complete assignment by tomorrow; i need 2 poems written

CHAPTER SEVEN PATTERN

Pattern—artful, intentional repetition—has a number of important functions in creative writing. First, pattern is a system of road signs or signals for your readers, designed to move them through your piece smoothly while guiding their attention to the most important parts of the work.

Pattern is also one of the ways writers make meaning. A minister or an essay or a traffic light may tell you the meaning. Creative writers create meaning. Pattern makes any piece of art—dance, painting, sculpture—more complex, layered, and interesting.

Pattern is partly why art is different from real life. Real life rambles. Pattern contains a piece, helps give it a shape, a design.

When you were in secondary school, it’s likely you were taught to write in three stages: generate, write, rewrite. You were supposed to brainstorm ideas, then write them all out, and then revise. Few creative writers work this way, however. The writing process is a lot messier than teachers told us in school, and it can be a lot more fun than slogging through those three stages. One of the ways you can enjoy the writing process more is to keep an eye on pattern as you work. Attending to patterns—intentionally creating repetitions of sound, image, and rhythm—provides an alternate way of working, one that’s much more fun than the old write-and-revise model.

Art is pattern informed by sensibility. — SIR HERBERT READ

Usually, as they create a piece of writing, writers enhance the patterns already organically showing up in the writing, focusing on various potentials for repeating sounds, images, and rhythms.

Working with pattern may not come easily to you, especially at first. Try to be patient with yourself as you learn this new strategy. Many of us have been taught that repetition, like imitation, is a fault and a flaw. You may have an unconscious bias against or some preconceptions about repetition. “It’s a pattern of behavior.” “You’re stuck in a pattern.” But pattern is repetition with a purpose. When we accuse someone of repetition, we imply that he or she is using a pattern without purpose, repeating design elements that either are not worthy of repetition (recall the classic all-pattern song “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”) or are repeated mindlessly, without a larger goal.

Intentionally repeating yourself is brave. Repeating yourself calls attention to what you are saying. It takes some confidence to believe that your sounds, images, gestures, and ideas are worth repeating, deserving to be underscored. The artful use of pattern is how you make a great poem out of a good poem; it’s how you make fiction out of a stack of anecdotes, how you shape a play from snatches of dialogue. When you make patterns, you make art.

Art is the imposing of a pattern on experience, and our aesthetic enjoyment is recognition of the pattern.

— ALFRED NORTH WHITEHEAD

In Part Three, Genres, you will find a series of writing projects that offer good practice in pattern, including anaphora and list. No matter what genre you are most interested in working on—novels, screenplays, comics, nonfiction—you’ll be well served if you train in the principles of pattern. Just as football players practice ballet in order to strengthen precision and control, as a writer you want experience writing in tight, pattern-rich forms such as the ghazal, pantoum, sonnet, sestina, and villanelle. These recipes are essentially short courses in all of the techniques presented in this chapter. Some students find the recipes for these pattern-intensive pieces daunting at first, but with just a little practice, you will find in these pieces a fantastic set of tools that will really pay off as you work on depth, meaning, voice, flow, and power in any other genre. Patterns deepen and enrich all genres, so refuse to be anxious about poetry, knowing that the skills you learn by studying and writing poems will feed all of your other writing. PATTERN BY EAR

Rhyme and Echoes

Perhaps the first pattern we encounter as young readers is rhyme. As small children, we were drawn to pattern, and we found things that repeated and rhymed especially pleasing: “red fish, blue fish, old fish, new fish” is more intriguing to the ear than “miscellaneous finned creatures varying in color.” Rhyme gives us pleasure. Rhyme provides a pattern so that we can memorize a piece of writing, carrying it with us always.

Yet rhyming for the sake of rhyming can be annoying:

You are the one I love.

More than the stars above.

The verse seems clunky, forced, amateur, because the word above is being used only to rhyme with love. It sounds goofy to describe stars and love this way when there are so many more interesting ways to talk about one’s lover. This writer is not concerned with the image, and nothing pops into the reader’s head. You can’t see above—the word is the opposite of a specific, forcing the reader to think rather than see. The ear may be satisfied, but that is never enough in creative writing. Eyes, ears, mind’s eye, touch—the whole system has to be activated. Rhyming is the most overt sound pattern, and if it is to be effective, the rhyming words need to be fresh, natural, surprising, clear, and interesting.

