Renée Nicole Macklin’s “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs”
The eight movements in this piece of postmodern doggerel serve to indict the scribbling as nothing more than a postmodern workshop exercise. It remains one of the most flagrant tells that something is wrong in education culture in the USA: this poem won the 2020 Academy of American Poets University & College Poetry Prize at Old Dominion University.
Introduction and Text of “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs”
This piece “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs” does not merely fail on its own terms; it exemplifies a system that has mistaken posture for poetry and grievance for vision. The entire spectrum along with its habits have become unmistakable—and depressingly standardized.
On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs
i want back my rocking chairs,
solipsist sunsets, & coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.
i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores (mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp— the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):
remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils, & salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms. under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat ribosome endoplasmic— lactic acid stamen
at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills—
i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe my gut— maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.
it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead. can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom
now i can’t believe— that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to & exhaling from their mouths “make room for wonder”— all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as: life is merely to ovum and sperm and where those two meet and how often and how well and what dies there.
Commentary on “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs”
Line breaks are not thoughts; failure to capitalize signals nothing profound. This piece strains to be original to the point of exhaustion. Its sprawling placement on the page does not equate to anything Whitmanesque; its mindless juxtapositions do little more than startle and stun and then fall flat.
First Movement: Nostalgia as Substitute for Form
i want back my rocking chairs,
solipsist sunsets, & coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.
The piece opens with a whine rather than an image: “i want back my rocking chairs.” This awkwardly phrased salvo is not memory shaped by art; it is desire announced without effort. The rocking chair is a prefabricated symbol, wheeled in to signal premodern calm without earning it.
The gesture toward “tercets” and “pentameter” is particularly revealing. These features are not forms the poem employs but instead are terms it waves at the reader like credentials: “look I know some poetry terms I learned in my creative writing class.”
Meter becomes metaphor, form becomes flavoring. As Helen Vendler insists, poetry requires a thinking ear, not a decorative vocabulary [1]. This poem treats form the way lifestyle branding treats craft: as an aesthetic aura, not a discipline.
Second Movement: Desecration as Cultural Credential
i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores (mashed them in plastic trash bags… the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):
Here we arrive at the first ritual sacrifice. Sacred texts are not confronted, questioned, or even read; they are disposed of theatrically. The Bible appears only as an evangelical pamphlet, never as literature, theology, or intellectual inheritance.
Such effusion is not critique; it is credentialing. George Steiner warned that modern art’s fixation on desecration often signals creative exhaustion rather than courage [2]. The poem performs disbelief the way a résumé lists internships. As Harold Bloom observed, contemporary poetry often avoids agon—the struggle with strong precursors—in favor of symbolic vandalism [3]. Trash bags replace thought.
Third Movement: Science as Vocabulary Trauma
remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils, & salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms. under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat ribosome endoplasmic— lactic acid stamen
Science enters the poem not as inquiry but as irritation. Scientific terms are recited like curse words, their meanings irrelevant. The poem resents knowledge without attempting to understand it.
James Longenbach has noted that free verse collapses when it merely records annoyance rather than transforming it [4]. Here, scientific language is treated as an assault on sensitivity, revealing not science’s limitations but the speaker’s refusal to engage it beyond syllabic discomfort.
Fourth Movement: Specificity as Alibi
at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills—
This line is the system’s shibboleth. The named diner is not symbol, setting, or pressure point—it is proof of authenticity. The poem assumes that coordinates equal meaning. Randall Jarrell warned that poetry which merely reports experience degenerates into prose with line breaks [5]. This IHOP does nothing but exist, which the poem treats as sufficient.
Fifth Movement: The Soul, Shrunk for Convenience
maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.
Here the poem congratulates itself for modesty by reducing the soul to runoff. Unlike metaphysical poetry, which used bodily imagery to heighten spiritual stakes, this poem uses anatomy to flatten them.
Christopher Ricks argued that metaphor should increase imaginative pressure [6]. This one relieves it. The soul becomes small enough not to trouble anyone—including the poet.
Sixth Movement: The Straw-Man Dialectic
this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom
Faith and science are staged as cartoon antagonists: faith as comfort blanket, science as rude undergraduate. This weasel language is not dialectic; it is melodrama for the intellectually uncurious.
