Ten lines of iambic pentameter or Shakespeare in the morning

In June I heard a writing prompt from poet Ellen Bass: start the day with ten lines of iambic pentameter. You know, the meter of Shakespeare's sonnets (fourteen-line poems following a rhyme scheme and ending with a rhyming couplet) and most of the lines in his plays (blank verse generally without rhyme).

da-Da da-Da da-Da da-Da da-Da
da-Da da-Da da-Da da-Da da-Da

English doesn't always divide neatly into pairs of unstressed and stressed syllables, however. A famous example might be

To BE or NOT to BE that IS the QUESTion
WHEther 'tis NOBler IN the MIND to SUFfer
The SLINGS and ARrows OF outRAGeous FORTune
Or to TAKE ARMS aGAINST a SEA of TROUBles,
And BY opPOSing END them? To DIE, to SLEEP—

The first four lines of Hamlet's soliloquy end with unaccented syllables that exceed the official iamb pattern (short long). Only in line five, on the word "sleep," does metric clarity briefly emerge. I see a trochee (long short) in "WHEther," reversing the stress pattern, and an anapest (short short long) in "Or to TAKE ARMS," giving the passage additional variance that is common to the form. Wikipedia has helpful entries on metrical feet and prosody. I'm somewhere near the beginning of my understanding.

Looking at Shakespeare's sonnets, I'm sometimes unsure where the five stressed beats fall. The same thing happens when I write in iambic pentameter, a task that may be more difficult in modern English than in Shakespeare's time. For example, he makes use of a spoken difference between "rhym'd" and "rhymed" and of truncated words like "wher'er" to tailor the text.

Here are some sonnets that caught my eye today. The final example (CXXIX) was my favorite back in high school English class.

                         XCVIII.

From you I have been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,
Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
     Yet seem'd it winter still, and you, away,
     As with your shadow I with these did play:

                           XCIX.
The forward violet thus did I chide;--
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both.
And to his fobbery had annexe'd thy breath;
But for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
     More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
     But sweet of colour it had stolen from thee.

                          CXVI.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
     If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
     I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

                         CXXIX.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof,--and prov'd, a very woe;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream;
     All this the world well knows, yet none knows well
     To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. 

And what's a prose writer like me to do with this prompt to write in iambic pentameter? In July I shared one "10-lines" exercise that became a pumpkin sonnet. Any good exercise gets writing and observing and thinking motors to move--a lot like practicing an instrument or looking at paintings. Perhaps "10-lines" is an hour of yoga. Summer vacation turned out to be a low writing time for me--with my focus more on family time, travel and visitors. I got some translation work done and read a bit, but my writing gears cranked minimally.  Yesterday, taking a break from the lesson plan I need to write, I pulled the exercise out again, scooted my chair over to the window, put my journal in my lap, and forged lines. Nothing came easily, but I urged myself line-by-line to come up with ten lines. It worked. I wrote eleven lines. Technically I was writing from memory, but looking out the window at the deck helped me recreate a brief sighting from the day before. The rhyming "happened," and I didn't like it better when I pushed for more rhymes, so I left the text the way it emerged. As ever, I marvel at the possibility in words. Poetry demands awareness on about a million levels. I'm thrilled when I can get a few levels going.

A stately swirl of beige with mauve and brown
adorns a shining carriage, light and round
as a ping-pong ball that’s poised an inch above
the rain-filled rills, appearing not to move
out there across the soggy wooden plank.
Sunlessly pale a narrow tail lies still.
What sign, then, of motion, purpose, life?
Slug-snail, are you crossing such a vast
expanse to reach my garden, munch my plants?
Two rubbery antenna pairs turn right
turn left, turn right, point straight: the creature’s pace.

Poetry addendum to Learning from Ellen Bass

Yesterday I linked to Seema Reza's page, where I posted poem ideas within the comments of a prompt she posted. I thought I'd also post them here.

Original draft, June 8, 2014

Precise black nibs, air-filled and
separate, top jaw flopped wide
I contain a gathering of long-sleeves
along on a summer trip, the other
shoes, embroidered vest, crinkled receipt.
I await repacking for a multi-flight
return; my teeth will perform their
miracle against the odds
and ends I hold while I totter and wheeze
and glide and shudder when you shove me
in that overhead bin. But I will not
be the one flung in the hold below, so there,
bigger bag, so there.

Reworked draft (for shape), approx. June 10, 2014

My precise black tines comb empty air
flat jaw flopping floorward
mine are the long sleeves brought on a
summer trip, embroidered
vest, birthday cards, receipts, the other
shoes. My tiny hooks yield
one by one—a corps de ballet—we are
a miracle against the odds
and ends I hold. I’ll glide, stand, topple
and shudder at your shove
in that lunchbox overhead. But I’m not
the one who’ll be flung on
a belt towards a crushing, frigid pit. So
there, bigger bag, so there. 

