This coming Friday night not only promises refreshment and possible intoxication, but also the challenge of trying your hand at something new. For poetry night, we will be creating drink recipes to match some original poetry. For example, I'll be posting three poems (and subsequently 3 drinks). I wonder if anyone else will write something original-- English or Dutch - that we can translate into liquid.

The task might be daunting, but look below for the 'rules' to writing various types of poems. I will describe what some of the historical forms are and what the rules are for each. If you chose a form, it's necessary to really abide by the rules of the form. I think you will find that writing poetry is easier when you SO chose a structured form, because it becomes something of a puzzle that needs to be fitted and tailored to fit its own shape. See what you can come up with. Here are some of the forms you might want to experiment with...

The Villanelle

The villanelle, a lovely, complicated (but very possible) form dates back to the late 1500s. Poet Jean Passerat is credited with having created the form. A finished villanelle is often so melodic and rhythmic, they have often been thought of as songs rather than poems. But this form has lost its popularity over the years because it's structure makes it very hard to host a narrative poem (a story poem). So-- either you will love this facet (because you're more interested in words and images), or you will reject it because you want to tell a more cohesive story.

A villanelle has nineteen lines (5 tercets-meaning 3-line stanzas, and one quatrain- meaning a four-line stanza at the very end). The 1st and 3rd line of the first stanza must repeat in the last lines of the following stanzas (best to look at the example I'll include-you will see that MANY of the lines repeat) (the repetition is what's important). Look to the example to see how the last stanza (the quatrain) is composed.

And remember-- the rhyming pattern is also important. You will see all this in the example by Elizabeth Bishop (a very accessible poet, and a great, easy example). This poem is called 'One Art':

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

The Sestina

The sestina is my favorite form. It's highly-structured (like the villanelle) and has a rigid rhyming requirement (like the villanelle) but it is longer, even MORE structured, and for that reason, I find it (ironically) easier to write.

The sestina is a troubadour form. It first appeared in France in the 12th CENTURY! It was a way in which the troubadours (always romantic at heart ) could show off by writing in this complicated way. They would often sing their compositions. Don't be put off though... the KEY to writing a sestina is to choose your six words well-- SIX WORDS-- you'll see what I mean in a second.

So the sestina has 39 lines (6 stanzas of 6 lines each and then one one-line stanza at the end)

Now, here's the thing... you must choose SIX WORDS. These are the six last words of each line. You have to use the SAME six words as the last words in the line for the REST of the poem. It REALLY forces you to think. This is the ultimate puzzle in writing (in my mind).

The pattern (order) of the lines (with that same word at the end) is this:

1. ABCDEF

2. FAEBDC

3. CFDABE

4. ECBFAD

5. DEACFB

6. BDFECA

7. (envoi, meaning last stanza) ECA or ACE (you choose)

I know it sounds complicated, but look at a sestina, and you will instinctively GET it. This is kind of a joke sestina, but it has all the info you need. It's called 'The Buffy Sestina' and it's by Jason Scniederman':

 Buffy is upstairs sharpening her large collection of stakes

 when her mother comes upstairs and says, "Would it be bad,

 just this once, not to go out staking vampires again tonight?"

 After all—she had just defeated an apocalyptic force! Time

 for a break? Buffy never has time for a break. Angel gone,

 her stakes sharp, she kisses her mom and hops out the window

 into the backyard. Buffy is familiar with this small window

 at the beginning of every season (school year), when her stakes

 are enough to fight her battles, and whatever the big coming

 evil will be—it hasn't started to build yet. What big bad

 will it be this season? She pulls her coat against the night

 and there's Willow! Her best friend! She certainly has time

 for Willow! They walk, explicate the summer, say, "Time

 to go back to school." Suddenly, a vampire seizes this window

 of relaxed defenses, and grabs off-guard Willow. Oh this night-

 ly threat! Willow screams and resists. Buffy turns, her stake

 at the ready. "Meet my friend, Mr. Pointy!" she says. Bad

 bloodsucker, he lets Willow go. He wants to fight. He goes

 at Buffy with everything, and Buffy (blue coat, boots) comes

 back at him hard. The fight is oddly even. For a long time

 (40 seconds, say), he gets in good blows. He hurts her bad,

 she looks finished. She isn't getting back up again. A doe

 leaps into the cemetery. All are distracted. Willow makes a stake

 from a broken bench piece and the vampire tries to run into the night.

 But Xander arrives, blocks the exit with his own stake. This night

 is going terribly now (for the vampire)! The vampire goes

 around to a crypt and tries to run inside, but it takes time

 to pry open the gates. Too much time; Xander almost stakes

 the vamp, but he stops to quip, and the effort goes bad.

 The vampire throws him hard into the boarded-up window

 of the crypt. Willow runs over, pulls a board from the window

 for a new stake. Buffy's back up. Oh, what a luxury this night

 is! Forever to fight just one, lone vampire. Xander's bad-

 inage soundtracks the fight. Willow lunges and misses, coming

 close, but too far left. Buffy kicks the vampire in face, stake

 brandished. He goes down, and she's on top of him this time.

