That doesn’t count

How many times have you said that? But counting is one of a poet’s best tools. Even in poetic forms without rhyme or meter, we’re often counting words in a line, lines in a stanza, stanzas in a … you get the picture. 

The most famous thing that poets count, of course, is syllables, and the most famous form of poetry counted by syllable is haiku. We’re not going to write haiku this month, though; there are too many other rules beyond counting and I don’t know about you, but I’m tired and it’s late in the year and I have to bake like ten pies this month. Instead, we’re going to investigate the kimo, a counted form with a slightly more generous number of syllables and only one real content rule.

What’s a kimo?

Let’s start with what’s haiku, ok? Kimo will be easier to understand by contrast.

Haiku is a form of counted poetry with three lines, in a 5-7-5 syllable pattern. It’s almost impossible to write good haiku in English, and I’m pretty much ok saying it’s impossible to write good and correct haiku in English, because you’re missing the ability to layer meaning using the words and sounds and symbolism of the characters used to make them in Japanese. You cannot get enough information into 17 English syllables to write a haiku, and we don’t have a functional equivalent of the kireji.

But the kimo isn’t a Japanese form. It was originally developed to be written in Hebrew. And while Hebrew and English don’t have the same linguistic structure or alphabet, they’re more similar in their requirements than English and Japanese.

So, like haiku, the kimo is a tristich, a poem in three lines.

Like haiku, the kimo is not rhymed and does not have a specific meter, but each line has a required number of syllables. The lines of the kimo have 10, 7, and 6 syllables, in that order, for a total of 23 (not 17) syllables. You wouldn’t think five syllables could make such a huge difference, but they do.

And unlike haiku, which has a pretty significant set of formal structural and content rules associated with it, many of which seem to conflict, there is only one content rule for kimo: the poem should be a snapshot of a moment, without motion.

So how do I write this?

Let’s dissect an example, and then talk about writing your own. Sometimes that’s easier. Here’s an example from another tutorial, which you might find helpful if I’ve gotten too wordy on you.

Meeting of the Minds, by Robert Lee Brewer

His hands over his face, the father sits
facing his son, who’s hidden
underneath his blankets.

So first let’s count lines. Yep, three lines. So we’ll next look at the syllable count.

His(1) hands(1) over(2) his(1) face,(1) the(1) father(2) sits(1) (1+1+2+1+1+1+2+1=10)
facing(2) his(1) son,(1) who’s(1) hidden(2) (2+1+1+1+2=7)
underneath(3) his(1) blankets.(2) (3+1+2=6)

So there’s your 10-7-6 syllable count.

And the final element? No movement. This is an image of a frozen moment. The father isn’t weeping, he’s not saying anything. The son isn’t actively hiding, or creeping, he’s “hidden.”

In other words, this poem contains all the elements of a kimo.

Now that we can identify one, let’s write one. An image that comes to mind, because of course it does, is me sitting here right now with writer’s block, trying to squeeze a kimo out of my keyboard. That’s a good start, because it doesn’t involve me typing, or even doing something so active as thinking. I might be tearing my hair out, but that can’t go in a kimo because it’s an action and I need a frozen moment.

I’ll need a total of 23 syllables about that moment. One way to write a kimo would be to write out a 23-syllable poem all on one line and then break it up where it breaks. There are two problems with this approach, which is why I don’t use it. First, there’s no guarantee that the line break won’t have to come in the middle of a word. That’s not a dealbreaker, of course, but if I’m tearing a word apart across lines, I want that word and both its parts to be meaningful because… Second, line breaks are a form of punctuation in poetry and should be used thoughtfully. That means I want to put words I need to focus on and emphasize near or at the end or beginning of a line. What it doesn’t mean is “each line needs to be a complete sentence.” The line break adds stress, not necessarily a full stop. So let me try, instead, to do a 10-7-6 poem by focusing on each line.

10

The computer’s clacking keys are silent

7

Fingers poised, the writer sits

6

Awaiting the next word.

Okay, that’s a technically correct kimo, but I really don’t like the first line. It’s alliterative in a way that doesn’t match the rest of the poem. What if, instead, I tried

10

The keyboard’s chattering voice is silent

Yeah, I like that a lot better. I think I’m going to use that line instead. So here’s my finished kimo:

The keyboard’s chattering voice is silent;
fingers poised, the writer sits
awaiting the next word.

 Line count? check. Syllable count? check. No motion? check.

I think I just wrote a kimo. Now it’s your turn. See you on the grid!

About the author:

Rowan submitted exactly one piece of microfiction to YeahWrite before being consumed by the editorial darkside. She spent some time working hard as our Submissions Editor before becoming YeahWrite’s Managing Editor in 2016. She was a BlogHer Voice of the Year in 2017 for her work on intersectional feminism, but she suggests you find and follow WOC instead. In real life she’s been at various times an attorney, aerialist, professional knitter, artist, graphic designer (yes, they’re different things), editor, secretary, tailor, and martial artist. It bothers her vaguely that the preceding list isn’t alphabetized, but the Oxford comma makes up for it. She lives in Portlandia with a menagerie which includes at least one other human. She tells lies at textwall and uncomfortable truths at CrossKnit.

rowan@yeahwrite.me