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SOME PRELIMINARY MATTERS—WHAT IS POETRY?

C. S. Lewis argues that before we can judge the merits of anything—from a cathe­dral to a poem—we must first un­derstand what it is. Similarly, before tack­ling the issue of writing poetry, we must first understand what a poem is ... and what it is not.

Characteristics of a Poem

Most theorists of poetry gen­erally identi­fy four basic characteristics of po­etry:

 Lineation—often considered the only absolute dif­feren­tia be­tween prose and poetry, although some the­orists argue even this point. In most poetry, however, the poet retains absolute control over line length and division.

 Sound/Music—the effects of rhyme, repetitions of various sorts, and the effects pro­duced by specific word combinations.

 Rhythm—recurrent patterns of sound, pitch, stress, accent, etc., includ­ing both formal metrics and less formal re­petitive syntactical, gram­matical, and thematic patterns.

 Compression—the art of folding into the poem more meaning than a lit­eral reading produces; this might include not only removing linguistic deadwood but also strengthening image and symbol.

Simple vs. Sophisticated Poetry

“To a biolo­gist, simple forms of life are simple and complex forms are so­phisti­cated. Thus, the bird is not better in any ob­jective sense than the jel­lyfish, but it is far more sophisticated in that the potential of living matter has been de­veloped much further.

“As an individual, the biologist may prefer a ca­nary to a jellyfish as a pet or may feel that the jelly­fish is better as an example of living tissue; but act­ing as a biol­ogist, his or her use of the terms simple and so­phisticated is objec­tive.

“Does all poetry have to be sophisticated? Of course not. Judging by the verse of greeting cards, far more people pre­fer their poetry simple—regu­lar meter, con­ventional sentiments, and the cozy famil­iarity of time-tested clichés. Writing simple verse is a craft and there are books that teach it. But this is not one.

“Sophisticated literature is the subject of this text. It is by definition complex, but it is not nec­es­sarily cluttered or obscure. A fly’s eye, for ex­ample, is in some ways more complex in structure than a human eye, but as an instrument of sight it is far from so­phisticated. It cannot see as well. In the same way, a villanelle with its complex systems of rhymes and repeated lines is structurally more com­plicated than, say, a three-line haiku; but in some cases the haiku is more sophis­ticated because it does more—it has a wider, more subtle range of suggestion.” (Stephen Minot, Three Genres)

Discussion: To what extent are the following poems “simple”? Is one more “sophisticated” than the other? If so, what elements contribute to its increased depth and complexity? Is there a specific moment in each when the poem begins to falter as poem? Remember, “simple” and “sophisticated” in this context merely describe; they do not judge.

Joyce Kilmer, TREES

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks to God all day

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Anonymous greeting-card verses:

The real Christmas feeling

That warm friendly glow

Comes from greeting the people

We’re happy to know.

May the beautiful

blessings of Christmas

With its message

of hope and cheer

Be for you a joyous reminder

That our Savior

is with you all year.

For further discussion:

Ezra Pound, “In a Station of the Metro”

EXERCISE: Compare the poems in the following sets in terms of simplicity or sophis­tication. In each set, one of the poems will be blunter, more direct; one will makes its point less directly, through image, metaphor, and structure:

SET I:

A POISON TREE

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunnéd it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole:

In the morning glad I see

My foe stretched out beneath the tree.

TEACH ME TO LIVE

Teach me to live! ‘tis easier far to die;

Gently and silently to pass away,

On earth’s long night to close the heavy eye,

And waken in the realms of glorious day.

Teach me that harder lesson, how to live,

To serve Thee in the darkest paths of life;

Arm me for conflict now; fresh vigor give,

And make me more than conqueror in the strife.

Teach me to live! my daily cross to bear,

Nor murmur though I bend beneath its load.

Only be with me; let me feel Thee near;

Thy smile sheds gladness on the darkest road.

Teach me to live, and find my life in Thee;

Looking from earth and earthly things away;

Let me not falter, but untiringly

Press on, and gain new strength and power each day.

