Letters flow freely, draping themselves across a page with minimal concern to visual aesthetics or their melody when spoken. Punctuation and capitalization are optional. An abundant sense of self importance is not.
One might be provoked to wonder if these poets deems themselves too good for forms. Perhaps their creative genius cannot be constrained, maybe their motivating emotions are too pure to dilute with rhyme and not a single beloved word can be sacrificed for the sake of meter. Stanzas are irrelevant and maybe it’s actually worse if the lines are even. If a muse is worthy of expression, surely it will have the strength to be interpreted; indeed, is that not what makes poetry an art? Transcribing the indescribable and making the innermost unknowable known?
Perhaps I’m waxing poetic (or rather, given my subject matter, prosaic), or perhaps what I’m saying is this: Creative freedom is just that, freedom, and no one is in any position to judge the contents of another soul or poetry journal (if they aren’t sometimes one and the same), but, if you actually have something to say that deserves to be said, accept the challenge of a poetic form. To never do so is to paint abstractly without ever having mastered the classic fundamentals of the art.
No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. ~T.S.Eliot
