The Power of Form
Sometimes writers think that if there were no rules, writing would be easier! And to be sure, having limitless freedom to ramble about on paper (or computer screen) does seem appealing. However, if a person really wants to get somewhere, rambling about is not useful. He must have a destination and a way to get to it safely and efficiently.
When the somewhere a writer wants to get to is a reader's heart and mind, following a map is a good idea. In poetry, maps are called forms. A sonnet is a form. A haiku is a form. A sestina is a form. Even—yes, it's true!—free verse is a form.
Tips For Using the Poetic Form Anaphora
Don't let your repetitions become boring. Notice how both the Psalmist and Churchill varied some line lengths and syntax, even though the first words remained the same.
(In this excerpt from the fantasy novel, Medallion, by Dawn Watkins, prince Trave falls into a bog and meets a strange little man who speaks in rhyme.)
Nog shuffled closer to the prince, leaning over to peer at him.
“You’re covered with dirt,
But you don’t seem hurt.”
Trave was up now, trying to scrape some of the mud from his boots. He discovered that his tunic was torn in two places. “How can I get back to Kolonia?”
“I don’t know
That I’ll let you go.”
The prince was taller than Nog, but the words still made him uneasy. “I was with Gris of Kapnos to begin with, but I was traveling with Sard when I fell in here.”
The old bogger jumped back.
“I can tell you this,
After being with Gris,
Travel with Sard
Will be very hard.”
Trave was surprised. “You know them?”
“Maybe I do.
What’s that to you?”
“I am Trave, prince of Gadalla—and soon to be king.” Trave waited for the shock to hit the bogger.
But the little man continued to stare at him, seemingly not amazed that here was indeed a prince, even a king.
“I will rule Gadalla,” Trave said, again.
“Who cares,
Red hairs?”
“How dare you speak to me like that? I am a prince!”
“You are a sprig
Who’s not as big
As he’d like to think.
Will you have a drink?”
Trave stared at him in astonishment. “No thank you!” It occurred to him, however, that he was hungry and thirsty.
“Ah, be polite
And have a bite.”
The prince was at last convinced to dine with Nog. They had a hard brown bread and a hot drink that tasted like wood smells when it is just cut. The taste was not unpleasant, and the bread was filling.
“Why do you live here?” asked the prince.
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