Two lines of poetry working as a unit are known as a couplet. They can be syntactically complete in themselves, or they can employ enjambment and rely on the previous or succeeding couplet/s to complete the thought or image.
Couplets can have a feeling of isolation on the page - there's all that white space surrounding them - or maybe it's not isolation or loneliness, maybe it's aloneness, self-containment. Maybe they can act as a celebration of that white space and what it represents to you.
My challenge to you is to write a poem whose subject matter and theme deserves being shaped into couplets. Your reasons do not have to be the same as any I've suggested above, but try to be aware of the reciprocation of form and content.
And one other thing: couplets tend to draw attention to themselves so make sure that each couplet has some power, something to show or say for itself, even if it does run on to the next.
Good luck. And here's a poem by the wonderful Catherine Smith to inspire you.
Ascension
On 6th July 2005, a fifteen year old girl sleep-walked from her home in East Dulwich and was spotted at 2 a. m., curled fast asleep on the counterweight of a crane.
She doesn’t register
the slap of pavement
underfoot
then the grip
of each rung
as she ascends
towards the sky –
a mild night,
stars winking
over the library,
the railway station,
the Curry Club.
She’s not dreaming this,
she’s not dreaming
anything. Something
drives her upwards
to curl her body
on cooled steel
rest her cheek
against the dust
and pigeon shit,
unaware
she could roll off
like a pea on the blade
of a knife, and her
mouth opens,
bubbles spit,
her limbs still warm
from the tangled nest
of sheets –
she’s not dreaming this,
she’s not dreaming
anything, she’s risen
above the tilt
of the earth,
she’s risen
as high as she can,
as high as this.
from Lip
Smith/Doorstop Books 2007
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Calendar
She stares at the calendar
Amy smiles at her
one arm round a giant snowman,
she’ll remain through January.
a star lights up the 31st
the rest looks bleak.
She isn’t sure if the paper box
goes out today or next week,
decides it went last week
marks it on the caldendar, relaxes.
She lifts the page to February
James bears his three years lightly
smiling, resplendent in England kit
hugging a full size football.
Hibaku *
In the precinct of the Kokutaiji Temple
the camphor tree has been uprooted
the fireball has scorched the bark
of phoenix trees, hollowed out their trunks
charred stumps of temple ginkgos
scar the landscape, their
butterfly leaves incinerated
by the apocalyptic blast
no life, no greenery, our city
is a sterile wasteland
then we see the water of the Ota river
running fresh and clear and
beneath scorched earth
green roots spread and grow
sending out defiant shoots
‘bearers of hope’
like the rainbow appearing
when black rain fell
we will lift the phoenix trees
plant them deep among the ashes
spread their seeds of peace
around the world and
in April fragrant Oleander blooms
will fill the acrid air.
© Margaret Beston
* ‘Hibaku’ is the name given to survivors of
the Hiroshima A-bomb.
Thanks for posting, Mary Rose and Margaret. Interestingly, both of them use the white space to indicate different types of silence.
I'll be back with another posting soon.
Mother’s day
The ringing doorbell brings
expensive Interflora flowers,
the excuse laden card signed
‘to mum with love, see you soon’.
But she’s learnt that soon
can be as long as a piece of string,
that each pound spent on freesias
is an atonement
for each day they don’t visit,
for each phone call they forget to make.
She sits the vase of pink and yellow
alone on the empty dining table.
The road to the shop is scattered
with fragments of families
sleep-deprived mums and squirming toddlers,
sulky teenagers with weekend dads;
the rest of the world moving at its own speed
leaving her in its wake.
The lad at the checkout is busy
impressing his friend, doesn’t notice
her hopeful smile
and cheery good morning
just takes the money
without a break in his conversation.
Hobbling home against the current of people
she tries to catch an eye
to smile
to say hello
but they’re wrapped in themselves
and don’t see.
On the chintz covered sofa
she sips her morning tea.
Four biscuits are counted onto a plate, the rest
stored in a Tupperware tub
just in case
they find the time.
Hiding-place
I wipe mud and blood
down the front of my dress
my calves ache with crouching
my heart urgent
bloody hands by my side
ready to reach your neck
when I jump out screaming
‘gipsies will get you!’
blackberry juice running
from the corners of my mouth
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