Archive for the ‘Poetics’ Category

Entry 110 — The Three Varieties of Rhyme

Wednesday, February 17th, 2010

I’ve come up with new terms for two of the three kinds of rhyme in my poetics.  One is Chyme-Rhyme for standard rhyme (e.g., “bat/cat”).  The other is  Rhyle-Rhyme for the kind of rhyme I’ve called various names, “Backward Rhyme,” being the most frequent (e.g. “bat/badge”).  My name for the third kind of rhyme in my poetics is Rim-Rhyme, the perfect name coined many years ago for it (e.g. “bat/bet”).

The new names follow the logic of “Rim-Rhyme” by demonstrating the sound of the kind of rhyme they name, but not the construction, as “Rim-Rhyme” does.   The “Chyme” of regular rhyme seems fitting, too.  As for “Rhyle,” well, it’s a kind of rhyme that riles traditionalists, and I couldn’t come up with a better “rhy-consonant” word to use.

I should haven’t to explain why I consider all three of my kinds of rhyme valid rhymes, but while some accept rim-rhyme because of Wilfred Owen, I think no one has accepted rhyle-rhyme.  But it seems sensible to call such a combination a rhyme rather than an alliteration/assonance.  And it seems sensible to call any pair or great number of unidentical syllables sharing two sounds to be rhymes.

Entry 87 — MATO2, Chapter 1.09

Wednesday, January 27th, 2010

ASIDE: a poetry critic’s highest duty, after defining what poetry is with maximal possible objectivity and detailedness–neutrally, is to describe with maximal possible objectivity and detailedness a school of poetry, neutrally, with a neutral description of maximal possible objectivity and detaliedness of at least one poem representative of that school.  Valuable but secondary would be a description of the school (and poem’s) relationship to prior and contemporary schools and poems.  The ideal poetry critic would describe all schools of poetry.

Evaluation is an imprtant part of a poetry critic’s function, as well.  Seemingly very subjective but I’m working on the possibility that (a reasonable degree of) objectivity is possible.  Also (relatedly) that there are absolute statements that can be made as to what a superior poem is.  One is: “A superior poem uses a minimum number of words to achieve its aesthetic purposes.”  A counter to that I immediately thought of was a dramatic poem depicting a garrulous man; wouldn’t it have to be garrulous?  Probably.  Still, I say that it would use a minimum number of words (and other elements, I just remembered to add) to achieve its aesthetic purpose (or purposes), in this case, the depiction of a garrulous man. The poet would have to use more words, for instance, to tell us about the man’s feelings about a flower than he would have to express his own poet’s feelings about the same flower, but in the former case, in an effective poem, his extra words would convey his feelings about the man, not the flower, and he would use as few extra words as possible to get across his portrait.  Similarly, a free verse poet may use fewer words to convey his view of a flower than a formal poet would writing about the same flower–but the formal poet’s extra words might be necessary for his great ambition of telling us about the flower and making some metrically or in some other melodational way pleasurable.

The poet’s challenge here is to balance a great number of maximums–a maximum of freshness of diction, say, with a maximum of clarity.  In the preceding example, a maximum of verbal music with a maximum of concision.  A proper evaluatory poetics would list all the maximums needed, then ordain that a poem was effective to the degee that it came close to having these maximums.  I think they could be given different weights; a maximum of methphoric interest should rate higher than a maximum of melodational effectiveness, for instance.

All this is tentative, brainstorming more than anything.

It occurs to me that one would use the list on a case by case basis.  Use it for a single given poem, determine what the poem does, then from that a hierarchy of maximums.  A Dylan Thomas’s poems seem in general to be intended more than (the English versions of) Basho’s haiku to have verbal music and less to be aiming for maximum conciseness.

Entry 76 — Miscellaneous Thoughts

Saturday, January 16th, 2010

About the numbers in yesterday’s cryptographiku: they indicate how many spaces to indent each of the numbered words.  In the proper version of the poem, where each such word lines up with respect to the bottom line indicates part of the coded text secreted in the poem.