For constructing any work of art you need some principle of repetition or recurrence; that’s what gives you rhythm in music and pattern in painting. — NORTHROP FRYE

In contrast to the love-above rhyme, consider the rhymes from the first six lines of Gregory Orr’s poem “The River,” which appears in full on page 302.

I felt both pleasure and a shiver

as we undressed on the slippery bank

and then plunged into the wild river.

I waded in; she entered as a diver.

Watching her pale flanks slice the dark

I felt both pleasure and a shiver.

Shiver and river rhyme, but not in a predictable way. Both words belong in the poem and add to the story in the poem. Both words create an image for the reader. And, importantly, Orr doesn’t limit himself just to words that rhyme. In the poem, he creates a matrix of repeating sounds so that the rhyming words don’t stick out weirdly. The words pleasure and shiver echo, as do the “s” sounds in undressed and slippery. Pleasure, plunged, and pale create a sound pattern (alliteration), echoing through the poem, and pleasure, shiver, and diverconnect, nearly rhyming, adding more richness to the subtle, beautiful, sensual texture of sound patterns in the poem. Orr orchestrates exact rhymes (shiver and river) along with near rhymes and echoes (bank, dark / diver, shiver) to create sophisticated, surprising sounds that aren’t singsong, predictable, pointless, or clichéd.

Here each word that rhymes also fits the poem, contributes to the visual image the poet wants to create. The rhymes and near rhymes aren’t random. They serve the image, and the words are interesting and specific.

Rhyme isn’t just for poets. Attention to the pattern of language is one of the most important features that distinguish creative writing from writing that informs, instructs, records, or explains.

Consider this line of fiction from short story writer Aimee Bender:

The walk home from school was a straight line and the boy was not the wandering kind.

Notice the rhyme. Bender’s rhyme makes the sentence showy, interesting, fresh, and intriguing—good for a first sentence.

PRACTICE

Read Gregory Orr’s “The River” (p. 302) aloud in its entirety, and discuss the pattern of rhymes and other sound repetitions.

PRACTICE

Read the first paragraph of Raymond Carver’s short story “Cathedral” (p. 119). Make a list of all the words that have sounds that appear in other words in the paragraph. Do you notice a pattern? Do you think this is intentional on Carver’s part? Practice substituting other words for some of his choices, ones that do not echo existing words in the passage. What changes?

Once creative writers discover the intricate nuances of sound, they use sound repetition to underline or highlight or even evoke, literally, specific moods and feelings in their readers. Orr repeats “river” and “shiver”—the poem is about skinny-dipping, and it’s also about taking another kind of dive: the leap into a new relationship. The words river and shiver amplify Orr’s meaning and serve to create, through pattern, subtext for the poem. If he had repeated words like lump, thump, and clump, we would experience a completely different set of meanings. The words you repeat are like flashlights, shining light where you want your reader to focus attention. Pattern isn’t random.

Consonants and Vowels

To use the flashlight technique, writers often use echoes: sounds or images (instead of direct rhymes) that are repeated throughout a piece. Orr keeps repeating river and shiver, but he also creates a carefully controlled soundscape for his poem, using sound echoes. Notice how much power writing can generate just through the use of sound echoes. Instead of directly rhyming and getting trapped into using simplistic or nonimagistic word choices, you can use echoes.

PRACTICE

Read Randall Mann’s “Pantoum” (p. 302). How many repeating sounds do you find in the poem? Pay attention to the sounds Mann uses to end each line. Do you see or hear sound patterns that help the poem convey its meaning?

PRACTICE

Read aloud Laure-Anne Bosselaar’s “Stillbirth” (p. 303). Read the poem several more times, and carefully consider how the title explains the situation. Trace at least two sound patterns—sounds that echo or nearly rhyme / directly rhyme—throughout the poem. What is the effect of these sounds on the mood or feeling of this poem?