Teach me to live! with kindly words for all;

Wearing no cold, repulsive brow of gloom;

Waiting with cheerful patience, till Thy call

Summon my spirit to her heavenly home.

SET II:

GOD’S PLANS

Sometime, when all life’s lessons have been learned,

And sun and stars forever more have set,

The things which our weak judgment here have spurned,

The things o’er which we grieved with lashes wet,

Will flash before us out of life’s dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue:

And we shall see how all God’s plans were right,

And how what seemed reproof was love most true.

And we shall see, while we frown and sigh,

God’s plans go on as best for you and me;

How, when called, he heeded not our cry,

Because his wisdom to the end could see.

And e’en as prudent parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving boyhood,

So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now

Life’s sweetest things because it seemeth good.

And if, sometimes, commingling with life’s wine,

We find the wormwood and rebel and sink,

Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine

Pours out this potion for our lips to drink.

And if some friend we love is living low,

Where human kisses cannot reach his face,

Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,

But bear your sorrow with obedient grace!

And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath

Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friends,

And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death

Conceals the fairest bloom his love can send.

If we could push ajar the gates of life,

And stand within and all God’s workings see,

We could interpret all this doubt and strife,

And for each mystery could find a key.

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart;

God’s plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold.

We must not tear the close shut leaves apart—

Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.

And if, through patient toil we reach the land,

Where tired feet, with sandals loose, may rest,

When we shall clearly know and understand,

I think we will say that “God knows best.”

PIED BEAUTY

Glory be to God for dappled things—

For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow,

For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow and plow;

And all their trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him.

SET III:

THE TOYS

My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,

Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,

I struck him, and dismissed

With hard words and unkissed,

His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,

I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet

From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

For on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-veined stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach,

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells,

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I prayed

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with trancéd breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou has moulded from the clay,

Thou’lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

“I will be sorry for their childishness.”

IS THERE ROOM IN ANGEL LAND?

“These lines were written after hearing the following touching incident related by a minister. A mother, who was preparing some flour to bake into bread, left it for a moment, when little Mary, with child­ish curiosity to see what it was, took hold of the dish, when it fell to the floor, spilling the contents. The mother struck the child a severe blow, saying, with anger, that she was always in the way. Two weeks after, little Mary sickened and died. On her death-bed, while delirious, she asked her mother if there would be room for her among the angels. ‘I was always in your way, mother; you had no room for little Mary! And will I be in the angels’ way? Will they have no room for me?’ The broken-hearted mother then felt no sacrifice would be too great, could she have saved her child.”

Is there room among the angels

For the spirit of your child?

Will they take your little Mary

In their loving arms so mild?

Will they ever love me fondly,

As my story-books have said?

Will they find a home for Mary—

Mary, numbered with the dead?

Tell me truly, darling mother!

Is there room for such as me?

Will I gain the home of spirits,

And the shining angels see?

I have sorely tried you, mother,

Been to you a constant care,

And you will not miss me, mother,

When I dwell among the fair;

For you have no room for Mary;

She was ever in your way;

And fears the good will shun her!

Will they, darling mother, say?

Tell me—tell me truly—mother,

Ere life’s closing hour doth come,

Do you think that they will keep me

In the shining angels’ home?

I was not so wayward, mother,

Nor so very—very bad,

But that tender love would nourish,

And make Mary’s heart so glad!

Oh! I yearned for pure affection,

In this world of bitter woe;

And I long for bliss immortal,

In the land where I must go!

Tell me once again, dear mother,

Ere you take the parting kiss,

Will the angels bid me welcome,

To that land of perfect bliss?

LITTLE BOY BLUE

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and staunch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,

“And don’t you make any noise!”

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue—

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are True!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place—

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face;

And they wonder as waiting the long years through

In the dust of the little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue

Since he kissed them and put them there.