As T. S. Eliot warned, poetry that mistakes emotional dissatisfaction for insight substitutes complaint for thought [7]. The poem invents a conflict it cannot articulate and then sulks about it.
Seventh Movement: Wonder Infantilized
the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to…
Wonder here is not earned but remembered—and remembered only as childhood comfort. Sacred texts become maternal figures, soothing rather than demanding.
Eliot cautioned against confusing regression with depth. This passage does exactly that. The poem inadvertently admits that its concept of wonder cannot survive adulthood and then blames knowledge for the failure.
Eighth Movement: The Grand Reduction (a.k.a. The Sulk)
life is merely to ovum and sperm and where those two meet and how often and how well and what dies there.
The poem concludes with the system’s obligatory finale: a reduction so crude it pretends to be brave. Life is reduced to sex and death, as though no one has ever thought this before.
No serious scientist, philosopher, or poet holds such a view, and the poem does not pretend to argue it. As Eliot observed, exhaustion presented as revelation is still exhaustion. The poem ends not with insight, but with a pout.
An Afterword: Dissatisfaction Does Not Bring Wisdom
Macklin’s “On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs” exemplifies the current rot that passes for poetry because it wants the authority of crisis without the labor of understanding. It rejects form while gesturing at it, dismisses belief without engaging it, and resents knowledge without learning it.
It longs for rocking chairs but refuses carpentry. What it offers instead is the familiar debris of postmodern workshop verse: fragments of feeling, gestures of rebellion, and the unexamined belief that dissatisfaction is a form of wisdom. It is not.
Readers might notice that this essay does not even begin to address the awkwardness of language use this piece, which would require another essay to fully engage the issue. Suffice it to say that said awkwardness could, in fact, result either from intent or simply lack of language acumen of the doggerelist.
Either reason aligns with postmodern thought that dismisses utility for heft and originality for quaint novelty. For the postmod mindset, Ezra Pound’s diktat “make it new” [8] has become “make it shockingly ugly.”
In her customary fashion, poetaster Sharon Olds offers up this deeply flawed, dishonest hit-piece, “The Victims,” which does little more for humanity than showcase a handful of stark images.
Introduction with Text of “The Victims”
According to noted poetry critic, Helen Vendler, Sharon Olds’ poetry comes across as “self- indulgent, sensationalist, and even pornographic.” And as former poet laureate Billy Collins averred: Olds is “a poet of sex and the psyche” “infamous for her subject matter alone.”
And even though Collins attempted to add some faint praise, “but her closer readers know her as a poet of constant linguistic surprise,” those linguistic surprises consisting of stark images only function to undermine her attempt to produce any genuine poetry.
Although “The Victims” is one of Olds’ least “pornographic” efforts, the piece clearly demonstrates egotistical self-indulgence and egregious sensationalism. Such writing smacks more of loose-mused regurgitation than real cogitation on genuine emotion.
This unhappy piece consists of 26 uneven lines of free verse that sit in a lump chunk on the page and suffer from the customary Oldsian haphazard line breaks.
The Victims
When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and took it in silence, all those years and then kicked you out, suddenly, and her kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we grinned inside, the way people grinned when Nixon’s helicopter lifted off the South Lawn for the last time. We were tickled to think of your office taken away, your secretaries taken away, your lunches with three double bourbons, your pencils, your reams of paper. Would they take your suits back, too, those dark carcasses hung in your closet, and the black noses of your shoes with their large pores? She had taught us to take it, to hate you and take it until we pricked with her for your annihilation, Father. Now I pass the bums in doorways, the white slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their suits of compressed silt, the stained flippers of their hands, the underwater fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the lanterns lit, and I wonder who took it and took it from them in silence until they had given it all away and had nothing left but this.
Commentary on “The Victims”
The piece breaks into two parts: the first is a description of how the speaker and her family felt way back a few decades when she was a child, and the second part jumps to what the speaker observes and thinks as an adult.
First Movement: Hindsight Sometimes Less Than 20/20
The speaker of the poem is an adult looking back at the break up of her family roughly around the time that her mother divorced her father. The speaker is addressing the father, telling him how glad she and the family were after the mother divorced the father.
