There should be a hard-and-fast rule: Never discard a book.
You never know when you're going to need it, you see. But then, there are those moving costs -- so we should all be glad for public libraries (which is where I'm writing this, BTW). The book loss I'm bemoaning today is Otto Jespersen's Growth and Structure of the English Language. (I think that was the title. I always just called the book "Otto.") I'm not talking about the legendary Danish scholar's monumental work on the history of language, but a 250-page paperback where he sums it all up in plain English (is that a pun? I don't think so.).
The reason I'm bemoaning its loss right now is that old Jespersen really went into some detail (for the common man, anyway) about how this language we're using puts words together. He really had that subject down pat.
My reason's reason is that formal verse is almost guaranteed to require the poet to invent a word at some point. You're going to need a certain rhyme or a certain phrase in a certain meter, and you're going to be stuck without the ability to make up a word. And you can't just make one up out of whole cloth, either. Why? OK, "2938470ujre." That's my new made-up word. Like it? Great! Know what it means? No? Well ... .
In other words (OK, a kind of pun), there are rules for inventing words from other known words -- and Uncle Otto (he was avuncular, but not my uncle) knew them. I think you should find this book or one like it, and then I think you should make it your vade mecum for creative language. (See, no handy English term for "a companion reference book" -- so I had to use Latin. Now see why you'll need Otto?)
You won't need to make up a word often, but when you will -- you'll have one (with Otto's help) on the first draft.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Rules, rules, rules ...
The device I'm using to write this down and send it to the world is (so I'm told) fundamentally based on the work of a man who taught himself high-end algebra. He used that notation as the foundation for his discoveries in the world of symbolic logic.
What George Boole found out was that (recalling my logic class -- the good one -- again) things don't have to actually exist to work in a syllogism. (If I recall correctly,) Western medieval commentators on Aristotle apparently assumed existence of the objects in a syllogism -- a conceptual mistake righted by Boole's work.
My point here (yes, I have one) is that when poets begin to use logic, we have to extend that conceptual framework out even further than Boole did. Love has its logic, irony its rules, anguish its regulations -- and we have to discover them. For ourselves. And then find words to fit them -- sometimes whether those words exist or not.
What George Boole found out was that (recalling my logic class -- the good one -- again) things don't have to actually exist to work in a syllogism. (If I recall correctly,) Western medieval commentators on Aristotle apparently assumed existence of the objects in a syllogism -- a conceptual mistake righted by Boole's work.
My point here (yes, I have one) is that when poets begin to use logic, we have to extend that conceptual framework out even further than Boole did. Love has its logic, irony its rules, anguish its regulations -- and we have to discover them. For ourselves. And then find words to fit them -- sometimes whether those words exist or not.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
What It's Not All About
"It's all about the ... ."
How many times have we heard that lately? Something (pick a topic: person, place or thing) is "all about the" something else (fill in the blank). Rarely do you hear "it's all about the" method, the means, or the manner of that something else.
And there's a reason for it: the "it's all about the" person, place or thing is just too glib. Too slick. Too easy. And, for those reasons, it's also false.
The hardest thing about writing poetry -- at least as I'm able to see it -- is in getting real. I mean, that's "what it's all about," wouldn't you think? But go to an average poetry reading sometime -- even by published poets -- and really listen to what's being said. How much of it is honest? How much of it is the poet's self-selection of the truth? How much is self-justification? How much of it is the poet trying to hide -- from you, from him or herself? You might be surprised at how much honesty you really hear! Or, maybe not ... .
We look at the Anthology of ... or the Collected Works of ... , admiring the poet's power of expression and nuance -- and perhaps not think of the other stuff. The stuff this outstanding poetry we now admire stood out from.
And when you look at some of that "other stuff", you can see readily what makes the collected or anthologized poetry stand out from the rest: honesty. Fidelity to truth, at least as much of it as the poet is able to apprehend and communicate through the medium of poetry.
It gets down to the word itself. I can remember one poet saying that some activity or another (walking in the woods, admiring a sunset, whatever) really "stokes my muse." How on Earth, thought I, do you "stoke a muse?"
You can stoke a fire, you can obey a muse -- but how do you "stoke a muse?" OK, what he obviously meant is that this particular activity really got him in the mood to write poetry. But his mixed metaphor betrayed his (perhaps unconscious) feeling that he was in control of the process -- the fact that the process was there long before either of us existed did not seem to occur to him. And his cracked verbiage revealed that flaw in his thinking.
I do remember logic class: I remember it clearly because the first instructor was so bad I decided to audit the same course a year later by a professor I really respected (and, in memory, still do). He spent at least a month going over so-called "informal" fallacies: not the "therefore, all men are Socrates" fallacies of formal logic, but the "When did you stop beating your wife?" type of fallacies. Those are the kind of fallacies that crack your thinking before you even begin to reason.
It's important to mention now, because I hear those informal fallacies all the time: hasty generalization, jumping to conclusions, ad hominem arguments, etc. The title for them all is more Latin: non sequitur. "It does not follow."
