The Sonnets |
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A-yup. Sonnets.
For a long time now, I've held the opinion that nobody should be allowed to write free verse without having first demonstrated the ability to write a sonnet.
The logic is clear and not terribly in keeping with what's pedagogically hip these days. If you're a touchy-feely educator type, read no further, for I intend to annoy the hell out of you.
In my opinion, the fundamental problem with most poetry instruction these days is that teachers (sorry, they like to call themselves "educational facilitators"!) willingly brand as poetry anything that anybody cares to declare as poetry.
So a monkey (literally) who excretes some kind of expression onto some kind of medium is permitted to claim the title of 'poet' provided that the monkey has the effrontery to claim its work as "poetry".
Surely this is absurd. Yet such is precisely the 'party line' as preached (mandated, even) in a large number of school classrooms.
The most obvious problem with this 'non-definition' of poetry is that, by excluding nothing from the realm of what we call 'poetry', this approach commits linguistic nihilism. When a noun ceases to discriminate one thing from another it ceases to serve any inherent function; when a word has no practical or metaphysical delimiters, then its sole remaining purpose must be political -- specifically, the act of removing meaning rather than establishing or clarifying it.
This is the meaning of linguistic nihilism: words are forced to mean something less or something inherently contradictory. Language is reduced by these measures, and that is -- in all probability -- an evil act.
In the case of "poetry" (don't even get me started on "art"), stripping the term of its ability to mean anything specific results in a much easier job on the part of English teachers. When there are no longer any defining characteristics of poetry, then anybody can teach the subject without any special knowledge of the field, without having to make any judgments, and without having to be accountable for a failure of students to know, appreciate, or produce something.
Of course, this makes counselors very happy: there shall be no more unhappy students who have low grades in English because any semblance of objective standards has been abandoned in favor of a purely ontological view of success: "It's poetry because I say it is; it's good because that's my opinion; I'm a genius because I say I am."
English, unfortunately, is one of the few subjects where this kind of delusion can be sustained indefinitely. Engineers have a much harder time of it: a bridge which collapses under the weight of its clients isn't really a bridge in any real sense of the word; a microprocessor which fails to deliver "4" when prompted with "2+2=" can't really be sold (although, in a well-publicized incident, Intel actually tried).
So having established (I hope) that a nihilistic definition of poetry is crap, one might be prompted to ask whether I have one of my own. I haven't ever tried to formulate one, but I'll offer this as an off-the-cuff effort:
Poetry is a literary form which is characterized by careful word choice, compression of meaning, economy of form, and -- often -- an emphasis on rhythm and rhyme.
I believe that this includes what it ought to and excludes most of what it needs to.
*
Now, on to the meat of the issue. When a poet commits free verse, it can be difficult to determine whether the diction and line spacing are deliberate rather than accidents that are never reconsidered, edited, or even recognized by the artist.
By contrast, the artist engaged in rhyming and metered verse at least has to contend with rhymes and metrical feet. Line length and word choice are at least somewhat constrained in these cases, requiring at least a modicum of informed attention.
The point is that an artist who engages in formal verse (rhyme and/or meter) is required, by the defining characteristics of his work, to demonstrate an awareness of words.
It boils down to one of technical competence. An artist who can express meaning with a complex metrical and rhyming form may be assumed to possess sufficient grasp of the language that we may 'trust' his diction and cadence to be deliberate rather than accidental.
And the sonnet. Well, the sonnet is the one of the most difficult verse forms in the English language. For those unfamiliar with the requirements, they can be boiled down (roughly) as follows:
Now, expressing anything within that kind of structure is ridiculously difficult; expressing a complex thought in a manner which is entertaining/moving/artful is mind-bogglingly difficult.
Obviously, it's not impossible, because lots of people have done it. Shakespeare wrote lots of sonnets. (Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?) Elizabeth Barrett Browning may have written one of the most frequently-quoted first lines (listen for the meter!): How do I love thee? Let me count the ways!
And there are lots of others. One thing that they all have in common is that each has clearly done a pretty good job of learning the language and choosing words carefully. Although machines can probably begin to write sonnets, I'm pretty confident about saying that they can't write good ones yet.
Here's the rule: if you can write a sonnet -- one good, solid, metrically correct, rhyming, meaningful sonnet... then I'll be able to trust your skills sufficiently to believe that your free verse is the result of deliberate, careful decisions.
'Nuf sed. Here are my own contributions to the canon:
(With Apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
How do I eat thee? Let me count the ways.
I eat thee to the depth and breadth and height
My fork can reach, when feeling quite alright,
For the ends of feeding (aft saying grace).
I eat thee to the level of everyday's
Most hungry need, by sun and candlelight.
I eat thee warmly, as I take a bite;
I eat thee simply, or with mayonnaise.
I eat thee with a passion put to show
In my old briefs, and Oh, how much I cared
The way that you across my tongue did flow
Then down my throat. I eat thee as prepared
By sister, mother, wife! and, hey! y'know,
I shall but eat thee oft'ner after triple bypass surgery.
June 1999
This was written in dubious commemoration of our first (and probably last) participation in a Spam cook-off, held at Price Costco in Saipan.
I realize that iambic pentameter is not maintained throughout, but I can honestly deny responsibility for that: rather than sticking to the strict sonnet meter, I tried to capture (syllable for syllable) the metrical pattern of Browning's original, quoted below for reference. I hasten to point out that I was able to copy even the original rhyme of each line in the first two quatrains.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love the freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they run from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints -- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1850
And then there's a slightly less whimsical bit:
A fence runs down and splits your house from mine.
Not tall, but strong, of cinder and cement
It stands. We sat beside and what we meant
To say was that our youth and loves were fine.
In other days, before cigars and wine
Exacted price, the hour late and spent,
Returning to my home the way I went
Was o'er the fence -- indeed, the straighter line.
This day, I think, will haunt me ever hence:
For after our talk of sorrows gone
And fearful glances, bravely cast ahead;
The time arrived that I should be in bed.
I did not dare to stumble 'cross the lawn:
Tonight, instead, I walked around the fence.
Michael Friesen
June 25, 1996
12:45 AM
Saipan
A fence runs long and splits your house from mine.
Not tall, but strong, of cinder and cement
It stands. We sat beside and what we meant
To say was that our youth and loves were fine.
In other days, before long nights and wine
Exacted price, the hour late and spent,
Returning to my home the way I went
Was o'er the fence--indeed, the straighter line.
This eve, I think, will haunt me sometime hence,
For after our talk of sorrows gone
And fearful glances, bravely cast ahead,
The time arrived that I should be in bed.
I did not dare to stumble 'cross the lawn:
Tonight, instead, I walked around the fence.
Edited July 2, 1997
Saipan