An Introduction to Poetic Forms — Rachel S. Donahue

"For a moment, I want you to forget any negative experiences you’ve had with poetic forms. This is an invitation: come play with them."

May 27, 2024

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An Introduction to Poetic Forms

What was your first exposure to poetic form?

Was it a process of discovery, encountering words that shimmered and wondering how they worked together so beautifully? Or did you have a poetry unit in school, learning words like stanza, meter, and rhyme scheme with a handful of example poems to analyze along the way?

Without a wonder that leads to curiosity, the study of form becomes a terrible slog. Like learning all the rules of football before ever seeing a heart-pounding moment when the game is tied and the ball is moving toward the goal with seconds left on the clock. As adults, those moments of glory are what make us care about the rules of the game. As children, we just want to play.

For a moment, I want you to forget any negative experiences you’ve had with poetic forms. This is an invitation: come play with them.

Think of the rules of a poetic form like the boundary markers and time clock in sports. Having boundaries is what makes the game possible, and being forced into a tight spot within a given time frame can lead to moments of greatness. Sure, it takes practice, but isn’t practice just playing the game with no stakes?

If sports aren’t your thing, think of poetic forms as the edges of a sandbox with a pile of sand toys to play with instead. When you pour in your ideas, you can shape them into recognizable structures. The more you use the tools, the better you become at building castles and digging moats.

It might sound paradoxical, but there is freedom in the form.

Staying within boundaries gives you room to expand creatively.

Following a set of rules actually increases your ability to play.

Don’t believe me? Let’s do a little exercise. Look out the window and write down two quick, plain sentences about what you see.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Do you have your sentences? OK, here are mine:

Birds are chasing one another, possibly in a mating ritual. Squirrels are running along the ground and climbing trees.

Now rewrite your sentences, choosing one letter of the alphabet for each sentence and incorporating that letter as many times as possible in the words of that sentence.

What letters did you pick? How did your sentences turn out?

Here are mine:

Randy robins race by, rustling through the roughage. Skittish squirrels scamper, scavenging, until they seize and scurry up trees.

Which pair of sentences took more creativity to write?

Embracing poetic forms, following their rules, and submitting to the strictures of their structures are just different ways of playing with words. They invariably open us up to new possibilities—even when we go back to writing in free verse. If you ever feel stuck in your writing, set some boundaries by picking a form and see what opens up!

If you’d like to start exploring on your own, Robert Lee Brewer has put together an exhaustive list of poetic forms (alphabetized! with examples!) at Writer’s Digest. The list is a bit overwhelming, but it’s an excellent resource.

To help you dip your toes in the water, I’ve gathered some of my favorite forms and grouped them according to how they work. I’ll give a short explanation of each one, along with an example that should help make the power of the form clear. My hope is that you’ll come away with new ways to think about poetic forms, plus the inspiration to go play with some of them!

Forms shaped by the beginning or end of a line:

Acrostic

You probably did this one in school, spelling your name down the side of a page and coming up with a word that describes you for each letter. But an acrostic can be so much more versatile than that! Spell a word or phrase down the left side and use the lines of the poem to expound on that word or phrase. Or juxtapose the word or phrase with what your poem says.

To give yourself an added challenge, use the same number of syllables in each line, or (gasp!) make some of the lines rhyme. You can also apply this form as an addition to another form to further narrow the boundaries within which you’re playing—like using an acrostic to encode a hidden message within a sonnet.

Here’s an acrostic I wrote that demonstrates how the hidden word or phrase can play on the content of the poem:

It should be easy,
Lacing words together to
Openly demonstrate how
Very much you mean to me,
Except that, when I try,
Your presence
Overwhelms me
Undermining the attempt.

Golden Shovel

The golden shovel is a way to share a quote from a poem you love, or to engage in conversation with someone else’s work. Take a (short) phrase or sentence and write it down on the right-hand side of the page, one word per line, so that those words make up the end of every line. Then write the rest of the poem, incorporating those words!

If you need to add a further challenge, try to limit the syllable count in each line and/or spell an acrostic down the left hand side as well.

Here’s a golden shovel I wrote based on a powerful little phrase at the end of Malcolm Guite’s poem “Heaven in Ordinary,” from his collection After Prayer. (If you’ve not read it, go look it up!)