Now one of my memorable epigrams, a new one although the message is same old same:

If a distinguished critic condemns your poem in print, worry; if it were any good, he’d never have been aware of its existence

Something I may have discovered when skimming the 2009 issues of Poetry that a friend gave me: if Poetry is any indication, Iowa Plaintext Poems are no longer 90% de rigueur in Poetry Establishment magazines.   The school whose poems are based technically mainly on the jump-cutting of “The Wasteland” (or is that “The Waste Land?”) with extra surrealistic automatic writing thrown in a la Ashbery seems number one now.  Peculiar, because just a few years ago, it looked like Poetry was setting up as the nation’s champion of accessible poetry.

Entry 74 — Poetic Densities, Continued

Thursday, January 14th, 2010

.

.        Sonnet 18
.
.       Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
.       Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
.       Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
.       And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
.
.       Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines
.       And often is his gold complexion dimmed.
.       And every fair from fair sometime declines
.       By chance or Nature’s changing course untrimmed.
.
.       But thy eternal summer shall not fade
.       Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st.
.       Nor shall Death brag thou wandr’st in his shade
.       When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
.
.       So long as men have breath and eyes to see,
.       So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
.

Shakespeare, 140 syllables,  116 words (because I count “sometime’ as two words) to give a semantic density of .83.  That’s lower than I estimated yesterday because when I forgot that not all its words of more than one syllable had only one more than one.  So Frost’s poem is quite a bit higher than Shakespeare’s.

The sonnet has a surprisingly low euphonic density: .09.  It makes up for that in repenemic density.  I have the figures somewhere to measure that with but am not up to finding them just now.

Entry 73 — “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”

Wednesday, January 13th, 2010

As long-term readers of my blog will know, one of my projects is an in-depth study of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18.”  I’ve also been interested in Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”  While thinking about it recently, I realized how few polysyllabic words it had.  Always ready to formulaize something if I can, I soon came up with a (possibly) new characteristic of poems, semantic density.  It is equal to  the number of syllables in a poem divided into the number of words in the poem.  It turns out the Frost poem’s semantic density is .86, Shakespeare’s about the same.   I suspect few other poems have as high a semantic density, but I haven’t investigated the matter.

.                 Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

.                 Whose woods these are I think I know.
.                 His house is in the village though;
.                 He will not see me stopping here
.                 To watch his woods fill up with snow.

.                 My little horse must think it queer
.                 To stop without a farmhouse near
.                 Between the woods and frozen lake
.                 The darkest evening of the year.

.                 He gives his harness bells a shake
.                 To ask if there is some mistake.
.                 The only other sound’s the sweep
.                 Of easy wind and downy flake.

.                 The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
.                 But I have promises to keep,
.                 And miles to go before I sleep,
.                 And miles to go before I sleep.

Technically speaking, there are seventeen polysyllabic words in this poem, one of them three syllables in length, all the others just two in length.  I do not count “farmhouse” as a single word, though, since each of its two syllables has a clear separate meaning, “farm” really being an adjective pushed into a noun, “house.”  And I count “”sound’s” as two words, because it is: “sound” plus “is.”  Yet is is only one syllable in length.  So, to get the semantic density of the poem, we divide 110, not 109, by 128

Once become mathematically irreverent toward about the ratio of words in a poem to its syllables, I thought of other density ratios applicable to poems: e.g., euphonic density or the ratio of euphonies (long-o’s, long-u’s and “ah”-sounds) to number of syllables in a poem, repenemic density (repenemes to syllables, a repeneme being a repeated melodation such as alliterationor rhyme, the latter counting as two repenemes) and–this one I especially like–oddword density.  This would be the ratio of unusual words to syllable-count, with “unusual” being what a word is that comes up only a certain low number of times in s large sample of contemporary writing.

The euphonic denisty of Frost’s poem is just under .20.  I’d be surprised if many other poems have a euphonic denisty that high.  I’ll check Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18″ tomorrow.

