Knocked to the ground, blinded by the light
On a road that I thought I knew
this road whose course I firmly knew
with my convictions in clear view
in my defense
Life showed me roads I never knew
Laying awake on a recent night, I composed this poem, half thinking about a conversation I’d just had about St Paul and how his experience on the road to Damascus can be a powerful metaphor for so many things in life. Without turning on the light to consult any resources, I thought I’d gotten it right in terms of the form of a rondelet.
The Rondelet (or roundelay) is a brief French form of poetry. It consists of one stanza, made up of seven lines. It…
The next day, I checked and realized I had flipped the amount of syllables, using 8 for the A lines and 4 for the B lines. Oops, but guess what: I don’t care. I’m taking some creative license with this form as I usually do with any form, and exercising the innate right of every artist to deviate as the muse dictates. Whether it was intentional or not, I’m going with what my heart made in the moment!
Thank you readers! How do you play with forms? Are you strict with yourself in adhering to them, or do you meander like Mary Oliver cutting class and admiring the woods instead?
(PS if you don’t know St Paul’s story and are interested, it’s in Acts chapter 9)