The speaker and her siblings were glad because she “took it // in silence, all those years.” What she, and perhaps they, silently endured is left up to the reader to imagine, and that omission is a major flaw that leads the poem astray.
No two divorces are alike. By leaving such an important motive to the imagination of the reader, the speaker weakens the thrust of her accusations against the father. The only hint of the father’s misdeeds is that he enjoyed three alcoholic beverages with his lunch.
Admittedly, that could present a problem, but by no means does it always do so. Some individuals can handle a few drinks better than others, and the fact that the father seemed to have functioned in his job for a considerable period of time hints that he might have been competent in his job.
On the other hand, the mother influenced her children in a grossly negative way, causing them to hate their father and wish him dead.
Apparently, the mother teaches her children to hate their father simply because he had three double bourbons for lunch or so we must assume because no other accusation is leveled against the poor man.
Maybe the father was a cruel alcoholic, who beat the mother and children, but there is no evidence to support that idea. And if that were the case, stark images of bruises and broken bones would surely have made an appearance in the little drama.
The father was fired from his job, but only after the mother kicked him out. Would he have been able to keep his job to that point in his life, if he had been an out of control, cruel drunk? Perhaps he became depressed and without purpose after being forced to leave his family and sank further into alcohol.
The gratuitous allusion to “Nixon’s helicopter,” carrying the newly resigned president from office, further inserts the nastiness of a political hit-piece, adding nothing to the drama except the suggestion that the family likely voted for Democrats.
One has to wonder if the speaker and her fellow travelers would have “grinned” so readily, if a helicopter had lifted off the South Lawn carrying Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton.
So the reader has no evidence that the father was guilty of anything, but the mother taught the kids to hate the father and wish for his death. The mother comes across as a less sympathetic character than the father.
Second Movement: Appalling Prejudice Revealed
The speaker now begins her report on what she sees and how she thinks in her current life situation that has been tainted by her past. She begins to observe homeless men sleeping in doorways.
It becomes clear that it is those homeless men in the doorway who are reminding the speaker of her father getting kicked out of their home and getting fired from his job.
The speaker then speculates about those men about whom readers can be sure she knows absolutely nothing. She wonders about the lives of those homeless men, whom she calls “bums.”
She wonders if their families “took it” from those men the way her family supposedly took it from her father. But again, the reader remains clueless about what it is the family “took.”
What an arrogant reaction! Without one whit of evidence that these “bums” did anything to anyone, the speaker simply presumes that they are like her father, who lost it all because of what he (and now they) supposedly did.
But the reader still does not even know what the father did. They do know what the mother did; she taught her children to hate the father and wish him dead.
Stark, Colorful Images
This poem, like many of Sharon Olds’ poems, offers some colorful descriptions. The father’s business suits are rendered “dark / caresses” hanging the closet. His shoes sport “black / noses //with their large pores.”
Those homeless men are name called “bums” because they are lying “in doorways.” Their bodies are dehumanized and portrayed as “white / slugs.”
Those slugs shine “through slits” in compacted dirt, revealing their compromised hygiene after being homeless for a protracted length of time. Their hands resemble “stained / flippers,” again dehumanized.
Their eyes remind this flippant speaker, who lacks compassion for her fellow human beings, of ships that have sunken with their “lanterns lit.”
Would that all of those colorful images resided in a better place and without the lack of humanity this speaker reveals about herself. Those “linguistic surprises,” however, function only to render the speaker and the so-called victims as the actual perpetrators of despicable acts.
Although the speaker wishes to foist bad behavior onto first her father and then onto homeless men, she cannot escape the rebuttal that she has failed to indict her father and that she knows nothing about those homeless “bums.”
This ugly piece remains questionable and appears to have been created solely for the purpose of showcasing a handful of stark, colorful images.
This glossary offers definitions of the terms used in my poem commentaries. Most of them have been in service for centuries, but I have also coined a number of terms that have never been used before, such as “versagraph,” conflating “verse paragraph,” and “scatter rime,” an innovative rime scheme.
