The following letters to a young poet grew out of emails sent to a poet.

He had recently sent me a three-stanza poem asking for critique.

I also, by the end, quote from Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet:

•••

 [Young Poet,]

There are some really, really good lines in here and obviously the subject matter is hard but good. I would encourage you to find modern alternates for “beseech” and “eschewed” and “bestride” and whatnot because it’s easy to worry more about the rhyme, but poetry is first matter, then meter, then metaphor, then phonoaesthetics that sometimes rhyme. And — subject matter — must not only be solid but also clear. There are places where your choices obscure it. Unless obscurity is your goal, but I doubt it: very, very few communicators hope to leave their audience more confused.

Also, you lose your meter midstream. If you drew attention to this with a line, you could justify it because of the subject matter — in which case you would want to break the meter further:

O, how precarious the possibilities of such a pledge!
Would I plunge headlong with scores of resignations cast aside,
And float along the callous riptide with no vessel to bestride?

But you have some great lines in there man:

For luck to turn the tide for me or some fortuitous twist of fate.

Is a great line because the meaning is clear, the metaphor is clear, and the meter is steady.

I would encourage you to write out answers to three questions as an outline:

1. What is my subject matter and is it clear? In a poem like this, you also experience a change so it’s kind of like a tiny little story. So, what’s your opinion on the subject matter at the start and how does that change by the end?
2. What is my metaphor and how can I riff off of that? You have a good metaphor, a good start, but you haven’t explored all of the options. How else can this river illuminate depression, wandering, ambivalence?
3. What is my meter and how can I keep it steady? Poetry is not first about how sounds echo one another. It’s about how the tongue bounces and moves, it’s about rhythm — our rappers understand this. They’ll break a word to fit a beat. (Consider the use of a contraction in that last sentence.) Figure out your meter — literally write it down / – – / – – or what have you. You don’t need a fancy literary name for it, you only need to know what it does. Then go back and read your poem as if it were a normal sentence, even delete the line breaks if you need to in order to get it back to normal and as you read, mark the accents. That’s the way you find your real beat and whether or not you’re keeping time.
4. What are my phonoaesthetics and how can I consistently move them toward one another or further away? Pay attention to what the sounds are and where your mouth forms them. For instance in my poem Dead Christ I wanted to mimic the movement of sound in the throat when one screams, so I mapped the phonetics of the throat, ordered the sounds of my subject matter, and it came out: I see the ghoul who’s busy which moves from the back of the throat to the lips like a scream. I’m not saying you have to get that detailed, but I am saying be even more conscious of your sounds.

If you want more on that, read the full article I wrote for the Poet’s Market or the compilation Writing Rules, Revised.

Hope that helps man. Great work.

— Lancelot

•••

Hey Lance,

I really appreciate the feedback. I found it really helpful. I had never considered the kind of hierarchy of priority. Sometimes, even in prose I have a tendency to lose subject matter to my word choices. It’s good to see it displayed like that in a X>Y>Z format. I really like you list of questions too. I’ll be asking myself those questions from now until the end of time probably.

Some of your more specific critiques surprised me though honestly. The quote where you said I broke meter midway through. while I don’t feel they are the strongest lines in the poem, I feel the meter is fairly consistent. Though the rhythm of the line is faster than I would like (precarious and possibilities are both spoken quickly so the line feels a little rushed) if that is what you mean. But as far as number of syllables and natural accents I thought they held true.

My meter is two couplets of 8 iambs with the first of each couple starting on a strong beat rather than a full iamb. And another line of 8 iambs that is a sort of couplet with itself.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/
-/-/-/-/,-/-/-/-/

If you’ll let me discuss the specific words, I think figuring out a specific case will help me in the future.

I want to discuss the line “O, how precarious the possibilities of such a pledge.” I’ll tell you my thought process, so if I’m wrong you’ll know where to correct me. First I operate under the assumption, based on the poetry I’ve read, that words like O, Ah, Ha, etc. at the start of a line can be a strong or soft beat depending on the meter of the rest of the line.

Second, I want to discuss the word “precarious” in the line you quoted. When I look at this word by itself it is spoken like this -/–, but when it is followed by another soft accent in a sentence, the final syllable seems like it could shift to more of a strong beat so  -/-/  –  instead of  -/–  –  so this is the way I used it in this line. So looking at the line, based on what I’ve just said, I read it like this

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

But I could see how it could read like this instead

/–/—/-/—/-/

I’m guessing the latter is the way you read it. So if what I’ve said is wrong and this is how it’s coming across I will change it. Though I’m not married to the line so I could just change it anyway.

I’m not sure where you see the meter breaks in the following lines.