The branches out the window and
the birdsong in the air are nothing
new, but each one in their turn can
be a harbinger of truth, can be
a sermon on this mount—so ordinary,
but I see them through his eyes now.

Sestina

If you like puzzles, the sestina is a fun one to play with. It’s a longer form, so you have room to expand on a theme. And it can be collaborative, if you’re brave enough to let someone else choose your starting words!

Here’s how it works: choose six words, which will be the end words in each stanza, rotating according to a set pattern. The final half stanza uses two of the words within each of the lines. So you’ll have 6 stanzas of 6 lines each, plus another 3 lines at the end for a total of 39 lines. Here’s the pattern:

A couple of tips for making this form work for you:

Pick six words that can function as either a noun or a verb. Just because you use the same word doesn’t mean you have to use it the same way.
Make yourself a template for the poem by inserting all the end words into their proper places at the beginning. Having things laid out visually can help you see where to aim each line.

Here’s a sestina I wrote as a riff on 1 Corinthians 13:7, choosing these six words: love, bears, hopes, believes, endures, forever.

When we first fell in love
we thought we couldn’t bear
to delay marriage hopes
another year, believing
we’d found that enduring
love that lasts forever.
We promised forever
to each other in love,
determined to endure,
sure we could hap’ly bear
anything. We both believed
life would go as we hoped.
And for a time, our hopes
were realized. Forever
was easy to believe
when the tests of our love
were learning how to bear
each other’s quirks. Endure?
Of course we could endure!
But given time, all hopes
placed in each other bore
disappointment. Forever
was too long for a love
more selfish than first believed.
Only when our belief
looked to One who endures
could we begin to love
unselfishly, no hope
of returns, forever.
And thus did we forbear.
And in our forbearance
we saw what we believed:
that being held forever
by the One who endures
realigns every hope
and overflows true love:
for true love bears all things,
hopes and believes all things,
and endures all things, forever.

Forms shaped by repetition:

Pantoum

A pantoum sounds simple in principle, but it’s rather complex in execution. It can be as long as you like; each quatrain just has to follow an abab rhyme pattern, and lines 2 and 4 of one stanza become lines 1 and 3 of the next one. The last stanza brings in lines 1 and 3 from the first stanza to tie things up with a nice little denouement.

Here’s a pantoum I wrote a few years ago that echoes a point I made in the introduction:

There’s freedom in the form:
to play Bach with my hands
I must respect the norm,
submit to the demands.
To play Bach with my hands
requires daily skill
submitted to demands
of one who knows Bach well.
Requiring daily skill
can seem like such a drain
but she who knows Bach well
will guide me to that plane
For well my teacher knows
I must respect the norm,
for practice always shows:
there’s freedom in the form.

Quatern

A quatern is a lovely little form that’s simple to write but carries a profound weight in the way a single repetitive line moves through the stanzas. In the first quatrain, it’s the first line and opens the poem. In the second quatrain, it’s the second line, in the third it’s the third, and in the fourth stanza, it becomes the final line of the poem, tying neatly back to the beginning.

This quatern, from Beyond Chittering Cottage, is one I wrote during the winter solstice of 2020. The rhyme scheme isn’t necessary to the form, but I think the sound enhances the power of that repetitive line. I’ve bolded the repeating line so it’s easier to see how it moves:

On the longest night of the year
As the glowing planets align
I breathe in deep, air cold and clear
While hosts above twinkle and shine.
Alone on the brink of the hill
On the longest night of the year
I long for the warmth of my lover’s embrace,
His presence with me here—
But he’s abed with weariness,
So lonely I remain
On the longest night of the year—
The year so full of pain.
Yet I am counted among the stars
That grace old Abraham’s sphere
Fully named and fully known
On the longest night of the year.

Triolet

The triolet is a fun little form with a lot of repetition and a little bit of rhyme. The first line is repeated twice in the body of the poem, and the second line is repeated at the end. Here’s a map of how to lay out the poem:

1 First line of the poem
2 Second line of the poem
3 (rhymes with first line)
4 First line of the poem
5 (rhymes with first line)
6 (rhymes with second line)
7 First line of the poem
8 Second line of the poem

I wrote this triolet after a visit to a certain furniture store with our whole family in tow. My husband said the first line as we walked inside, and I knew it had to be repeated in a poem.