Introduction: Poems, Doggerel, and Poetry Classifications
Every field of study has its scholars, critics, and commentarians, who employ terminological tools appropriate to their unique purposes. Sometimes that set of terms is called “jargon.” Poetry commentary has its own jargon, and so I am offering this set of definitions to assist in the understanding of my commentaries.
In the cosmos of poetry, there are genuine poems, and then there are pieces that masquerade as poems. Such false “poems” are labeled “doggerel.” Some writers make the distinction between a genuine poem and doggerel by labeling the latter “verse.” I will refer to the really bad “poems” as “doggerel.” And because I find it unpleasant as well as misleading to refer to a piece of doggerel as a poem, I will often refer to the so-called “poem” as a “piece.”
Classic Poetry includes poems recognized before 1920 and poems studied widely in secondary schools and college classes, to be distinguished from Classical Poetry, which refers only to the poetry of antiquity: Hindu, Persian, Greek, and Roman.
Contemporary Poetry includes poems recognized after 1920, especially those of Modernism, Postmodernism, and 21st century works.
For the most part, I do not classify poetry through political correctness or identity politics; therefore, I avoid labeling poets by their race or nationality. If discussion of race, ethnicity, religion, sex, or nationality is integral to the commentary of poem, I offer explanations with full discussions.
But I avoid labeling poets or poems through those classifications. I do believe that labeling by nationality is less egregious and can be more useful than labeling by race; thus, “American” poetry may be legitimately distinguished from “British” or “World.”
Writing about Poetry
Individuals who write about poetry fall into several distinguishable categories, depending on the focus of each writer. Some poetry enthusiasts write simply as fans of poetry and wish only to share their feelings.
Others who have dedicated their lives and/or careers to the study of poetry fall into the following five distinctive categories, each with a different depth and purpose of study: (1) analysis, (2) explication, (3) criticism, (4) scholarship, and (5) commentary. The following list offers a brief description of each category of poetry study and writing focus:
(1) Analysis: examines and discusses in some detail a poem in terms of its parts, similar to explication but less exhaustive and extensive. The late Professor Laurence Perrine remains American’s finest and most thorough poetry analyst. His text book, Sound and Sense: An Introduction to Poetry, has been used in many college classrooms since the first edition appeared in 1956.
(2) Explication: explains how the poem’s use of poetic devices implies its message. While the term “explicate” comes from the Latin “explicare,” meaning to unfold, it is useful to think of the term “explication” as a conflation of explain + implication when referring to poetry; thus an explication explains the implications of the poetic devices used in the poem. The best place to go for poetry explication is the quarterly journal, The Explicator, which began publishing in 1942.
(3) Critic: emphasizes the evaluation of poems, whether the poems works well in expressing its meaning. Helen Vendler is a leading American poetry critic. According to the Poetry Foundation, “Vendler is regarded as among the finest and most acute of contemporary poetry critics.”
(4) Scholar: emphasizes the research and study of poetry. Dana Gioia, Former California Poet laureate and Chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, is an important American poetry scholar, as well as a fine poet.
(5) Commentarian: combines the work of analysis, explication, research, and evaluation to emphasize effect and meaning (concept created by Linda Sue Grimes).Thus my work with poems is that of a commentarian as I rely on analysis, explication, scholarly research and study in critically observing and reporting on the effects and meanings of poems. Despite my fairly in-depth study of each poem, my commentaries are motivated primarily by my personal, informed reaction to the poem.
Glossary of Poetic Devices
This glossary of terms features definitions for the most widely employed poetic devices (literary devices) that I use in poetry commentaries. Most are traditional poetic devices that have been in service for decades, even centuries.
However, since the turn of the 21st century, I have also coined a number of terms necessary for my commentaries; my coined terms are marked and italicized with each glossary definition.d terms are marked with each glossary definition.
Commonly Used Figures: Literal vs Figurative
While many poems remain quite literal, most employ some forms of figurative language; expressing and describing human emotional experience remain ineffable by nature. For example, one cannot exhaustively with complete accuracy describe the taste of an orange.
