Don't Muzzle the Ghazal

"Musicality in Verse," Part 2

The previous entry on this topic discussed consonants. This entry discusses vowels.

I've posted a new page, "A Game for Your Ears," which applies these ideas. The game is an exercise I wrote for my creative writing classes.

Consonants are formed by altering the flow of breath, stopping it, making it hiss, directing it through the nose, and so on. Consonants are formed in different parts of the mouth (& nose); some are voiced, others not.

Vowels are formed also by altering the flow of breath at specific points in the mouth, using positions of the lower jaw, the lips, and the tongue. Vowels are not stopped or subjected to friction. Vowels are voiced unless one is whispering. Vowels are defined, like consonants, by "minimal pairs": two words which differ only in one sound. The difference defines both vowels as phonemes (meaningful sounds) in that language.

For instance, "pit" and "pat" define the minimal pair, /i, a/. The inconsistencies of English spelling mean one has to actually pronounce the words to hear the vowel. The phonemic alphabet for transcribing English is fairly straightforward for consonants, needing only a few non-alphabet symbols; transcribing vowels requires more special symbols. For those interested in more specific information, antimoon.com presents English phonemes with corresponding symbols.

Disclaimer: One does not need to know the phonemic alphabet or be able to transcribe English into that alphabet in order to write good poetry. What one needs is a good ear for the language.

Kenneth Burke shows us how sets of consonants, such as m - n - b - p - d - t - f - v, can create the music of a poem. Burke doesn't discuss vowels, merely quoting Coleridge to suggest that consonants are primary. So, what about vowels? Vowels can not be organized in sets as Burke does the consonants. Vowels are grouped by linguists into front, middle, and back, and into high, mid, and low — relative positions in the mouth. Here's sentence illustrating the front vowels:

"He will wed her." In order, the vowels are high front, mid front, low front, and then a mid vowel (an "r-colored schwa"). These vowels aren't related in the way that, for instance, the consonants in "Many bold friends told of Paris." Yet the sequence — the flow — of vowels is obviously essential to the music of a poem.

I don't believe that poems, good poems, begin in calculation. A good poems begins in intuition, in a hunch that a sequence of words, an experience, an idea, a feeling is worth writing about. The sounds, along with the other elements of the poem follow from that hunch (inspiration, if you will). Conscious thought enters in revision, is not part of the initial vision.

By way of a closing example, here are the first two couplets of Brandy Bauer's "Ghazal (Kabul)," from the July 2007 issue of The Ghazal Page. She uses both consonants and vowels very effectively.

A bleak season arrived when I alit at Kabul.
Plunged into nothingness, a skeleton, this Kabul.

Here in the street, festering water and dust.
Whose fires now choke the qanats of Kabul?

I won't do detailed analysis of these lines; you will be rewarded by reading them aloud carefully. Note the subtle, and effective, relationship of "arrived" and "alit" in the first line or of "street" and "festering" in the third line.

I plan to return to this topic soon. If you have comments, including examples, please send them along.

 

"Musicality in Verse"

The title of this post is the title of an essay by Kenneth Burke, a great literary theorist and philosopher. Burke's contributions have been somewhat overshadowed, perhaps, by the dominance of postmodernism for a numbe of years. Burke just wasn't fashionable. A Google search on "Kenneth Burke" produced a gratifying number of hits that look good. I'll provide only the University of Minnesota site linked above from his name.

The essay this post is based on, "Musicality in Verse," appears in Burke's The Philosophy of Literary Form, Louisiana State University Press, second edition, 1967. In the post, I put Burke's insights into my own words with my own examples. The topic is significant enough for working poets that I may follow it up in a later post. I highly recommend that you get Burke's essay, if possible, and read it.

Burke's main point is this: some speech-sounds closely resemble others, differing only in one or two features. These speech-sounds form sets and are used by poets as they use alliteration. Burke calls these patterns "concealed alliteration by cognates." Sounds in the middle or at the end of words also count as part of this approach.

Every language's sound system consists of phonemes — speech-sounds that make a difference in the meaning of words. Phonemes are defined by "minimal pairs": two words with different meanings in which the only sound difference is the pair of sounds being defined.