Entry 49 — Schools of Linguexpressive Poetry

Sunday, December 20th, 2009

While annoying the estabniks at New-Poetry with my criticism of the Rothenberg/Joris anthology for not inculding all the kinds of poetry I think should be in it, I got to thinking about the kind of anthology American poetry most needs.  It would, needless to say, include all the schools of poetry extant.  School being group of people producing work that adheres to my definition of poetry and is significantly different from the poetry produced everywhere else.  Determining whether a group qualifies as a school would, of course, be subjective.  I have ideas on how to set up the project so as to minimize this defect:

(1) Assuming there’s lots of money behind the effort, and there would have to be, appoint one person First-Editor.  He could be almost anyone–perhaps someone selected from names in a hat of people voluteering for the position  Allow him to name all the schools that should be in the anthology and select works to represent each school.  Hire people to get permissions for their publication.  Post the result on the Internet and publicize it as widely as possible.

(2) Solicit critiques of Version 1 of the anthology.  Try to get people to say what’s missing and why, what is in and shouldn’t be and why.  Pay everyone posting a critique of value $1000, a critique of value being what a panel of ten randomly chosen from the volunteers previously mentioned and including First-Editor change the anthology because of.  Give $10,000 to the ten best critiues in the view of the panel, or to as many that deserve it if less than ten seem especially good.

(3) Make the person writing the best critique, according to the panel, Second-Editor and require him to revise the anthology, but not make any changes not recommended by one or more of the critiques of value.

(4) Repeat step (2), then (3) and so on, back and forth until just about everyone agrees that the anthology truly covers the entire poetry continuum.

The Internet makes a project like this feasible for the first time.  If the government or the Macarthur morons choosing mediocrities to call geniuses or like dolts really cared about poetry, they’d back it.   It’s as neutral as can be, it seems to me.

Reflecting on the above idea, I thought to myself that I’d be pretty good at listing the schools of pluraesthetic poetry such as visual poetry and mathematical poetry, but not too good at listing the schools of standard poetry–the poetry I call linguexpressive (using words only).  I decided to try to make a list of the latter, anyway.  Here it is:

1. Edwardian poetry–the kind of standard formal poetry written by most American poets as the twentieth century began.

2. some school between the above and the next?

3. imagistic poetry

4. country poetry, the kind Frost would be the exemplar of–and, yes, I need a much better name for it.  Quotidian subject matter, formal techniques

5. surrealistic poetry

6. plaintext poetry (the kind of which Williams would be the exemplar)

7. objectivist poetry (if that’s different enough from 5.)

8. neo-formalist poetry

9. language poetry

10. infraverbal poetry

11. New York School poetry

12. beat poetry

13. ethnic poetry

14. contra-genteel poetry (Bukowski, and his followers)

15. feminist poetry

16. Haiku

17. Neo-Hopkins Poetry–what Dylan Thomas wrote at his best, sord-splash, not the sprung rhythm.

Additons welcome.  I know I’ve missed some, almost certainly one or more important ones.

Entry 48 — Full Effectiveness in Poetry

Saturday, December 19th, 2009

I’m skipping ahead to old blog entry #796 today to make a point about my recent cryptographiku. #796 has Cor van den Heuvel’s poem:

.                                               tundra

I go on in the entry to say I believe Eugen Gomringer’s “Silencio,” of 1954, was the first poem to make consequential  visiophorically expressive use of blank space:

.                      silencio silencio silencio
.                      silencio silencio silencio
.                      silencio          silencio
.                      silencio silencio silencio
.                      silencio silencio silencio

I finish my brief commentary but then opining that van den Heuvel’s poem was the first to make an entire page expressive, the first to make full-scale negative space its most important element. Rather than surround a meaningful parcel of negative space like Gomringer’s masterpiece, it is surrounded by meaningful negative space. I’m certainly not saying it thus surpasses Gomringer’s poem; what it does is equal it in a new way.

I consider it historically important also for being, so far as I know, the first single word to succeed entirely by itself in being a poem of the first level.

Then there’s my poem from 1966:

.                 at his desk
.                         the boy,

.                                writing his way into b wjwje tfdsfu xpsme

This claim to be the first poem in the world to use coding to significant metaphorical effect. Anyone who has followed what I’ve said about “The Four Seasons” should have no trouble deciphering this. I consider it successful as a poem because I believe anyone reasonably skillful at cyrptographical games will be able (at some point if not on a first reading) to emotionally (and sensually) understand/appreciate the main things it’s doing and saying during one reading of it–i.e., read it normally to the coded part, then translate that while at the same time being aware of it as coded material and understanding and appreciating the metaphor its being coded allows.

