We’ve been learning a lot about poetry lately south of the Fraser River. This week Poet Heidi Greco has been offering her insights on process and form. Here is just one of her many tips on reading a poem. If you’re anything like me and sometimes have no clue what it’s all about, this might help…

My friend Bernie is the person who taught me the best way to eat a mango: sitting in a stream, naked. While we don’t always have access to a warm, tropical stream – or the opportunity to get naked in one – his lesson applies to more than justmangoes.

Reading a poem can be as juicy and delicious (and sometimes as messy) as eating a mango.

First reading sees you peeling back the skin, admiring the flesh, taking in the scent of the fruit. Then, it’s bite after scrumptious bite, each one providing a new rush of flavour. The further you poke your face into it, the messier it gets, all those juices dribbling down your chin and between your fingers. And there at the middle, that nugget of almond-shaped pit, worth scraping clean between your teeth.

But, look out. It won’t be long before you find your tongue worrying some thread of mango string, caught between your teeth– a little something to take you back to the experience of enjoying the fruit.

Eating a mango is a whole lot like reading a poem. Both can leave you with something to think about later on. But the bits left behind by a poem are so much less annoying than strings caught between your teeth. Besides, with a poem, you don’t need a stream to wash up in afterwards.

Try doing a homophonic translation of a poem or a page of prose. To do this, you need a poem or piece of prose in a language you don’t understand. Then, “translate” each line or sentence based roughly on the sound or sight of the words. For example, I turned Rilke’s line “Wer hat uns also umgedreht, da wir” into “Where has the sun also grumbled?” The idea here is to engage with language in a way that is not logical in a linear sense. This exercise often produces marvelous word combinations and interesting story/character ideas.

Post by Jen Currin, TWS poetry mentor.

Photo from Wikimedia Commons.

During Jami Macarty’s Sounds Like, Looks Like, and Feels Like Poetry, a core course of Southbank Writers’ Program, Claire DeBoer, a program mentor, and this blog’s coordinator, asked the following excellent, multi-part, and compelling question:

“On the few occasions when I have felt moved to write a poem (and have been afraid to do so because I had no clue about process) I have worked from the emotions I felt at the time and built words and images around that. What I am left with is lines on a page that don’t seem to reflect any particular type of poem or process. So – do I continue with this method and then try to shape my first draft into a processed poem (sestina, free verse, whatever format I choose)? Or do I leave the poem as is instead of trying to force it into a particular format?”

Here’s Jami’s response:

As I got half way through my response to Claire’s questions, it occurred to me that other writers may be interested in this topic. In fact, Toni Levi, another Southbank mentor, had a similar question a few days after Claire’s. With that in mind, though I am addressing Claire and her question directly, I offer all of you my response:

The way you describe the beginning of your process “when I have felt moved to write a poem” is, as far as I’m concerned, the perfect first step. That is, to allow for an arising movement within you to lead you to words and then paper/screen. And, yes, it’s often par for this course for fear to debilitate that movement.

Fear is one of the many manifestations performing the Inner Critic’s biding. When you “feel moved” to write a poem in the future, I invite you to focus as fully as you can on the energy within that feels “moved.” Write from there. If fear crops up, respectfully ask it to come back later for tea, because right now you’re busy writing a poem. Say it as loudly and as proudly as needed to get the critic to back off for a bit. I’m serious!

Now, it seems to me, dear writer, that “being afraid” to write a poem because you “had no clue about process” is in the category of putting the cart before the horse. It’s pretty common for writers to worry about process and form before they have material to process or form. From my point of view, as a creative writer, your number one and most important focus is to get the material out on the page/screen as authentically felt as possible. That’s first and foremost. So, your “worked from the emotions… felt at the time and built words and images around that” is exactly right.

Then, right! What you will be “left with is lines on a page.” That’s just the first movement. The process continues as revision occurs. Again, worrying about what’s there—”that doesn’t seem to reflect any particular type of poem”— sounds a lot like you’re putting high expectations on yourself to know what’s there before you know what’s there. This takes time. You cannot write a Shakespearean Sonnet (14 lines in iambic pentameter) before knowing what you feel compelled to say. Put the horse in front and let it run.

So, yes, I vote for continuing with the method you’ve been following. I urge you to go as far as you can with the content—getting it to be as true to heart as absolutely possible before the focus shifts to form. I believe content shapes form. In Black Mountain poet Robert Creeley’s words, “form is never more than an extension of content.”

In a way, the writer doesn’t have to concern herself with form. Content takes care of it. I don’t think there’s a “trying” to shape. I think that happens organically from within and out of the poem. I don’t believe the writer chooses a form for a poem.

What if the writer takes as her first task to listen, patiently, for the poem to assert its form and shape? Now, that’s not to say that you can’t create a formal constraint for yourself, and say, choose to write a sestina, as an exercise—to get to know the form experientially. This is an excellent practice. Much is learned about the form, and in the process, the left brain (the Inner Critic’s territory) is highly occupied, which frees the right brain to run and skip and jump and cartwheel as it so desires.

It’s probably clear by now that I am not a proponent of “trying to force it [the poem] into a particular format.” A poem is like a butterfly caught in the house and cupped in the hands to set free outdoors. If you close your hands or hold too tightly, you’ll crush it.

Lastly, reading broadly, exposing yourself to as many different styles and types of poetry will offer you examples of and possibilities for form. Through reading, you’ll gain a sense of how form and content work with and for each other.

