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An Exploration of Form: Poetry

Cole Francis
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Contents

Poem 1- Sestina …………………………………………………….. Pg. 3-4

Poem 2- Ballad (Original)................................................................... Pg. 5-6

(Revised)....................................................................Pg. 6-7

Poem 3- Ode (Original)....................................................................... Pg. 8-10

(Revised)....................................................................... Pg. 11-13

Poem 4- Open Form (Original)........................................................... Pg. 14-16

(Revised………………………………………. Pg. 16-18

Writing and Revision Statement…………………………………….. Pg. 19-22

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Poem 1 - Sestina (Original)

Dance

It was in the park where the children danced.

Stamped and tramped above the buried birds,
that the accordion rang, tried and true.
The men howled and bellowed, to a tune
so leafy green and coated in midnight dew.
Folks swirling like ribbons under the birch.

And the living, breathing limbs of the birch

looked upon the leaves of life as they danced.
Stomping and romping, flinging the dew.
Which flew sweet and subtle as the birds,
who gazed upon the waltzing of the tune.
As that pearl accordion sang, the tenor true.

Oh those children, those men, they were true.

Faces purple and blue, peeling like birch.
Laughing and wailing and spitting the tune.
Buckles knocking as they danced.
Old cohorts watched them, same as the birds.
Wiser than those kicking the dew.

Deep wrinkles smiling, sweating a salty dew.

Knowing full well, a dance only temporarily true.
Beneath the stampede, the coffined birds
shook in the catacombs of the birch.
Roots stretched weaker as they danced.
That pearly accordion forced a wistful tune.

Long and late into the night, a tiring tune.

The land now crying, its tears tired dew.
Ground so damned, ground so danced.
Children asleep for the night is now true.
Heads resting, chests raising up, up the birch.
Not one thing stirring. Not even the birds.
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Sun cracks warm, louder than the birds.

The yellow morning brings a different tune.
Another night closer to below the birch.
Drained land drinking the dew.
Bare hands gripping land provisionally true.
Bare toes hurting, having danced and danced.

Old fingers to the birch, waking children danced.

Humming a tune, growing minds assume true.
Soles to the grass who will faintly remember the dew.
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Poem 2- Ballad (Original)

A Ballad’s Ballad

Am struggling
to write this ballad.
Can't think much of
a topic.

This piece has no

narrative, please
don't observe it
microscopic.

Love and loss,

and time spent to
cross out these words
don't appeal to me.

Wish I was
writing something
different that feels
real to me.

What better place

than poetry? It is
as
real can be.

Am struggling
even more
now,
since I started.

This is supposed to
be meaningful. About
community or the
broken hearted.
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About pain or
suffering
or triumph in
the uncharted.

All I could
come up with is
satire, for my writing
and I have parted.

My words have
packed their bags,
walked out
and left.

Nothing more to say.

I guess I wrote
a ballad
about theft.

Poem 2 - Ballad (Revised)

Stolen Ballad

Am struggling
to write this piece.
Can't think much of
a topic.

This will have no

narrative, please
don't observe it
microscopic.

Love and loss,

and time spent to
cross out these lines
don't appeal to me.
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Wish I was
writing something
different that feels
real to me.

What better place

than poetry? It is
as real
as real can be.

Am struggling
even more
now,
since I started.

This is supposed to
be meaningful. About
community or the
broken hearted.

About pain or
suffering or
maybe, triumph in
the uncharted.

All I could
come up with is
satire, for my writing
and I have parted.

My words have
packed their bags,
walked out
and left.

Nothing more to say.

I guess I wrote
a ballad
about theft.
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Poem 3- Ode (Original)

Sanjay

I meet a little black boy

called Sanjay
Monday’s and Wednesday’s
for an hour,
at the library.

His mother and father drop

him off, and always a firm handshake
from his father, “How we doing today?”
“Sanjay has some math today”, says his mother.
And so we part. We go to the adult section
on the first floor, because “kids are too mean and crazy”
for Sanjay.

He is nine. Soft spoken and articulate

beyond kids his age. Though he cannot add two plus two.
He claims he hates work, and words, and money
and “none of it matters” because in the end “it is just
ourselves”. An old man reading his newspaper hears
and glances at him,
then me,
and smiles.

Sanjay struggles today, as he does everyday.

