One of the genre classes I teach at the KR Young Writers workshop is a poetry class that I call “Ballerinas and Octopi.” It does not refer to the subject matter–though that’s the frequent joke–rather, I mean it as a metaphor for thinking about two types of poems, often on the extreme ends of the syntactical spectrum. A “ballerina,” as it were, is a form that Carl Phillips or W.S. Merwin uses with great effect–a poem that functions as a single, extended, complete sentence. (I use the Merwin poem “Under the Day” in class–you can find it first published in the Winter 2002 Kenyon Review.) Almost always, these poems move something like ballerinas–the logical leaps, the grammatical turns, the lyrical pirouettes–and inevitably, the pressure in the poem is in getting to the space where the figurative movement stops. So in this case, the pressure is downward, toward the stasis that is the end of the poem. And to that end–there is usually some suggestion of something bigger–bangs, not whimpers–in the closing gesture.
The “octopus” poems are the syntactical opposites.
Rather than the artful suspension of a delicate sentence over the breadth of the poem, they end-stop each line. A single poem, in this way, could have a bevy of tiny beginnings and endings tucked inside it. These poems sprawl and reach in many directions, in true cephalopodic fashion. Good examples can be found in the works of Michael Palmer and Karen Volkman (from her first book, Crash’s Law). And for the record, there’s a preponderance of contemporary poets writing octopus poems–you can find quite a few octopi in the wilds of your local bookstore or library. Tony Hoagland has a great essay about these types of poems, which he calls “the skittery poem of our moment.”
Octopus poems work associatively–they accumulate significance. One line smashes up against the next, as if the poem were composed of sense fragments–and the pieces sum in a way that ultimately determines the success (and accessibility, I would argue) of the poem. Tenses shift from one line to the next. A question follows a declarative. Something is funny, and then the next line renders it gravely serious. Because these poems work associatively, they most often impart via impressions. You parse the impressions to figure out how you experience the poem. Reading a good octopus poem is an experience in layers, in tonal textures.
Ballerina poems, by nature, are more narrative. One thing more explicably becomes the next. They are less impressionistic and more realistic–in the sense that they, by the force of their grammatical construction, must linger longer in the same world the poem creates. They are more obligated for their focused attention. The best often provide me with a sense of depth that I’m willing to trust–a reliable wisdom, even–that registers with more permanence. They don’t accumulate so much as they get to the point.
Merit in each form, for sure–but kudos to the poets who do both well. Phillips gets my vote.