A Working Model for How My Pieces Find Their Shape
Walking the Garden Path
by James Allen
I don’t write by formula. I don’t keep a rulebook, a template, or any sacred geometry of stanza counts. What I have instead is a path — a literal mental footpath — laid out in six to eight familiar flagstones. That’s the rhythm I return to most often, the natural stride of my work. Not a cage. Not a quota. Just the way the ground tends to rise to meet my feet.
Most of my pieces settle into that range because the idea usually needs that much room to breathe. A thought arrives, stretches out, and takes its place across those stones. It isn’t architecture; it’s pacing. The difference between formal structure and a walking rhythm. I’m not counting lines — I’m listening for the moment the idea finally exhales.
But not every idea wants the same walk.
Some arrive sharp, bright, and impatient. These are the short strikes — the three- or four-stanza pieces that land like a snapped twig underfoot. They don’t need the full path; they need a clearing. These are the poems that show up already knowing their ending, the ones that would only get worse if I tried to “develop” them. They’re finished the moment they touch ground.
And then there are the long walkers.
The nine- to twelve-stanza pieces that earn their miles. These are the ideas that don’t resolve quickly, the ones that want to circle the garden twice, noticing different shadows each time. They aren’t long because I made them long; they’re long because the thought kept tugging at my sleeve. These are the pieces that insist on a second act, or a counter-argument, or a quiet turn I didn’t see coming until I was already halfway down the path.
The path is a model, not a mandate. It keeps me from boxing myself in while giving me just enough structure to recognize when a piece is finished. When I reach the last flagstone — whether it’s the fourth, the eighth, or the twelfth — I can feel the ground level out. The idea stops walking.
The poem knows it’s home.
If the model teaches me anything, it’s this: writing isn’t about hitting a target. It’s about following the idea at the pace it chooses. Some days that pace is a brisk walk. Some days it’s a long ramble. And some days it’s just one clean step that says everything.