“School was too long” and “I just
can’t do work right now” and “I’m cold.”
Then you can put up your hood, Sanjay.
“It makes me look like a gangster.”
Says who?
“My teachers.”

Sanjay’s IEP says he is “well below grade

level” in math and reading comprehension,
but when he asks how the desk lamp works
and I explain it to him,
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he nods silently and then says

“So that’s how all lights work, right?...electricity.”

And then Sanjay inevitably needs to pee

or get water, and the first time he went he insisted
to go by himself. He went around the corner
but then quickly came back,
“Mom says there are pirdbirds and mean people
in this world and that I should not go anywhere
alone and that I need to be extra careful of
how I act in public”

I feel foolish because I forget

one day people will not see his untied shoes,
or food crusted cheeks, or small round
glasses. I feel foolish because some may not see them,
now.

And we walk to get water and Sanjay points to all

the books we should read and the librarian picks one
for him and we take it back to the desk.
He opens it and we read slowly,
“bringing” is “burger”
and “scope” is “score”
and “rough” is “I don’t want to read
anymore.”

And I look up and he has lifted his glasses

and is crying softly. And I say “Sanjay, it's okay.
Why are you upset?”

“I’m sad and mad at my teachers. They single

me out because I don’t go as fast as the
other kids. But the kids are mean and crazy and start
fights and cuss and throw food and write things
in the bathroom. And the teachers didn’t even give
us a break today and we had to stay inside for recess.
But that was okay because recess is just okay anyways”

And so we take a brain break, for the third time,

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and we play I Spy again and Sanjay says he sees

something yellow and I ask if I can see it from
where we are sitting and he says yes but then I can’t
guess it and I give up and he walks around one of
the shelves out of sight and selects a book
or movie yellow enough for his liking and
brings it back to me and goes “It was this!”
I smile and tell him he couldn’t see that from
where we were sitting and he grins and says
it's my turn to spy.

And usually by this point, his parents are

walking up to our desk and he has long wiped
his tears and they ask “How was it?” and I lie and say
we did more work than we did but tell the truth and
say “It was rough again today” and Sanjay takes
his fathers’ hand and doesn’t say bye or
thank you even though his parents do.
And he walks away and I see him
smiling and giggling as his father takes
his backpack and the clear library doors
part before them and they walk to the car
as I push in his chair and pick up
the eraser bits that he pulled from
my pencil.
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Poem 3- Ode (Revised)

Sanjay

I meet a little black boy

called Sanjay
Monday’s and
Wednesday’s for an hour,
at the library.

Both parents drop him off.

Always a firm handshake
from his father.
“How we doing today?”
“Sanjay has some math today”, says his mother.
We part. We go to the adult section
on the first floor, because kids are too mean and crazy
for Sanjay.

He is nine. Soft spoken and articulate

beyond kids his age. Though he cannot add two plus two.
He claims he hates work, words, and money
and none of it matters because in the end it is just
ourselves. An old man reading his newspaper hears
and glances at him,
then me,
and smiles.

Sanjay struggles today, as he does everyday.

School was too long and I just
can’t do work right now and I’m cold.
Then you can put up your hood, Sanjay.
It makes me look like a gangster.
Says who?
My teachers.

Sanjay’s IEP says he is “well below grade

level” in math and reading comprehension,
but when he asks how the desk lamp works
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and I explain it to him,

he nods silently and says
So that’s how all lights work, right?...electricity.

Then Sanjay inevitably needs to pee or

get water. The first time he went he insisted
he goes by himself. He went around the corner
but then quickly came back,
Mom says there are pirdbirds and
mean people in this world and
that I should not go anywhere alone and
that I need to be extra careful of
how I act in public.

I feel foolish because I forget

one day people will not see his untied shoes,
or food crusted cheeks, or small round
glasses. I feel foolish because some may not see them,
now.

So we walk to get water. Sanjay points to all

the books we should read. The librarian picks one
for him and we take it back to the desk.
He opens it and we read slowly,
“bringing” is burger and
“scope” is score and
“rough” is I don’t want to read
anymore.

I look up. He has lifted his glasses and

is crying softly. I say
“Sanjay, it's okay. Why are you upset?”