A common example is the two English words "bit" and "pit." These words differ only in the /b/ and the /p/ sounds, so they define /b, p/ as phonemes in English. Both /b/ and /p/ are made by stopping the flow of breath with the lips and then releasing it. The difference is that /b/ is voiced and /p/ is unvoiced. When you say "b," your vocal chords vibrate (unless you're whispering); thus, /b/ is voiced. You hear these differences or you couldn't understand English. Try saying both "bit" and "pit" with your hands over your ears. You will hear the buzzing of your vocal chords on the /b/ but not the /p/.

Webster's 1913 dictionary has this example in its definition of "alliteration":

Behemoth, biggest born of earth, upheaved His vastness. – Milton.

The /b/ and /v/ alliterations in this line are obvious. Less obvious to one's analysis, although obvious to one's ear are the b, p. and v cognate alliterations. (I'm dropping the slashes, used to mark phonemes.) V is alliteratively cognate with both b and p because of its phonemic features: it is made with the upper lip and lower teeth and is voiced. The unvoiced -th in "Behemoth" and "earth" also alliterate cognately with v (lips and tongue). The medial /g/ in "biggest" is also part of this group of cognate sounds.

Milton's play with vowels are also important to the effect of this line (which is, remember, out of context). I won't go into vowels now, so I definitely will discuss this topic again.

Poets Online — Ghazal Archive

Among other topics related to ghazals and to poetry more generally, I will comment on relevant Web sites. The first of these is the ghazal archive of Poetry Online.

The first thing you'll notice about the Poets Online Ghazal Archive is the brown text on a white background. On my Macbook, at least, this color combination makes reading a little difficult. But only a little.

The archive begins with a paragraph defining/describing ghazals. Essentially, this paragraph defines the Persian ghazal and repeats the usual misinformation that the ghazal began in Persian, when it began in Arabic, as David Jalajel shows.The author couldn't have known about the Arabic ghazal, however, since it has been difficult for us monoglot English speakers to get detailed information about the ghazal. The opening paragraph also provides some brief information on Adrienne Rich and ghazals. A second, brief paragraph provides links to some other sources — actually, books for sale on Amazon.

The ghazals that follow use various forms: some radif, some qafiya and radif, one rhyming couplets, and a couple no rhyme (what can be called "free ghazals"). I'm going to quote a few shers here, but you really should visit the archive and read all the ghazals in their entirety. It will be worth your while.

from "Ghazal"
by Laura Shovan

Late summer an unexpected crop:  beans veiled by hand-shaped leaves.
I lift one veil: green leaves, green vine, the bean a hidden lover.

The imagery in the sher above is especially rich. Read the whole ghazal and see how she carries it through.

from "Parent Versus Child Ghazal"
by Catherine M. LeGault

We drink and smoke away our leisure-time as couch-
potatoes; and we wonder why our children slouch.

The enjambment between lines works very well and recalls what David Jalajel says about enjambment in the Arabic ghazal; this would be enjambment between the first and second hemistiches.

from "Ghazal at the Equinox"
by Lianna Wright

At the waterline, the taste of salt, sound of water,
feel of cold autumn, the sight of my daughter.

The shortening daylight makes me think
that the plant's turning sunward is even sadder.

The rhymes — qafiya — work nicely here. Perhaps it is "microrhyme" on "-er."

I hope posts like this one will extend the conversation on the ghazal in English and its possible forms.

Poetry and Science, 2nd Post

The general direction of the posts on poetry and science is on their relationship as modes of knowing, of understanding, and expressing. This post, though, deals with science as a subject for poetry. First, for your pleasure, I propose David Lunde's ghazal. "Of Stars," which appeared in the fifth issue of The Ghazal Page for 2004. A Persian ghazal in form, "Of Stars" traces the human fascination with the night skies and their bright, dazzling inhabitants. ("Of stars," as you might expect, is the radif.)

Here are the first two shers of the poem, but you really should read the entire piece:

    The Milky Way swirls, a wizard's cloak of stars;
    Around we wheel on a slim spoke of stars.

    Honor that most clever, most sapient ancestor--
    When first he spoke, he spoke of stars.

"Of Stars" can be seen as a science fiction or speculative poem. The Science Fiction Poetry Association is devoted to the SF genre of poetry. The SFPA is an active organization, with a journal, prizes, and other avenues into SF poetry. Their Dwarf Star prize anthology for 2006 was edited by Deborah P. Kolodji, whose work has appeared on The Ghazal Page. Her ""Dark Matter" explores scientific imagery in an open ghazal form. Kolodji also has a poem — a cinquain — on Astropoetica. David Jalajel also has a poem scheduled for Astropoetica.

