When we write free verse, the poet listens to the poem transcribe itself from wherever we know it comes from. Some words give a more force-=fully feeling than others, the line breaks, spaces, help give rhythm to a free verse poem. Sometimes repetition is added to give rhythm. “Measured motion” – how does that happen, what do we do, or not do, to make a free verse poem beat out its rhythm? There is no rhythmic pattern to poetry until we produce it.
How does a sighing poem sigh? How does an angry poem spit? How does a loving poem drawn a reader in and rock them? How does a sorrowful poem weep?
A train poem with all the rhythm of the train:
From a Railway Carriage
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/7657-Robert-Louis-Stevenson-From-a-Railway-Carriage
Write a very rhythmic free verse poem… be aware, it cannot be forced, it must flow. Read your poem aloud to see if it has one. Have someone else read it to see if what you see and read carries the same rhythm for other readers.
As some of you know, I am leaving on a train for home on the 4th. My bags are packed, ticket and traveling money in hand, notebooks and books to read are stashed in my carry on, and I am way too ready to go. I am excited to write to the click and clack, the rumble and bumble of Amtrak barreling its way through two nights travel. And, so, to fill up some space and time, I offer one last contest before I go.
Contest is Over
- Contest was judged on June 2
- Rewards: Gold: 500, Silver: 250, Bronze: 125
- Final notes: Free verse has, as the trophy-winners show, a way of moving you with its very insinuated rhythm without rhyme being the push and pull, stop and go.
Thank you all for entering and I will see you on my return in a month or so.
Contest Winners
- Error: Unable to find finalist item 5398573, it seems to have been deleted :( [remove]
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Mind is a river of steel tuning rail,
her heart holding home• Commented on by judge. [remove]
Silver trophy winner
Bronze trophy winner
Entries [7]
1 - 7 of 7
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• Commented on by judge.
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Deadly flames that lick the walls,
dance in shadows as they fall,• Commented on by judge. -
Day bids farewell
leaving its markby PonderingPoetess 37 lines, 1 comment, on May 31 10:13 AM• Commented on by judge.
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Comments
1 - 11 of 11
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When you say free verse, and give a tightly rhymed example, I gotta ask how free am I allowed to be?
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Good point...but this has the clickity clack of that train... it is not an example of free verse...as you know, it is way more difficult to get rhythm in free verse because the non-rhyming end lines cannot push, or force, the rhythm. I hope this explains....
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Summat like ...
The galloping pace of the fields flying past
The rhythm of life in the wheels on the track
A travelogue spun from the world rushing by
And all of the time I am closer to home
The mountains and villages people and places
The rivers and lakes of the world I won't know
All of them see me as I'm flashing past them
Waving goodbye to my time far away
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This is brilliant! Frans
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bravo! As I said...right on!
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I must pass on this contest. I write in Rhyme. A sighing poem sighs when it is nestled tightly in one's heart.
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mmm, that is a greatttttttttttt image-making line.
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I took my poem out because of the bit about "rhyming." I felt that it rocks but does not rhyme; it sighs but it does not weep. It will remain among my favorites, and I am pleased that you inspired me to try it.
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I will come along and see it. I know it will be good coming from yu.
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Pristine Beginnings
I heard the demure deeming of a loon's cry
as I neared a forest pond--
there I could see the sandy bottom in the shallows,
the sallow windings on the edge of shadows
etchings of first light--
tentative beginning of the wake up
call sent low across the surface
and still, I had no answer
for winter's brush
and why I would leave before an autumn's crisping,
or why time is clutched so tightly in my grip
__Bill
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Thanks much and have a great trip...I'll shal smile for you the whole time
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