Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Waxing poetical

Yikes, the new year is just a few days away. That means it's nearly time for the Month of Poetry challenge.

I find proper poetry - as in decent poems which actually rhyme and scan, and follow some sort of accepted definition of 'poetry' - rather difficult. It's laziness, essentially - it's easier to cobble together six lines of blah than to actually sit down, work out what the hell a sonnet actually is, and create one.

But any fool can produce six lines of blah (and, to repurpose a gag from an old Goodies episode, most fools do). So, I'm going to try to actually do this properly.

It starts with some research, the sort of things I should have learnt while I was studying literature at uni but was too busy wanting to make a move on the cute boy in the back row (I never did) and working Doctor Who references into my film studies essays.

So, thanks to the wonders of the internet, here's a list of some of the major forms.

It starts with things like acrostic poems - which fall solidly into the 'lazy poet' category, for me - to something which is apparently

"a nineteen-line poem divided into five tercets (three lines each) and a closing quatrain (four lines). The poem consists of two main rhymes (AB) which repeat throughout. The main rhyme is produced by the first and third lines of the first stanza, which then alternate as the third line of each subsequent stanza, and form a rhyming couplet to end the quatrain and thus the poem."

I have no idea what that means. Mainly because I'm too lazy to think about it. But if I work through that list, producing one of each sort of poem, I'll have a pretty good start on this Month of Poetry malarkey.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Jan 2011: month of poetry

Writers from across the interwebs are signing up to make January 2011 the Month Of Poetry.

I really shouldn't sign up. I signed up for Nanowrimo and, despite having an almost decent premise for my novel, didn't write a single lone motherless word. Diddly. Not a sausage. Sweet Fanny Adams. Bugger all.

I also work full time, live alone, have a disability, and have dedicated 2011 to sorting out my health and my (lack of) a social life. I'm also very, very very late with a story I've promised someone and just can't deliver. The last thing I have time for is more writing.

But recently I rediscovered just how much I love poetry. I did a round of the local op-shops on the first day of my holidays, to remind myself just how much I don't like poking through other people's grubby secondhand detritus looking for 'bargains'.

There were some great books on offer, though - Harry Potters for $2 a pop, old craft books that will bring hours of laughter for just $1 investment, and best of all the complete poetical works of Byron For 50c.

I'd never really read Byron. He was a bit like Will Ferrel - I'm vaguely aware he exists and what he does, but if you asked me to name a film he's been in (or a poem he wrote) I couldn't. Now I have met his writing, though, I love it and am slightly addicted, reading when I should be eating or sleeping or getting the house clean for Christmas.

Yet why should I mingle in fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?

What's not to love? I adore the rhythm of his works, even if some of the rhyme seems a little dodgy by 21st century standards - did 'grove' really rhyme with 'love' when spoken with a 19th century tongue?

So, anyway. Month of Poetry. I'm more likely to bash out 31 unsteady haiku than anything remotely akin to the contents of this lovely old blue book, but I'm in.

Twelve days of nonsense

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
Twelve poets poeming
Eleven scribes a-scribing
Ten hacks a-hacking
Nine scribblers scribbling
Eight critics slagging
Seven wordsmiths wording
Six authors aut-ing
Five writers' blocks
Four pens out of ink
Three unread novels
Two moldy books
and a writer with nothing sensible to put on her blog.