In my notebook, I also found this embryonic text, fed by poetic impulses and written June 8, the day the conference ended. 

In my writing I seek Simon
a boy who would not be little now
whose voice could be gravel or stew
or honey like his father's
who would know private things
he'd not tell me
who would sweat and lust
adultly arms and groin and growingly seek to leave
yet still be one I can't keep my
eyes from, one whose sleep
I watch like drinking wine
whose calmed face reminds of the
tiny closed eyes, the mouth
owning my nipple.

Learning from Ellen Bass

The 2014 Writers at Work conference (June 4-8 at Alta Lodge in Utah) featured four workshop instructors: Ellen Bass (poetry), Michael Martone (multi-genre), Lawrence Coates (fiction), and Robin Hemley (literary nonfiction).

As a participant in Robin Hemley's workshop, I spent the most time learning directly from him about the genre I write in: nonfiction/memoir. However, I made it my business to learn as much as I could from the other three instructors as well. I listened carefully during faculty panels and readings. I made use of "spies" in each of the other workshops. I took advantage of opportunities for conversation at meals, in the hot tub, and walking down the halls.

Reflecting on five intensive days spent in the midst of writers takes some time, especially after the travel I did in May and June (Oberlin, Pittsburgh, Salt Lake City, and Alta during three weeks in the US). The next trip, barely a week after I returned to Germany, took me to Austria for busy days of family visiting and music performance in celebration of Markus' parents' 50th wedding anniversary. If it weren't for the distraction of World Cup soccer in Brazil, I might be digesting my conference experience more swiftly. But that temptation is too great, and I enjoy watching the games.

My idea is to share what I learned from this year's conference faculty, each of whom has sent me forth with impulses and energy for my work. I want to begin with the poet, Ellen Bass.

Website: http://www.ellenbass.com
Workshop title: When I Met My Muse

June 4, Opening Faculty Panel: Why are we writing?

Ellen offered a good, basic reason for writing: because you want to. She compared writing to making a mudpie--something you do for the primitive satisfaction of making. "If you love sentences, then you can write." She considers writers to be "people for whom writing is more difficult" and she sees writing "as a way to pay attention, notice more deeply." When terrible things happen, she said, write.

When the discussion moved on to writing about challenging topics, Ellen encouraged us to be bold. "Nothing is taboo; you have to be brave to reveal, to be controversial, to write things somebody thinks you shouldn't be writing (or another part of you thinks you shouldn't)." She said she thinks of herself as being in the special olympics and trying to do her best there. It's an honor to be in the lineage--you put your pebble, not necessarily a boulder, on the altar of writing.

Ellen also spoke about facing ignorance--our own and "dumb questions" from others. I liked a term she used: you develop "functional calluses" against what others might say; you learn to give stock answers. If I understand my notes correctly, Ellen indicated an energy about her own ignorance--that it means she always has something to bring to the "blank page," something to work on.

In closing, she offered: "If you're writing, you're a writer. If you stop writing, you're not a writer. The whole game is to keep writing."

What I learned about Ellen's workshop from my "spies"

My lodge roommate, Katharine English, and workshop mates Star Coulbrooke and Natalie Taylor from last year's conference (during which I boldly joined the poets for the three days of workshop led by Katharine Coles) kept me apprised of their progress in the poetry workshop. Notably: Ellen structured each of the three days to include a two-hour writing block. Participants wrote a new poem each day. (To those of us in "workshop method" critique-based sessions, where you can learn a great deal but you must then apply the learning on your own later, this opportunity to generate work inspired some envy.) We heard several of these new works during Open Mic readings.

The second thing my spies raved about in Ellen's workshop was her critique method. For a given poem, the critique began with an opportunity for participants to praise the work in question. Then Ellen carefully, kindly, wisely and thoroughly offered a spot-on critique. I believe I can picture this process, but I would have enjoyed seeing it in action.

Finally--and quite amazingly for me--my own writing found its way into the poetry workshop. As described in the June 11 post The night I read at Alta Lodge, my Thursday night reading had a direct connection to Ellen's topic for Friday's workshop: Sentiment vs. Sentimentality. (I.e., emotion is present in the writing without relying on expressions like "It was terrible.") My fellowship-winning essay, "Objects of My Attention," goes into intimacies and detail about my son's death to cancer and about my ensuing grief. The topic is loaded with sentiment--knock-you-out-at-the-knees sad and awful experiences--but the writing is object-based, specific and unsensational. Over and over at lunch on Friday, poetry workshop participants enthusiastically told me how often they had referred to my writing in their discussion that morning.

