Geekin' out on poetry (and Romanticism)—my study thread

Wow, Shaelin did a video on writing poetry. Of COURSE she did. I was afraid it was going to be pretty silly and lite, but it's actually really good:

I took a closer look at some Springsteen lyrics. I was inspired by them on evild4ve's lyric thread, but I failed to notice how clever they sometimes are:

Madman drummers, bummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat
In the dumps with the mumps as the adolescent pumps his way into his hat
With a boulder on my shoulder, feelin' kinda older, I tripped the merry-go-round
With this very unpleasing sneezing and wheezing, the calliope crashed to the ground​

Not only an internal rhyme on each line, but a three-part one (don't know the terminology). Drummers, bummers, and summer in line 1. Plus that's a masculine rhyme—both syllables rhyme.

Some all-hot half-shot was headin' for the hot spot, snappin' his fingers, clappin' his hands
And some fleshpot mascot was tied into a lover's knot with a whatnot in her hand
And now young Scott with a slingshot finally found a tender spot and throws his lover in the sand
And some bloodshot forget-me-not whispers, "Daddy's within earshot, save the buckshot, turn up the band"
​

In the first line of verse 2 he doubles-up on hot shot. The earlier rhyming words were parts of hyphenated pairs—all-hot half-shot. And dig the 2nd line of verse 2. 4 rhymes, or really 5 if you count each syllable of 'Whatnot!' Not only that, but lines 1, 2 and 4 all use the same rhyme—words ending with 'ot.' At times he has to twist meaning quite a bit, but I think that's completely fair in song lyrics. It contributes to the mystery of what it really all means, which is an enduring mystery, assuming the song sounds good enough and doesn't feel cheap or flat or shallow.

I should say he makes it work here, not that it's always fair. This song does have a sense of mystery to it, a touch of surrealism, and feels somewhat profound. Might not be the right word. But I'm saying such tricks would fall flat in the hands of a lesser lyricist.

On the last line of verse 2 Bloodshot and Buckshot is a masculine rhyme, but not Forget-me-not. But it is a three-word phrase, which helps it fit in nicely with the multisyllabic words. Very complex.

My belief (uncorroborated) is that Springsteen took his complex lyrical style from Bob Dylan. And I'd say the rap artists who used a similarly complex style took a lot of inspiration from both of them, including Eminem.

Doing a little looking into Springsteen's lyrics. Just ran across this: "All these years later I still have no clue as to what a 'soft infested summer' might be, and I keep trying to figure that out." From this page.

I don't think it's mostly about meaning, it's mostly about the sounds. The quiet sussuruss—"Soft infested summer." A little alliteration, a little onomatopeoia, and a strong sense of summer breezes infused with the idea of infestation. A gentle sense of sickness seeping in.

Here's corroboration: Bruce Springsteen's 10 best Bob Dylan covers

I wasn't aware of the idolizing, but I did notice the similarity in those long complex lyrical lines and a certain seriousness in the music and the themes. And when you consider the way their timelines overlap, it seemed likely.

I'd like to mention here, this is why I have a disliking for Bon Jovi. I believe that, rather than create his own musical persona, he simply copied Springsteen's. They're both from Jersey, and both repesent themselves as tough, street-wise figures doing songs aimed at the plight of the working class. What really cinched it for me was the crappy low-effort, 12-second thing Bon Jovi does at the end of—which song was it? Bad Medicine I think, where right near the end he says (and this is written right into the lyrics):

I gotta, I gotta
I gotta do it again, wait a minute, wait a minute
Hold on
I'm not done
One more time
With feeling
Come on
Help me out now
​

And the band pretends to extend the song very briefly. Come on, like anybody believes this is real!
It's a blatant and extremely cheap ripoff of The Boss. But instead of it being part of an extended live performance the way Bruce would do it, it's recorded this way in the studio, right on the album! And it isn't an extended song at all, it's radio-length and designed like most of his music to be radio-friendly. In other words, it's totally fake. It would be different if he only did this on a live version, but no. It's written into the song.

I'm not saying Bon Jovi totally sucks or anything, though I'd say most of their music is pretty lightweight, and especially after their very promising beginning as a harder rock band. But they pretty quickly moved to pop rock. But what gets on my nerves is the blatant ripoff of a far more talented artist.