One may say an orange tastes sweet, but so do apples, pumpkin pie, chocolate cake, and even antifreeze. Obviously, an orange tastes nothing like any of those. Thus, to describe the taste of an orange one might employ figurative language: perhaps an orange tastes like sunshine mixed with smiles. Of course, the only way to know what an orange tastes like is to taste it.
Because poetry expresses human experience through emotion, one cannot expect to experience everything that others have done, but one can experience a taste of what others have experienced in comparison to one’s own. Figurative language through its colorful creativity assists in imparting the essence of the otherwise ineffable.
Literal language can be understood at face value; it expresses meaning without employing any literary devices that require interpretation. For example: The opening lines from E. A. Robinson’s “Richard Cory,” “Whenever Richard Cory went down town, / We people on the pavement looked at him,” is quite literal.
Figurative language requires interpretation because taken at face value it sounds non-sensical. For example: the only figure in E. A. Robinson’s “Richard Cory,” is the line, “And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,” which is an example of hyperbole (exaggeration). While Cory was likely very rich in estimation of his poor neighbors, it is not likely he was actually “richer than a king.”
The following figures or poetic devices are the ones that are most important for most poems. This list is not exhaustive because my commentaries do not explicate or analyze; they merely offer a general, personal response to poems, but those responses remain sensitive to these most prominent devices:
Image: any sense perceived snapshot. Therefore, there are visual (sight), auditory (sound), tactile (touch), gustatory (taste), olfactory (smell) images. Example: Robert Browning’s “A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch / And blue spurt of a lighted match” offers images of sound, sight, and smell.
Metaphor: a comparison of unlike entities in order to dramatize or portray the sensed reality of the subject. One of the best metaphors in American poetry is Robert Frost’s “leaves got up in a coil and hissed / Blindly struck at my knee and missed,” from his poem, “Bereft.”
Simile: similar to a metaphor but uses the words “like” or “as”; thus the comparison remains weaker because it is more tentative. Metaphor claims that one thing “is” another, while simile claims one thing is merely “like” another; or in case of an action comparison, one act is “as” another. One of the best similes in American poetry is Sylvia Plath’s in her poem, “Mirror”: “In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman / Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.”
The simile, “like a terrible fish,” is part of two lines that contain an image and a metaphor. The metaphoric act is the drowning of a young girl, which offers an image along with a second image of the rising old woman, who as she rises looks like “a terrible fish.”
Hyperbole: exaggeration for the purpose of emphasis, and often for comic effect. For example, in Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress,” the speaker offers numerous examples of hyperbole, such as “I would / Love you ten years before the flood,” wherein the speaker makes the outlandish claim that he would love this woman he is attempting to seduce for a long stretch of time that would extend back so far that no one can calculate that extent.
Personification: anthropomorphizing plants, animals, inanimate objects, concepts, or abstract ideas. An excellent example of personification is Emily Dickinson’s “Because I could not stop for Death,” which metaphorically frames the occasion of dying as a carriage ride with Death personified as a gentleman caller. Similar to personification is the following rare device:
Avianification (rare): giving inanimate objects, concepts, abstract ideas, or other creatures the qualities of a bird: for example, from Phillis Wheatley’s “A Hymn to the Evening,” “From the zephyr’s wing, / Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.” (term coined by Linda Sue Grimes)
Pathetic Fallacy: a literary device, coined by John Ruskin, in which human emotions or qualities are attributed to aspects of nature or inanimate objects (a form of personification), often to reflect a character’s mood or intensify the atmosphere.
Stanzas and Other Poetic Units
The “stanza” is the traditional unit within classic poems. It may consist of any number of lines and still be considered a stanzaic unit. Contemporary poems may also employ these units depending The following numerical clusters of lines may appear in classic poems:
Couplet: two lines Tercet: three lines Quatrain: four linesCinquain: five linesSestet: six lines, usually first stanza or part of a Petrarchan sonnetSeptet: seven lines Octave: eight lines, usually the second stanza or part of a Petrarchan sonnet
Stanzas with lines from 9 and upward will be named according to the Latin term for the number; for example, the Latin term for the number 9 is “novem”; thus the name for a stanza with 9 lines is “novtet.” The Latin term for the number 10 is “decem”; thus the name for a stanza with 10 lines is “dectet.” Eleven lines is therefore “undectet,” twelve “duodectet,” etc.