I’m sad and mad at my teachers. They single

me out because I don’t go as fast as the
other kids. But the kids are mean and crazy and
start fights and cuss and throw food and
write things in the bathroom. And the teachers didn’t even
give us a break today and we had to stay inside for recess.
But that was okay because recess is just okay anyways.
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So we take a brain break,

for the third time.
We play I Spy, again, and
Sanjay says he sees
something yellow and
I ask if I can see it from
where we are sitting and
he says yes, but then I can’t
guess it and I give up and
he walks around one of
the shelves out of sight and
selects a book or movie yellow enough
for his liking and
brings it back to me and goes,
It was this!

I smile and tell him he couldn’t see that from

where we were sitting but he just grins and says
it's my turn to spy.

Usually by this point, his parents are

walking up to our desk and
he has long wiped his tears and
they ask “How was it?” and
I lie and say we did more work than we did but
tell the truth and say
“It was rough again today” and
Sanjay takes his fathers’ hand and
doesn’t say bye or
thank you even though his parents do.

He walks away and

I see him smiling and
giggling as his father takes
his backpack and
the glass doors part before them and
they walk to the car as I push in his chair and
pick up the eraser bits that he pulled from
my pencil.
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Poem 4- Open Form (Original)

Thanks, Shel.

“For this Bendable Foldable

Do-what-you're-toldable
Easily moldable
Buy-what you're-soldable
Washable Mendable
Highly Dependable
Buyable Saleable
Always available
Bounceable Shakeable
Almost unbreakable
Twistable Turnable Man.” - Shel Silverstein

Held in my mother’s hands.

Who taught us to walk and to stand.
To never leave the castle unmanned.
But I suppose
When we chose
to close
the door
to our childhood land,
that that's when I saw
that nothing at all
was as innocent
as our bedroom fan.
Spinning round
and round
and making
no sound
as we pound
on the
Twistable Turnable Man.

Or The Light in Attic

while we kick
and make static
our blankets erratic
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and forts dramatic

we pillow fanatics
frenzy and flimsy
flail arms about
out on a whimsy.
You and I
brothers to die
in the belly of those
fake dragons.

Who spit and breathe

fire then leave
while we sit and seethe
and plot our revenge
and plan to avenge
our fallen men.
Taken too soon
swords were spoons
and forks were lances
and so their chances
of fighting and writing
history shriveled up
like prunes.

We would seldom
conquer the beast
before mom’s call
and a feast.
Charcoal chicken
tongues stricken
stomachs thicken
and green beans kick in
preparation to
become the winner.

To seize victory
in the shade of
The Giving Tree.
Where I can look
back and see, the
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zest for life that mom

and the dragon and
most of all
you gave to me.

You twistable turnable

always reliable
reach-sky-highable
sometimes pliable
used to cryable
go bye-byeable
wonderfully
undeniable
young man.

Poem 4- Open Form (Revised)

Thanks, Shel.

“For this Bendable Foldable

Do-what-you're-toldable
Easily moldable
Buy-what you're-soldable
Washable Mendable
Highly Dependable
Buyable Saleable
Always available
Bounceable Shakeable
Almost unbreakable
Twistable Turnable Man.” - Shel Silverstein

Held in my mother’s hand.

Who taught us to walk and to stand.
To dig our moats in the sand,
and never leave the castle unmanned.
But I suppose
when we chose
to close
the door
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to our childhood land,

that that's when I saw
that nothing at all
was as honest
as our bedroom fan.
Spinning round
and round
and making
no sound
as we pound
on the
Twistable Turnable Man.

Or The Light in Attic

while we kick
and make static
our blankets erratic
and forts dramatic
we pillow fanatics
who punch charismatic.
You and I
brothers to die
in the belly of those
fake dragons.

Who spit and breathe

fire then leave
while we sit and seethe
and plot our revenge
and plan to avenge
our fallen men.
Taken too soon
swords were spoons
and forks were lances
and so their chances
of fighting and writing
history shriveled
up like prunes.

We would seldom
conquer the beast
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before mom’s call

and a feast.
Our tongues stricken
on charcoal chicken
while stomachs thicken
and green beans kick in
preparation to
slay the foe.

To seize victory
in the shade of
The Giving Tree.
Where
I can look
back and see.
The zest for life that mom
and the dragon and
most of all
you gave to me.