Lineation

Lineation refers to choice of line length, a technique essential to much mod­ern poetry, which often relies heavily on place­ment on the page, length of lines, and physical presentation. Compare, for exam­ple, poetry by Walt Whitman, Mari­anne Moore, and Allen Ginsberg, with their long lines and biblical cadences that sweep majestically from margin to margin; poems such as Susan Musgrave’s “Lure” (TBAP 882) or William Carlos Wil­liams’ “The Red Wheelbarrow” and “This Is Just To Say,” which often seem to hug the left-hand margin of the page; and poems by Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Judith Rodriguez, and others which seem scattered almost at random, with lines punctuating ex­panses of white space.

The poet’s choice of form often dictates basic line length, how­ever, particu­larly in traditional metrical forms. Note the different ef­fects in the following po­ems:

M

i

A thousand wives lie close to heart,

intimáte,

shape shivering breasts to word-dream

couplings,

bald lips to consummation

in the lust

of vividry

and elán vital of transmutation

pressing painful birth into a wilder universe

part and part and part and intimation

timbreling into

completion

ii

A thousand secret selves clamor

for carved ears,

a thousand altérnate selves,

elementals recording what is/seems and was

and what may be—

a thousand pale prospective nightmares

dreams

expulsive energies define

and

redefine into infinity

iii

A thousand deaths thrive here

a thousand

apparitional

cheddar-scaled goldfish

floating in blue tepid water and

cannibalizing

bloated skull and unzipped spine

of one that once was of their own kind

when it still lived—

but failed

transmutation

became

consummation

rocking on aquarial blue-plastic coated stones

iv

A thousand children sleep soundly

in typic beds—

progeny of imagery,

heirs of rhythms

potentialities

unenfleshed and ripening

tattering on weak

iambs to dream

mortality

and pungent smells

of

swollen ripeness

pressed

in black arc-lines

against a thousand

stained sheets

STRINGING BUTTONS

Stringing buttons—hunched on the worn pine floor,

Its planks velvet smooth from half-century

Of hands scrubbing, polishing—musty air

Warm with subtle gossip, whispered words we

Youngsters ignored.... We strung buttons on hanks

Of time-grayed cotton-thread and squabbled for

Favorites: foil-backed glass; glossy jet, ink-

Black-deep; mock turquoise; hand-cut bone, smooth, clear—

While hour on hour grandmothers stitched staid quilts,

Wove intricate lines with white cotton strands

Through patterns pieced from scraps—old aprons, shirts

Sunday dresses faded and worn breath-thin;

Our cotton threads coiled in the button box—

We never cared that none had end-thread knots.

VULTURE

Or perhaps vulture

(as my son avers

although he reclined

half-sleeping when

the black shadow

rose, soused

as if to clutch

with careful claw

my small Ford,

and disappeared

above the tunnel’s

mouth)—flash

of red-on-black

glint of hooked

beak but mostly

bulk and blackly

ominous shade

whispers death

and rises as I pass

into darkness

Discussion questions:

1. What principles govern lineation in each poem? How effective are those principles in light of the final poem?

2. In which poem does the poet more fully seem to control where and/or when lines begin and end?

3. Is the chosen form appropriate for each poem?

Line length intensifies poetic effects in many ways. Compare the following pas­sages:

Freedom of the mind requires not only, or not even especially, the ab­sence of legal constraints but the pres­ence of alternative thoughts.

Just to say thank you to the one who laid a pair of pruning shears open on my driveway yesterday; I shall use them on the roses and save my four new tires.

Is there anything particularly “poetic” about either (excepting for the moment the homage to William Carlos Williams im­plicit in the second)? Which of the two sounds less like poetry, more like prose?

When the lines break into meaningful sub-units—poetic “lines”—the impact of each becomes more apparent. Even a prose passage can attain to some­thing like poetic emphasis:

FREEDOM OF THE MIND

requires

not only,

or not even especially,

the absence

of legal constraints

but

the presence

of alternative thoughts.

— “quoted” from Allan Bloom,

The Closing of the American Mind

JUST TO SAY

thank you

to

the one

who laid a pair

of pruning

shears

open on

my driveway

yesterday;

I shall use

them

on the roses

and save

my four

new tires.

Discussion: Which seems more effective as poetry? How else could the original passages be divided to create “poetry”?