Here's one way a really talented artist can slow down and extend a song:



Bon Jovi was trying to borrow that kind of energy and excellence, but without actually earning it. Or maybe he was just doing a tribute. Whatever—either way, cheap and unearned.

The Raven—Eddie Al Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

Once up / on a / mid night / drear y, / while I / pond ered, / weak and / wear y,
Ov er / man y a / quaint and / cur i ous / vol ume / of for / got ten lore—
While I / nodd ed, / near ly / napp ing, / sudd en / ly there / came a / tapp ing,
As of / some one/ gent ly / rapp ing, / rapp ing / at my / cham ber door.
“’Tis some / vis i / tor,” I / mutt ered, / “tapp ing / at my / cham ber door—
On ly/ this and / noth ing more.”

Ah, dis / tinct ly / I re / mem ber / it was / in the / bleak De / cem ber;
And each / sep a rate / dy ing / em ber / wrought its / ghost up / on the floor.
Eag er / ly I / wished the / mor row;— / vain ly / I had / sought to / bor row
From my / books sur / cease of / sor row— / sor row / for the / lost Le nore—
For the / rare and / rad i ant / maid en / whom the / an gels / name Le nore—
Name less / here for / ev er more.

Most ly / Tro chee, / art i / choke y / ok ie / dok ie? (Dun dun)
Cretic, or amphimacer (Dun da Dun)
Dactyl (Dun dun dun)​

Poe's meter is so good here, so pleasing to the ear, that I hardly noticed some lines are longer or shorter, and I really don't care. Which leads me to believe a pleasing meter is far more important than strict number of syllables.

I have more analysis of The Raven I want to do, but first a little intrusion—

Wouldn't it be super convenient if these ridiculous Latin words (The names of the various types of meter) actually did what they represent?

Trochee does, because a trochee is a disyllable, first syllable stressed, second unstressed (DUN da). The word trochee is itself a trochee. However the word Dactyl is not a dactyl, it's only two syllables, whereas a dactyl is three. Perhaps ironically though, Dactylic is a dactyl. Well, depending on how you pronounce it I suppose. Let me check official pronunciation. Lol nope, official pronunciation is actually an Amphibrach (da DUN da). And the word Amphibrach is a cretic (or amphimacer)—DUN da DUN. Precise opposite of an amphibrach. Facepalm.

The word Iamb is not an iamb unfortunately (it's a trochee—the backwards iamb), but as part of the term iAMbic the stress is reversed (from DUN da to da DUN), though it now has three syllables, and is actually an amphibrach (the Dr. Seuss meter—the CIRcus mcGURkus—no FORmer perFORmer's perFORMED this perFORmance).

SIGH... hoplelessly tanged web officially woven. Thank you once again venerable Latin-dudes!

Subtext—The Raven

Before getting into the rhyme I want to look into the subtext that shows up right here in the first two verses. The poet/narrator is saying one thing, and it's the exact opposite of what he really believes to be true. In fact the entire situation is him hiding—in his books—from a dreaded truth he doesn't want to face, but he knows it's coming in some spirit-form to confront him, and when he hears the gentle rapping and the tapping, he knows this is what he's hiding from. He puts on a brave face and tells himself it's merely a visitor—nothing to worry about, but this is whistling past the graveyard, isn't it? He's in denial and already knows what it is. Perhaps not the form, but he knows the message it bears. He even reveals that the reason he's paging through his beloved books is as a comfort/distraction, or a way to hide, to keep his mind occupied so as to avoid thinking about the wrenching sorrow of the loss of his radiant Lenore. It's been a long time since I've read the rest of the poem. I'll read it, but for now I know no more than this.

And the fact that he calls his room a chamber (several times). At one time of course it was just the name for a room, but no longer. To us today the word conjures up ideas of a torture chamber or a chamber of horrors. It sounds like an inescapable room with thick walls and a heavy door multiply padlocked. A secure place to hide, but also, if some spirit comes a-hunting you to force you to face the thoughts you're hiding from, an inescapable torture chamber indeed.

Ok, let me read the rest of the poem, there may be more he's hiding from at an even deeper level. With Poe there usually is.

