Palindromic Poetry

Every time I read Montaigne's essay Of vaine Subtilties, or subtill Devices, I feel a little ashamed of my continued interest in this subject. Should I feel more or less ashamed that there are only a handful of successful attempts at this genre? More ashamed to contemplate such a waste of ingenuity; or less ashamed, as there is so little to detain my interest? Let me make one thing clear before I go any further. By a palindromic poem, I mean one that is a palindrome from start to finish, not the inferior sort (which I don't regard at all), made up of a series of palindromic lines. You'll now begin to understand why there are so few attempts on record, let alone successful attempts.
   Both kinds are a species of Pattern Poetry, since the requirement to read the same both ways is a visual, not a poetic limitation. Some will cavil at this judgement. "Wait a moment," I can hear someone saying, "isn't a rhyme-scheme a visual limitation? This would make anything but blank verse into Pattern Poetry." I reply, that with a rhyme-scheme it is the repetition of sound that determines it, not the repetition of letters. So, "tough" and "ruff" are perfect rhymes, while "flaunt" and "aunt" are not (at least, not in Standard English). All the same, the unity conferred by the palindrome cannot compare with other patterns, such as being squeezed into a lozenge, or having to seek meaning in a labyrinth of letters. The palindrome meanders through the verses like the constellation of Eridanus across the night sky, until it reaches the centre, whereupon it meanders back to the inevitable conclusion. This unity gives it the charm of an amulet or mantra. But is this all I mean by 'success'? Emphatically not. It must also be a poem, however understated or obscure. It must also have at least one image, however veiled or disjointed. This is why there is one palindromic poem that stands above all others. I mean, Hymn to the Moon by Graham Reynolds. It could have been written by an Ancient Greek and engraved on a stone mirror; it could be a lost fragment of Sappho. Instead, it first appeared in "New Departures", an avant-garde poetry magazine, in 1960.
   Who knows, perhaps Montaigne might have conceded that it is not vain, and that its subtlety, like the best subtlety, lies submerged beneath the limpid surface of a forgotten pool.

HYMN TO THE MOON

Luna, nul one,
Moon, nemo,
Drown word.
In mutual autumn
I go;
Feel fog rob all life,
Fill labor,
Go, flee fog.
In mutual autumn
I drown.
Word; omen; no omen.
O, Luna, nul.

   As for the composition of palindomic poems, I can't give any advice, other than the obvious recommendation, to begin in the middle of the poem and work outwards, hoping that you will eventually find a way to open (and, of course, close) it. Here is one of my own efforts, which began from the single word 'turnip'. Its reverse, 'pin rut', could obviously be expanded into other words, and the rest of the poem crystallised around it. It also suggested an agricultural labourer working in the fields, and this provided the theme of the poem. You'll notice too that it shares a certain melancholy character with Hymn to the Moon.

THE LABOURER

Loop mid a sun ever up, say bees won,
I draw; snowed on, flow,
Live on rota. Red now is eve:
Too far its stars.

Worn, I turn,
I spin ruts,
Turnips in rut, in rows.
Rats stir afoot.

Eves I wonder at, or no evil:
Wolf; no dew on sward.
I now see by (as pure Venus)
A dim pool.