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Within the many realms of writing poetry of late, I have been troubled with the sincere problem of eight-syllable-lined poems that were for the most part great. But, for some reason, I couldn’t get out of that style. So I took a break from writing poetry for about two days and read other things such as Wordsworth and Frost. Then, as I walked into my room and to my large oak bookshelf, I glanced at a dark brown book titled Selections from Leaves of Grass.

Now it is naturally within my character to be a bibliophile and so I have many books that I may or may not have read. (It is obvious that I would come to know what each book is and its author, whether reference, fantasy, etc.) One of these books would be both the one mentioned above and the fuller version titled Leaves of Grass. I usually don’t read Walt Whitman’s poetry because one time, when I was much younger and much less experienced, I had read about two or three lines and skimmed over some other pieces and had felt verily displaced by his form. The rhythm and meter didn’t feel cohesive at all.

Now, though, as I opened it up and looked through it, my mind was somewhat scattered over some other various topics that had protruded the walls of my consciousness, and as I looked over it, it felt somewhat soothing. That is to say, some of his works. Others, not so much. But there were some that did pierce my mind as works of art (and that too an achievement).

These things extended and broadened my field, if you will, and so I have been able to extricate myself part of the way out of that path.

Any thoughts as to practices or procedures that would engage my mind into other forms of delicateness of poetry?