Last semester my English instructor had us all write a poem entitled "Where I'm From." It fell into the category of "free meter" poetry, which I do not count as real poetry. Free meter poetry shouldn't even have the word "meter" associated with it. It should really be entitled "Insipid Pros."

She tried to make an argument that what made it poetry was some abstract sense of form, called a turn, where we start with a positive note, but go to a negative or dark tone. I didn't do that because that just sounded stupid, but I still got an A on the assignment.

I hope you realize the contradiction that she put forth. Here's a hint: Abstract sense of form.

Abstract sense of form?!

Form, I hope you realize, is not abstract. If you look at the definitions of the word in the dictionary, there is very little abstract about form.

Here's a sample from my poem:

I'm from my parents and their heritage: from Swedes and Norwegians, the English, and the German.

I'm from a family of five siblings, looking up to fearless leader, from the adventures he took us on, to the peals of boisterous laughter he caused.

I'm from the suburbs, the brown house on the corner and its favorite hiding spots inside. The gardens outside that I used to play in and around, the flora in all its array that I studied with fascination, and the insects that visited them.

Perhaps there's something meaningful in what is written, but the only form in it is that each paragraph begins with "I'm from." This is not poetry, because there is no rhythm.

Here's some real poetry:

On the shores of Gitche Gumee,
Of the shining Big-Sea-Water,
Stood Nokomis, the old woman,
Pointing with her finger westward,
O'er the water pointing westward,
To the purple clouds of sunset.

Fiercely the red sun descending
Burned his way along the heavens,
Set the sky on fire behind him,
As war-parties, when retreating,
Burn the prairies on their war-trail;
And the moon, the Night-sun, eastward,
Suddenly starting from his ambush,
Followed fast those bloody footprints,
Followed in that fiery war-trail,
With its glare upon his features.

These are the first two verses from The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Now if you can't see the form here, then you, my friend, are blind. Each line has a distinctive stress pattern and is comprised of eight syllables. It flows, each line wants the next one to be read, and it tells an amazing story of an Indian brave named Hiawatha. This is real poetry. Not all poetry has the same number of syllables in each line, of course, but the number of syllables follows a consistent pattern. It doesn't have to rhyme, but the stress patterns should fall into their place to make it flow. When I write a poem, this is what you will find. A pattern, an order.

Truth: I do not read poetry very often. I do not enjoy it very much usually, but I did enjoy The Song of Hiawatha, and I recommend it to anyone who's interested in poetry.

This has really been the first of my philosophy, but it really describes, I feel, the starting point of this work.

More to come, my friends.