A cinquain is a five-line form invented by the American poet, Adelaide Crapsey in the early twentieth century. Deborah Kolodji is editor of Amaze: the Cinquain Journal.

Another genre of science-related poetry is "lab-lit," which I just learned about through a discussion list. The lab-lit site seems interested in fiction and factual prose, not poetry. It is worth your time to visit, with a serialized novel and other items.

Finally, from The Scientist magazine's Web site, here's an article that explores the questions:

"What good is science to poets? And what good is poetry to scientists?"

Those questions are close to the ones I want to explore further in posts on science and poetry.

Why Bother?

Why should I, you, or anyone else continue to write poetry? Haven't all the poems already been written? There are love poems, nature poems, narrative poems, and on and on. What do you and I and anyone else have to offer new in the way of theme or content or form?

Many years ago, when I was an undergraduate in Emporia, Kansas, another undergrad and I shared our "poems" (ironic quotation marks). The other fellow — whose name I've forgotten — surprised and shocked me by saying that there was no point in writing poetry because everything possible had already been written. I don't know about him, but, for better or worse, I've continued to scribble verses.

In a sense, my friend was right: the world probably has enough love poems, nature poems, etc etc. So, if I write a love poem for my wife, as I've done many times, why should I bother? Why not find the appropriate lines in the Song of Songs which Is Solomon's, in William Carlos Williams' The Desert Music, or Cole Porter? If I'm feeling blue, why not listen to the blues rather than scribbling a verse about it?

What makes the poem I write today — that you write today — different from the hundreds of thousands of existing poems?

The difference is that that theme, that content, that form is embedded in this situation, in the moment(s) in which you write. In other words, I haven't written this to this woman before, nor has anyone else. It is the situation, the personal, cultural, and historical context that makes it worthwhile to keep writing poetry. It is, of course, possible that  I or  you or  someone else will write something radically new. Ezra Pound's adage, "Make it new," is always relevant if difficult to achieve. Falling short of the adage, as I surely do, I can at least write in my situation.

This entry was prompted by a point of Friedrich Nietzsche's. I've been reading The Cambridge Companion to Nietzsche, in which an unpublished early essay of Nietzsche's is quoted. Trained as a classical philologist, Nietzsche wrote that classicists could keep their field alive by keeping it connected to their lives: understanding of the past is always vital in the context of the present (p. 30, my paraphrase).

If you wish a label for my position in this post, it is — existentialist. That's a label that's really a refusal to be labeled. Just keep writing, okay?

The Role of Rules

What is the role of rules in art? Should the artist (poet, painter, musician) seek to adhere to a clearly defined, detailed set of rules? Should the artist ignore all rules and refuse to have anything to do with them?

The Ghazal Page has just published David Jalajel's "Rules for Writing Arabic Ghazals in English." This article puts together the essentials of David's previous articles on using Arabic forms for English ghazals, microrhyme in ghazals, and enjambment. These articles present detailed information about the meter, rhyme, lineation, and stanzas of Arabic ghazals. David gives examples of his own English ghazals using these features as well as some examples from historical poets.

In The Birth of Tragedy, Nietzsche distinguishes the Apollonian and Dionysian types: the Apollonian values clarity, reason, order; the Dionysian values energy, intensity, spontaneity. These two, quite recognizable, attitudes may be found in poets' need for rules. The poet who needs rules, insists on them and on strict conformity to them, is Apollonian. The poet who despises rules, seeks open, organic forms, and finds rules stultifying is Dionysian.

This kind of dichotomy is very abstract: an extremely Dionysian poet, like Walt Whitman or Allen Ginsberg, will sometimes betray an interest in form and in rules; an Apollonian poet, like T. S. Eliot, will show moments of glowing spontaneity. Yes, this division is another version of the Classical vs. Romantic dichotomy and is equally superficial, yet the distinction is helpful as a starting point and as a caution to us not to make easy classifications of ourselves and others.

Me? I tire of the Dionysian "do your thing" attitude; I also tire of the Apollonian "submit to tradition" attitude. The poetry I return to includes work that tends toward either extreme, as well as work that doesn't fit these categories. People, language, and the world are too complex and subtle to be placed in one of two exclusive boxes.

