Scansion sounds scary to some poets, but scanning a poem just means seeing how to measure each line.
Across many centuries and continents, poets have found various methods of measurement such as counting syllables or accents or a combination of the two. Often, a well-tuned ear hears the beat as a poem is being written, but most of us count on fine-tuning the rhythm as we revise.
Practice will perfect the accuracy of your ear, but your eyes can also help you to catch the beat. How? As you scan a poem, you find feet to use for measuring or to discard as you would any footwear that doesn’t quite fit.
So let's get on our toes, poetically, and take a look at our feet:
In traditional, metered English verse, the most common feet come nicely shaped in pairs. With two syllables each, you find the upbeat iamb (ta-DAH), downbeat trochee (HO hum), stress-free pyrrhic (blah-blah), and double-stress spondee (ALL RIGHT!)
Once you recognize those simple two-syllable foot patterns, you’re ready to play with three-syllable feet such as the dactyl (HEAV-en-ly) and anapest (as-we-SEE.)
You might also look at those classical styles as having these designs:
Iamb = no stress then stress = _ X
Trochee = accent then no accent = X _
Pyrrhic = no stress or accent = _ _
Spondee = accent on both syllables = XX
Dactyl = accent followed by two unstressed syllables = X _ _
Anapest = two unstressed syllables ending on an accent = _ _ X
What does that info do for you? It puts your whole body to work!
Those common feet train your eyes to see what your ears hear as your mouth emphasizes each accented syllable and your hand thumps out each beat.
You then put that information to use as you revise a poem, changing words around or reworking lines until you have the number of feet needed for the particular pattern of your choice.
Say, for example, you want to write a classically patterned sonnet in iambic pentameter. To do this, you traditionally need five feet of iambs on each line:
_ X | _ X | _ X | _ X | _ X |
As you can see, the same old beat looks as boring as it sounds! So now, to help you vary the rhythm, your mind and eye can show you where to replace at least one iambic foot with a trochee or spondee. As you scan the poem and see a good spot to substitute one foot for another, you do not totally rely on your poetic ear but on other senses as well.
But what if you don’t want to write traditional metered poetry? What if you want to write free verse where line breaks make or break the poem? Will scansion help you then? It can.
Scanning the lines to find the feet (or lack thereof!) can show you where to change the beat if the rhythm seems “off” in almost any type of poem. For example, scansion can be helpful in revising a prose poem, even though your main method of measuring consists of those same little blocks or paragraphs you use in writing prose. You can also use scansion to see where the rhythm got off-beat in your free verse. For that style of poetry, most poets just keep experimenting and breaking lines in various places until they like the look and sound and feel of the poem, but scansion can help too.
Look at this line, for example, then read the words aloud:
His VOICE/ HELD SAD/ness = _ X | X X | _
See how the accents huddle together in the middle with no beat at either end? That could give you the sound effect you want, but if not, mix it up at bit. For example:
SADness/ HUGGED his/ VOICE = X _ | X _ | X
See the difference? If you read both versions aloud, you will hear a rhythmic difference too, but either way can work in a poem, depending on the sound effect you want.
Typically, a poetic ear prefers one sound or rhythm over another, but your eye can help you to discern what needs to be changed and where. So, inform all of your senses instead of relying on just one. Scan your poems. Play with meter. Order the reader-friendly book Poetry: Taking Its Course and stay tuned to future discussions on this blog.
The Poetry Editor
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Line breaks can make or break your poem
Whether you write free verse, prose poems, traditionally patterned poetry, or experimental verse, the artistry often comes with such poetic techniques as musicality, sound echoes, internal rhyme, insight, imagery, or unusual juxtaposition (comparisons, contrasts, or even weird positioning) of thoughts and pictures.
Since all types and forms of poetry need at least one or more poetic traits, they could all sound or look alike except for one big difference:
The dividing line comes in dividing lines.
As you write prose poems, for example, you divide the lines into blocks of paragraphs that look like those you normally use in writing articles, stories, books, and business letters.
As you write and scan traditional metered verse, you extend each line only as far as your choice of patterns will allow. For instance, if you write in the classical English pattern of iambic pentameter, each line scans into five feet of iambs, which, hopefully, we’ll talk about again in upcoming articles. Or, if you choose to write syllabic poetry such as haiku, you count the syllables to determine where to break each line.
And then there’s free verse.
Poets often assume that free verse is the easiest type of poetry to write since they think they can do anything they want. However, freedom comes in being free, not of poetic techniques, but of the constraints, predictability, regularity, and consistency found in counting a predetermined number of syllables, beats, or metric feet per line.
Free verse is free of pattern.
Free verse is free of refrain.
Free verse wears no uniform.
