Writer to writer: From think to ink - Gail Carson Levine 2014

Listen!
Poetry country

Remember my poem “Mary Sherri Mark Darla Jake Noah Olivia,” with the words placed unexpectedly? Here’s the end of the poem:

We get the full effect only by seeing the poem, unless I could come up with a special way of reading it, jumping around or pointing as I spoke.

But many poems are written for the ear as much as for the eye. Poets give “readings,” because poetry is meant to be heard. It’s a personal art, possibly the most personal form of writing, and to hear a poet reading her own work, to hear her breath—maybe her voice catches at a particular moment—to hear her pause, swallow, is a special thrill.

So read your poems aloud. When you do, you’ll join an ancient tradition, which almost certainly started even before writing began. Poems were easier to remember than tales told in prose because of the rhymes and the rhythm or the repetition of sounds or words. We find repetition in prose, too, but in prose we often cut our repeated words, as we discussed in chapter 28. In poetry we repeat on purpose although we choose our repetitions carefully.

I mentioned vowel rhyme or assonance before, the recurrence of a vowel sound, but I haven’t mentioned alliteration, although you may know the term. It’s the repetition of the same sound at the beginning of a word. (Not the repetition of the same letter, necessarily. Cheese crackers, for example, doesn’t alliterate.) Remember the tongue twister Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers? That’s alliteration on steroids!

Let’s look at a few examples from my pantoum about Robin Hood. You’ll see that I’ve emphasized the alliteration. Here are the first three stanzas:

He stole from the poor to make himself rich,

that horrible hoodlum Robin. Maid Marion,

who faithfully believed in his honor,

said, “Robin, I trust you no matter what.”

That horrible hoodlum! Robin made Marion

his girl with a gold ring. “Dearly beloved,”

said Robin. “I trust you no matter what.”

She kissed him and wore the glittering gift,

his girl with a gold ring. Dearly beloved

Marion swore to change his thieving ways.

She kissed him and wore the glittering gift,

the only penniless person he ever gave to.

The alliterative words don’t have to be right next to each other, but they should be in the same neighborhood, or we’ll miss the effect.

Alliteration helps us remember a phrase. It’s catchy! We may recall Marion’s name down the centuries because it’s usually coupled with “maid,” and the m sounds fix it in our minds.

We find alliteration in prose, too. We see it in brands, like Dunkin’ Donuts, Krispy Kreme, Coca-Cola. And in book titles, like Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost or Tolkien’s The Two Towers, and, ahem, my Ella Enchanted. You can use it, too.

Coming up is an example of a particular kind of repetition, called anaphora, which means repetition at the beginning of a line or stanza. This excerpt is from a very long poem called Jubilate Agno, written by the eighteenth-century poet Christopher Smart when he was confined in an insane asylum with only his cat Jeoffrey for company. Read this aloud too. Here it is:

For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.

For he can jump over a stick, which is patience upon proof positive.

For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.

For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.

For he can catch the cork and toss it again.

For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.

Modern poets generally break up the anaphora a bit to add interest. In addition to the anaphora in these lines, notice the alliteration. For example, there’s patience and proof and positive. What other alliteration do you see?

And did you catch the internal rhyme of spraggle (a word I can’t find in the dictionary but that I can picture) and waggle?

You may know this one:

THE TYGER

by William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

I wish tigers could hear this and discover how at least one human admired them!

William Blake asks lots of questions. A word that repeats often is what. So does thy, adding to the poem’s majesty.

Writing time! Write a poem:

• with these assonances: long o and long a (not in every word, of course—but work them in as often as you can). These sounds linger, so try for a lingering mood, which might be eerie or sad or mysterious;

• with anaphora, in which several of the lines start with one of these words or phrases: I wish, actually, when, do not, long ago;

• with as much alliteration as you can work in. Some topics might be:

• an event you’re looking forward to;

• an event you’re dreading;

• an adventure your pet might have if the world were a little different;

• the day an elf visited you;

• that repeats at least four of these words: bell, camera, haunting, hero, apple, halo, cloud, dream, echo, mermaid, flight, shine.

Have fun, and save what you write!