Subtext pt 2

Ok, poem read. Found it here, at Poetry Foundation: The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

I'm not seeing any deeper subtext, or anything else he's hiding from (doesn't mean it isn't there). It seems to be just the fact, unacceptable to him, that his beloved Lenore is no longer among the living. He (both Poe and his narrator/self-insert character) is a Romantic in the Byronic/Shelleyan sense—a man beset with preternaturally powerful emotions and extreme sensitivity, unable to bear up under the intensity of his own grief or sorrow at her loss.

Something I didn't notice when last I read the poem—it seems as if it's the very stygian darkness itself outside of his chamber that comes in, taking the form of a raven. First he sees only impenetrable blackness outside his door and window. But important to note that staring nervously into that blackness he himself invokes her spirit. he ventures "... Lenore?" As if he expects it to be her. And a seeming echo returns, not with a question mark, but an exclamation point! So not really an echo, apparently a response. In the affirmative. As if it's her out there.

Also important to note—there's talk of dreams before this happens. As he stared for a long time into that absolute drakness, fearing it was her returned, but dead, we get this nice little bit:

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
​

And in the previous stanza he said:

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
​

So there's a strong case to be made that it's all a dream, though on the surface level his talk of napping was just a cover story, to explain why it took him a moment to open the door (really he was terrified). But the entire poem itself might be no more than a cover story to us the readers, or perhaps he himself is unaware that it was a dream. In many instances people dream things and believe they really occurred. Especially in the case of a false awakening, a dream that begins with the person 'waking up', or that seems to continue whatever they were doing when they dozed off. Perhaps he was awake at the beginning but fell asleep with his face buried in some ancient tome and dreamed the rest. At the very least Poe wants to conjure the doubt—is it a dream, or does it merely have a powerfully dreamlike feel about it? Or perhaps spirit enters your life in dreamlike form? I think the answer is that the narrator is unsure. It seems to have the sense of being dream and powerful spiritual reality at the same time. Poe has been known to connect sleep, dream and death at times ("Sleep, those little slices of death. How I loathe them!")

Pt 3

Well, well. Apparently that isn't actually a Poe quote. I just checked and ran across this interesting little black page @ the Poe Museum website. It says the quote was falsely attributed to Poe in the movie A Nightmare on Elm Street III (undoubtedly where I picked it up). But I was never clear on where he was supposed to have said it, and I don't recall seeing it in anything of his I've read, so I thought I'd better check. It does sound like something he would say, and I believe he's spoken on dreams and somnambulism in places (maybe not, I might just be thinking of that one false quote).

There's also the idea, presented by the narrator himself, that the bird is an emissary from "Plutonian shores." I clicked that for the definition, and got that it's a reference to the Underworld, land of the dead, ruled over by the god Pluto. Wow, ok. I did not know that. It also carries a sense of a tiny, inhospitable chunk of ice drifting at inconceivable distances from this human world, in blackest space. Pretty forboding either way.

The raven, apparently a shadow-being taking the form of a raven (associated with death) perches immediately on a bust of Pallas over the narrator's doorway, and will leave there nevermore. And it's name also is Nevermore, or is that simply the only statement it's capable of uttering, like some trained parakeet from Hell? At any rate it seems to reperesent the fact that now his unutterable grief at the loss of his Lenore will never leave him even for a moment (though I do wonder what would happen if he removes the bust or moves to a different chamber? Most likely he'd find the bird sitting there looming over him just as before. Spirit is not so easily evaded).

Pallas—it's another name for Athena, Greek goddess of, among other things, learning and rationality. Sorry @ps102 —I have no excuse for such ignorance . Accordidng to a page I'm only able to read the very top of without paying, the Raven perching there (permanently now) represents irrationality and fear now dominating over his former rationality. Makes sense, and I do recall having heard of Pallas Athena before, though it's always eluded me in the context of this poem.

Perhaps there's even some subtext in the fact that Athena (the narrator's symbol of rationality) is dominated by Pluto, a Roman chthonic diety. Rome conquered Greece. Also Athena is a goddess of high Olympus, shining home of gods in the sky, and Pluto is the dark ruler of the underworld.

Wait, what? I just read it again, where does it say that? Maybe, is that what the 'Balm in Gilead' was about? He asked the Raven to tell him if there really is no balm in Gilead.

