Gentle, supportive guidance from the inimitable Stephen Fry (b. 1957) on unlocking a “primal impulse”: writing poetry.
By gently belaboring technique, practice, and exercises, The Ode Less Travelled steers us confidently through an art form that appears far more daunting than it is. (Hint: it’s all about rhythm.)
When we want to describe anything technical in English we tend to use Greek. […] Metre can be reserved precisely to refer to the poetic technique of organising rhythm, while words like ‘beat’ and ‘flow’ and ‘pulse’ can be freed up for less technical, more subjective and personal uses.
Many wonderful books of poetry fill my shelves—these agents of pause and civility with the help of this superlative guide, I might begin to understand them or at least appreciate the difficult work that borne them. Any aspiring poet or reader of poetry should own this book, read it, and underline it thoroughly. (I feel sheepish not writing any of this advice in verse.)
American poet Laureate Mark Strand wrote “A poem encourages slowness, urges us to savor each word” in his study of poetry and poetic inventions. Fry agrees, “a poem can never be read too slowly.”
We have come to the end of our chapter on metrical modes. It is by no means complete. If you were (heaven forbid) to go no further with my book, I believe you would already be a much stronger and more confident poet for having read thus far.
In his memoir, The Fry Chronicles: An Autobiography, Fry says he is a born teacher. I would agree: his gift is duelling vulnerability and strength, intelligence and innocence, elitism and qualities of every-man.
I believe poetry is a primal impulse within us all. I believe we are all capable of it and furthermore that a small, often ignored corner of us positively yearns to try it. I believe our poetic impulse is blocked by the false belief that poetry might, on the one hand, be academic and technical and on the other formless and random.
Read Fry’s lovely Ode Less Travelled to help understand how the originality of the confessional poetry of Robert Lowell can be seen in contemporary verse of Rupi Kaur and Ocean Vuong, or how the immense longing and pain in Rimbaud’s “A Season in Hell” might be connected to the pulsing originality of Beat poet Allen Ginsberg. It’s all about rhythm.1
Poetry can comfort as well as discomfort. About how many things can we say that? Fry tips the balance towards comfort by extending understanding.