When it comes to the format of a poem, different
approaches have different benefits and risks.
One form might build energy by incorporating line breaks that slow the
reader down and create the possibility for double-meanings. Another approach
might sacrifice line breaks but build tension by forcing the reader to read
more quickly, more frantically. Still another approach can isolate certain
words and phrases for extra emphasis, irony, etc. What form you take is entirely up to you, of course, though experimenting with different forms can help you make an informed decision. To see what I mean, compare the original
format of Stanley Kunitz's famous poem, "The Portrait," with some
other versions I made.
The
Portrait (original version)
by
Stanley Kunitz
My mother never
forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.
The
Portrait (non-Kunitz version 2)
My mother never
forgave my father for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time and in a public park,
especially at such an awkward time and in a public park,
that spring when I
was waiting to be born.
She locked his name in her deepest cabinet
She locked his name in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out, though I could hear him
thumping. When I came
down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand of a long-lipped
stranger with a brave
moustache and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds without a single word
and slapped me hard. In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek still
burning.
My mother never
forgave
my father
for killing himself,
especially
at such an awkward
time
and in a public park, that spring when
I was waiting
to be born. She locked his name in her
deepest cabinet and
would not
let
him out,
though I could
hear him
thumping.
When I came down from
the attic
with the pastel
portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped
stranger
with a brave
moustache and deep
brown
level eyes, she
ripped it
into shreds
without a single word
and slapped
me hard.
In my sixty-fourth
year
I can feel
my cheek
still burning.
The
Portrait (non-Kunitz version 4)
My mother never
forgave my father for killing himself, especially at such an awkward time and
in a public park, that spring when I was waiting to be born. She locked his
name in her deepest cabinet and would not let him out, though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic with the pastel portrait in my hand of a
long-lipped stranger with a brave moustache and deep brown level eyes, she
ripped it into shreds without a single word and slapped me hard. In my
sixty-fourth year I can feel my cheek still burning.