Manual The Suburban Poem

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Of conformity caught here, where nobody catches it. Lloyd hits the ball. And damned Lorraine fetches it.

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However in the the refrain lines, you notice a slight change throughout the poem. The word conformity popped out to me here because I was already thinking of how there is conformity to rules in poetry.

My Kingdom for a Volta

In the last line, however, it is not conforming, rather it is slightly breaking the rules. Poets muttering about conformity suggests a seemingly negative take on conformity, or at least a subtle disdain for it.

While reading the poem I imagine the second refrain to become more annoyed in tone as the poem progresses. Blumenthal kept enough of the words the same in the refrains so that it is still considered repetition. But perhaps it's repetition that draws so much disdain within the poem. While there is repetition in this image, there is also a suggested conformity of the homes.

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Perhaps Blumenthal is suggesting that life needs variety to it, that conforming is something that can be used moderately but at the same time there should be personal touches present as well. I chose this poem to be in my anthology because it not only displayed a creative way to break rules in poetry, but it also hinted at breaking from conformity in the poem itself. The idea of that seemed interesting to include in this anthology because this chapter specifically explores the significance of conformity and breaking rules in poetry.

The poem subtly glorifies the breaking of rules, which I agree is an admirable thing; breaking rules well is rather difficult, but it adds a variety to things in a refreshing way. Poetry Anthology. Search this site. Chapter Apocalypse Soliloquy. Cracked Ice. Keeping Things Whole. New Poetry Handbook. The Story of Our Lives. It is the content, thought or feeling, of what comes to either side of the turn which allows the two portions to balance each other out.

The volta is a point where the argument changes. The thought switches from one point to another. The poem stops going in one direction and takes, you guessed it, a turn—one that the reader might not see coming. A sonnet has one turn. Not multiple. Not zero. The thought has to move from going one way to going another—though not necessarily in the opposite direction. A fourteen-line poem without a turn that creates two uneven parts is not a sonnet, in my mind.

Everything else is negotiable. The scansion—formal meter or not. The rhyme scheme—or not. The subject matter there are those who say only Love is an acceptable topic for sonnets.

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In fact, I would suggest the number of lines is negotiable too. Twelve lines?

Weekly Poem: David Roderick ponders the strangeness of the suburbs

I think those can serve. Not dandelions across the lawn, but small sharp hatreds of thorny f-u insolence squatting in paradise. Glass shards spread like seeds sprout a crocodile flotilla, raise the flag: flesh beware. And stones! More removed, more return. Nameless shrubs and their many- mandibled roots grasp ankles.

Jr Kyle Poetry - Wisdom and Suburban Pain

This past weekend, our subdivision celebrated Halloween, which falls in the middle of the week this year. In addition to holding Halloween this past Sunday, the town also decreed Halloween trick-or-treating to be a five to seven pm event. Which would make it an entirely daylight outing. However, the weather conspired against the town.

It started to get dark around four-thirty. Then the youngest kids shot out of their houses at the crack of five and starting running around the neighborhood. My husband looked at the sky and started handing out candy by the handful. By five-fifteen it was raining. The thunder and lightning was rocking-and-rolling by five-twenty. By five-thirty it was pitch black, raining like someone had turned on high-powered fire hoses, and it began to hail.

The Urban Rat and the Suburban Rat

About six-forty-five the storm passed and the sky lightened up a bit. Of course, now it was close to dark. Some intrepid teens headed out in costume. We held back just a little candy for stragglers, but by seven-thirty we declared Halloween dead and gone for another year. Or, well, no.