Only Eleven Words: Tap into the Creative Spark of an Elevenie Poem

I first learned about elevenie poems when I lived in Germany and attended intensive German language classes. For many days I showed up with my classmates, studied the material, participated in exercises, and did my homework. I loved those classes because they clued me in to linguistic secrets and I inevitably also learned more about English as well.

On the last day of another season of German classes, we learned about Elfchens. No, not a race of small elves, but a poetry format called, in English, elevenie, consisting of eleven words in a specific format of words per line: one, two, three, four, then one word per line, in that order. For example, here’s an Elfchen I wrote on a winter day:

Stunned,
captured by
plummeting cold and
the scope of sacrifice.
Pierced.

Elf is the German word for eleven. Adding –chen to a noun in German gives it a sense of being wee or dear. The word Elfchen (it’s always capitalized, as are all German nouns) translated into English is roughly elevenie-kins.

In the class, our teacher introduced us to the concept of the Elfchen, then asked us to pair off with the person sitting next to us and take turns reading the Elfchen about friendship from our textbook to each other... while looking deeply into each other’s eyes. (Yep, that really happened in a government-approved, fluency-track, hard-core course in Germany. It’s time to bust up some stereotypes. Not only did the teacher instruct us to engage in deep eye contact with other new German-speakers, but that entire chapter in our textbook was about friendship.)

On that day, I was sitting next to a very nice man from Afghanistan with big dark eyes and eyelashes that threatened to whap me in the face every time he blinked. We giggled, and then (because we really trusted our teacher) locked eyes and talked to each other in Elfchen about friendship. I barely suppressed my tears as we read the poem to each other. I felt too shy and vulnerable to actually cry, but the exercise touched my heart. (Check out this beautiful, spare Amnesty International video of Europeans in Berlin holding four minutes of eye contact with refugees. I dare you not to cry.) Eleven words each later and the entire class was a bit giddier, the energy distinctly more... present.

Next, we wrote our own Elfchens, in the same teams of two. First, my Elfchen companion and I wrote one about his new baby. Then we wrote this one about home, translated here into English:

Home.
Who says
where it is?
Perhaps it is actually
everywhere.

We were a class of about 20, from Afghanistan, Chile, Iran, Iraq, Thailand, Canada, Macedonia, Romania, and more, all sharing a budding common language of German. In other words, we were all sort of between homes and in the process of expanding our collections of home.

I was impressed that the process of creating a poem of eleven words about home, in the presence of others in my same immigrant situation, made me feel so good and connected, like the Elfchen concept was a tool that allowed me to open a magic door leading to expanded possibilities. The experience both excited and settled me, grounding me in a sense of creative richness.

Wait.
A moment
of silent restraint
to sculpt possibility’s cup.
Hold.

Try an Elfchen of your own. Eleven words. So short. But watch out. There seems to be something mischievously elfin in the Elfchen after all. Like participating in a stunt with mirrors, engaging with an Elfchen may show you intriguing glimpses of the trickster in your own life and creativity.

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Grace Kerina is a writing coach with more than twenty years of experience helping authors find their true voices and the author of Personal Boundaries for Highly Sensitive People. To receive notification of new resources and writing tips, sign up for her mailing list here. She also writes novels as Alice Archer.