For instance, you can scatter rhymes into free verse unless those sounds start to get predictable, which means the poem has lost its freedom from a set pattern or routine.
The freedom of writing free verse comes in freely breaking lines.
Unfortunately, this freedom can also bring indecision. Choices! Choices! Where do you break each line? What look will your new poem wear? Will you go for long lines? short lines? tabbed over lines? dropped down lines? Or, will you go, not for how your poem looks, but how it sounds? Or, as yet another option, will you break lines into fragments of thought to generate mystery, shock, emphasis, or surprise?
Regardless of your goal or deciding factor, each line break needs to lend a poetic feel or quality to the poem, which brings us back to an ongoing motto:
Read each poem and each revision aloud.
Listen carefully to the effect of each word, phrase, pause, and line break. Then revise the poem until you get the effect you want.
Usually, your poetic ear will let you know what works and what does not. The last time we talked, though, I gave an example of lines broken by similarities seen in syllables noticed by the eye or mind. In the following poem, the line breaks show a choice to emphasize connotations or layers of meaning that accompanied some of the words.
Since the setting for this poem includes the uncertainties of war in general and the concerns of a World War II soldier in particular, I also wanted the line breaks to help build drama appropriate to the scene but without becoming overly dramatic, maudlin, or sentimental. The latter especially concerned me since I wrote the poem from the “I” of my father’s perspective, basing thoughts and feelings on his WWII letters – letters, which I never read until decades later, not too long after his death.
Night Flying in Uneven Lines
by Mary Harwell Sayler
Everywhere the night explodes
in darkness –
blank and black
like a deep hole cut
to accommodate a casket.
Some nights before a mission,
sleep exhumes me,
draws me
from disarming
visions: relics,
recollections, and what still
remains.
© 2002, Mary Harwell Sayler, from Winning The Wars chapbook shown on the right-hand side of this page. Other poems from the chapbook have been included on the International War Veterans Poetry website.
Since all types and forms of poetry need at least one or more poetic traits, they could all sound or look alike except for one big difference:
The dividing line comes in dividing lines.
As you write prose poems, for example, you divide the lines into blocks of paragraphs that look like those you normally use in writing articles, stories, books, and business letters.
As you write and scan traditional metered verse, you extend each line only as far as your choice of patterns will allow. For instance, if you write in the classical English pattern of iambic pentameter, each line scans into five feet of iambs, which, hopefully, we’ll talk about again in upcoming articles. Or, if you choose to write syllabic poetry such as haiku, you count the syllables to determine where to break each line.
And then there’s free verse.
Poets often assume that free verse is the easiest type of poetry to write since they think they can do anything they want. However, freedom comes in being free, not of poetic techniques, but of the constraints, predictability, regularity, and consistency found in counting a predetermined number of syllables, beats, or metric feet per line.
Free verse is free of pattern.
Free verse is free of refrain.
Free verse wears no uniform.
For instance, you can scatter rhymes into free verse unless those sounds start to get predictable, which means the poem has lost its freedom from a set pattern or routine.
The freedom of writing free verse comes in freely breaking lines.
Unfortunately, this freedom can also bring indecision. Choices! Choices! Where do you break each line? What look will your new poem wear? Will you go for long lines? short lines? tabbed over lines? dropped down lines? Or, will you go, not for how your poem looks, but how it sounds? Or, as yet another option, will you break lines into fragments of thought to generate mystery, shock, emphasis, or surprise?
Regardless of your goal or deciding factor, each line break needs to lend a poetic feel or quality to the poem, which brings us back to an ongoing motto:
Read each poem and each revision aloud.
Listen carefully to the effect of each word, phrase, pause, and line break. Then revise the poem until you get the effect you want.
Usually, your poetic ear will let you know what works and what does not. The last time we talked, though, I gave an example of lines broken by similarities seen in syllables noticed by the eye or mind. In the following poem, the line breaks show a choice to emphasize connotations or layers of meaning that accompanied some of the words.
Since the setting for this poem includes the uncertainties of war in general and the concerns of a World War II soldier in particular, I also wanted the line breaks to help build drama appropriate to the scene but without becoming overly dramatic, maudlin, or sentimental. The latter especially concerned me since I wrote the poem from the “I” of my father’s perspective, basing thoughts and feelings on his WWII letters – letters, which I never read until decades later, not too long after his death.
Night Flying in Uneven Lines
by Mary Harwell Sayler
Everywhere the night explodes
in darkness –
blank and black
like a deep hole cut
to accommodate a casket.
Some nights before a mission,
sleep exhumes me,
draws me
from disarming
visions: relics,
recollections, and what still
remains.
© 2002, Mary Harwell Sayler, from Winning The Wars chapbook shown on the right-hand side of this page. Other poems from the chapbook have been included on the International War Veterans Poetry website.
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