Line Breaks and Breathing

What I don’t know about poetry fills the space between the bellows of my lungs to the space between my ears. My ignorance is the hollowness of my belly, the comb of marrow in the bones of my shins, but one of the reasons I love poetry is because there is such difference in style, presentation, and attention to the “rules” between works and writers. Yes, rules. Even those pieces which appear not to have rules, which are verse “freed” from spelling, grammatical constructs, rhyme, or form actually do have rules. If they communicate. The reason that I say that they do have “rules” is that the writer has to entrain the reader so that the reader can “get” what the writer was trying to communicate. To do that, the writer has to write something of sufficient interest that the reader wants that entrainment, otherwise the reader will put the book down and walk away.

In novels, novellas, or short stories, magazine or newspaper articles, there is very little difference to how the form is constructed to support communication. Not so with poetry. One of the forms I know least about is what I call “broken line” poetry.

Projective verse

Olson argues that the breath should be a poet’s central concern, rather than rhyme, meter, and sense.

Olson argues against a lazy reliance on simile and description, which can drain a poem of energy, and proposes that syntax be shaped by sound rather than sense, with nuances of breath and motion to be conveyed to the reader through typographical means.

“The form of what we say is the first thing we should attend to” – Al Filreis

Put the kink back in kinky

Why, when we write about sex, must it always be easy?  Why are the women always gushing luv fluids like Old Faithful, the men are hardened steel covered with velvet, wall sex is good sex, and mountains are moved with the force of the coupling couple on their bed?  Why are writers throwing away perfectly good obstacles to overcome in their stories and their poems?  What is the matter with writing about pieces and parts which don’t work?  What happens then?  What can you learn about your characters as they operate in this space?

Why must sex always be easy in our stories or poems?  Why is it that the woman’s always wet, the man is always hard, wall sex is great sex and mountains are moved with all the rolling around a couple does in bed?

ERWA’s *Inside the Erotic Mind* monthly topic of Impotency got me writing again this year.

I was re-reading Brooke Magnanti’s blog, Belle de Jour, and came across this older post about working with people (okay, she’s a sex worker working with people) with disabilities.

It got me going back on a favorite theme of mine, writing about the difficulties people have with sex because it isn’t easy.  The obstacle to be overcome is a real one, so the plot can naturally develop around a physically possible barrier.

What’s it like to have sex after a spinal injury?  How does it work?

or any other disability? (I had this link in my own list)

And if a woman isn’t gushing luv juice like Old Faithful, what then?

What kind of story / poem can be written