Sometimes, especially if I am tired of reworking a poem for the enth time, or lack an especially stimulating idea for a new poem, I find it useful to exercise my creative muscles by engaging in formal poetic structures to elicit expression that comes from the principled compression of rhythm and rhyme. I believe this has a salutary benefit when later crafting free verse. As Eliot once quipped, no vers is ever truly libre. I often surprise myself by writing lines (e.g., in iambic pentameter) that would not have occurred to me otherwise. The difficulty, given the restrictions of regular rhythm and rhyme, is bestowing a nature flow upon the poem and avoiding the archaic and artificial. Too often you find, because of the entrenched literary history of the form and your associations with it, that you will easily fall into the trap of reverting to sentence structures and words that are vaguely reminiscent of something written hundreds of years ago.
A few years ago I tried my hand at the sonnet form, a poem modeled on those of Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard, the great English sonneteers I had studied at Oxford. The finished product, after many drafts, was commendable for its conceits and the way I had developed the theme, but certainly sounded like a throwback to the earlier sixteenth century expression, partly because I chose a theme that a sixteenth century reader would recognize, i.e., one that compared a lovers’ conflict with one of knights in arms.
To draw first blood with dripping violence
Will cause a man to fight or flee the force.
Your tears were armed aggression, not defense:
What has become of social intercourse?
If ill tempers belie gentility
Its messengers will soon announce the wars,
A tear is herald to hostility,
But arms at ease are welcome visitors.
Ambassadors of love I would prefer,
Allaying your most potent armory.
Beneath white cloth I trust we can defer
The launch of your next crying infamy,
When I pronounce affections more profuse
And gain the peace before you break the truce.
The Elizabethan sonnet, based on the Italian sonnets of Petrarch, Guido Cavalcanti, Dante and their progeny, was generally a poetic love letter whose reader was the subject of the poem. The standard form featured fourteen lines in iambic pentameter, consisting of three rhymed quatrains (rhyming a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d and e-f-e-f) ending with a heroic couplet (g-g). There were many variations to the standard form, chiefly in the rhyme scheme, but also in the way the rhythm was altered by use of enjambments and the introduction of trochees, spondees, dactyls and anapests. Another variation was the Alexandrine sonnet in hexameter, rather than pentameter. The Elizabethans also loved to indulge in wordplay, puns and poetic conceits, where simile and metaphor were used to compare and contrast (and thereby wed) disparate subject matter. The conceptual framework was to develop an “argument” by setting forth the facts, usually biased in favor of the writer’s point of view, and pose a conclusion in the couplet.
In “Social Intercourse,” the play on the words “arms” and “armory,” the idea of tears being used as a weapon (“dripping violence”) and “herald to hostility,” and the lover’s “arms at ease” serving as “ambassadors of love,” even the saucy pun on “peace,” are poetic devices that the sonneteers might have used. The form itself forced me to think in terms of the poetic conceits that would develop the theme of the poem in the manner of the Elizabethans. The stream of thought is linear, but still allows for creative leaps of the imagination that spur a reader’s continued interest. Even though I did not strictly observe the form with three perfectly enclosed quatrains (the traditional form from which English writers also departed on occasion), the sonnet form forced me to forge my ideas in a novel way that I had not previously experienced. What I learned was how hard it was to do this and still sound reasonably competent.
Later, I tried another form, iambic pentameter quatrains with couplet rhymes, again, a difficult form to work with in a “modern” voice. Free verse has become such a standard of expression that anything with a regular rhythm and rhyme is going to sound somewhat stilted and old-fashioned. Nevertheless, I wanted to treat the Narcissus theme in connection with our passing into old age, a variation of Thomas Wyatt’s famous “They flee from me that sometime did me seek,” where Narcissus as an old man (I am not there yet, but expect someday I will be) is staring into the mirror and reacting to what he sees. The poem, though, is addressed to the reader as much as to himself:
Narcissus at 80
What god bestowed its loveliness and grace
And coined it in your lake? Medusa’s face
Would just as likely turn itself to stone
Seeing that spare rib grin slough off the bone.