You twistable turnable

always reliable
reach sky-highable
used to cryable
sometimes pliable
born to flyable
go bye-byeable
wonderfully
undeniable
young man.
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Writing and Revision Statement

This semester has been an exploration for me in terms of my own poetic capabilities, as
well as preferences. Until this course, I’d yet to take any class dedicated to the various poetic
forms that exist. As a result, (besides the standard sonnet and ballad which I’d heard of in high
school) the additional forms we discussed were completely new to me. Over the course of these
last few months, I’ve found a home in some of these forms that I honestly don’t think I would
have without dedicating the time that we did to them. With all this being said, this revision
statement will address each of the poems I’ve included in the portfolio above, the poets and
devices which influenced their construction and revision, and finally, my aims and goals for each
of them moving forward.
Poem 1- Dance

This poem was the first workshop poem I submitted, chosen over the villanelle I
constructed the week prior to the unit on the sestina. This poem is the only one which I did not
revise for this portfolio, due its being proudly published in this fall’s edition of Short Vine. This
poem came together naturally for me, and was one of the few pieces I’ve written that felt
complete upon its first edition. I feel the expressive, rhythmic nature of the repetition in the
sestina pulled me into this piece from the onset and served my language well. I love the potency
that good word choice/placement can have on a piece, and the repetition of end words like
“birch”, “danced”, and “dew” gave this piece natural qualities that so many responded positively
towards in feedback.
My goal for this piece was simply to capture a beauty in the plainess and mundane
subject matter that sestinas lend themselves to. The scene, a dance in the park, is about as
straightforward as they come. The verbage though, and the sense of movement created by the
repetition of the form and the diction, is what stamps this piece differently from more traditional
sestinas. I’d like to highlight Alberto Rios’ Nani for its influence on this piece as well. The
simplicity of the scene, the sopa de arroz at dinner, coupled with the reflections on life vs death
and the passing of time had heavy influence on similar themes I played with in Dance.
Additionally, Rios handled his word choice so intently, and each one felt crucial to the piece. In
Dance I tried to adopt this same critical lens to each of my word choices, which coupled nicely
with one of my poetic principles coming into the course: concision. I think concision, which is
different from simply being short, is everything in poetry. The power of good poetry for me
comes from saying what we want to say in a manner as accessible as possible for our audience.
This means being intentful with our language and construction, and leaving out the fluff.
Whenever I write a piece, I read back and ask myself if every word, phrase, line, etc… needs to
be there. If it does, then I know I’m on the right start. I felt that with this sestina, and I think its
publication was an indicator of that as well. What a wonderful form it is, and this poem was a
pleasure to write.
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Poem 2- A Ballad’s Ballad/ Stolen Ballad

The ballad offered me a chance to gauge my ability at picking a meter and sticking to it,
which I found difficult to do in the traditional sense. Hence the subject matter for this piece,
dealing with concepts of writer's block and the ever familiar feeling of not being able to put
words to the page. What the first version offered me was a chance to get something down that I
could work with and step away from for a little after the workshop, because I was not sold on it
initially. Interestingly enough, after revisiting this piece again here recently, I like it a lot more
than I remembered. This contrasted my typical process, as usually when I write something I like,
I feel that it speaks to me right away. I was pleasantly surprised to enjoy this piece as much as I
did upon taking another look at it. With that, I’ll discuss the revision.
The portion of revision I was most interested in for this piece was word choice and
rhythm. The lyrical, rhythmic nature of the ballad is what makes it shine, and I wanted a little
more of that from the revised version. Small shifts from “poem” to “piece” in stanza one and “as
real can be” to “as real as real can be” in stanza five helped clean up some of the discrepancies in
meter throughout the piece, and the revised version reads more consistently as a result. Other
than small detail choices like that though, the bulk of this piece is largely untouched for now. I
think I still need more time to sit on this piece, though, as I can’t decide if I want it to be longer
or not. I think of Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool” and can’t help but gravitate towards the
current version of this poem. The brevity in Brooks’ piece was an inspiration for this poem, and I
appreciate the way “We Real Cool” so succinctly packs a punch. While the more traditional long
form ballads offer greater room to build a narrative, I think the subject matter of my ballad is
better served in shorter form, as writer’s block inherently leaves us less to work with. The last
note of revision I would like to touch upon is the title change. Suggested by several classmates, I
think “Stolen Ballad” works significantly better than “ A Ballad’s Ballad”. It sounds less
hipster/edgy and more true to the simplicity and subject matter of the poem. That was a welcome
suggestion and one I’ve come to appreciate the more and more I work with this piece.
On a final note, I have yet to decide what I want to do with this poem moving forward. I
feel it has a place in some journal or collection somewhere that deals with the writing process.
Trouble is, I’m not sure where to begin in looking for such things. Regardless, I think with a few
more revisits over time and maybe some different eyes on it, this could be a great poem to
diversify a writing sample or portfolio. Long story short, I like this for what it offers in
comparison to my typical poems, and can see myself using it in multiple ways down the line.

