Poetry 101--Derivative Poems

[Angeline]

Poetry 101? What the hell is she on about now?

Let's share what we know. I'd like to introduce this thread as the first in a series of "classes" to share what we understand about poetry and, I hope, inspire each other to write. I know many of you have specific areas of interest where you have lots of info that could be shared. JUDO, for example, explains the method of scanning a poem--its rhythm and meter--better than any prof I ever had as an English lit major. Senna Jawa understands haiku, Cordelia could teach Shakespeare, HomerPindar has wonderfully creative ideas about poetic form. And Wicked Eve. Well, I'm convinced that woman knows everything.

I know you're out there you poets! Come share your expertise. Whether it's knowledge of a poetic form, a process, or a poet, I want to learn from you and I'm not alone!

I propose we do this "class' once a week, more often would be too much I think. Send me a pm or email if you are willing to "teach" one, and I'll set up a schedule. For some of you, this will be as easy as pulling stuff together that you've already said here elsewhere.

Get involved! It's good for the board and you'll learn from doing it. (Also karmically good and may cosmically cancel out that time you well...you know)

 

[Angeline]

Derivative Poems I

Lately I have been toying with the idea of writing derivative poems. We all have poets whose work and writing style we love; we also have particular poems that lead us to write a poem in response. For example, I recently started a thread here about the definition of poetry. That got MyOpinion thinking, and he produced a poem. I responded with a poem of my own using the same basic format and theme. Thus, my poem was derived from his. So this I think is derivative poetry; one that follows the general structure and theme of another poem. Here are those examples.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Angeline’s Musings Answered
by Opi

What makes poetry be?
It is the form of words laid upon a page
That presently, now, is the latest craze?
Is it the magic of tossed out metered rhyme
Like clowns performing come circusual time? (1)
Or need we look into a deeper mine for gold
And bring to sun the trinkets to behold
That dazzle even Senna’s cynic mind
Striped to bone to be declared sublime?

Its 19th hole and there I think I’ll go
To see the next night’s entertaining show
For sheer delight and raw emotional rage
I’ve seen come leaping out from this thread’s page!

The answer to the question, seems to me,
Rests in the turn of perspective’s key;
Can the writer’s fashioned words help take
The reader beyond imagination’s gate
To place him squarely in the time and land
Like children called forth by Peter Pan?

= = = = =
(1)circusual means usual circus. Yes, I made it up.
= = = = =
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A-Mused
By Angeline

What gives rise to poetry?

The form of words across a page?
Traditions carried down from sage?
Or music played in metered rhyme?
Like flautists fluting songs sublime?

Do memories in our hearts enfold?
To live again in new words told?
And must poems follow any rule?
Must poetry belong to school?

Do poems improve when poets rage?
Do egos fret poems on a stage?
Do words gain grace in such a game?
Do poets grow from ire’s blame?

The answer seems simple to me:
It lies within perspective’s see.
Any sincere words may place
A dreaming smile on reader's face.

If reader thinks words hold élan,
Then poet becomes reader’s Pan.


There is another example of this posted in the thread Opi‘s Discussion Corner. Lauren wrote a lovely poem called “7:30 PM” to which Opi responded “In Reply.” I am sure there are other examples on the site.

 

[Angeline]

Derivative Poems II--E.E. Cummings

Occasionally, one runs across a derivative poem by accident. Look at this poem by E.E. Cummings, one of his most beautiful love poems, IMHO:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
somewhere i have never traveled by E.E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Gorgeous, huh? A few years back I quite by accident discovered the following poem by Gerald William Barrax--also absolutely lovely-- obviously derived from the Cummings poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your Eyes Have Their Silence by Gerald William Barrax

Your eyes have their silence in giving words
back more beautifully than trees can rain
and give back in swaying the rain
that makes silence mutable and startles nesting birds.

And so it rains. And so I speak or not
as your eyes go from silence suddenly
at love to wonder (as those quiet birds suddenly
at rain) letting, finally, myself be taught

silence before your eyes conceding everything
spoken as experience, as love, as reason
enough not to speak of them and my reason
crawls into the silence of your eyes. Spring

always promises something, sometimes only more
beauty: and so it rains. And so I take
whatever promise there is in silence as you take
words as rain and give them back in silence before

there are ways to say that more beauty is nothing
for you before my hands can memorize
the beauty of your slender movements and nothing
is beautiful as words nesting in your eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

[Angeline]

Derivative Poems III--In Which I Try One and Get An E for Effort

Well I had to try it again friends and, for inspiration, I went to a poet and poem I’ve loved for years. Forugh Farrakhzad (1935-1967) was an Iranian poet, perhaps the most well known woman poet in Persian literature. I love the way she writes, conveying wit, delicacy, and power all at once. My favorite poem of hers is “Window.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Window by Forugh Farrakhzad

One window is sufficient
One window for beholding
One window for hearing
One window
resembling a well's ring
reaching the earth at the finiteness of its heart
and opening towards the expanse of this repetitive blue kindness
one window filing the small hands of loneliness
with nocturnal benevolence
of the fragrance of wondrous stars
and thereof,
one can summon the sun
to the alienation of geraniums.