The last issue is the word choices you mentioned at the beginning (i.e. Beseech, bestride, and eschew). I admit that I do make word choices that obscure my subject matter, but the dated style and somewhat archaic words were deliberate decisions. Poe is my biggest influence for my poetry (all of my poetry, but especially this one), and I enjoy writing in a style that reflects that time. If the style really does hinder clarity I am willing to change. I also don’t want it to come across as pretentious or overwrought. Is there a way I can keep the style without falling into those traps, or should I just abandon it and modernize the whole thing?

In any case I don’t feel like “eschew” is an especially archaic or dated word. I learned it in freshmen vocabulary in high school. I really like the word, and I particularly liked my usage of it in the poem. So that can be my one thing I’ll outright disagree about, respectfully of course, because I really do appreciate you taking the time to look at this and give such helpful input.

Thank you friend. You are a blessing. And I’m really looking forward to the finished product on this symphonic novella. I’m a believer for sure. Keep up the great work, Lance.

[Young Poet]

•••

[Young Poet],

My pleasure, man.

Here’s a stricter analysis:

/ – – / – – – / – / – / – / – /

O, how precarious the possibilities of such a pledge!

– – / / – – / – / – / – / – /

Would I plunge headlong with scores of resignations cast aside,

– / – / – / – / – – – / – – – /

And float along the callous riptide with no vessel to bestride?

None of those matches any other, and certainly they break down as a triad. Likely what’s happening is that you’re reading the verses to match the meter rather than actually reading the sentences as any normal person would read them and therefore convincing yourself that they adhere when they do not.

Your intended meter is two couplets of 8 iambs with the first of each couple starting on a strong beat rather than a full iamb. And another line of 8 iambs that is a sort of couplet with itself. But that is not your actual meter. Your actual meter is all over the place.

“O” could be soft, depending on what follows, but you make it strong with a pause through he comma. The weight of “precarious” is always a dactyl because of the nature of vowels. The syllables are too long to function like iambs. It depends just as much on punctuation and on the position in the sentence as it does on the word’s natural structure as exists in a vacuum.

Meter breaks when we do not stick to form. You can do that, but you need to have a reason. As it stands, it looks like an accident and is therefore either sloppy or something you’re ignorant of. The style of a given point in time is fine (re: Poe) but keep in mind that he was writing at the start of 19th century — a full 200 years ago. When I said several years ago that “I want to offer for Americans what Chesterton offered to Brits,” I didn’t mean that I want to be Chesterton, only to deploy the spirit of Chesterton into a modern era. When I employ his grammar and syntax, I fail because it confuses people. Poe’s audience would have understood those usages — even if it was only the academic elite. As it stands, yours reads as if the poetry world has passed you by. If you keep it that way, it will. You can keep the meaning, keep the meter, and yet find a different word that people use. A general rule of thumb is that you’re creating language, not killing it. Copywriters kill it. Not you. You beget new ways of saying things, new mixtures of metaphors.

Do that and you’ll change English.

To your question: can you keep a word like “bestride” ? Yes. But it’ll draw as much attention as someone dressed like an 18th-century pirate. You can do that, but if you put a bunch of characters from that period into a modern poem, people will wonder why you didn’t write a historical fiction entirely. Without a medium to transport us to that time, that many words in one space seems like you’re trying too hard. Don DeWelt’s maxim holds here as well: an old truth in a new way or a new truth in an old way. In your case, it’s the former. Unless you change your mind, in which case keep the meter but use modern grammar.

We could debate about “eschew” — it’s the total effect I’m talking about mainly, though I’ve attached a photo of its usage since the 1500’s:

And I learned words like “besmirch” from Shakespeare around that time, but that doesn’t make it suitable, especially when “disgrace” achieves a similar metrical and lexical effect. Granted, the phonoasethetics are different, but you can’t always hit all 4 cylinders. If you want to favor the assonance or dissonance or consonance then rewrite the line to work up to something like “beget” or even “bezoar,” though the latter reminds me a bit too much of Snape’s potions class…

Hope that all helps.

As for the symphonic novella, it was cancelled — never received full funding. Sorry man. Some day in the future it will come out, but not right now.

— Lancelot

•••

Lance,

So I looked out of curiosity. My favorite poem, and obviously the most influential poem for my rough draft here, is The Raven. It doesn’t seem like Poe takes as critical of a stance on meter as we discussed. Here’s how I see his meter from the first stanza:

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/- (but the comma is the only reason “while” gets a strong beat, right?)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

/-/–/-/–/—/-/

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

–/-/-/-/—/-/-

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

–/-/-/-/-/-/-/

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

–/—/-/-/-/-/

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

/-/-/-/

Only this and nothing more.”