To your world of words,

Jami Macarty

Faculty, SFU’s Southbank Writers’ Program

Image credit: AJU_photography flickr.com

The Southbank Writer’s Program in Surrey has been underway for 3 weeks now and we’ve been picking up some writing germs along the way.

Instructor Nancy Lee taught us that great writers are born, for the most part, of thousands of hours of writing practice rather than a God-given talent. She helped us to see that by worrying less about perfection and getting it right the first time, that our best writing comes from exploring our imaginations freely on the page.

Lois Peterson introduced the concept of ‘germs’ to us. Germs are those ideas for a writing piece that come to us when we’re driving down the highway, sleeping in our beds, reading the newspaper, or when we overhear a conversation. The trick is to make a note of these germs as soon as we think of them and then to spend some time watering and feeding them until they are ready to grow. “Don’t judge a germ”, Lois says, “just record it and start asking questions about it.” Don’t write until you are ready. You should feel so pregnant with the story that you will burst; that’s the time to begin writing.

Poet Jami Macarty showed us to look for the germ of a poem through a writing exercise than began with a most unlikely seed: cataloging the start of our day in reverse order. Simple sentences came out of the exercise, such as,”grab keys from counter,” “get up and feed the cats.” But once we focused on those words, sounds, images and letters that meant something to us, we began to find the germ to a poem and the unexplored seeds that lay dormant inside us.

We’re looking forward to some great insights from Jami this week before we journey into the world of non-fiction with Bryan Payton this weekend.

Post by Claire De Boer —Mentor, Southbank Writer’s Program

Claire De Boer is a fiction writer and graduate of both The Writer’s Studio and the London School of Journalism. She is the Wellness Editor and regular contributor for SheLoves Magazine and also provides professional writing services.

Creative commons image courtesy of flickr.com.

The exact evocation of one image, however beautiful, delights the human mind less than a lightning-flash comparison that fuses and assimilates two images (Brigid Brophy). This unexpected, sleight-of-hand metamorphosis is what gives pleasure.

Creative writing is a combination of the intellect and the imagination. Our intellect helps make our writing succinct and sensible. Our imagination takes us to undiscovered territories. Sometimes, when we sink deep into our minds in search of a metaphor, something marvelous happens. Something that can bring a knowing smile of surprise and accord, an unexpected spark of delight to you and your audience.

Post by Caroline Wong, who, inspired by her tremendously talented, energetic and hardworking fellow poets, finds herself writing and experimenting with different forms more than she has ever done before.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Prose works written by poets hold a special place of honour on my bookshelf. The memoirs of Lorna Crozier and Patrick Lane, Johanna Skibsrud’s novel The Sentimentalists, and Molly Peacock’s two non-fiction works, The Paper Garden and Paradise, Piece by Piece, are a few well-worn examples.

The artful approach to prose and storytelling is what I love about each of these books. They are meditative in tone and setting, full of vivid, precise language, rich in metaphor and imagery, and mindful of the need for books to show us the wonder of words.

I’m not a poet (not yet, at least), but I hope I can learn to write like one!

Post by Erica Mattson (TWS 2012).

Photo courtesy of the author.

I have been successful in getting published widely in US markets by using the current Poet’s Market guide, as well as searching out submission calls in US market products (e.g., Poetry magazine contains advertising for other reviews). When work has been accepted for publication, get a network going with the editors and they will put you on to new markets. Also, include your e-mail address on all marketing letters sent out, as this will get around as well. Good luck!

Post by Donald Simmers, who has been writing poetry and short stories since age 16. Current work can be found in the Vancouver 125 subTerrain, Poet’s Touchstone (NH), and Prairie Journal (Calgary).

Image courtesy of MS Office Clipart.

So you saw a salmon leap last summer and it wants to play in your next piece of writing! But nothing you can get down on paper seems to quite catch the essence of watching it jump and feeling the twist of salmon muscle in your own gut. The problem might be a lack of knowledge. Get a video on the salmon life cycle; talk to a worker at a salmon hatchery; search out literature about coho, sockeye, and other local species. Somewhere in there will be the thing that goes oh!, and, later, your work will jump with the energy you’ve been given because you respected salmon (and your writing) enough to get the facts.

Post by Carol Shillibeer (TWS 2012), who is old enough to know better but often doesn’t. Take, for example, her desire to write poetry. Find her at http://tailfeather.ca.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Have an idea. It mustn’t be too personal. It must express universal themes. It mustn’t be too abstract.

Don’t use participles. Don’t use adverbs. Form is not in fashion right now. Structure the poem carefully. Don’t use a metre. Use a strong rhythm. Impose no limits on the text. Convey meaning through contradictions. Don’t use irony.

Edit the poem zero times. Edit the poem fifty times. Edit the poem until it’s finished. Don’t overedit the poem. The poem is never finished.

Submit it everywhere. Don’t worry about publication or your work will suffer.

Make an impression. Erase your footsteps.

Post by Meaghan Rondeau (TWS 2010). The above is an excerpt; read the complete version here.

Photo by Nevit Dilmen, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

When you think a piece is finished, or if you’re feeling stuck, the best thing that I have found is to take yourself to a quiet, private space and read your work aloud. Word choices that you thought brilliant on the page can seem excessive or not strong enough, and parts that are giving you a problem can come tripping out of your mouth when you let go of labouring over the page and let your body fill in the blanks. Trust the discoveries, and then get back to the drawing (writing) board and incorporate your new information.

Post by Jocelyn Pitsch (TWS 2010).

Image courtesy of Wikimedia commons.