Using patterns of sound—not only rhyme, but also assonance (the repetition of vowels), consonance (the repetition of consonants), and alliteration (the repetition of the first letters of words)—isn’t just a technique poets use. Prose writers attend just as carefully to sound patterns.

PRACTICE

Read the short story “Sticks” by George Saunders (p. 304). What sounds are repeated? What whole words are repeated? Do you find examples of images or themes that are repeated as well?

Instead of thinking about sound simply as rhyme, zoom in. Pay attention to the vowels and consonants in your sentences. For practice, track the sound patterns—t he repeated consonants and vowels—in this paragraph from Nick Flynn’s memoir Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. What sounds are repeated, and what are the effects of these sounds?

When I write poetry, what I really get first is one or two phrases with a very insistent rhythm. The phrases keep insisting and the poem builds up by a process of accretion. — KENNETH REXROTH

In Boston the bars close at one. The next wave of revelers, more gregarious than the earlier crowd, bleary and headed home, push their way inside. Sometimes they give you a hassle, sometimes they flip you a few bucks. A little lit, sometimes they try to start up a conversation, sit on the floor next to you, offer you a drink, want to know your name.

The emphatic “b’s” in the first sentence give way, just as the night does, to looser, more open sounds. Notice the “eh,” “ay,” “eh,” “ay” pattern of vowel sounds in the second sentence. Flynn’s writing sounds good. We often take sound for granted when we read; sound can be very subtle.

You might be thinking to yourself, “Do I really have to look at every single vowel, every single letter?” Yes. You do. Sound is going to come out of your piece, whether you want it to or not. You have a chance to shape the way your reader feels. Few writers are willing to leave that to chance.

Refrain is one of the most valuable of all form methods. Refrain is a return to the known before one flies again upwards. It is a consolation to the reader, a reassurance that the book has not left his understanding.

— JOHN STEINBECK

What if Flynn had written without attention to sound and instead started his paragraph this way:

In my town, stuff closes early.

And then:

More people come into the bar after the first set goes home.

See the difference? The first passage sounds better. Why? The sound patterns aren’t screaming for attention; Flynn pays attention to how he can connect words and sentences by using similar sounds. When this attention to sound is absent, we might say the writing “doesn’t flow.”

Some writers feel tempted to go crazy with sounds:

Hilary heaped hundreds of hippos on the hydrodam.

Uh-oh. Now we are back to nursery-speak, hitting one sound too hard, way too hard. Fun to write, this kind of sound is unlikely to capture the attention of a serious audience. It’s really fun to speak this way, and you’ll evoke laughter in your reader unless your sound pattern is blended in, serves the purpose of the passage, and, like all good patterns, supports the rest of the piece instead of taking center stage. When a pattern of similar sounds evolves, the piece of writing feels more unified. It flows. Often, the consonant and vowel patterns are subtle. You would notice them only if they weren’t there.

Writing is the science of the various blisses of language.

— ROLAND BARTHES

Word Order

Compare:

He came. He saw. He conquered.

To:

He woke up when his alarm clock went off. It looked to be a great day. He thought about what to wear. Maybe he would get up and brush his teeth and wash his face and then get into his clothes or something.

Syntax is the order of the parts of the sentence. In the first example, notice how the syntax echoes—it makes a pattern. Each sentence is two words, the parts of speech echoing. The second example doesn’t pay attention to syntax. The writer hasn’t thought about how to make a pattern with the sentences themselves. He is missing an opportunity to make his writing reader-friendly, powerful, and effective.

Syntax matters to writers in the same way that reading music matters to composers, and the way strategy matters to military generals. The word syntax comes from the Greek word tassein, meaning “to arrange” (the word tactics is closely related). To write “with syntax” means to write “with tactics.” The order of the words matters. Writers choose the order, instead of leaving it to chance.

Let’s look at Aimee Bender’s sentence again:

The walk home from school was a straight line and the boy was not the wandering kind.

