Form and Spacing in Poetry

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.

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,

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 3)

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.