I did a search and here's what I've found so far—

“As they sat down to eat their meal, they looked up and saw a caravan of Ishmaelites coming from Gilead. Their camels were loaded with spices, balm , and myrrh, and they were on their way to take them down to Egypt.”—Genesis 37:25-26

Then in Jeremiah 8:22 NKJV we get this:
“Is there no balm in Gilead, Is there no physician there? Why then is there no recovery for the health of the daughter of my people?”

"Jeremiah points out that spiritual healing for Israel and Judah was readily available through God. The Lord was the balm that could completely heal and restore the nation’s hurts."—Source
​

Then I searched including the term 'The Raven" and found some excellent responses from Stack Exchange Literature:

David L. Jeffrey cites "The Raven" as an example of an ironic use of the phrase, while retaining the biblical association:

In Poe's "The Raven" a desperate speaker cries out for hope, but does so to a "thing of evil" (source)
​

Kevin Reynaud interprets it similarly, and connects the phrase to the broader context of the poem:

The mention of Gilead refers to the Bible in which the balm of Gilead was a healing ointment, implying that the narrator's only cure to depression is to be reunited with Lenore in Heaven. (source)​

So it's possible the narrator of the poem indeed believed the legendary balm of Gilead was a cure-all that might cure even death (or perhaps his own unbearable grief?). But he turned to the wrong source for it and apparently was so immersed in darkness and despair he wasn't capable of turning to God. You get the feeling none of Poe's characters would turn that way, and would seek out dark and devious means instead.

Thank you for that, it turned into a nice little search-fest, and I hadn't even noticed that apsect of the poem yet. I'm planning to look up analyses of it, but not until I've done my own.

He also asks if the raven brought him nepenthe, which a search tells me is a drink or drug that brings forgetfulness of some hurt or memory too terrible to bear. And of course, we know what the answer is.

In fact it occurs to me, both the darkness outside and then the raven answer his questions. And after the raven speaks twice he pretty well knows what its answers are going to be. And yet he frames each question in such a way that Nevermore is the worst answer he could recieve each time. What if he had changed his approach a bit, flipped the script? "Hey raven old buddy old pal, d'ya think maybe she's gone forever?" What would it have said then? Highly doubtful it would have changed tack and responded "Yep. Sure thing dude!"

So really both darkness and raven (which seems to me to be a personification of the darkness, which seems to represent his grief and infinite sorrow) are like some dark thing inside himself, some part of the mind he's questioning, and he already knows how it tends to answer. Always in the negative, and always with permanence. His insistence on framing all his questions precisely the way he did strikes me as depressive and self-defeating. The raven could be a symbol of utter depression and dark nihilism. There's a certain repetitive hypnotic quality in his question-and-answer session, a trancelike quality. As if he's not capable of any other type of answer or question now, and forever more.

I wonder if Lenore represents anything? His last/only chance at love and happiness perhaps?

The bust of Pallas Athena stands in for his love of and belief in scholarliness and reason, and it's now forever overshadowed by that depressing, croaking bird. And his books? As far as it's been hinted at, ancient tomes of sorcery, alchemy and witchcraft or something of the sort. I'll bet good money he's got no Bible, or if he does he never consults it. And if he did, his dark turn of mind is so far gone he'd misinterpret or misunderstand everything in it, or shudder away from it in horror like Dracula from a crucifix.

It's a chamber piece, and everything in it (the few props we're shown) all seem to symbolize specific things to build a portrait of the character.

He's a man who's fallen into complete devastation of the soul, though he isn't presented that way at first or much at all, it needs to be gleaned from between the lines (and from knowledge of other characters in Poe). Like many characters in Romantic literature, he's already a lost soul but doesn't know it yet. And of course, THAT is the rest of what he was trying to keep out by immersing himself in his reading. The rest of the hidden subtext.

All of this slowly seeps in after reading the poem, if you think about it enough and do some searching. I suppose many of these references to mythical figures (Pluto and Pallas), and to the Bible and nepenthe and similar things—mysteries to us today—would have been very familiar to his Victorian era readers.

It occurs to me there may well be a reference, in his staring for so long into the darkness, to Nietzsche's

"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Nietzsche ( Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future (1886), Chapter IV. Apophthegms and Interludes, §146 )
​

1886—when was The Raven written? Turns out it's 1845. Ok, maybe the inspiration went the other way around then?