Notice how she repeats the same verb, was, and sets up the syntax of the sentence so that its two parts mirror each other. How differently we would feel about this sentence if she wrote, “The boy walked home. He really didn’t get lost much.”

Many new writers rely on one basic sentence structure, learned early on. Their basic dance step uses the subject-verb-object or subject-verb-modifier syntax. Like this:

She left the building.

He woke the dog.

Janet sang loudly.

There is nothing inherently wrong with this syntax pattern. But when a writer uses only that one pattern, the writing falls flat.

In the following example from Tobias Wolff’s memoir This Boy’s Life, notice how the author uses the basic pattern, inserts a variation, and returns to the basic pattern.

So I passed the hours after school. Sometimes, not very often, I felt lonely. Then I would go home to Roy.

The speaker is struggling with an abusive stepfather. He tries to have regular hours after school, messing around outside, hanging out by himself, avoiding his own house. When he feels lonely (the variation, not normal, not desired, not expected), Wolff uses an atypical sentence pattern to emphasize the unusual, the not-okay-ness—“sometimes, not very often,”—the sentence begins with a stutter-step, pauses—we breathe differently when we read it. It’s a little jolt, a little break. The return to subject-verb-object/modifier matches the sense of inevitability—Tobias has nowhere else to go. He has to go home. Messing around with the basic sentence pattern creates energy and power.

It’s a little jolt, a little break. The author carefully uses sentence variety to underscore the difficulties in the narrator’s life. Tobias has to go home. But it’s not just home home—it’s home to Roy. Ending the sentence with those two words—to Roy—avoids the predictable pattern (“I went home”) and makes a strong and chilling point. Varying sentence patterns creates energy and power and increases tension. Notice the difference between “Good is what I am” and “I am good.” Reread each sentence aloud. Do they sound the same? Do they even mean the same thing? Does the first version have implications that the second one doesn’t?

PRACTICE

Write a short analysis of the word order and repetition Brenda Miller uses in her memoir “Swerve” (p. 118).

The poet E. E. Cummings inverts word order so frequently that it becomes his signature move. Here is Cummings’s poem about a mouse, poisoned by someone who doesn’t want mice in the house.

E. E. Cummings

(Me up at does)

Me up at does

out of the floor

quietly Stare

a poisoned mouse

still who alive

is asking What

have i done that

You wouldn’t have

What’s important to remember is that our point of view is inverted in this poem—we are the mouse, looking up at the human. The words are reversed, and so is our usual perspective—we don’t typically identify with rodents. The syntax is jerky; words seem to be missing. Do you almost hold your breath—choke?—as you read the poem? (Another pattern to notice: Why are some words capitalized? Do the capitalized words make a pattern you can make sense of? That’s a visual pattern; more on that on p. 296.)

Readers appreciate “figuring out” the puzzle that is pattern, but the harder the puzzle is, the more payoff there needs to be. The mouse poem above is, like the mouse’s life, quite brief. (Would you be likely to read a novel written in this style?)

Rap lyrics offer an excellent model for improving your use of word order. Listen to an excerpt of Hamilton online, and consider how the order of the words both creates music and adds to the meaning and pleasure we gain from the song.

PRACTICE

Read the story “Sticks” by George Saunders (p. 304) or the monologue by Jenifer Hixson (p. 162). Track sound and syntax patterns, noting each example. In what ways is the author “rhyming” sentences, sections, or paragraphs?

Rhythm

Notice the differences in rhythm in the following two samples, one from a textbook, the other from the novel Risk Pool by Richard Russo:

The preceding section illustrates the relationships between numerous cohesive devices.

My father, unlike so many of the men he served with, knew just what he wanted to do when the war was over. He wanted to drink and whore and play the horses.

The rhythm in these two sentences is very different. The first is very monochromatic in tone, in part because the rhythm is flat. The second sentence bounces, moves, pulses. It has an interesting beat to it.

A beginning writer may write:

My father was a party animal.

Russo, an experienced novelist, writes:

He was celebrating life. His.

