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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 realized I'm working with a little more than just the sound and rhythm of the words when I do these nonsense poems. It isn't just individual words, there are phrases, and while they don't really contribute to any meaning (there is none) they do bring some level of atmosphere or mood to the piece. It's almost bizarre how much is going on already, without linking words together to create meaning. I think this is a very important aspect of poetry (and of prose as well) that bears some examination.

It almost did degenerate into meaning with these lines:

The dark and stringent pastures of blasted gratitude mock any sense of
decency you might have claimed to feel
​

With just a couple of words changed it could come to carry some actual meaning, but it's still nonsense struggling to make sense. But I don't want to just stop working (playing) with words and phrases this way yet. I think it's vitally important to hear (feel) the sounds this way, abstractly, rather than ignore these aspects and go straight to thinking only about the meaning, That's logic and reason taking over (conscious mind), and poetry needs to come largely from the unconscious, through intuition etc. It needs to be largely about feel. And maybe meaning can be added loosely, partially. Otherwise you get the standard—as soon as you let logic and reason into the game they bully everything else into submission. Then you're just writing rhyming prose rather than poetry. It must come from the right brain as much as the left (using those terms loosely, not strictly), and most liklely it's the tensions or balances between them that makes it really interesting. It's the old yin and yang balance once again. If you let masculine logical yang dominate you lose much of what makes it poetic. Yang is bright sunlight that dispells mystery, yin is moonlight in which it thrives.

It's very much like what I'm doing in my stories by trying to strike a balance between plotting/character arc on the one hand and discovery writing on the other. The discovery is what allows some mystery in, and lets the unconscious go to work on things and pull together disparate threads the conscious would never notice. The structuring devices like plot and character arc are pure reason and logic taking over from above, they're almost formulae. You must be loose and flexible with them, let them be suggestions rather than absolutes. And let the poetry bubble up from underneath and work its magic.

I actually don't mind that rhyme near the end, rise with eyes 2 lines later. Eyes doesn't fall on the line end, and doesn't imemdiately follow, as I've tended to do. Sounds ok to me. But don't let it become a habit.

A mass of stray bales beckons across a million rogue
blasphemers, sailing on a derry sloop to Newberry on a drunken junket with a
trunkful of elephant parts. Broken hearts.
The dark and stringent pastures of blasted gratitude mock any sense of
decency you might have claimed to feel

But is it real?
would you steal slouch away and stroll lurk through in twilight meadows alleys?
On a lark

Who knows what morbid monster grows fancies rise
in sunken silken tombs
where dimmed eyes deign to peer?

Fuck it

Let’s have a beer

* * * *​

Red=sounds pretty good (poetic, classy, serious etc)
Bold red= replacement words
Blue=silly, obnoxious

Also weakened by things like "on a", "with a", "but the". It sounds like an amateur putting together silly phrases and looking for linking devices. The more intense lines always sound better. The classier stuff—the Whitmanesqe, Joycean or Miltonian.

I think it would be better without the rhymes, or maybe just a few carefully done slant rhymes. But they tend to make it sound sing-songy and silly. Of course so does breaking down at the end and making a couple of joke lines.

Again I wasn't thinking about meaning, just rhythm and occasionally I'd string a few ideas together through association. It's pretty much automatic writing.

Beckons

A mass of stray bales beckons across a million rogue
blasphemers, sailing on a derry sloop to Newberry on a drunken junket with a
trunkful of elephant parts. Broken hearts.
The dark and stringent pastures of blasted gratitude mock any sense of
decency you might have claimed to feel

But is it real?
would you steal away and stroll through twilight meadows?
On a lark

Who knows what morbid monster grows
in sunken silken tombs
where dimmed eyes deign to peer?

Fuck it

Let’s have a beer

You can do something like this in writing. Walt Whitman does it in Leaves of Grass, James Joyce does it in Ulysses. Perhaps you only need an alliterative name? I'm sure many poets and litfic writers accomplish similar things.

Generally though I wouldn't be looking for anything so drifting and meaningless, except at certain points for very specific reasons. This is just an extreme I wanted to show. There's a sliding scale, all the way from pure telling narrative to pure abstract imagery and sound. Whitman and Joyce move around this spectrum as they see fit. I think it's time for me to start experimenting in freewrites, see what I can do. Expand my repertoire of techniques. Probably after I tackle trying to write like Whitman a few times. I've been moving through poetry from the more structured, with rhyme and meter and foot, through blank verse to free verse.

The kind of transcendence seen in films like this:

​

Switch off the ususally-endeless stream of words in your mind, let yourself drift in childlike bliss. Let the imagery, the motion, and the sounds wash over you. Lose yourself in them.

Or like this:

​

There's no narrative, no meaning, everything becomes pleasant and abstract. Like a beautiful dream. Forms, colors, textures moving gently, lapping, advancing and receding in endless cycles. Sun sparkling on moving water, coming through dappled leaves that are in constant motion, to make patterns of moving light on the ground. This is pure transcendent poetry.