anima methodi
The
anima methodi is a poetic form, invented by poets Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
and Eric Tinsay Valles. It originated in Singapore. Etymologically, the term
translates from Latin as “spirit of the method”. In Jungian psychology, the
anima is understood as an anthropomorphic archetype of the unconscious, the
seed from which creativity manifests.
Early
in its inception, the form was utilized as a creative prompt in The Missing
Slate’s Global Poetry Writing Month, upon invitation by Jacob Silkstone. “The
form appears demanding in its strictures,” Kon says, “but upon executing it,
one should feel how effortlessly the elements come together. As with so much
engagement with traditional forms in contemporary poetics — formalist trappings
only offer a loose guide — a writer is free to unhinge or adapt a form,
depending on how liberally these limitations may be interpreted.”
In
response to Pooja Nansi’s Day One prompt for SingPoWriMo 2017 organized by Sing
Lit Station, Kon penned a nonce sonnet, titled “What Sneaky Sneaky”,
referencing the anima methodi’s structural attributes — this tongue-in-cheek
response poem (since recast as an anima methodi) served as a prompt itself, generating
some of the earliest versions of the form.
These poems
were penned by writers including Al Lim, Ian Chung, Jerome Lim, Jocelyn Suarez,
and Low Kian Seh.
Structure
The
classic anima methodi attends to these structural constraints:
·
It
contains 16 lines, split between two stanzas of eight lines each. This
structure has been quaintly called the twofold binate octave.
·
Two
words or phrases are repeated anywhere within the first binate octave, and the
same mirroring effect (with the same or different pair of texts) is done for
the second binate octave.
·
There
remains continuity across both stanzas, with the last line of the first stanza
moving seamlessly – across the stanza break as dovetail – into the first line
of the second stanza. The stanza break may locate the poem’s volta, as with the
sonnet, for which, according to Phillis Levin, “the volta is the seat of its
soul”. This break may also be considered a turning point of the poetic
experience.
·
The
twofold form achieves some manner of dialectical play between both stanzas,
along a theme or image or allegory or some other literary trope.
·
The
poem must feature some meta-sensibility, in underscoring this form as
contemplating “the spirit of the method”.
Variant
A more
distinct discharge of this form is called the methodus animae, translated as
“the way of the soul”, for the anima methodi that speaks of the contemplative
state of mind.
According
to Valles, “In plumbing feelings, this twofold form mirrors Gabriel Marcel’s
Primary and Secondary Reflection. First, the poet examines any experience
toward which one has mixed feelings. This experience may be said to shatter the
calmness of the anima or soul. The poet breaks down the components of the
experience methodically. Second, the poet sees beyond fragmented experience in
order to gather traces of a true or deep-seated emotion. It is then that the
poet is said to be fully alive.”
Examples
while studying, you ask
“Is it
summer yet?” and I think about how my body is in
the
shape of an hourglass, cracked on the way to buy
chicken
rice. I guess I should’ve worn a looser jacket
and
brought my tumblr because at least I could've gotten detox
right
tonight. No tea, yet I still say something contemplative…
and get
judged for talking about the differences between an ogre
and a
vampire. You’re not a vampire, I swear
(though
the new moon is encouraging) it is one day closer to
“Is it
summer yet?” and the correct answer: (1) the shape of your body
is
perfect (even after claiming starbucks one-for-one everyday
everyday
eating and eating the healthy kale croissant buns),
or (2)
your trip will be so super fun, especially because you’ll get another
hundred
likes while writing something contemplative…
about
differences and diversity. And we continue to study at a table
with a
maximum occupancy of one. I guess I’ll grab my jacket
and
wait for the summer I dream about in the movies.
By Al
Lim
~
Atomos
The
atom, constituent of all matter,
with a
heart of mere octillionth kilograms
containing
quintillionth coulombs of
positive
charge that persist, surrounded
by
negativity every millisecond through
millenia,
reaches beyond void to form
bonds
mere angstroms wide, demanding kilojoules
to
break but a single mole of them, yet
broken
we are, and what amounts to little
is the
bond between us, a splintering
gulf
beyond that which time can salve,
losing
our inherent flavours, our ups and downs
discretely
quantized; some strange charm keeps us
barely
on top of things, and at the bottom of it all,
the
nucleus of all that matters
is what
constitutes us remaining indivisible.
By Low
Kian Seh
~
Nullae Responsa
What
are questions I need answering
in
rhyme? Who is Pooja Nansi; what
is an
anima methodi? Can relativity
be
reconciled with indeterminacy? Is
dulce
et decorum est pro patria mori?
If you
teach someone three times three,
is it
three squared, or three plus three
plus
three? Who asks what lies
in
asking if what’s to the asking lies
just in
the asking, and what’s to the answer
lies
the closure? Nullae quaestiones,
tantum
responsa. Who what why
is mere
alliteration. Three times three
is a
question of form is nine. The answer
couches
not in the asking; only the asking
is
right. The rest is asked of rhyme.
By
Jerome Lim
~
True Enough / Fair Enough
“There’s
no lack of void.”
~
Samuel Beckett
Today,
Meghan is waiting for Before Sunrise to screen.
Jesse
has a distinct gait, a swagger despite his beer gut.
The
young Ethan Hawke had floppy hair and a goatee.
He
couldn’t wait to grow up, like the pay-per-poem poet.
The one
by the river, who couldn’t wait for a real epiphany.
Julie
Delpy played the young Céline, with so much to say.
About
women, and what emancipation could look like.
Meghan
watches films about waiting, the trudge, slow burn,
the way
time stays itself, enviably, into a lifelong interlude.
This
protraction — aporia is aporia — makes the wait pained.
Yet
worth the while. Meghan confessed she’d been waiting.
More
than half her life, for love’s grand, impossible symmetry.
It was
an impasse that rested on the cyclic, then dihedral.
Onscreen,
Godot was but the music, Meghan in the wings.
Waiting
for each fermata, how the permutations flickered.
Each
scene another translation of the same, time and again.
By
Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
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