An ongoing concern in our class (and poetry-people in general, whether audience, reader, poet, publisher, critic, or, worst of all, all five) is what poetry is, what makes it good and how we can tell. This is especially relevant in a time of massive insta-poetry and freer-than-free verse, where most poetry (good, bad and in-between) is often discarded by the majority of the reading public as too obscure, old-timey, and inaccessible. Mary Oliver's essay "The Line" (A Poetry Handbook) provides some insight into the formal qualities that make poetry a craft. This entry's title comes from her concept for breaking down of the poem into verses (or lines), an especially relevant talent in free verse poetry, where you are not following a specific form.
"Turning the line" is, Oliver says, "a meaningful decision, the effect of which is sure to be felt by the readers". Especially nowadays where most poetry is experienced written rather than read-out-loud (some notable exceptions would be songs and nursery rhymes), these choices affect the way we experience and think of a poem. Oliver goes into detail about forms and meter, but as I'm planning on doing a review series for midterm purposes, I would rather go into more theoretical aspects here and show one of the War Poems from the class selection.
Shall we talk about rhythm, then? Oliver says it "underlines everything" (original emphasis), and, well, it's true. If you adscribe to Coleridge's definition of poetry as the best words in the best order, then the poet's task is doubly complicated. In selecting the words, the phrases, the lines, a poet must choose wisely as to accurately express their intended message. But they also need to select words that sound right, and the combine them in a way that creates a rhythm that, in turn, complements their sentiment/tone/mood and both adds and does not detract from the message. It's not just about semantics, it's about prosody as well. It's about the two working together, simultaneously. In short, this is what separates half-decent poems from Poetry (which might be a pretentious thing to write, but, hey, if Percy Shelley taught us anything is that a little -or a lot- of pretension -almost- never hurt anyone... but we'll get to Shelley later on).
So, next time you're thinking of writing a poetry pamphlet, take into consideration what type of meter you want (falling or rising?, and how many feet... long and draggy, short and snappy?), whether to have an enjambment and speed the reading (as you break the line in the middle of a
traditional sentence/clause/phrase structure) [see what I did there?] or don't cut it and make it convoluted and hard to get through or, on the contrary, do you want a really constant sing-song-y rhythm for ironic effect? Are you interested in subverting a form? Going from iambic pentameter to a trochaic dimeter or even *gasp* a spondee monometer to finish off on a severe note? All important choices, none the least because the last word of a verse somehow always lingers, it's always a focal point. So you'd better choose judiciously.
Along with the essays on the craft, we read War Poetry. Full disclosure, war is not my favorite topic to read about, especially when it's all about heroism and how valiant and noble the whole endeavor is. Ugh. Luckily for me, a lot of War Poetry is actually angry, disenchanted, ironic, so it did resonate with me. Additionally, it often does a lot of interesting things with rhythm.
Let's contextualize. There has always been poetry about war (hello, epics) and heroism, but by War Poetry capitalized we mean the output of British poets who fought in WWI. Here are two that we did not discussed in class I really loved:
"Turning the line" is, Oliver says, "a meaningful decision, the effect of which is sure to be felt by the readers". Especially nowadays where most poetry is experienced written rather than read-out-loud (some notable exceptions would be songs and nursery rhymes), these choices affect the way we experience and think of a poem. Oliver goes into detail about forms and meter, but as I'm planning on doing a review series for midterm purposes, I would rather go into more theoretical aspects here and show one of the War Poems from the class selection.
Shall we talk about rhythm, then? Oliver says it "underlines everything" (original emphasis), and, well, it's true. If you adscribe to Coleridge's definition of poetry as the best words in the best order, then the poet's task is doubly complicated. In selecting the words, the phrases, the lines, a poet must choose wisely as to accurately express their intended message. But they also need to select words that sound right, and the combine them in a way that creates a rhythm that, in turn, complements their sentiment/tone/mood and both adds and does not detract from the message. It's not just about semantics, it's about prosody as well. It's about the two working together, simultaneously. In short, this is what separates half-decent poems from Poetry (which might be a pretentious thing to write, but, hey, if Percy Shelley taught us anything is that a little -or a lot- of pretension -almost- never hurt anyone... but we'll get to Shelley later on).
So, next time you're thinking of writing a poetry pamphlet, take into consideration what type of meter you want (falling or rising?, and how many feet... long and draggy, short and snappy?), whether to have an enjambment and speed the reading (as you break the line in the middle of a
traditional sentence/clause/phrase structure) [see what I did there?] or don't cut it and make it convoluted and hard to get through or, on the contrary, do you want a really constant sing-song-y rhythm for ironic effect? Are you interested in subverting a form? Going from iambic pentameter to a trochaic dimeter or even *gasp* a spondee monometer to finish off on a severe note? All important choices, none the least because the last word of a verse somehow always lingers, it's always a focal point. So you'd better choose judiciously.
