that traditional forms “can actually liberate you from whatever narrow track your own mind is running on, prompt it to be loose and inventive, and to entertain possibilities it hadn't foreseen." Case in point: I once decided to rhyme the word go with braggadocio, which turned out to be the only interesting moment in the stanza I was writing. It actually saved a poem that had been going nowhere.

So why are so many poets eager to claim that “formal poetry" is artificial, that writing in meter is restrictive, and rhyme is contrived? It restricts you from saying what you really want to say in your poems, right? Well, you might be surprised to hear me admit that yeah, sometimes it does.

But let's face it: all poetry is artificial, in that it is not what linguists call a “real speech utterance”. A certain amount of artifice is always required if your poems are going to be well crafted. As long as you avoid the obvious and the clichéd (such as rhyming love with above; or highway with my way, for example)— you may very well come up with something absolutely wonderful that never would have occurred to you under ordinary circumstances.

		Ballad Of The Despairing Husband (excerpt)

		My wife and I lived all alone,
		contention was our only bone,
		I fought with her, she fought with me,
		and things went on right merrily.

		But now I live here by myself
		with hardly a damn thing on the shelf,
		and pass my days with little cheer
		since I have parted from my dear.

		Oh come home soon, I write to her.
		Go screw yourself, is her answer.
		Now what is that, for Christian word?
		I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.

						—Robert Creeley

		Shakespearean Sonnet
		
		A man is haunted by his father's ghost.
		Boy meets girl while feuding families fight.
		A Scottish king is murdered by his host.
		Two couples get lost on a summer night.
		A hunchback murders all who block his way.
		A ruler's rivals plot against his life.
		A fat man and a prince make rebels pay.
		A noble Moor has doubts about his wife.
		An English king decides to conquer France.
		A duke learns that his best friend is a she.
		A forest sets the scene for this romance.
		An old man and his daughters disagree.
		A Roman leader makes a big mistake.
		A sexy queen is bitten by a snake.		
						
						—R. S. Gwynn

		Truth

		She meets me at the door and sniffs my clothes,
		gets face to face and peers into my eyes,
		dogs me to the kitchen demanding to know
		where I've been, who with, if I've been trying
		marijuana, don't lie to her, she's been
		to the parents' meeting at the high-school
		and knows the smell, what to look for, she's seen
		a film that shows what smoking pot can lead to.
		I pull out kaiser rolls and deli meats,
		the mayo, lettuce, onion, and tomato
		and build a sandwich the size of a hat
		while she keeps pressing me and smelling me
		until I say yes, I've been smoking dope.
		She hugs me hard, says Oh, don't tell me that. 

						—Eric Nelson


		The Poet Reflects on her Solitary Fate

		She lives alone now.
		Has abandoned the brothers,
		the rooms of fathers
		and many mothers.

		They have left her
		to her own device.
		Her nightmares and pianos.
		She owns a lead pipe.

		The stray lovers
		have gone home.
		The house is cold.
		There is nothing on t.v.
		She must write poems.

						—Sandra Cisneros


		Valentine

		My heart has made its mind up
		And I’m afraid it’s you.
		Whatever you’ve got lined up,
		My heart has made its mind up
		And if you can’t be signed up
		This year, next year will do.
		My heart has made its mind up
		And I’m afraid it’s you.

						—Wendy Cope
						

Please note, gentle reader, that the first three poems shown above—the Creeley, the Gwynn and the Nelson—are successful examples of contemporary poems written in traditional forms. Creeley simply uses a trio of rhymed quatrains; Gwynn and Nelson both offer deftly written English sonnets,. All three show what a little formalized humor can do. Cisneros and Cope simply demonstrate some further fun that can be had by simply adding formal elements (like repetition and rhyme) to what are basically free-verse poems, solely for the purpose of jazzing things up a bit. I urge you to proceed with your own work at your own pace—and enjoy yourself!