I’ve been spending the last few mornings discovering the monsters that live in the Poetic Sea, down in Ternary Bay… I mean, what else am I to think, when rhythms, meters, and devices are given names like ‘anapaest‘, ‘dactyl‘, ‘molossus‘, and ‘tribrach‘?
It’s not been a bad journey to this part of the Poetic Sea, as I’m finding the ternary – or three foot – rhythm a bit more natural and less formal than the iambic – or two foot – rhythm.
But my poetry is still pretty craptastic. I don’t want it to be, and I know it isn’t because I don’t have the chops. When it comes to prose, my words are musical and graceful, and there is great depth of meaning and import. It comes fairly naturally, although like with my singing, I enhance my talent for writing and my ear for the musicality with practice and care for the craft.
Thus, it seems odd that my poetry sucks out loud through a straw, but I suppose it’s because I never practiced poetic forms and have often stood in awe of the poets whose gift I feel I can never match. Even colleagues who write gorgeous and graceful words for worship leave me gaping in awe.
So I wrote a poem about it, using some of the creatures from Ternary Bay:
I want to write poems with meaning and depth
that dance in my heart and awaken my breath,
and inspire new listeners to open their hearts
and clamor to read them, all fighting for parts
to share with the world, or at least the assembled.
Their awed admiration begins to resemble
the reverence given to Dickinson, Berry,
and Angelou, Hughes, Alexander, and Mary….
Instead I write halting and lackluster verse;
is this the result of the Muse’s cruel curse?