You once flew orbits of habitual ease,
And through affections blew your galaxies
Of star-struck ass like musical chairs:
They took their shine beneath your pubic hairs.
But that bleach-blond smile, slack as any bitch
In heat whose mange declares its creeping itch,
Will never weigh its lips’ equivalence,
Or level them without ambivalence.
Whom Love enlists by the glass, let none
decry that morning when the drink is done.
For Love’s neither bowman nor myth of Eve:
The fruit falls prey; the devil takes his leave.
Wordplay and thematic figuration are prominent in this poem, which variously expands upon the subject of the deleterious intoxication of vanity, venery and the vain pursuit of love. I like the neo-Narcissus’s unrepentant scorn for himself and those of the same ilk who think their lot in life is different. Here, Narcissus refuses to kid himself or the reader.
Yet, I confess that there is something that smells of the musty old drawing-room about this verse which I had hoped wit would rescue. Nevertheless, for any wit to be appreciated, it would require a reader who was familiar with the myth of Narcissus (who fell in love with his reflection in the lake and wasted away), the figures of Medusa (whose face could turn the viewer to stone), Cupid (the “bowman” whose arrow strikes down its prey with Love) and Eve (as in Adam and Eve). Most readers today did not grow up in a world that regularly trafficked in the magic of these myths, as did poetry readers of a hundred or more years ago. The allusions are clearly dated (as are the words “decry” and “equivalence”). Even when William B. Yeats occasionally used ancient Greco-Roman myth in his poems, he was harkening to his poetic forbearers rather than reflecting the true expression of his own times, which by then had moved to more modern myths and explain, in part, his own turn to home-grown Irish myth. Lastly, in “Narcissus at 80,” what faded wit doesn’t doom, stilted iambic expression and uneven diction (perhaps too patrician?) do. There are few lines that breathe the air-conditioned comfort of our own times.
Nonetheless, we are left with the problem of how to make a fixed poetic form sound modern. Obviously, we need to use modern figuration and the modern myths (e.g., look at the popular references employed by Frederick Seidel and Michael Robbins, who both use jaunty jazzy rhythms and surprising, sometimes dissonant, rhymes as necessary stitching); stay away from the clever puns and wordplay which were in vogue in the days before Popeye, Bugs Bunny and post-WWII cartoons made them largely passé (they are used today as the emotional equivalent of a comedian’s dropped mike); and if you are going to use a standard form you need to provide some variation that shows the reader that you understand that free verse and a modern sensibility — which often forsakes a linear train of thought for a more expressive albeit disjunctive one — is de rigueur today.
Seamus Heaney has written many sonnets in contemporary translations of the form, particularly in his 10-sonnet sequence, the “Glanmore Sonnets.” The theme he explores is as much about the art of writing as about a life in reflection. The rhythm is comfortably paced to imitate contemporary speech, not really iambic or pentameter, but not free verse either; the structural schematic is not strictly rhymed and enclosed quatrains; and the rhymes themselves are often assonantal and even include masculine (stressed) endings joined with feminine (unstressed) endings. Indeed, it is contemporary in every sense of the word. I urge you to read the rest of Seamus Heaney’s “Glanmore Sonnets” (at the Poetry Foundation’s website) as I conclude this post with Sonnet I:
Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground.
The mildest February for twenty years
Is mist bands over furrows, a deep no sound
Vulnerable to distant gargling tractors.
Our road is steaming, the turned-up acres breathe.
Now the good life could be to cross a field
And art a paradigm of earth new from the lathe
Of ploughs. My lea is deeply tilled.
Old ploughsocks gorge the subsoil of each sense
And I am quickened with a redolence
Of farmland as a dark unblown rose.
Wait then…Breasting the mist, in sowers’ aprons,
My ghosts come striding into their spring stations.
The dream grain whirls like freakish Easter snows.
Categories: Literary Criticism