 Buffy stakes the vampire. He's dust. Whew! Wait. Bad. Crypts

 don't have windows. The night is heavy and dark. That took a long time!

 What's coming begins to come. Let's unboard that window.  

(one more note on the sestina--- for your LAST repeat word of the line-- it can be a rhyming word or a word relating to the repeat word. Totally acceptable. For example, in this one, the author could have alternated between stake, steak, stake-out. His repetition of 'time' could have included timed, times, timely, even a rhyming word like 'mime' 'crime'. Not EVERY time-- but it's part of the form to play with the six words-- if you want to.

I'm going to add another example, that more accessible to people who don't watch the Buffy series on TV; this is by  Ann Marie Gamble and is called 'Wasp's in Fact':

I know the facts of the story.
I was there as witness, of course
and more than that, one of the saved
during the slaying of the wasps.
My father played the hero role
armed with a spray can and ladder.

Not sturdy, it shook, the ladder
as he climbed to the top story.
I never questioned my dad’s role,
the labor of knocking off course
any homesteading plans of wasps,
nor doubted if I would be saved.

The nest was enormous; he saved
it, carried it down the ladder,
proof that the multitudes of wasps
matched the large claims of his story.
The stings he received in the course
of battle also served this role.

He insisted they played no role
in making him sick, the stings, saved
that blame for the flu cutting course
through the city. That the ladder
needed fixing fit the story
well, too, but not illness from wasps.

Now it falls to me, fighting wasps.
My children have filled my old role.
I saw right through my dad’s story
long ago. The spin he used saved
his ego I thought. The ladder
held steady later on, of course.

Raising children has been a course
in hindsight relating to wasps
and the sturdiness of ladders.
Less a character trait than role
requirement, dad’s bravado saved
us from fear; that’s now my story.

Over the course of time, the role
of wasps did not change; also saved:
the ladder’s part in the story.

The Pantoum

 Another great, structured form... it's Malayan in origin and come to English through France-- roundabout. This is a fairly modern form(19th century)-- Victor Hugo was among the first of the writers to try writing a pantoum-- like the sestina AND the villanelle - you're looking at repetitions again- a nice, rigid framework.

It is composed of a series of quatrains (4 lines stanzas). The second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. There isn't a set length to this one-- you can keep going with your stanzas as long as it takes to get where you're going with your text.

The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the last stanza-- (the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final).

Ideally, (if you're super clever) the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated. You'll see what I mean. Look to this example to see how it's timed and rhymed... this example is actually a song from the musical 'Flower Drum Song' written by Rodgers and Hammerstein:

I'm going to like it here.

There is something about the place,

An encouraging atmosphere,

Like a smile on a friendly face.

There is something about the place,

So caressing and warm it is.

Like a smile on a friendly face,

Like a port in a storm it is.

So caressing and warm it is.

All the people are so sincere.

Like a port in a storm it is.

I am going to like here.

All the people are so sincere.

There's especially one I like.

I am going to like here.

It's the father's first son I like.

There's especially one I like.

There is something about his face.

It's the father's first son I like.

He's the reason I love the place.

There is something about his face.

I would follow him anywhere.

If he goes to another place,

I am going to like it there.

(you'll notice the repeating words are not EXACT-- they shift-- just like with the sestina. But this is fine-- this is actually desired)!

The Sonnet

Yesh... this is the one everyone knows. This is the one that Shakespeare did to perfection. But, to me, this one is much harder to write than the above forms BECAUSE it is not as structured. Not so many rules-- and not such a puzzle for a puzzle-lover. But let's see... I'd love to GET an original sonnet from someone because I have no doubt we could make a tremendous, olde-type cocktail.

So! The origin of this form goes back to Petrarch... Sicily... early 1300s. It's origins are in the Italian court, yes. But it's been modernized by just about every poet of note, and a sonnet no longer needs to be written in the style of Shakespeare or Petrarch.

Sonnets are fourteen-line poems, period. They exist in every line length, with every rhyme scheme imaginable, or with no rhyme scheme at all.They break down into one eight-line stanza, that tells an experience or expresses a thought or feeling, and a six-line stanza, that contrasts with, resolves, or comments on the first part.

Instead of using Shakespeare, I'm going to be  traitor and use an example by Edna St. Vincent Millay - often called the greatest sonnet writer of the 20th century. I think it's easier to hear:

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply;

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet know its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone;

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

(Now again, there are several acceptable rhyme patterns to use in writing a sonnet--- I'm going to include a second, steamier example by Denis Jonhson called 'Heat' to show you how you an example of another rhyme pattern...)

Here in the electric dusk your naked lover
tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.
It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin,
Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover,
streaming with hatred in the heat
as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin
to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones,
and such a last light—full of spheres and zones.
August,
you’re just an erotic hallucination,
just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,
are you serious?—this large oven impersonating night,
this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,
the bogus moon of tenderness and magic
you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?

The Ballad

Now this one IS EASY-- BUT (and it's a very big but)--- you've got to have a story to tell. This is a narrative form-- meaning it's longer because it tells a story. This is a great, fun form to get started with -- no puzzles regarding line order - but simple rhyming. 