My first question is whether I can use a comma to emphasize meter. Also, is there something I’m missing here or is his meter kind of all over the place too? In that second line he just obviously switches the beat entirely. Maybe his intended meter is to make “many” one beat, and making curious a two syllable word, but that would be intended meter, not actual meter.

– [Young Poet]

•••

[Young Poet],

What’s MOST important is that the stanzas keep together. But yes, you’re reading it a little strangely:

/-/-///-/-/-/-/-

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

/-/–/-/–/-/-/-/

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

/-/-/-/-/-‘-/-/-

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

-//-/-/-/—/-/

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

///—/-/-/-/-/

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

/-/-/-/

Only this and nothing more.”

So his point is to always come back to the trochees and most of those dactyls and spondees could be argued to fit within the trochees pretty easily.

The most important thing to remember is that you’re reading sentences, not lines. The lines come to give emphasis to the form of the sentences — or phrases — not to make you read them weird. You’ll have a lot of people in modern poetry departments say THE LINE THE LINE THE LINE is the most important thing, but the line must serve the sentence to the same degree that the sentence must serve both the riding crop metaphor and prime subject matter of the whole poem. We are more than our parts and poems are more than lines.

In this stanza, there are two sentences. If you read them again, straight through, and then analyze the sounds based on that, I think you’ll find a rather different rhythm.

For instance, “joke” sounds different depending on (1) the combination with other words and (2) the position in the sentence:

“Jokes are full of punch.”

“I don’t get jokes.”

And that’s just syllabic emphasis — we would call both “long o” but in the classical form of poetry, long = the literal length of saying the sound, not some arbitrary category of five vowels. An “á” can be long. Think Hebrew. The “o” in the first “jokes” is a regular “o” but in the second it’s an extended “o” sound, much longer, and deemphasizing the word because it’s deemphasizing the sentence.

Another way to say it is that in any sentence, the order of importance as far as words go is:

1. The verb.

2. The last word.

3. The first word.

Some would debate with me on that, but certainly no one would argue that these three words are the most important in the sentence and often get the emphasis — they’re the gravity of the sentence, first and last can both be subject or object. So the prime nouns and the verb, typically, or a very significant modifier of any of them.

Does that make sense?

We would need to look at Poe’s other stanzas in order to see if he keeps his meter. When I say “all over the place” I don’t mean line-to-line. I mean you don’t pick a form and stick to it stanza-to-stanza. If you want a great example of what I mean, read The Ballad of the White Horse by Chesterton which seems all over the place until you analyze it as a whole. He only has a handful of rhythmic choices and they seem to alternate like instruments in an orchestra.

— Lancelot

•••

Lance,

I realize that I don’t really understand how to approach meter in modern poetry. It doesn’t make sense to me because I always viewed poetry as having a very strict meter, such as iambic pentameter, that it would hold too as precisely as possible throughout the whole piece. The more examples I see the more I realize that’s not the case today. I don’t understand how a meter can be considered consistent if it carries so much line-to-line, or stanza-to-stanza. I can’t hear a clear rhythm in most modern poetry at all.

– [Young Poet]

•••

[Young Poet],

Most modern poetry doesn’t, you’re right. If you read my most recent poems, you’ll see what’s called alliterative meter which is based not on syllable, but on the length of a sound. Sometimes modern poets are doing that, but free verse is actually fading and I am joining others on the forefront of that resistance. I’ve picked alliterative meter as my chosen form for the next decade and I plan to master it before moving on.

Read a couple of those and then read the article “The Alliterative Meter” in C.S. Lewis’ Selected Literary Essays.

BUT: whatever you do, DO NOT give up. We need more poetry from all sides, need more people who can master it. So please keep trying. Find a form you like and stick to it.

I feel too that I should quote the poet Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet:

“You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you — no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer.

“And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose. Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance.

“So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty — describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place.

“And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds—wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. — And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.

“So, dear Sir, I can’t give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.

“But after this descent into yourself and into your solitude, perhaps you will have to renounce becoming a poet (if, as I have said, one feels one could live without writing, then one shouldn’t write at all). Nevertheless, even then, this self-searching that I as of you will not have been for nothing. Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say. What else can I tell you? It seems to me that everything has its proper emphasis; and finally I want to add just one more bit of advice: to keep growing, silently and earnestly, through your while development; you couldn’t disturb it any more violently than by looking outside and waiting for outside answers to question that only your innermost feeling, in your quietest hour, can perhaps answer.”

– Lancelot

•••

Lancelot,

That inspired me. Here is something I just wrote:

[Full new poem]

— [Young Poet]

•••

[Young Poet],

There you go. VERY very clean. Much better.

— Lancelot

---

cover image by liz west