Fortunately, stanzas are seldom extended to line numbers above eight; therefore, I have coined the terms for stanzas with lines numbering above eight:
Novtet: Nine lines Dectet: Ten lines Undectet: Eleven lines Duodectet: Twelves lines
Doggetet: unit of lines in a piece of doggerel (term coined by Linda Sue Grimes)
Versagraph: traditionally expressed as a “verse paragraph”; a free verse
paragraph, usually unrimed, unmetered group of lines (a term coined by Linda Sue Grimes)
Movement: along with “versagraph,” the movement is also a basic unit of lines for a free verse poem; however, a movement may not be limited to a single unit, but may be based primarily on the content, theme, or subject of the movement.
Also, the line units of a traditional stanzaic poem may be labeled “movements,” if the importance of the poem is more dependent on its movements than its stanzaic units (concept created by Linda Sue Grimes).
Rime (often spelled, “rhyme”)
Cluster Rime: groups of riming words appearing along with unrimed words, AAABBBBCCDEED.
End-rime: the most common rime, usually producing a consistent rime-scheme, such as the English sonnet: ABABCDCDEFEFGG.
Internal rime: a line’s final word riming with a word within the line: ‘”While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping.”
Scatter rime: appears in no definite scheme, AABCDDEFGG, but becomes apparent as it affects meaning (coined by Linda Sue Grimes).
Slant rime, near rime, off rime: pairs of words that are merely close in rime: to-day / victory; tell / still; arm / exclaim.
(Please note: Dr. Samuel Johnson introduced the form “rhyme” into English in the 18th century, mistakenly thinking that the term was a Greek derivative of “rythmos.” Thus, “rhyme” is an etymological error. For my explanation for using only the original form “rime,” please see “Rime vs Rhyme: Dr. Samuel Johnson’s Error.”)
Forms of Poetry
Elegy: a poem or song composed as a tribute to a person who has died; most often written to be used in ceremonies for high-ranking personages, such as Walt Whitman’s “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” mourning the death of the Great Emancipator President Abraham Lincoln and Ella Wheeler Wilcox’s “The Queen’s Last Ride,” which mourns and celebrates the reign of Queen Victoria upon the queen’s death in 1901. Robert Frost’s “To E. T.” serves as a more common type of elegy to his friend and fellow poet Edward Thomas, who was killed in war.
Sonnet: the most commonly employed form of poem since the early 13th century. Types of sonnets include the Italian (Petrarchan), English (Spenserian, Elizabethan or Shakespearean), American (Innovative). Also, various combinations of these sonnets exist as innovative sonnets.
Elizabethan Sonnet (Shakespearean or English ): Three rimed quatrains and one rimed couplet in iambic pentameter. Each quatrain has its own theme or subtopic with a volta or turn of thought comprising the third quatrain. Rime scheme is ABABCDCDEFEFGG.
Petrarchan Sonnet (Italian): One octave and one sestet, with a volta appearing in the first tercet of the sestet. Traditional rime scheme is ABBAABBACDCDCD, but may vary widely. See Barrett Browning’ Sonnets from the Portuguese for a masterful example of use of the Italian sonnet.
Spenserian Sonnet: This style sonnet dispenses with the English sonnet tradition of assigning each quatrain a slightly different task with a third quatrain volta or turn of thought, maintaining the same theme or subtopic throughout. Rime scheme is ABABBCBCCDCDEE, instead of ABABCDCDEFEFGG.
American (Innovative):A fourteen line poem, often incorporating features from traditional sonnets; usually unrimed without a specific rhythmic pattern, but retains the emphatic lyrical discourse of the traditional sonnet (definition delineated and stabilized by Linda Sue Grimes)
American (Near-Sonnet): An 11-13 line poem, often incorporating features from traditional sonnet, often unrimed and unrhythmed but retains the lyric intensity of traditional sonnets (term coined by Linda Sue Grimes)
Curtal Sonnet: An eleven line poem, coined by Gerard Manley Hopkins to describe the form employed in his poems, “Peace” and “Pied Beauty.”