Poem 3- Sanjay

The ode is the form that suits my writing and thinking style the best. My best poetry
comes from an appreciation of the things around me, so naturally, the ode takes its place. Sanjay
was the maybe most personal piece I’ve written, and certainly shared with others. Dealing with
the reflections of tutoring a young boy, this piece was equal parts raw and entertaining to write.
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The young boy I tutor whom Sanjay represents is a wonderful, compelling kid who is defined not
by his school work, but the way he sees the world. Trying to pay homage to that, but still be
honest to the context I know him under was difficult to think on, but surprisingly easy to put to
the page. The bulk of this piece came out in one write, and took maybe 15 minutes or so to churn
out once I knew what direction I wanted to take it.
Like “Stolen Ballad”, much of “Sanjay” remained intact after this first revision. I would
like to highlight the two most noticeable changes though, shifting Sanjay’s speech from
quotations to italics, and breaking up the last two stanzas to be less of a mouth full. The italics
are a product of some wonderful insight from the workshop, and I think they give that seamless
stream of thought feeling that Sanjay carries another layer compared to the quotation marks.
Additionally, it separates Sanjay’s words from the narrator’s, his parents, the IEP, etc…to give
the reader a better distinction between the life/mind of a young boy and their own mature
perspective on the world. In breaking up the last several stanzas, I felt that suddenly the piece
slowed down and gave the reader more time to reflect on the last hour or so that the poem
elapses through, similar to how it is for the narrator as the session comes to an end. In the initial
version, I went with the larger stanzas to try and illustrate how things seem to pile onto Sanjay
and the narrator as the session goes, and how both Sanjay and the narrator begin to feel the
weight of these things piling on. However, upon revision, I think we still get that sense, only in a
more digestible manner for the audience, which is ultimately most important. I’m really proud of
this piece and definitely want to try and publish it, however I want to sit on it a little longer
before deciding next steps/if things feel closer to being final.

Poem 4- Thanks, Shel.

Another ode, but disguised as an open form, “Thanks, Shel.” feels like the best piece I
wrote this semester, and maybe the best piece I’ve written entirely. Prior to this class, my only
experience with poetry was in the open form I introduced myself to, so when we saved it for last,
I was curious to see how I would approach it having worked in the confines of various forms
throughout the semester. I can’t remember the author or title of the poem which inspired this
piece, but we read it in class and it had the pretext of a different poem written in Italian. I loved
the inclusion of the poem’s inspiration in the piece itself, so I took to Shel Silverstein (my
earliest memory of poetry) and gave it a try. What resulted was a piece filled with nostalgia,
realization, memory, and above all, fondness for the wonderful world of brotherhood.
I struggled with revising this piece. There was hardly anything I wanted to change as I
was so attached to it after the first draft. After having a workshop and hearing some feedback
though, I tweaked a few small words here and there and messed with the meter in order to create
even more of a bounce when reading it. One of my favorite little changes was altering the font
size on “shrivel up like prunes” to literally make the words shrivel on the page. “Thanks, Shel.”
is a culmination of everything I love about poetry and speaks to me in ways other pieces I’ve
written don’t. I want to go big with this piece and try submitting it to some larger, more well
 22

known publications once I’ve sat on it longer and gotten more input. The feedback on this poem
was beyond positive and many suggested pursuing publication with it. It will make for a great
sample in any portfolio, and I’m excited to see where it ends up down the line. I don’t feel it’s
fully finished yet, but I’m still too close in proximity to writing it to know what still needs
amending/adding. I think after waiting a little longer it will feel more clear as to what the
final/close to final version of this piece will look like.