What exactly is a poem?
What is a poem? Today, this has become harder to define, especially with the increasing popularity of ‘Prose Poetry’. Prose poems have a long history and include many eminent poets amongst its proponents, though some, such T.S. Eliot, argued strongly against the form.
The majority of modern poetry is free-form, having no rhyme and rhythm largely through the careful choice of words, so that phraseology is harmonious. There are many beautiful free-form poems although, in my opinion, too much second-rate poetry of this type abounds.
Accessibility to poetry is very important and there is no doubt that, to the non-poet, the usual expectation is that a poem ought to rhyme and scan rhythmically to be called a poem. This makes me feel that poets today are writing largely for themselves.
Although I can and do write free-form verse, I prefer to write using the more traditional formats. Humorous verse, for example, often works best as a series of rhyming couplets.
I belong to a U3A philosophy group and have learned a great deal about a subject on which I was ignorant. At the end of last season, our organiser Steve asked us to reflect on what philosophy meant to each of us. Being of a somewhat mischievous turn of mind, I wrote satirically, with this nonsense poem:
The Quave
Beside the Ebble sits the Quave
A lardish person, squat and grave.
He wears a tattered leather coat,
A purple scarf around his throat.
His face is lumpy, eyes of green,
His ears are very seldom seen.
He bears six fingers on each hand,
Around his head a silver band.
He thinks of things we think not of,
Like flying dolphins, rocks in love,
Of froggy gossip, talking fleas
And why it is that trees don’t sneeze.
He wonders why the world is square
And whether weather’s really there.
Is there a meaning to the moon
And does the camel use a spoon?
Can horses sing? And does the cow
Write to her relatives somehow?
His neighbour, Blurd, came ambling past
His knees akimbo, socks half-mast.
The Quave said, “Blurd, O tell me please
Why a rhinoceros must make cheese?”
“Because he can,” the Blurd replied
And hurried on with lengthened stride.
The Quave considered Blurd’s reply
But thought this doesn’t tell him why.
So contemplated dancing pigs
And whether ostriches need wigs.
His brooding brow is creased with thought;
His cogitation comes to naught.
Philosophising thus, he spends
His time pursuing endless ends.