One of the traits of the ballad is that dialogue (inside quotation marks of course) breaks into the composition. Characters speak just as naturally in ballad form as they do in prose. 

Ballads began to make their way into print in fifteenth-century England. During the Renaissance, making and selling ballad broadsides became a popular practice, though these songs rarely earned the respect of artists because their authors, called "pot poets," often dwelled among the lower classes.

Now-- as with the sonnet - you can CHOOSE your rhyme scheme. The sonnet is made up of 4-line stanzas of unlimited length. You tell the story in as many 4-line stanzas as it takes. Some writers rhyme ABAB within the stanzas. Some write just 2 rhyming lines in each - and the other two lines don't rhyme at all. That's fine too. 

Here's a GREAT example of a ballad by Ogden Nash (love him!) called 'The Tale of the Custard Dragon-- you'll see the rhyme pattern for this one is ABAB:

Belinda lived in a little white house,

With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,

And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,

And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,

And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,

And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,

But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,

And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,

Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,

And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,

And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,

Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,

But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,

Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,

They all sat laughing in the little red wagon

At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,

And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse,

Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,

When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,

And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.

Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,

For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,

And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,

His beard was black, one leg was wood;

It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!

But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,

Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,

And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,

Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,

With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm

He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,

And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,

He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,

And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,

No one mourned for his pirate victim

Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate

Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,

With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,

And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,

And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,

And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,

Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,

But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.

And for good measure, here's one by John Betjamin (love him too) called 'Death in Leamington' with a rhyme pattern of ABCB (the A and the C never rhyme):

She died in the upstairs bedroom
By the light of the ev'ning star
That shone through the plate glass window
From over Leamington Spa 

Beside her the lonely crochet
Lay patiently and unstirred,
But the fingers that would have work'd it
Were dead as the spoken word.

And Nurse came in with the tea-things
Breast high 'mid the stands and chairs-
But Nurse was alone with her own little soul,
And the things were alone with theirs.

She bolted the big round window,
She let the blinds unroll,
She set a match to the mantle,
She covered the fire with coal.

And "Tea!" she said in a tiny voice
"Wake up! It's nearly five"
Oh! Chintzy, chintzy cheeriness,
Half dead and half alive.

Do you know that the stucco is peeling?
Do you know that the heart will stop?
From those yellow Italianate arches
Do you hear the plaster drop?

Nurse looked at the silent bedstead,
At the gray, decaying face,
As the calm of a Leamington ev'ning
Drifted into the place.

She moved the table of bottles
Away from the bed to the wall;
And tiptoeing gently over the stairs
Turned down the gas in the hall. 

And just to make things REALLY confusing -- or REALLY easy-- this is a ballad with a very very slight rhyme pattern-- barely there at times; This is by Lousi MacNeice and it's called 'Bagpipe Music':

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,
Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

It's no go the Yogi-Man, it's no go Blavatsky,
All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,
Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.
It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,
All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.

The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,
Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.
Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,
Said to the midwife 'Take it away; I'm through with overproduction'.

It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,
All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,
Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.
His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,
Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,
All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,
It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,
It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,
Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;
Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,
But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.

The Haiku

This one might appeal, based on its diminutive length. And it is deceptively easy.

A haiku has 3 lines. No rhymes. And the meter runs 5,7,5. What that means is you end up with 3 lines (phrases) and the first line has 5 syllables, the second 7, the third 5 again. Easy?

Okay, so some poets don't follow that meter pattern. Including Basho, often considered the most famous haiku poet of all time.  His poems were written in Japanese, so of course the meter changes in translation, no matter how good. He was Japanese and lived in the mid-late 17th century... here are some of his famous examples...

An old pond!
A frog jumps in-
The sound of water.

Harvest moon:
around the pond I wander
and the night is gone.

Temple bells die out.
The fragrant blossoms remain.
A perfect evening! 

Now here are some great examples of CORRECT haiku.... perfect timing.

This one is by Issa:

A giant firefly:
that way, this way, that way, this -
and it passes by.

This one by Kijo Murakami:

First autumn morning:
the mirror I stare into
shows my father's face.

Now, this one is Wallace Stevens, 'Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird'. It's a different meter but how EFFECTIVE it is as an image:

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird. 

And here are some more contemporary ones, some funny, but anonymous poets:

haikus are easy
but sometimes they don't make sense
refrigerator

You never feed me.
Perhaps I'll sleep on your face.
That will sure show you. 

You must scratch me there!
Yes, above my tail! Behold,
"Elevator butt."  

The rule for today
Touch my tail, I shred your hand
New rule tomorrow 

Green summer quivers.
Wonder lingers and ice laughs.
A piano melts.


The apples chortle.
Wonder misses the landscapes.
Earth charms heaven.

(hint: seasonal themes are VERY effective in haiku form)

SO! That is it for now.. there are SO many more forms. But this is a very good start. 

If you have any questions, comment to this link and I'll try to help. 

I hope you will give this a try--- and good luck!

Really, really... it's not as hard as you think!

See what you think

Don't let spirits sink

Use keyboard or ink

We'll all need a drink

Until we turn pink...