Which Mind Are You In?

How do you write a poem? Where do you get your ideas? How do you know when a poem is finished?

Poets, artists, novelists get questions like these whenever the subject of creativity comes up. Several years ago, I wrote some FAQs giving my typical answers to such things. What follows here is a little more serious discussion.

It's commonplace to divide human mental capabilities into two sets: intellectual and creative, rational and imaginative, left-brain and right-brain, and on and on. Taking these divisions as mutually exclusive is a serious mistake: the two interact, influence each other, blur and blend. Still, there is some truth in the division. (The division is overly simple: we surely think, experience, imagine in more than two modes.)

I'm going to name the two modes analytical and intuitive. Almost any synonyms for these two terms will work, although with different connotations.

So: Which mind do you write poetry with? Both, you say? But you can't use both modes simultaneously — humans can't multitask in the strict sense of the word.

New questions: Which mind do you use most? Which mode do you start with?

If you're concerned about following the rules, if you scan carefully to make sure your meter is correct, if you rhyme according to a fixed scheme, if your rhymes are full rhymes and not half- or slant-rhymes, then, I'd say, the analytical mind dominates your critical process. You will find Edgar Allan Poe's "Philosophy of Composition," a mechanical, rationalized account of how he wrote "The Raven," to be convincing and inspiring. There's no role for the intuitive mode of thinking in Poe's account.

If, one the other hand, you simply start writing and go with the flow, casting aside any concern about form, rhyme, meter, and so on, then your intuitive mind dominates. You will find Jack Kerouac's "Spontaneous Bop Prosody" exhilarating and write all night long.

Which mind do you write in? Which do I? Is one better than the other? There'll be more comment on the "two-minds hypothesis" later on.

Poetry and Science, 1st Post

Why do I want to write about science and poetry? Those two fields of human creativity and discovery are important to me, and science is important to many people. Sadly, poetry doesn't seem to be as important to as many people as one would like. (Of course, lyrics to music are a genre of poetry and much more popular than written poetry. But that's another entry.)

Last year, I posted an entry about science and poetry in my blog. That was a preliminary statement that I'd planned to follow up with entries discussing the books by Richard Dawkins (Unweaving the Rainbow) and Aldous Huxley (Literature and Science) that I mentioned. I still believe these are important books by important writers and plan to post on them in the near future. Huxley's book is out of print but can be ordered through a used book store.

My interest in the relationship between science and poetry may be connected with my having taught for forty year's at "Missouri's premier technological research university." Technology and science are, of course, different, if closely related, endeavors. One early discovery I made here was how many engineering students write poetry — usually love verses to girlfriends. And, in the spirit of full disclosure, when I was a freshman in high school, 13/14 years old, I wanted to be an engineer. I fooled with old radio sets, learned some basic equations, such as the one for figuring bhp (brake horsepower) from an automobile engine, things like that. What happened? I started writing poetry then, discovered Thoreau, Plato, and Bertrand Russell, the French Impressionists, Picasso, and never looked back at engineering.

I have always read about science — popularizing books like those by George Gamow or Arthur Eddington, somewhat more technical books by Richard Dawkins, Susan Blackmore, and others. The phenomenological and existentialist philosophers address issues that are very important to me. For instance, Maurice Merleau-Ponty's discussion of the differences between rational-scientific language and poetic is relevant to the relationship of science to poetry and, in fact, is not that much different from Huxley's much less technical discussion in Science and Literature.

That's enough abstractness for an afternoon with a temperature of 103 degrees F. or 40 degrees C. This isn't unprecedented weather for the Ozarks in August, but it may set a record.

Enjambment in Arabic Poetry

On The Ghazal Page, I've just posted an essay on enjambment in Arabic poetry by David Jalajel. This essay explains the ways in which Arabic poets have used enjambment between bayts (long lines) and at the caesura, the pause in the middle of the bayt. (The caesura is where there'd be a line-break if the bayt is presented as a couplet.

I hope you'll find this essay rewarding. I have.

My Poetics

I've just posted a page — link at the right — that contains my statement of my poetics. I hope you find it worthwhile. It's squarely in the American tradition of organic poetry, of the poetry of flow and the natural. I don't put myself in the same class as Thoreau, Whitman, Levertov, et al, but I do feel part of that tradition.