We’re here to eat meatballs and sit in your chairs
and our children will play on your couches.
We don’t need a project or things from downstairs,
we’re here to eat meatballs and sit in your chairs
and wander the maze of your rooms everywhere
admiring the pieces with pouches.
We’re here to eat meatballs and sit in your chairs
and our children will play on your couches.

Villanelle

The villanelle has a lot of repetition, but it feels a bit more subtle than some of the other repetitive forms. The first and third lines of the first stanza alternate as the last lines of the following four stanzas, and both are repeated as the last two lines of the last stanza. Choose those lines well, because they must rhyme with each other and allow for other lines to rhyme with them. The rhyme scheme looks like this:

a FIRST LINE
b
a THIRD LINE
a
b
a FIRST LINE
a
b
a THIRD LINE
a
b
a FIRST LINE
a
b
a THIRD LINE
a
b
a FIRST LINE
a THIRD LINE

I’ve seen the villanelle used to powerful effect, but for the sake of a basic example, here’s one I wrote during our poem-a-day challenge a few years ago:

I stopped wearing a watch for good
Because it died and could not be revived
In my second year of motherhood.
I thought I’d replace it if I could
But I was busy and sleep-deprived
So I stopped wearing a watch for good.
Now let one thing be understood:
My sense of time did not survive
My second year of motherhood.
The punctuality of maidenhood|
Was out the window and waved goodbye
When I stopped wearing a watch for good.
I did but what any sane mother would–
I prioritized what would help us thrive
In my second year of motherhood.
Occasional tardiness not withstood,
My peace of mind was greatly revived
When I stopped wearing a watch for good
In my second year of motherhood.

Forms shaped by counting syllables:

Haibun

Most everyone who’s had a poetry unit in school is familiar with the 5-7-5 structure of a haiku. The haibun is simply a prose poem followed by a haiku. The key to this form is to remove the poet from the equation and write about the subject in an objective manner. (Think about it this way: if you can perceive it with the five senses, you can include it in the poem.)

I wrote this haibun after a walk with my husband where we had an unexpected close encounter:

The doe and her fawns pause, perfectly still among the brown leaves, moving only their heads to follow the slow pace of passers by. Across the path, where the green slopes away to woods, a majestic figure with an eight-point crown emerges, the step of his feet resounding upon the path with authority. He, too, pauses, and stares down his opponents, weighing the threat with a turn of his ear.
Head and tail erect,
a bound and rustle of leaves
drives them to safety.

Tanka

Think of the tanka as a haiku with a couplet. This five-line form follows the pattern 5-7-5-7-7 and has a little more breathing room than a haiku in both form and function. Instead of objectively depicting a moment, the tanka can introduce metaphor or personification.

This tanka grew out of our poem-a-day challenge last November:

Tides cannot be pushed
or wrangled to do man’s will
or pinned down at all,
just wait until their turning:
the very best time to fish.

Sedoka

The sedoka could fit with the collaborative poems below, but the form is a strict 5-7-7 in each stanza. It’s traditionally a love poem, so imagine the two stanzas as two lovers talking to one another. The first stanza is a question, and the second stanza is a response.

Here’s mine, riffing on a question my husband texted me while away on a trip with friends:

Our Call
Mallards go in pairs
along the silver blue lake.
Why are you so far away?
Fishing with the men
is not my cup of tea, dear.
I am keeping your bed warm.

Nonet

The nonet is a countdown poem, starting with nine syllables in the first line and dropping a syllable with each line until the last line has only one syllable.

I’ve rather enjoyed playing with a variation on the nonet: beginning with one syllable, add a syllable per line until you get to seven (or ten, or twelve), then count back down to one (bonus points if it’s the same word as the beginning):

Here
unsure,
undaunted,
I sally forth
armed with only words
to make a new attempt
at finding some sense,
some connection,
or feeling
being
here.