Other Common Forms of Poetry
Villanelle: a tightly structured 19-line poem that features only two rimes and two refrains. One of the most anthologized villanelles is Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night.”
Versanelle: a short, usually 20 lines or fewer, narration that comments on human nature or behavior, and may employ any of the usual poetic devices (term coined by Linda Sue Grimes) For a thorough discussion of this form, please visit “The Versanelle: A Verse Form With a Punch.”
Voice in Poetry
First Person Voice: Poets often speak in a poem as if they are the narrators, employing the first person pronouns. This voice may be tricky, and many beginning poetry readers mistake the “speaker” of the poem for the “poet.”
It is safer when discussing a poem to refer to “the speaker” instead of “the poet.” Most poems are little dramas like plays instead of being expository in nature. Even the Confessional Movement employed the technique of speaking the poem through a speaker.
Second Person: Often a poet will seem to be addressing a second person in the poem, employing the second person pronoun “you,” and while it may be the situation of actually addressing another person, often the poet is addressing himself or herself. The poet him/herself is thus the “you” in the poem. (See “Self-Reflexive You” listed below in “Other Terms.”)
Omniscient Voice: The speaker of a poem is often an omniscient narrator who seems to be reporting the message of the poem. The omniscient voice in narration is one who knows the entire situation of the piece but is not usually part of the scene. This voice is similar to the omniscient narrator in fiction such as novels and short stories.
Cosmic Voice: Similar to the omniscient voice, the cosmic voice is also all-knowing. The difference between the omniscient and cosmic voice is that the latter’s knowledge extends ever farther. Not only does the cosmic voice know all that is currently happening, but it also knows what happened throughout historical time and space.
Periods of time and stretches of space may expand or contract as needed as the cosmic seer reports what he sees, hears, or otherwise experiences. Although a “cosmic voice” may come to a poet through a vivid imagination, it transcends the imagination as a truth teller.
The cosmic voice and its communications reveal truth through deep intuition. The soul of the speaker employing the cosmic voice is, even if only temporarily, aware of its vast and profound knowledge. The cosmic voice moves from a place far beyond sense awareness.
Readers/listeners who hear the cosmic voice and understand it are moved beyond their own sense awareness to comprehend the unity of all created things. They move into the realm of their Creator and return as transformed beings for having experienced the Sacred Locus. (The concept of the “Cosmic Voice” was created by Linda Sue Grimes.)
Other Terms
I am continuing the process of adding terms and definitions as they become necessary for advancing my commentaries, whether they are terms already in traditional service or whether they are ones that I coin.
Loose Musing: A brain-storming activity that often results in non-sense pieces, which get left without order. Also the act of free-writing that remains disorganized without the revision required to allow the images to impart coherent and cohesive meaning (term coined by Linda Sue Grimes). An excellent example of a piece resulting from loose-musing is Margaret Atwood’s “In the Secular Night.” Such pieces often result in doggerel.
Occasional Poem: A poem written for a special event (or occasion), such as Robert Frost’s “Dedication,” written for the inauguration of President John F. Kennedy. The piece remained unread and instead Frost recited the poem that Kennedy had asked him to read, “The Gift Outright.” For a brief history of the “Occasional Poem,” please visit the Academy of American Poets.
Bellumsympathic Writing: usually in poem form but may also apply to other literary genres, these pieces express the inner turmoil brought on by human relationships. Word origin: “bellum” from the Latin for “war”; “sympathic” altered adjectival form for “sympathy.” (term coined by Linda Sue Grimes)
Self-Reflexive Second-and/or Third-Person: When speaking to themselves in poems, sometimes poets have their speakers address themselves as “you,” which is second person singular, the pronoun used to address a second person whom one is addressing. They also on occasion refer to themselves in the third person he or she.
An example of self-reflexive second-person use is Allen Tate’s “Ode on the Confederate Dead.” T. S. Eliot’s “Preludes” features examples of both self-reflexive second- and third-person uses.
I am not aware that this procedure has been given a label; therefore, I am labeling it the “self-reflexive second-person” when the speaker addresses himself as “you” and “self-reflexive third-person” when the speaker addresses himself as “he or she.” (terms coined by Linda Sue Grimes)
Linda's Literary Home 
