I love bikes. They’re deceptively simple machines with no end to the level to which you can tune them up.
I have to thank my uncle for getting me into them. He’d go on rides with me and help me fix mine on occasion. During those tune-ups, he may have said some crazy things. Like, “if you’re going to fix a bike, you have to understand what it wants.”
All bikes want the same thing, y’see.
They want to shred.
And you’ve gotta do it. They need you to help them do that.
When I was learning poetry, I was told all about iambic pentameter. About anaphora, enjambments and the dactylic line. And sure, there was also plenty of talk about Jungian archetypes, thematic coherence and the philosophy of language.
This is all bookworm stuff. Which, don’t get me wrong, is absolutely necessary. But a bike’s not just metal tubing with rubber tires and there’s more to poetry than the left-brain stuff.
What is the relationship to particular forms and the kind of journeys they provide?
How do the poetic and rhetorical devices walk the reader toward the timeless by way of the contemporary?
How empathetic is the symbolism?
Those are just examples, but they’re the kind of questions I see far less often than “what is the rhyme scheme to a Shakearean sonnet?” I think it illustrates a kind of lopsidedness we tend to have whenever poetry is practiced or taught. A tendency to treat poetry as a linguistic exercise rather than a way to get particulars and universals talking to each other.
I also want to be careful here, because I don’t want to advocate for A Way of Doing Poetry. There are as many approaches as there are ways to clean out a bottom bracket. But I do think it’s a mistake to clean one out by focusing only on the bearings.
So, I figured what I would do is share how I approach learning form in the hope it helps others. It may not be helpful in the slightest, but hey, the advice is free, too. Caveat emptor.
Let’s look at a weird example just to shake off the dust of familiarity for a bit.
Defining the form
Dróttkvætt was a courtly form of poetry. It was the high-end stuff used to glorify heroic deeds and commemorate champions. A modern-day equivalent might be a coach’s lofty sideline utterances after his team just won the Super Bowl.
In terms of form, it’s got a handful of interesting constraints.
Each stanza (which may be stand-alone or part of a larger piece) consists of 8 lines. Each of these 8 lines are 6 syllables long. (You were allowed to stretch it to 7, though, if two low-stress syllables occurred back to back.)
Stresses aren’t counted as they are with a Shakespearean sonnet. But to start with, each line must end on a trochee (stressed, and then unstressed, as in “global.”)
Odd lines all have “skothending”: basically, one word in the line has a different vowel sound wrapped around the same consonant sounds. For example, “sacks” and “socks.” Or “hole” and “healing.”
The even lines, on the other hand, have “athalhending”: This is closer to what we’d consider full rhyme, but you’re given a little more flexibility due to the trochaic endings. So for example, “time” and “rimelands” would work.
We’re not done yet. There’s also alliteration that has to happen with each line. Specifically, it must be evident in the first stress and some other word on an odd line. And then that same alliteration must happen again on the first stress in the subsequent even line.
That sure is a lot, eh? But I’d argue that knowing and then following the rules does not a dróttkvætt make.
Getting form off the table
There’s a difference between memorizing a chord progression and being able to jam. I would argue that a better poetic aim would be to be able to jam with your imagination, rather than write to a metrical chord progression.
Early guitar students can’t improv because they haven’t yet learned their scales. They can’t walk up and down the fretboard because the notes and the scale aren’t in their fingers yet. You’ve got to practice to such a level that you know the notes in your bones, not just your mind. The memorization is off the table, leaving room for feeling.
For poetry, this means practicing the form so much that you no longer have to think about it. If you’re writing in verse, you want form off the table in your mind. That way you can devote your mental energy to feeling, not struggling to remember your syllable count. So practice the form so much that it becomes a kind of mental muscle memory.
When I was learning Shakespeare’s sonnet form, I practiced writing everything in verse. I wrote my grocery lists in meter when I could. And then I started talking in this way—annoying though it was to everyone. It’s been a helpful practice to maintain.
What does the form tell us?
Formalist poetry has a sun and moon component. There are the rules, and there’s what the form wants. This requires some intuition, and I always start with the assumption that the form is smarter than me. It’s deeper, it’s been around longer and it’s not my place to tell it what it’s for.
One mistake might be to practice form without understanding context. Dróttkvætt is court meter. It’s lofty stuff recited in a formal setting. Epic, not lyrical. I wouldn’t use the form for quips about bathroom emergencies; that wouldn’t be dignified.
I think it’s important to understand the circumstances, intent, environment and geographic location of poetic structures. How did people receive this kind of poetry? In what setting? Where and when in the world was this done?
After that, I think it would also be a mistake to just copy the originals. I don’t know if it would make sense in today’s modern English to write a praise poem for Eric Bloodaxe in Old Norse. Personally, I didn’t know him and Old Norse is not my language. (Eric would probably agree that it’d be better for all involved if I not give this a go.) Rather, I think it’s important to try to find a way for the form to be properly applied to today.
Speaking of today, I also question whether strict formal adherence makes sense in this context. Old Norse is not the same as Modern English. The languages are different in just about any way they could be compared. So, it was my decision to adopt some Old English sensibilities into the form in the hopes that helps accommodate my language a little more. In particular, Old English poetry is known for its four-beat alliteration style. So, for the odd lines, what I do is make sure the first and last stresses alliterate with one another, along with the first stress in the following even line. I adhere to the athalhending in the even lines, though, because rhyme also shares a rich tradition in Modern English. Everything else I keep the same. This, to my ear, allows the form to speak in my language a little better while maintaining its identity.
No, it’s not pure dróttkvætt. I would argue that nothing written today ever could be. And there’s an elegant dance that has to play out between tradition and innovation if forms of the past are to be kept alive. Which means going out on a limb a bit and yes, I could be getting it wrong. But at least you see my reasoning.
So now let’s look at some examples.
My own examples
Here are a few I’ve come up with, following what I outlined above. This isn’t a suggestion that you try this form for yourself, by the way—although please do so if you find it interesting—the focus here is on the approach. Hopefully you can see where and how I’ve tried to accommodate what the form wants to do, not just mirror its mechanics. I think both considerations are equally important.
Example 1
Darker days are drawing;
Death’s demons are scheming.
To anchor your anguish,
Answer it by planting
Stories, steadfast and stirring.
Strive for their survival.
Their wardens walk with us,
Awaiting our creations.
Example 2
Beware the wrath of winter:
Worse than nature’s curses,
Nightfall’s silver needles
Narrowing our marrow,
Or blizzards, near-blinding,
Blanching lakes and branches,
Are homes: hard and hopeless,
Hearkening to the darkness.
Example 3
Forage in the forest
To find what’s close behind us:
Spirits are still speaking
Their spells from the wellspring.
The old beasts are bearing
Strange beauty, still renewing.
Eyes won’t help you enter—
Your ears must do the clearing.
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