Emotional honesty is vital to all expression, especially poetry. Its very life blood is most transparent in free verse. Which is one reason that particular form remains popular: the minute you "talk falsely" at Open Mic Night, you're busted.
But in formal verse, craft can sometimes disguise dishonesty: emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. That's why you have to have a solid purpose and a strong foundation before you can start writing it successfully.
How many times have we heard that lately? Something (pick a topic: person, place or thing) is "all about the" something else (fill in the blank). Rarely do you hear "it's all about the" method, the means, or the manner of that something else.
And there's a reason for it: the "it's all about the" person, place or thing is just too glib. Too slick. Too easy. And, for those reasons, it's also false.
The hardest thing about writing poetry -- at least as I'm able to see it -- is in getting real. I mean, that's "what it's all about," wouldn't you think? But go to an average poetry reading sometime -- even by published poets -- and really listen to what's being said. How much of it is honest? How much of it is the poet's self-selection of the truth? How much is self-justification? How much of it is the poet trying to hide -- from you, from him or herself? You might be surprised at how much honesty you really hear! Or, maybe not ... .
We look at the Anthology of ... or the Collected Works of ... , admiring the poet's power of expression and nuance -- and perhaps not think of the other stuff. The stuff this outstanding poetry we now admire stood out from.
And when you look at some of that "other stuff", you can see readily what makes the collected or anthologized poetry stand out from the rest: honesty. Fidelity to truth, at least as much of it as the poet is able to apprehend and communicate through the medium of poetry.
It gets down to the word itself. I can remember one poet saying that some activity or another (walking in the woods, admiring a sunset, whatever) really "stokes my muse." How on Earth, thought I, do you "stoke a muse?"
You can stoke a fire, you can obey a muse -- but how do you "stoke a muse?" OK, what he obviously meant is that this particular activity really got him in the mood to write poetry. But his mixed metaphor betrayed his (perhaps unconscious) feeling that he was in control of the process -- the fact that the process was there long before either of us existed did not seem to occur to him. And his cracked verbiage revealed that flaw in his thinking.
I do remember logic class: I remember it clearly because the first instructor was so bad I decided to audit the same course a year later by a professor I really respected (and, in memory, still do). He spent at least a month going over so-called "informal" fallacies: not the "therefore, all men are Socrates" fallacies of formal logic, but the "When did you stop beating your wife?" type of fallacies. Those are the kind of fallacies that crack your thinking before you even begin to reason.
It's important to mention now, because I hear those informal fallacies all the time: hasty generalization, jumping to conclusions, ad hominem arguments, etc. The title for them all is more Latin: non sequitur. "It does not follow."
Emotional honesty is vital to all expression, especially poetry. Its very life blood is most transparent in free verse. Which is one reason that particular form remains popular: the minute you "talk falsely" at Open Mic Night, you're busted.
But in formal verse, craft can sometimes disguise dishonesty: emotional, intellectual, and spiritual. That's why you have to have a solid purpose and a strong foundation before you can start writing it successfully.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Setting a Course
OK, more with the metaphorical conceits: if you're an explorer, you need to have an idea of where you are going before you can set sail. So you may end up discovering Hispaniola instead of India, but that's how discoveries are made.
And you'll need a compass, or a sextant, or know the stars, or have a really good sense of direction before you shove off, m'hearties!
Traditional verse starts with logic. Duhh ... . No, I'm not going to try and pretend I'm a qualified philosophy instructor. But I am suggesting that it helps to have a basic idea of syllogistic structure when you're starting out to write poems that fit into that "traditional" mode.
In short, the rules of rhetoric (actually studied as a kind of "communications theory" in the Middle Ages) demand a certain structure, and rhythmically rhyming posey fit into that early category.
Of course, the art of poetry (no matter what kind you're writing or what age) insists that the poet "bend" rules -- backwards and sideways and every way possible, if necessary -- in making his or her point. The "rules" in this case are the audience's or readers' expectations. They've got to have an idea of where you are going -- and so, dear poet, do you.
I'm off to find a copy of Eliot's "Ash Wednesday" here in the library stacks. So, my friends, 'til next time ... .
And you'll need a compass, or a sextant, or know the stars, or have a really good sense of direction before you shove off, m'hearties!
Traditional verse starts with logic. Duhh ... . No, I'm not going to try and pretend I'm a qualified philosophy instructor. But I am suggesting that it helps to have a basic idea of syllogistic structure when you're starting out to write poems that fit into that "traditional" mode.
In short, the rules of rhetoric (actually studied as a kind of "communications theory" in the Middle Ages) demand a certain structure, and rhythmically rhyming posey fit into that early category.
Of course, the art of poetry (no matter what kind you're writing or what age) insists that the poet "bend" rules -- backwards and sideways and every way possible, if necessary -- in making his or her point. The "rules" in this case are the audience's or readers' expectations. They've got to have an idea of where you are going -- and so, dear poet, do you.
I'm off to find a copy of Eliot's "Ash Wednesday" here in the library stacks. So, my friends, 'til next time ... .