One window will suffice me.

I come from the homeland of dolls
from beneath the shades of paper-trees
in the garden of a picture book
from the dry seasons of impotent experiences in friendship and love
in the soil-covered alleys of innocence
from the years of growing pale alphabet letters
behind the desks of the tuberculous school
from the minute that children could write "stone"
on the blackboard
and the frenzied starlings would fly away
from the ancient tree.

I come from the midst of carnivorous plant roots
and my brain is still overflowed
by a butterfly's terrifying shriek
crucified with pins
onto a notebook.

When my trust was suspended from the fragile thread of justice
and in the whole city
they were chopping up my heart's lanterns
when they would blindfold me
with the dark handkerchief of Law
and from my anxious temples of desire
fountains of blood would squirt out
when my life had become nothing
nothing
but the tic-tac of a clock,
I discovered
I must
must
must love,
insanely.

One window will suffice me
one window to the moment of awareness
observance
and silence.
now,
the walnut sapling
has grown so tall that it can interpret the wall
by its youthful leaves.

Ask the mirror
the redeemer's name.
Isn't the shivering earth beneath your feet lonelier than you?
the prophets brought the mission of destruction to our century
aren't these consecutive explosions
and poisonous clouds
the reverberation of the sacred verses?
You,
comrad,
brother,
confidant,
when your reach the moon
write the history of flower massacres.

Dreams always plunge down from their naive height
and die.
I smell the four-petal clover
which has grown on the tomb of archaic meanings.

Wasn't the woman
buried in the shroud of anticipation and innocence,
my youth?

Will I step up the stairs of curiosity
to greet the good God who strolls on the rooftop?

I feel that "time" has passed
I feel that "moment" is my share of history's pages
I feel that "desk" is a feigned distance
between my tresses
and the hands of this sad stranger.

Talk to me
What else would the one offering the kindness of a live flesh want from
you?
but the understanding of the sensation of existence.
Talk to me

I am in the window's refuge
I have a relationship with the Sun.

(Translated by: Leila Farjami)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, it’s a big poem, but it can be broken down thematically (I’m being very general here) to the following:

1. A description of “window” to represent the writer’s vision (this can be interpreted literally--e.g., what do you see when you look out your window--or metaphorically--e.g., what do you see with your heart‘s “vision“);

2. A description of the writer’s country (again this can be interpreted literally or not) that leads to an elemental conclusion (“I discovered I must/must/must love,/insanely);

3. A series of philosophical questions related to the conclusion; and

4. An imperative for how to live drawn from the conclusion.

I then wrote the poem “One Window,” using the guideline I developed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One window
by Angeline

One window invites the world
to light my dark corners,
and offer a benevolence of life
whose arms hold me closer than you

ever could.

One window is all I need.

The light from one window
pours butter here,
and moves in slanting sun motes
across my skin,
telling my face when it is safe to smile.

One window is enough
to shift the shadows.

I come from a land of foreigners,
and even I can’t know their words:
sometime your truth my lie
and vice versa.

Who knows what we understand,
walking as we do
through fields of seaflowers
as beautiful as they are deadly.

They cut our feet,
welling blood even as the ocean
sings love songs in sapphire pools.

When we crash in waves at the strand,
mourning the shards and shells
of hearts echoing the ocean’s wake,


we love insanely
and we must love.

Ask the mirror
if it knows the names of faces
hidden in the human heart,

Some bright,
others faded almost gone,
but faintly drawn in lines around the eyes.

Ask yourself why loneliness
gathers still as a lake in the cup of your palms,

then when you reach heaven,
pray for every flower ever crushed.

Talk to me and do not look away.
Talk to the warmth of my hands.
Talk to me through the refuge of glass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

[Angeline]

Derivative Poems IV--Your Turn

I’m going to try another. Anyone else want to play? Find a poem you love, identify the thematic structure as you understand it, then let your imagination fly and write your derivative poem. Post them both in this thread.

You notice, by the way, that my poem is considerably shorter than its model, and doesn't cover as much, or even really the same ground. Your derivation does not need strictly follow--think of the model and its theme not as an enclosing structure, but a springboard!

C’mon. It’ll be fun. You’ll see!

