Tania Runyan: How to Write a Form Poem

Recently, I received a copy of How to Write a Form Poem, an introduction and guide to ten poetic forms. As someone who frequently writes in traditional and made-up form, I was intrigued to see who and what might be included.

True to form, each chapter in the book follows a prescribed formula. The author, Tania Runyan, introduces a poetic form, then provides a few examples followed by some commentary on the formal elements. She then forges a personal connection to each form, and shares her efforts at composing a poem in that style. Finally, she gives a quick recap, and sets a challenge for the reader, complete with writing prompt. Throughout, she weaves a travel narrative, as if each form were a destination on a grand poetic roadtrip. I don’t think I did that justice, as it works much better than it sounds. This is all followed by a second section of the book—an anthology of sorts, which pairs each poem with a prompt.

The book starts with the villanelle and makes stops at the sonnet, sestina, acrostic, ghazal, pantoum, rondeau, ode, and found poem, and ends the whirlwind tour on haiku. These are all forms that will be (or should be) well known to any young poet. In fact, some of these poems are so well known, they almost need no introduction. Every school kid has probably written a haiku or acrostic, and it’s hard to get through high-school English without encountering a sonnet. But these are presented not to show the arc of English literature, but rather to showcase the strengths and optimal applications of each form. The selections are chosen not necessarily on the fame of the poet, but the paradigmatic nature of the poem.

Of course, several touchstone pieces are included—it would be unthinkable to discuss the sestina without Bishop, or the sonnet without Shakespeare, or the haiku without Basho. But what I found so remarkable was the wealth of writers who were previously unknown to me, though we clearly share a certain poetic sensibility. The vast majority of poets represented in this book are alive right now—clear evidence that the formalist tradition is also alive and well.

I know I’ll be returning to these poems again and again. I love the way the vicissitudes of married life are condensed in short blunt phrases in “It’s Not Hard to Write a Sonnet, Man” by Tom Hunley, and how the trials of married life are compared to the challenges of writing such a constrained form, with both efforts generally prone to failure. “The Creation,” by Jeanne Murray Walker, provides another new take on the form—in fact, it does not even look like a sonnet on the page—you could very easily miss the form entirely, misled by the whimsical sense of wonder that stands front and center. I love “The Front Room,” a sestina by Elise Paschen, which really shows off the form’s evocatively dreamlike qualities. In fact, the form seems uniquely designed for an excavation of childhood memories and trauma. I love the rondeau “Please Stay” by Rick Maxson, which showcases the form’s elegiac power. As someone who adores new versions of Greek myths, I was drawn to “Echo” by John Poch; the villanelle form is such the perfect container for the subject. I love the ghazals by Aaron Brown and Zeina Hashem Beck–I had previously associated this form with a delicate, courtly tradition, but here it demonstrates its versatility by chronicling the ravages of war in the place of its own origin. I love “Oblique Eulogy II” by Juditha Dowd, a stellar example of how form can surprise. The pantoum is a recursive form, and lends itself to pause and reflection; but in this case, the repetitive lines enact a merging of the speaker with her mother, so that the final line, spoken first by the speaker’s daughter and then by the speaker’s mother, just takes the top of your head off. And I especially love “Sestina to Bind a Goodbye” by Murray Silverstein. This poem depicts a familiar domestic scene—packing up a car for a trip–but it’s not clear until the very end that it’s not a family roadtrip. Rather, it is the daughter heading off to college, leaving the parents to face a lonely house with no one but each other—and judging by their internal and spoken exchanges (the daughter never speaks), they are facing a hard road. I found this poem to be absolutely devastating and beautiful, and one that will stick with me for many years to come. And again, with the exception of Paschen, these writers are all new to me (I didn’t realize I was so out of touch). 

So, yes, even at my age, I definitely learned a thing or two in consuming this book. For example, I never really considered the acrostic an adult form—until I encountered subtleties of O’Hara and Poe (I also never knew about Poe’s flirtatious exchanges with Frances Sargent Osgood). Who knew the acrostic could be so sly, playful, and subversive all at once? And I seem to have forgotten everything I once knew about the ode. Interestingly, in reading through the book, I also became aware that I have never written a rondeau. I have set myself the challenge to do so—eventually.

I suppose that is the strongest endorsement I can give this book. It has prompted me to re-examine what I thought I knew about form, and inspired me to try something new.