I’ve decided “The Four Seasons” can’t work like that. It is a clever gadget but not an effective poem because I can’t see anyone being able to make a flowing reading through it and emotionally (and sensually) understanding/appreciating everything that’s going on in it and what all its meanings add up to, even after study and several readings. Being able to understand it the way I do in my explanation of it not enough. This is a lesson from the traditional haiku, which must be felt as experience, known reducticeptually (intellectually), too, but only unconsciously–at the time of reading it as a poem rather than as an object of critical scrutiny, which is just as valid a way to read it but different.

Entry 47 — Solution of a Cryptographiku

Friday, December 18th, 2009

The Four Seasons

.

3 31 43 73 5 67    3 61 43 67 67 19 41 13    1    11 19 7 31 5

3 12 15 21 4 19    3 18 15 19 19 9 14 7    1    6 9 5 12 4

8 21 25 33 9 30    8 28 25 30 30 16 24 14    4    12 16 10 21 9

64 441 625 1089 81 900    64 784 625 900 900 256 576 196    16    144 256 100 441 81

.

Today, the solution, with an explanation, to the above.

1. Each line says, “clouds crossing a field.”

2. A reader should know from its looks and the fact that it is a cryptographiku that it is a coded text.  He should try simple codes at first on all the lines, the way one would in order to solve a cryptogram.  If he’s familiar with my other cryptographiku, he will know I’ve more than once used the simplest of numeric codes.  Such is the case here, in line 2.  The code is 1 = a, 2 = b, etc.

3. The codes used for the other lines are harder to figure out, but the lines themselves give an important clue as to what they say: they each consist of four words, the first six letters in length, the second eight, the fourth one (which would almost certainly be “a”) and the fourth five.  That ought to make one guess that each repeats the decoded one.  As each indeed does.

4. It should be evident that the code for the fourth line uses the squares of the numbers in the code for the third.  The basis of the arrangement of numbers in the third line will probably not be easy to guess.

5. If you consider what kind of numbers are being used in a given line, and are at all mathematical, you will realize that the numbers used in line one are all primes, with the first prime, 1, representing a, the seond prime, 2, representing be, and so on.

6. The next step is trickier but also requires one to think about kind of numbers.  It turns out that the numbers used for the code in line three are the non-primes in order, with first of them, 4, representing a, the second, 6, representing b.

7. The surface meaning of the lines and the kinds of coding they’ve been put in is now known.  All that remains is to findif a larger meaning in intended (yes) and, if so, what it is, and what the logic behind the coding is (and the kind of coding used in a cryptographiku is, by definition, meaningful.  Wallace Stevens, whom one familiar with my poetry and criticism will know is important to me, helps with the last of these questions.  Stevens wrote many poems (“Man on the Dump,” for instance) meditating on the idea that winter is pure reality, summer poeticized reality.  Or, winter is primary, so can be metaphorically thought of a consisting of prime numbers only.  Spring, by this reasoning, can logically consist of all the (lowest) numbers, summer of oonly factorable numbers, numbers that can be reduced to simpler numbers–expanded, poeticized numbers.  Autumn, the peak of the year because it yields the fruit of the year, consists of summer’s numbers squared, or geometrically increased.

8. The final meaning of the poem is derived from its repetition of the simple nature scene about the clouds.  A reader aware of Robert Lax’s work (and he will, if he’s familiar with mine), will know that he has a number of poems that repeat words or phrases–to suggest, among much else, ongoingness, permanence, undisturbably serenity.  My hope is that this poem will make a reader feel the change of seasons within the grand permanence that Narture ultimately is.  A constant message, in different coding as the seasons change.

9. All this should lead to “Whee!”

5. The decoded text uses a technique Robert Lax pioneered in to convey a meaning I consider archetypally deep, like the meanings Lax’s similar poems have for me.

6. The final meaning of the poem is (a) Nature is eternally changing; and (b) Nature is eternally unchanging. When I saw I could make ti say that, I got a thrill! I consider this poem one of my best inventions–even though I’m not sure it works as a poem.