Sonnet

The sonnet is a complex form because it’s shaped by both syllable count and the end of the line with one new addition: meter. Most of the forms in this list do not require a particular meter, though many of them can be strengthened by the addition of one. In brief, a meter is a cadence of stressed and unstressed syllables that place the emphasis of words into a kind of pattern. The iamb is the meter that most closely mimics English speech (ba DUM, ba DUM, ba DUM—did you hear it in this sentence?) Iambic pentameter simply strings five ba-DUMs together in a row to make a line. A sonnet has fourteen of these lines, with ending words that follow a particular rhyme scheme.

Sonnets often have a turn in their meaning (the volta) around lines 8-9 (or in the case of a Shakespearean sonnet, around the rhyming couplet at the end) which can be used to powerful effect. Sometimes the volta turns the meaning of the poem on its head or takes the poem in a new direction.

The best way to get an ear for the sonnet form is to simply memorize a few, like Shakespeare’s sonnet 116, Milton’s sonnet 19, and Elizabeth Barret Browning’s Sonnet 43, each of which follow different rhyme schemes. Write out the poem and copy the form, either making a parody of the original or choosing a new subject matter altogether. Write a sonnet a day for a month (or for Advent or Lent) and you’ll quickly have an appreciation for this form—as well as the beauty that surprises you when you stumble upon a well-crafted one!

Collaborative forms:

Pregunta

The pregunta is another question-and-answer form for two voices, but it has no prescribed structure. One person posits a question in the first stanza using any form or structure. The second person must answer the question in the second stanza, following the exact form set forth in the first.

This collaborative form is a lot of fun to use as a writing prompt with groups: a facilitator can write the question and everyone else must copy the form in their answer, or writers can pair off and write questions for each other to answer in a kind of pass-the-piece exercise.

Here’s a pregunta poem I wrote with my friend Reagan Dregge during an exercise in The Habit membership:

Sehnsucht: a Pregunta
by Rachel S. Donahue and Reagan Dregge
What catches your breath with pure wonder?
What pierces your heart with pure joy?
What tears your defenses asunder
and wakens your senses like thunder
and leaves a homesickness hereunder
that nothing on earth can destroy?
I’m caught by the prairie’s unmaking.
I’m pierced by a bright shaft of gold.
I’m torn between day’s end and breaking,
awoken by thunderstorm’s quaking,
left breathless by snowfall’s first flaking
as summer releases its hold.

Renga

The renga is a collaborative form that can bring together a larger group of participants in a single poem. It’s basically a tanka chain written by two or more poets who alternate writing the haiku and couplet. Each stanza should stand on its own, but it should also link thematically with the other stanzas.

To give you an idea of the flow of it, here’s a renga written by poets in The Poetry Pub for our first chapbook, on the theme of Home and Place:

Regeneration: a Spring Renga
The days lengthen and warm
and all things begin to open up
as earth leans toward the sun.
Crocuses peek out from snow;
robins peck at early worms.
Snow gives over to
rain, and the softened ground
rejoices in green.
Water roars over the rocks,
while fish stretch their tired fins
and leap, and leap, and leap again,
shattering liquid stars
in their wake.
Sea below and sky above,
nature's manifold witness
in praise of the One
who gives
and regives life to all,
who whispers to seeds
in the dark, cold soil
calling them to break forth,
to grow deep for food
and up to light and life.
An echo of the great calling-forth
that comes for those who sleep
leaning fast to the Earth,
waiting to be shook,
to loose new lives and rise,
as eagles rise at Dawn’s light
stretching feathered wings in flight
soaring higher and higher
ever rising, toward the sun.
Breaking through the atmosphere,
seeking clean and crisp and clear —
Regeneration commence!

Rachel S. Donahue holds a B.A. in English and Bible from Welch College and enjoys travel, housewifery, and homeschooling while fulfilling her role as Chief Creative Officer of Bandersnatch Books. She wishes she could host you at Chittering Cottage (her family's home in NC) for a cup of tea and a chat. Instead, she’ll write you poems. She's published two collections: Beyond Chittering Cottage: Poems of Place, and Real Poems for Real Moms: from a Mother in the Trenches to Another. Find her work at www.BandersnatchBooks.com.

Are you a lover of forms and don’t see your favorite listed here? Share it in the comments below so other poets can try it out!