Along with the essays on the craft, we read War Poetry. Full disclosure, war is not my favorite topic to read about, especially when it's all about heroism and how valiant and noble the whole endeavor is. Ugh. Luckily for me, a lot of War Poetry is actually angry, disenchanted, ironic, so it did resonate with me. Additionally, it often does a lot of interesting things with rhythm.
Let's contextualize. There has always been poetry about war (hello, epics) and heroism, but by War Poetry capitalized we mean the output of British poets who fought in WWI. Here are two that we did not discussed in class I really loved:
By Siegfried Sassoon
Rhythm-wise, the iamb feet and ababcc rhyme scheme gives it a solemn regularity that fits the bishop telling "us". The line break, apart from following the rhyme scheme (duh), actually highlights very strong words in the context of the poem: back, fought, attack, bought, race, face. Even without reading the whole poem, you get that the bishop is exulting the victories of "the boys". Similarly, the second stanza's line breaks gives us a pretty clear idea of the boys' response: reply, (stone) blind, die, find, change, and then the bishop ends with "strange".
So what is this poem about? The pointlessness of war, supported (and fueled) by institutions such as the Church, which praise and perpetuate grand narratives of war ("they'll have fought / In a just cause", "the last attack / On Anti-Christ", "They have challenged Death and dared him face to face") when they actually don't go and experience it themselves. The ominous personification of Death and the vague enemy described as Anti-Christ only serves to reinforce this tone. On the other hand, the boys (interesting choice of word, highlighting the youth of the soldiers, who were by no means men), respond with their horrible experiences, directly naming the generic "they" of the title ("George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; / Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; / And Bert's gone syphilitic").
So what is this poem about? The pointlessness of war, supported (and fueled) by institutions such as the Church, which praise and perpetuate grand narratives of war ("they'll have fought / In a just cause", "the last attack / On Anti-Christ", "They have challenged Death and dared him face to face") when they actually don't go and experience it themselves. The ominous personification of Death and the vague enemy described as Anti-Christ only serves to reinforce this tone. On the other hand, the boys (interesting choice of word, highlighting the youth of the soldiers, who were by no means men), respond with their horrible experiences, directly naming the generic "they" of the title ("George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; / Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; / And Bert's gone syphilitic").
I read a comment online supporting a more pitying view of the bishop, his naïveté making him unable to see the truth, rather than angry or accusatory, but I don't see how that can be the case, especially since the last reply of the Bishop is an exclamation that does not address the suffering of the boys at all. The vagueness of "The ways of God are strange!" seems ironic and bitter, almost mocking. Of course, a lot would depend on how you read it (literally, speaking), but I think the denouncing embittered aspect is there. Especially because the title is "They"; the quotations already invite an ironic reading, especially with the ambiguity of the word (are "they" the (to the Bishop) nameless faceless boys or the ones who send the boys to fight? Maybe both, depending on if you are one or the other).
As I've extended myself enough for this entry, I'll just quickly direct you to this Housman poem (with the note from the anthology right after). Notice the sing-song rhythm (this could be sung by the soldiers on a chilly night, or on the way to war), the abab rhyme, the imagery of the lone person sailing to Hades' realm, and pun of free land of the grave (instead of "brave"). The speaker, who has deserted/escaped (as he is not found in the Lethe), crosses the sea alone just as all the others who did battle/die ("the true, sick-hearted slave") cross alone to the underworld. For all their bravery, you must "expect him not in the just city / And free land of the grave", because as they have died their memories of life will be wiped (see note #9) and their bravery ultimately forgotten.
As I've extended myself enough for this entry, I'll just quickly direct you to this Housman poem (with the note from the anthology right after). Notice the sing-song rhythm (this could be sung by the soldiers on a chilly night, or on the way to war), the abab rhyme, the imagery of the lone person sailing to Hades' realm, and pun of free land of the grave (instead of "brave"). The speaker, who has deserted/escaped (as he is not found in the Lethe), crosses the sea alone just as all the others who did battle/die ("the true, sick-hearted slave") cross alone to the underworld. For all their bravery, you must "expect him not in the just city / And free land of the grave", because as they have died their memories of life will be wiped (see note #9) and their bravery ultimately forgotten.
By A.E. Housman
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