More on Form (1)

Traditional forms of poetry—be they sonnet, villanelle, or many other variations—consist of a preset pattern of end rhyme, metre, and layout on the page. The poet’s words, what Ezra Pound termed the “solid” content, are made to fit inside this frame. Difficult to write well, such forms may be bypassed as too strict or old fashioned.

Over the last century, free verse has offered a more open, “fluid” form. As the words find their unique expression, the poem’s shape, sound, and forward movement grow organically, what Robert Creeley described as an extension, rather than a ready-made container, of content.¹ Given its ease and flexibility, it’s hardly surprising that free verse is so widely used today.

Then why ever choose a traditional form?

Because it is less spontaneous and open, a traditional form sets a poem apart. Its very intricacy reminds that this is not the factual language of everyday talk, but has the extra sparkle of conscious artistry. The words are meant to stand out, to be memorable, not simply processed and discarded.

Traditional form also aspires to beauty, in the harmony of its sounds, the emotional resonance of its rhythm, and the tactility and vision of its imagery. In short, it feels special.

As well, it is a challenging test of skill, how well a poet not just mechanically follows, but can even transcend, the rules of a preset form.

It also has an unexpected benefit.

In an interview by Rob Taylor in PRISM International (May 15, 2018), poet and teacher Kate Braid discovered a surprising effect of composing in a set form:

I was … aware that the best poems my students were writing were the ones in a given form. Somehow the structure of sonnet or pantoum or glosa forced them to let go of cliché, of ego, and let loose their unconscious, wiser selves. Somehow following the blueprint of a form allows us to be more creative—more poetry magic!

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1. John Drury, The Poetry Dictionary (Cincinnati: The Story Press, 1995), p. 107.