The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within

There are some books that teach us nothing more so than we just don't care. The Ode Less Travelled — witty, well-written, wonderful as Stephen Fry is and does — taught me that I care not a ounce about poetic form, my eyes glazing over with the mention of each passing form and the rules which bind those forms. It's not that I don't like poetry. I have been moved by poetry, though not nearly as often as I've been moved by prose. I've even written some poetry in my day, though of the dreaded free verse variety which poets of a certain ilk disdain. Writing for me is about giving rise to creative impulse, at the best of times born of fiery imagination, lighted by genuine inspiration. For whatever reason, formality as described here seems to extinguish that flame before it has begun.

I can read Shakespeare and experience deeply the genius without needing to analyze any poetic mechanics the man may have used. For me the thought and language driving the plays is sufficient. (Shakespeare was no stranger to prose himself.) In much the same way I can write music without needed to consult the underlying musical theory of what I'm writing. In the case of music, I know the theory, but having learned it, I forget it. Experienced intuition can dazzle as much or more than formal structure. As for the theory of poetry, I'd just rather not bother. Structure, apparently, is something I create myself or do without altogether.