05. A poem and a prompt - Pocket poetry
The joy, and power, of tiny poems
There’s something particularly delicious about succinct, snack-sized poetry. A solo stanza boldly refusing to bow to the expectation of the otherwise blank page. A small offering that can be tucked into a pocket. And yet, they can be some of the trickiest to write. Knowing when to stop and what to cut is both an art and a craft.
Introducing constraints can help here. Forms that fit perfectly include haikus, cinquains and, the one that many of us wrote as children, limericks. My grannie kept a notebook of these, and we would all add to it on our visits - often collectively coming up with the lines around the constantly refilling teapot. This funny, sometimes absurd or rude form was popularised by Edward Lear in the 19th century.
Lear, whose backstory is fascinating if you have time for a ten minute diversion, received very little formal education and described himself as a “dirty landscape painter”. Struggling with chronic ill health, he moved from England to Rome in the late 1830s, where he became known and loved as a nonsense poet by children and adults alike. Nonsense poetry, popularised by Victorians including Lear and Lewis Carroll, is said to have influenced the Surrealist movement and the Theater of the Absurd. While viewing himself more as an artist than a writer, Lear continued to pen nonsense poems throughout his life, including the longer, and eternally endearing, The Owl and the Pussy-cat. Beneath the lightness and humour of his poetry lay deep suffering, both physically and emotionally, and in his last volume of works this increasingly creeps in.
Here’s an example from Lear’s earlier work, A Book Of Nonsense, published in 1845:
There was an Old Man with a Beard There was an Old Man with a beard, Who said, "It is just as I feared!— Two Owls and a Hen, four Larks and a Wren, Have all built their nests in my beard. By Edward Lear, via The Poetry Poundation
The distinctive rhythm of the limerick, combined with the repetition in first and last lines makes it instantly recognisable. Easier to write by ear than on paper, this short form offers an accessible entry to poetry, particularly for anyone who struggles with syllable defining and counting, or feels overwhelmed by the “rules” of poetic form. For those of us who grew up with limericks, they have the familiarity of favourite songs. These are the poems that my Grannie could still remember, even in the depths of dementia. She’d chip in with the final line, chuckling, eyes shining from her paper thin face, before being whisked away by cognitive time travel once more.
Chances are you are already familiar with the haiku. English versions of this Japanese short form usually (but not always!) consist of three lines of five, seven, then five syllables. Originally seasonal stanzas that set the scene for a longer, collaborative renga, the hokku (penned by a solo poet) evolved over time into the stand-alone haiku. Here’s an example by Japanese haiku master Bashō.
The third, and final, form we’re considering today is the cinquain. Created by American poet, Adelaide Crapsey, this short form was inspired by Japanese poetry, including the haiku. The cinquain’s signature style spans five lines of compressed language - consisting of of two, four, six, eight, and two syllables. Crapsey’s November Night shows the poignant power of this spirited form, its depth and brevity mirroring that of her own life.
Here’s my first attempt at a cinquain, drafted a couple of weeks ago at writer’s group and still awaiting a polish.
March morning
Joy taps
on the window
feathered in frozen black
warming the breath, this liquid heart
overflows.
I then attempted to write one as a poetry prescription - soothing words to slip into a pocket. I found it much harder to write with this additional intention, and it feels cliched, or even plagiarised, but that perhaps (hopefully!) speaks more to the universality of heartbreak than to my autistic ability to subconsciously lock lines into the depths of my brain’s storage vault.
Your heart so heavy now still knows the song of love this silenced voice one day will rise again.
The title will follow in time, I expect.
Tempted to have a go? I’d love to read your tiny poem if you feel inspired to share it in the comments.
And if you missed the earlier part of this series, you can catch up here. The most recent one is currently available to read for free (no. 4), but you’ll need a paid subscription to access the Chasing Words And Wonder archives (1-3).
The first in a new series of poems (pretty fresh and quite possibly still in progress, depending on how I feel later), with the prompt that they stemmed from in case you'd like to play along.
02. A poem and a prompt - Shifting seasons
If you’d like to play with different forms of poetry, then here’s a writing prompt to create a prose poem of your own.
03. A poem and a prompt - Easing in
New to poetry or feeling a bit rusty? List poems can offer a gentle way in.
04. A poem and a prompt - Writing through fear
When you don’t want to write about the thing, and yet you do.