June 7, Reading by Ellen Bass on Saturday night

Ellen read from her poetry collection Like a Beggar. As I generally do, I scribbled along while listening. She began with a lovely assertion: "Poetry is one way of choosing joy." Katherine Coles offered a similar sentiment last year. I believe I am beginning to see over the edge and into the deep poetry well of joy. Here are the snippets of language that made it into my notebook.

"breasts that remember the sting and flush of milk"

          "the backyard potatoes swell quietly"

"as darkness was sinking back into the earth"

         about killing chickens, Ellen said, "I loved the truth"

"rhododendron blossoming its pink ceremony"

          "the moon rinsing the parked cars"

I allowed myself to purchase one book by each of the faculty (watching my luggage weight limit). I chose Like a Beggar.

June 8, Closing faculty panel: How we got here and where do we go from here?

During the final panel, Ellen stressed the concept of discovery. "If you get to the end of the page and you have only written what you already know, then you haven't written yet. Allow the poem to have its way with you. The poem is smarter than you are." In her workshop, she said they focused on finding sentiment, not bland statement. She cited neurological studies that support the idea that sensory detail activates brain response. In workshop they looked at metaphor, and her advice is just write a bunch and select later rather than tunneling toward the "right one."

Example: After reviewing these notes, I tried the metaphor idea. I'm struggling in one piece of writing to describe a certain Christmas tree decoration typical of my Austrian relatives: special chocolates wrapped in fringed tissue paper, hanging as ornaments on the tree. How to describe that tissue paper wrapping, the fringe? I've tried pompoms. No. My sister-in-law suggested those fringed papers at then ends of chicken drumsticks. No. (A Christmas tree covered in chicken legs?!) So (sitting on the toilet) I let my mind wander. I saw the toilet brush. Then in sequence: hairbrush, toilet brush, street sweeper, car wash scrubbers flapping around, anemone in water. Hmm. Could I use the idea of anemones? Then I saw the color palette of the tissue paper as that of tropical fish. It's quite accurate. Perhaps I can make use of this association. Perhaps I'm still looking.

Another Ellen-ism from the panel: Why make a fool of yourself? Why not make a fool of yourself?

An audience question from Lori Lee, a member of the nonfiction workshop, yielded a true bonanza of inspiring exercise ideas. I am so grateful to Lori for asking the question. Ellen contributed a series of "writing prompts that bring up a lot."

1. Write a scene when father (or other) comes home at the end of the work day when you are a child. This sort of "poem of the moment" has the best odds of working out as a poem.

2. Discovery is best when it "just happens," but when it doesn't, you can be aggressive about discovery. Ask your poem: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" If it says "I don't know" then look at its "test scores" and say (like a school guidance counselor) "maybe you can be this."

3. Imitations. Do them tight or loose. Try same syllable count. Imitate metaphor and image, reflective statement. "Suck DNA out of the poem. Steal its exuberance." As a poet, you absorb rhythms in your cells, especially from older poetry. Appropriate as much into your body as you can.

4. Practice before you begin work every day: write ten lines of iambic pentameter. It can be nonsense. Use the practice to walk through the door of poetry.

I tried this on June 26 during a writing group session:

To sit and think and write and look and breathe

I go to Cindy's garden hut and reach

my arms too high to write, my elbow up

my shoulder slant; I angle chin and line

of neck to accommodate this chair, this desk--

a table rounded, brown and formed to look

like wood, like walnut, eb'ny, something dark

but plastic, meant for outdoor use in rain

or sun, still new because the garden's new--

a hiding place with birdsong, breeze and light.

5. Gather suggestions and prompts from writing books for exercises, put cut up slips into a basket, pick one before bed at nigh. That's your assignment for tomorrow.

6. Purposely write something bad (150-200 words). "To write not bad, you should avoid using adverbs." If you succeed, you have managed to create a "good badness." The exercise can disable anxiety about your intent (what you want to do) and performance (what you do do). "If you write bad well, you can feel good about it." (I've tried this before, and it can be a lot of fun.)

My gratitude and admiration go to Ellen Bass for her gifts at the conference. I wish I'd taken the opportunity to speak with her directly. Somehow the time went by--and I missed my chance for an autograph in her book. However, I was paying attention!

I'll close with one more mention. I left the conference with poetry inspiration, quite probably because of Ellen's reading on the last evening. The next day, back in Salt Lake City and getting ready to re-pack for the flight home, I happened on a poetry prompt on my friend Seema Reza's blog. Instead of packing, I wrote a poem from the prompt. Then over the next days (including endless hours in airports and planes) I fiddled with a relining/rewrite of the poem to give it a visual shape. In the end, the first poem is the best because it holds the energy. But it's amazing how far you can travel in re-expressing ideas and adding/removing syllables or letters to fit a concept. If your eyes haven't fallen out already from this long post, head over to Seema's blog and read my poem versions in the comments on her June 2 post called Normal. Then stay on her blog to read her June 11 stop on the Blog Tour.