How to Read a Poem Lesson 3A

We’ll begin Lesson 3A of How to Read a Poem with a short lesson on the English language, then we’ll delve into Free Verse and stanza patterns (3B). So, let’s start.

Sixth century English was a heavily inflected language -- that means it used endings on words to specify the grammatical function of each word in a sentence. But both the natural linguistic principle of simplification and the Norman Conquest of 1066, caused those pesky inflections to slowly drop out. We still have only a few of the hundreds we once had  (-s, -’s for nouns, -s, -ed1, -ed2, -ing for verbs,  and -er, -est for modifiers.)

So, that’s good news, right? Yes and no. Something had to take the place of all those grammatical clues that made communication possible. The answer? Word order! 

Let’s see how inflections worked. You remember that a sentence needs both subject and predicate and that nouns can be both the subject and the direct object of a verb. With inflections on nouns, we know which is subject and direct object, so word order makes no difference. Look at these 6 sentences. With Old English inflections, all mean the same thing.

1. James is king.   They all mean this, a declarative sentence.

2. King is James.   This one makes us wonder.

3. James king is.    The next three mean something else.

4. King James is.

5. Is king James.

6. Is James King.    This is interrogative, not declarative.

So you see how important word order is to Modern English. (See so is how important you Modern English to word order) Anything that violates order -- syntax -- is either confusing or meaningless.

So, with that tucked into our minds, let’s go to free verse. The term presupposes two things:  we’ve 1. defined verse or poetry and 2. stated what the verse is free of -- which means we know all that stuff in lessons 1, 2, and this lesson.

Before Shakespeare, the first element poets freed themselves of was rhyme. (Ironically, inflections make rhyming much easier.) Remember blank verse -- unrhymed iambic pentameter? So rhyme which goes back before Chaucer in the 14th century was the first to drop out. The second freedom was from the accentual/syllabic restrictions of Lesson 2. 

However, the 20th century saw two new restrictions -- parallelism and anaphora -- from which we later freed ourselves. 

Regardless of all we’ve freed poetry from, we can never free poems completely from English syntax without opening them either to ambiguity or incomprehensibility.

Before we end this lesson, let’s practice scanning a stanza of “Titanic Force.”

A jagged edge of anger ripped a hole

In me, its icy tip just barely seen

Floating in my Sea of Reality,

Its path obscured by freezing clouds of pain.

Read it out loud to see if it sounds like an English sentence. Remember, never read a poem so that each line sounds like a sentence. Now, you make your scan, then look at mine.

A / jag // ged / edge // of /ang // er / ripped // a / hole //  

                5 iambs/iambic pentameter

In / me, // its / icy / tip // just / bare // ly / seen //   

                iambic pentameter

Floa / ting / in // my / Sea // of / Re / al // i / ty, // 

                trochee, iamb, anapest, iamb only 4 feet

Its / path // ob / scured //by / free // zing / clouds // of / pain. //   

                iambic pentameter

See why we call this style accentual/syllabic!

After 75, What?

Here I sit on the last day of my 75th year talking to my blog about -- oh, hell! I’m supposed to have something to say before I start?!  

Well, I didn’t have anything to say that Sunday afternoon I was born (I was born at home to be with my Momma) and everyone there (had better) thought I was the cutest little fellow ever to make that trip!

As I was showering this morning, I thought of sharing some regrets from the past -- like I need to explain to you what I know about me that you don’t. I even gave a monologue as I rinsed my hair.

Then I thought I might share the lessons (both of them) I’ve learned -- but, most/both of them came directly from the regrets I don’t want to talk about. And, unless you’re a wee tad, a child-hacker-prodigy, you’ve also learned those same lessons. My brain got lost in a morass of maudlin emotions ☚ (that’s to impress you with my ___.  ☚ Your word here.) listing life’s lessons to the tune of hot water beating on my chest.

By that time, my fingertips had pruned up real nice, yet I still had no real words to use in an imaginary communication.

Awright, you can rise up with righteous indignation that I wasted your time, that I wrote all that to say I didn’t have anything to say to usher out #75. But this idea -- what if #76 starts with the same quandary? -- is moving me to tears.

For your reading pleasure, I have a conclusion -- life could be better or worse; happier or sadder; healthier or sicker; et al. But for now life is not over! That’s cool.

Here’s a birthday vignette that’s better’n ☝. 

WORTH THE EFFORT

Every year about this time, I start dropping hints to my family. “Make sure you kids have some money saved up,” I tell the girls. And to Mary Jo, “We don’t want to make plans for two weeks from tonight, you know. That’s my birthday.”

At first everyone ignores me, but after a week or so, they react.  “Don’t be so childish, Daddy! We’ve never forgotten your birthday.” And Mary Jo adds, “How could we forget with you around to remind us?”

But ten years ago, on a bright Thursday morning, I got up with a light and joyous heart.  I shaved, dressed, combed my hair and went out to breakfast expecting a hearty, “Happy Birthday.”

I sat down to a big plate of grits and eggs and listened to Patty chatter about going out with Ricky. Ingrid joined in with a few comments about how Patty acted on a date. Diane wanted to know if I’d let her play softball--she’d need a new glove, you know. And Mary Jo passed on a few tidbits she’d gotten from Clarice yesterday. But not a single word about my birthday.

I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, walked to the back door, gave Mary Jo a peck on the cheek and left for work. “I’ll bet they have something cooked up for tonight,” I said to myself as I pulled out on the highway.

“Hold it,” I replied to myself. “You teach a class tonight.  You won’t even get home until 10 o’clock.” The more I thought, the more convinced I was. “They all forgot my birthday!”

I stormed through the whole day. By 6:30 I was so clouded up that I couldn’t concentrate on teaching the Great Vowel Shift.  So at break time I let the class go, and I went home.

When the family heard me come into the house about 8:30, they acted like a twelve year old whose mother had almost caught her smoking.

“Doesn’t anyone around here know what today is?” I yelled as they scurried around.

Mary Jo, who was heading over to Clarice’s with a big piece of poster board, yelled back, “Of course. It’s Thursday. And what are you doing home so early?”

The rest of that night and all during the next day, I gave everyone my best pouty, silent treatment.  After supper Friday, with still no sign of a birthday greeting, Harold stopped by to ask me to ride out with him to check some of the bridges in the north part of the county. Harold was a county supervisor.

“I’d love to get out of here for a while,” I told him. So, off we went.

When we got back about 7:30, I walked into the kitchen and noticed that the dining room door was closed. So I walked over to open it the way it was supposed to be, and there in the dining room, to the sound of “Happy Birthday, Andrew,” were my family and friends. The table was covered with gifts and snacks, a huge cake with candles in the center. And Mary Jo stood facing me holding a big poster board card signed by everyone there.

Well, I quickly adjusted my attitude from pout to pleasure and joined right in with all the festivities. And later that evening, after the guests had gone, I realized what had happened.

I’d been expecting a spontaneous “Happy Birthday,” but instead I’d gotten a well-planned party that took hours to work out, not only by my family but by my friends as well. Those people thought I was worth the time and effort, the planning and preparation.

Occasionally as I sit in church on a Sunday morning, I wonder if God would feel more honored if I had spent some time Saturday planning out how I intended to worship Him. I wonder if the spontaneous honors Him more than the planned.