Questions on Writing Poems

How does one compose a poem? Well, a metrical verse seems to be more laborious because of the restrictions to form. Did poets of (we’ll say for lack of argument) the early modern English period first write down lines and then rewrite them again and again, playing with sentence structure, until the line or lines fit the desired meter? Or was it somehow the other way around—playing with words that were stressed and unstressed (be it iambic, trochaic, etc) and then see what the words or lines form into (what kind of ideas or story is sparked here), and take it from there.

How does one compose a free verse poem? What matters in a free verse poem? Is it the ideas or maybe the use of words? Does alliteration count? And what about abstract and concrete images, how concrete does a poem have to be before it is considered “just a bunch of meaningless words?”

I would also like to say that I understand the why of the whole “words in print” movement in modern poetry (the E.E. Cummings, and even George Herbert) in which the placement on the page and use of symbols as representation of words (by the way I believe this is the precursor to today’s use of emoticons or mood expression via symbol/letter combinations).

So, can a rough draft be considered a finished product? How many rewrites must one go through before they feel a poem is finished? Is there a checklist or certain, specific objectives needing to be met? I’ve read a few books on writing and various essays from poets about the craft and even taken a few college writing classes but I’ve never work-shopped a poem. What I have gathered about poetry classes is that the teacher explains the tools (metrical verse, rhythm, rhyme, etc.) and then leaves the composition up to the writer and after multiple drafts never explains why a poem isn’t working but what could make it work (if taken in a certain direction). I’m not asking for a formula to simply drop words into but I think teachers are afraid to explain too much of the how a poem is written for fear that their idiosyncrasies will become a formula and lose its creativity.

Autumnal-Colorly Challenged

My father-in-law wants me to look for " colors."
Actually he tells me,
" keep an eye out for places of color, will ya? "
By this he means for me to keep an eye out for streets
with trees that are changing color because of the Autumnal time of year. The problem is that from my perspective,
just about anything can be beautiful in my eyes, or rather,
the way my brain is wired
to process What I see through my eyes,
is programmed to find beautiful composition in just about any
frame I decide, in my mind, to still.
Four instance, the tree
in front of the community center.
The community center is not architecturally appealing in any sense:
off-white-plaster walls;
a wooden-beam covered walkway around the side of the building.
The trees are not a brilliant maple,
but a type of eucalyptus
without any girth.
What appeals to me in this
frame I've chosen to still
is the way the wind blows
the leaves from
the still green tree.
They fall at times, or rather,
like a leaf blower is at full blast
the leaves ungracefully shower the ground,
but at other times
wind gently blows
a few leaves fall and
caught in a gentle breeze
flutter to the ground
like snow.
I can't be objective,
or as objective as my father-in-law,
in the horticultural flux
brought on by climate changes.
I'm just wired differently.

Linseed Oil

Jazz lounge with hazes and happy faces
Blues players join in.
I smell... linseed oil,
My opiate-portal to the land of creation,
Vehicle of aesthetic impulses,
Binder of pigment,
Newly painted scent,
Deliquium of the efflorenscence spectrum.

It works best in conjunction with
a pigment mixed with a binder,
simbiotic with color.
Like a therapist who helps
Push through problems
It can be added in doses.
To an overdose victim:
an adrenaline shot.
It's an actor who relies on
Suspension of disbelief.

It's a musician with
Voodoo qualities.
A Vandalic poet on
A mistical mind enhancer.
Like the Big Easy
New Orleans ragtimers
True southern comfort
Smoothed out the way
The sax smoothed out jazz.

The Music Room - an exercise in Personification

Everything about the room was cubical.
The plants tried to offset the squareness
with their triangular leaves and coiled vines,
but all that accomplished was they were given a trompe l'oiel look.

They screamed for identity, uniqueness,
except the space that encompassed the sparse vegetation,
even the negetive space,
could be measured with mathamatical precision.

The colors revolved closely around
the maroon furnature.
The only redeeming quality was the music
escaping from the rectangular speakers.

The room asks for conformity,
even the smell (or lack thereof)
threatens to engulf.
The sounds demand a release,
require a revolution.

The music swaggers into the room,
eases into the chair and stacks its feet on the table
like a needle on a record.

The music asks for all the eyes in the room to close,
not to create darkness,
but to allow the shapeless synapses to join the rhythm
and echo the melody that strikes the conformity
with an electrical current of volume.