Today’s experimental poetry form is called ironing. It has alternating “wrinkled” and “ironed” lines.
The wrinkled lines are free verse. The only restriction is that the lines are self-contained. Each line should make sense in some way without having to read part of the next line.
The ironed lines are blank verse. They are written in iambic pentameter. These lines too should be self-contained.
The poem is six lines long. The pattern is wrinkled, ironed, wrinkled, ironed, wrinkled, ironed.
None of the lines should rhyme in any intentional way and there are no other form elements.
So far in this commemoration, there have been a blending of tones. Some of the posts have had a sad tone and some have been a little brighter. In some ways, it has been a balance. When thinking of Shadow, there is a mixture of sadness that he is gone, and happiness at the dog he was.
In terms of poetry, as posts on this blog generally relate to, this idea of balancing emotions can be applied to writing poems.
There are many instances in life where emotions are blended, the death of a pet like Shadow being a very good example. These moments are sad, but at times, when thinking back, there can be moments of happiness. Other instances in life have a different blend of emotions. This general idea of blending emotions can be applied to poetry.
Here is a poem about Shadow. It blends the emotions of sadness and happiness and also blends the forms of blank verse (for the sad part) and rhyming iambic tetrameter (for the happier part).
A shadow is upon an empty home,
where once a Shadow dwelt with joy and life,
at times when once his life it could be felt,
right now a shadow can’t be held at all.
Yet there in thoughts a light does shine,
when in the mind his joy is felt,
the shadow moves behind the line,
and in the heart the pain does melt.
To float among the planets and the moons,
in such a way as if they were condensed,
and with a pushing of the arms and hands,
as if to swim within a silent lake,
travel among the orbs that spin around,
and move from gas to red to ice to blue,
and stop and float and then descend within,
a sphere of blue that seems to glow and swirl,
and see colors and shapes of size and form,
that seem like art or as imagined things,
and fly around and see what feels like wind,
that blows within a breeze through shaded trees,
and move with speed and with agility,
around mountains and streams of flowing blue,
and land and walk upon a field ice,
and yet to feel no sense of any cold,
and then to walk into a cave of stone,
and see crystals that shine as light flows through,
and then to fly up high within the clouds,
through mists of gas that seem as if clear air,
over oceans that flow from south to north,
that have islands that seem like stepping stones,
to continents with shores of crystal sands,
with plains and hills and fields that go within,
and then to pause and take a time to breathe,
and wait some time before the push to fly,
that leads into the silence of the dark,
and see an orb of orange flowing gas,
and fly through dark toward what seems so nearby,
is a bright dream that seeing stars can cause.
The next five posts on M. Sakran’s blog of and about poetry and poetry related things will be a poem series about space. The first poem will be a blank verse poem, the second a rondeau, the third a sonnet, the fourth a haiku and the fifth a tanka.
Please enjoy the poems.