 

[HomerPindar]

This reminds me of poetry boot camp, which is what got me started posting here in the first place. I're written a few poems in response, or derived, from reading Joyce, either Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake. But the problem with writting poetry in the margins of books is one can never find them again. Of course, one might argue whether either of these books are poetry or not... None the less, I'll try to find something specific and new to work with

HomerPindar

 

[MyOpinion]

removed

 

[HomerPindar]

Angeline, there is a fifth for Window by Forugh Farrakhzad and your poem, One Window, that I did see:

5. The theme of buildings represented, visual representation, by the poem's line structures.

If you were to print both poems out and turn the page sideways you would see a landscape of buildings.

I see visual representation in many of Rybka's poems as well.

Very cool! Seeing as this is suppose to be a "class" sorta thingy, turning words into an image represented in the poem is a form known as "calligram" (I mistakenly labled a poem on a mountain stream as a concrete poem, should be calligram). The idea being that the layout of the words should, in some way, be made to resemble the subject.

HomerPindar

 

[Angeline]

I tried it again

Here is a pair of poems--the original from Joseph Brodsky, the derived poem from me. In my version, I didn't even think about theme--not consciously really, though I think I captured it unknowingly-- but about the look of Brodsky's poem and some of its language. What do you think? Any feedback is much appreciated.


Seven Strophes
by Joseph Brodsky

I was but what you'd brush
with your palm, what your leaning
brow would hunch to in evening's
raven-black hush.

I was but what your gaze
in that dark could distinguish:
a dim shape to begin with,
later - features, a face.

It was you, on my right,
on my left, with your heated
sighs, who molded my helix
whispering at my side.

It was you by that black
window's trembling tulle pattern
who laid in my raw cavern
a voice calling you back.

I was practically blind.
You, appearing, then hiding,
gave me my sight and heightened
it. Thus some leave behind

a trace. Thus they make worlds.
Thus, having done so, at random
wastefully they abandon
their work to its whirls.

Thus, prey to speeds
of light, heat, cold, or darkness,
a sphere in space without markers
spins and spins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five Strophs
by Angeline

I was what your voice bumped
with upturned palms, what you touched
while languishing in boredom’s late gray,
adjusting the clicks of afternoon.

You wait on the left side of nowhere,
unsure of the warmth you radiate,
but skilled in the dance of murmurs,
you capture sparrows’ broken wings.

It was you tumbling from taxis
and skating over icy avenues,
your voice crooning through a lens,
restless for beauty in a whirl of air.

I floated into your uncertainty,
which stumbles now here now not,
grasping for passing moments of heart,
while keys clack and phones ring.

So what if blindness hides the truth
and the hunter is restless and dubious?
Planets still spin and sigh,
marking time against heaven's multitudes.

 

[MyOpinion]

mmni

 

[Angeline]

Thank You Opi!

I never know how far I should go in posting a review

However much information you are comfortable sharing is good for me. I want to improve the poem in question, so if there is some aspect of it that you think is not working or that you are not understanding, I want to know. I may not agree (just as I don't always expect a writer to agree with my suggested revsions), but I am ALWAYS grateful for the review!

your voice crooning through a lens,

is there something about "your voice" we need to know about? I do not get the reference, or how you can do such a thing with a voice, if you get my meaning. Since today seems to have a theme of Education for Opi (I didn't know what acrositc or strophe was before looking them up today!) so why not one more lesson?

For me "Your voice crooning through a lens" is intended to metaphorically suggest a "siren-like" appeal. You know the Sirens almost drove Ulysses mad with their singing, and I wanted to raise something of that image here. "Crooning" gives the context of song (to croon is to sing in a gentle, intimate way), and of course the thing that would croon is a voice.

So why "through a lens"? A lens suggests camera, but also capture because a camera captures a moment. Here the crooning voice attempts to capture "beauty," also suggestive both of what a camera does and what the subject of the poem wants to do with the poet--capture her. Note also, that the capture idea is repeated in the last strophe with the term "hunter." This poem is alot about predator and prey.

And no it is not a phrase that can be interpreted literally, but it's poetry! It's a metaphor!

In my version, I didn't even think about theme-- Are you referring to the strophe theme as implied by the titles of both poems? Or do you wish comment on a different theme?

By theme I meant not the use of stanzas, or strophes, but what Brodsky was trying to say versus what I was. The themes are similar, but not the same. I see his poem as being about accepting loss of someone who influenced him, while I see my poem as being more about the relative unimportance of someone's victimization. So while both poems are about influence, mine veered off in another direction.

 

[fleetaft]

my attempt

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all to short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

--William Shakespeare

How dear lady fair is it so real?
May I tell you all that I now feel:
Does every bloom from flower decline?
By or nature's chance change its zeal
Fear that our summer's lease surcease
Hath too short a seasoned sun my love
Trust will cease not dare I pray
‘Tis a sight of you gifts from above
Yet words can't to feelings say
But if fate does mean to pry us apart
Knowing the darling buds we sew this day
They do give life to you in my heart.
For your sake I will walk away
Knowing the buds of today will always stay

---Michael aka fleetaft