In the second example, Russo uses the typical S-V-O/M construction, but he slams on the brakes; instead of writing two S-V-O/M sentences in a row, he slaps down a one-word sentence. Both sentences begin with the sound of the letter “h,” creating a sound pattern that is counterpointed by the rhythms in the opposing sentences. Four words juxtaposed with one word: his. Russo creates humor and energy with syntax.

Meter is like the abstract idea of a dance as a choreographer might plan it with no particular performers in mind; rhythm is like a dancer interpreting the dance in a personal way.

— JOHN FREDERICK NIMS

The creative writer uses rhythm to punctuate, highlight, and emphasize content and to keep the reader engaged in the piece. Rhythmless writing = boring writing.

Law briefs lack rhythm. Memos from your boss lack rhythm. Bureaucratic writing is trying to be neutral, and creative writing is trying to be interesting, lively, memorable, and enjoyable to read. Rhythm is a pattern that lets you do that.

Meter

In creative writing, the pattern of rhythms is called meter. Just like a speedometer, meter measures how fast you are going, and it gives you information on what syllables or beats are stressed (emphasized) and which ones aren’t. That’s good information to have. Many new writers resist learning meter—it is complex, and they have to memorize a lot of impressive words—spondee and trochee and pentameter. But if your class decides to spend some time on meter, try to remember this: Meter isn’t a strict set of rules. Poets and writers make up their rules, use exceptions, reinvent the rules. Meter is feedback. It’s information you get about how your poem is going to play out for the reader. Meter is a tool, a fine one. It’s not a prison. Your teacher (especially if she or he is a poet) may decide to pursue an in-depth unit on meter. For now, if you choose to learn just one thing about meter, focus on iambic pentameter. You already know a lot about it, and you probably write in it even though you may not be aware that you do. Read on.

Iambic Pentameter.

Many poems are written in iambic pentameter. The term sounds fancy, but it isn’t highbrow or obscure. It’s our daily rhythm. It’s a very natural way for speakers of English to put words together. Like the two-step in dance, or 4/4 time in music, it’s a pattern of beats, or emphases on syllables, that is quite simple and direct. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Frost, and Stephen Crane wrote in iambic pentameter.

I would sooner write free verse as play tennis with the net down.

— ROBERT FROST

An iamb is a da-DUM sound; two syllables together, with the stress (the stress is the weight or the emphasis) on the second one, as in the word adore. The names Heather and Karen are not iambs. “Heh-THER” sounds wrong. “Ka-REN” sounds funny.

In English we usually begin sentences with an article—the, an, a—so the natural rhythm follows: the house, an egg, a boy. Da-DUM, da-DUM, da-DUM.

Set next to each other in a row, in a sentence, iambs always make a pattern:

i-AM-bic ME-ter GOES like THIS.

Some people say that iambic pentameter echoes the pattern of a heartbeat (da-DUM da-DUM) or footfalls when people walk. It’s a powerful pattern.

Pentameter means five units, so iambic pentameter means five da-DUMs per line, which is ten syllables per line, as in:

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;

Why five? Humans like fives. We count in fives for a good reason (check your hand). There might be another reason: Take a deep breath. A very deep breath. Now take a deep breath again, and this time, count how many times your heart beats. The poet John Frederick Nims calls iambic pentameter “a breathful of heartbeats.” Have you taken CPR? What is the ratio of breaths to chest compressions, the substitute heartbeats?

If one purpose of poetry is to resuscitate the human soul, to give us back ourselves, it’s no surprise that iambic pentameter has become our most common rhythm.

PRACTICE

Compose five lines of poetry in iambic pentameter. Then rewrite them, trying to pay no attention to the beat at all. Do you feel as though you have a good internal sense of rhythm? When you read the two versions out loud, does one sound better than the other?

Look back at some of your poetry. Are you writing in iambic pentameter without even knowing it? If you are writing in English, you are probably using this meter—at least some of the time—unconsciously. Studying creative writing is all about becoming more aware of what you do and learning how to direct your attention and your power to greater effect. Readers like iambic pentameter. It’s reassuring, predictable, steady, controlled, and clear.

PRACTICE

Read the Sonnet section (p. 453), and try writing a sonnet in iambic pentameter.