Have fun, kids!

Entry 44 — A Mathemaku & Some Poetics Notes

Tuesday, December 15th, 2009

The following, which is from #691,  is one of my earlier mathemaku.  It’s simple to understand: just think ripples, and remember that in strict mathematical equations, what’s on one side of an equals sign is upposed to stay there, and what it might mean metaphorically if it did not.

Mathemaku4Basho

Next we have a page  I scribbled some notes on in 2003 that makes good sense to me at this time, although I never took the notes into any kind of essay, that I recall:

Sept03page

And now, after two simple uploads, I’m too worn-out to do anything else, believe it or not.

Entry 43 — Old Blog Entries #689 and #690

Monday, December 14th, 2009

Today I’m reproducing #689 and #690 in full–because I think they’re pretty good discussion, but not too long.

21 December 2005: I’ve been thinking a little about varieties of infraverbality. (By “infraverbality,” the reader should remember, I mean concern with what goes on in poetry beneath the level of words; it is mainly intentional misspelling for poetic effect.) I originally listed four: fissional, fusional, microherent and alphaconceptual.

In the first, one or more words are spelled with spaces–e.g., Karl Kempton’s “g u i dance.” In the second, one or more words consist of a combination of two or more words, or near-words–e.g., Lewis Carroll’s “slithy,” which combines “sli(m)y” and “lithe.” “Portmanteu words” are what they’re usually called.

In microherent infraverablity, words are mangled almost beyond recognition for poetic effect–e.g., my own just-created “pjkoenn” to suggest a jumble with the potention to become a poem.

In alphaconceptual infraverbality, something is altered in one or more words, or near-words, to add a conceptual effect of poetic importance. It is so rare I consider the term probably superfluous. A prime example is Aram Saroyan’s, “lighght,” which depends for its main poetic effect on the concept of silent letters. Ed Conti’s “galaxyz” is another example–since it has to do with the concept of alphabetical ordering.

I realized my list was too short after Michael Rothenberg asked me to make a selection of certain kinds of infraverbal poems for his webzine. The poems were to be like Richard Kostelanetz’s “ghost-poems,” which are single words each of which contains a second single word in consecutive letters within it as “ghosts” contains “host.” I got the idea of repeating my standard ploy of doing an essay on such poems that would use so many specimens as to act as an anthology. But what to call Richard’s poems? In a sense, they are fusional in that they consist of more than one word–but extra words are not merged with them–they occur within them naturally. I consider them enough different from words like “slithy” to have their own category. It took me a while to give it a name: it’s “natural.” (How’s that for creative neologizing?)

A sixth category of infraverbality I feel would be helpful is anagrammatical–for texts with words that contain all their proper letters but are jumbled. It could be argued that they are merely a variety of microherent infraverbality, but I prefer to restrict microherence to texts that have wrong letters but are not necessarily out of order. I’ve seen examples of anagrammatical infraverbal poems. I think I’ve made a few myself. But I can’t rememember any. An obvious way to use anagrammatical material would be–Ah, I now remember that Cummings uses it famously in his grasshopper poem (where, starting with “r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r,” he goes in three spellings to “grasshopper”). No doubt that’s why I have come to want a separate category for it.

22 December 2005: Something that has always seemed indicative of the insularity of both formal poets and language poets is how little they steal from each other. I see no reason a strict sonnet couldn’t be written using langpo “missyntacticality” or misspellings (like “lighght”). In fact, E. E. Cummings made many langpoetic sonnets that had the right meter and rhymed. I don’t think any contemporary language poet has made any kind of formal poem using langpoetic devices. Nor has a formal poet used a langpoetic device in one of his poems, although the freeversers more and more are availing themselves of langpo tricks.

I thought of one exception: rewritten classic poems that are garbled in one way or another, e.g., my own silly, just-now-written “Shawl-eye crumbpair (the 2!) as under daze.”  It’s not uncommon for poets to use computer programs to do this.

One of my conclusions seems to hold: that formalist poets ignore the devices of language poetry, even though those devices could easily be used in their poetry without compromising the latter’s adherence to meter and other formal requirements.