Constrained and Unconstrained Poets

 The economic way of thinking begins with understanding that human choice is all walks of life is always exercised against a background of constraints.

The reality of choice within constraints implies that we face trade-offs in making decisions.

Peter Boettke, Living Economics, pg. 22

F. A. Hayek argues that there are two kinds of individualism, one which embraces the "constrained vision" and the other which embraces the "unconstrained vision." Those who believe humans are constrained believe we are naturally social and that there are evolved rules that restrict how humans can act and interact with each other. Those who believe human are unconstrained believe human beings are infinitely malleable, that we can be socially constructed into anything. The former Hayek identifies with the "tragic sense of life." The poet Frederick Turner identifies it with the development of a “culture of hope.” The latter is embraced by the avant-garde of the 20^th and 21^st centuries.

In poetry, the constrained vision is clearly accepted by the formalists. Of course, I have already argued elsewhere that all poetry—including free verse poetry—is built upon constraints, but formalist poets make those constraints more consciously-chosen. What we could call “unconstrained poets” would be those who write in free verse, but also in avant-garde styles such as dadaism, surrealis, and L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, among others. 

Free verse poets tend to believe constraints restrict their freedom. Free verse poetry and many of the experiments of literary modernism and postmodernism were attempts at shedding constraints—and were quite often attempts to deny the natural existence and validity of constraints. In their ideal of “automatic writing,” surrealism attempted to deny the validity of making a decision—or at least, conscious decisions—and therefore attempted to create an "act" without decision, direction/goal, or structure. The surrealist artists all considered themselves to be the artistic expression of Marxism, and Marxism is certainly a version of the unconstrained vision of man.

Formalist poets understand that constraints are not necessarily restricting, but rather that they are a necessary condition for freedom. The world is full of constraints, and interesting rules/constraints can create new possibilities you may not have thought of had you been writing a free verse poem. In a certain sense, then a sonnet thus makes one more entrepreneurial, because you have to be alert to new possibilities, because you have constraints in what you can say next (or, in revision, perhaps what you said before). In formalist poetry there are a number of constraints that can force you to make choices—many more choices than you would have to make in free verse, for example.

Of course, not all constraints are the same. There are natural and imposed constraints. There are internally-imposed and externally-imposed constraints. There are predictable and unpredictable constraints. Formalist poetry embraces a combination of natural (rhythms and rhymes) and imposed (this or that particular rhyme scheme or rhythm), internally imposed (by our choices) and externally imposed (by our traditions, within which we necessarily work), and predictable (in a heroic couplet the last word of the second line necessarily rhymes with the first) and unpredictable (having to rhyme may send the writer—and, subsequently, the reader—into a different direction than (s)he first thought the poem was going). But note that the formalist poet is making use of both simultaneously and is not using one at the expense of the other. 

Many of the modernist and postmodernist avant-garde writers insisted that they were rejecting the artificiality of formalism and embracing a more "natural" kind of poetry. The surrealists thought they were being natural, unpredictable, and internal, for example. There was an assumption that nature was chaotic/unpredictable—and that man imposed (and should impose) order from the outside. Self-organization theory helps us to see that a kind of predictable-unpredictable, internal-external natural order can exist, that no external orderer is necessary in nature, or in society. Thus, a good formalist poem is much more like a self-organizing natural system than is a surrealist poem. Neither is more natural than the other, but one could perhaps argue that the former embraces more aspects of reality than does the latter.

On the other hand, one can go in the other direction and have externally imposed, predictable art—but this is propaganda and/or is a product of censorship. In the visual arts, Futurism tried to embrace the completely "imposed"/non-natural. Language, being a spontaneous order itself, always necessarily embodies both elements, making a purely "unnatural" poetry all but impossible—except perhaps in various Dadaist experiments. 

This suggests, then, that the kinds of poetry flourishing at a given time are likely to reflect the way the poets understand the world—as being naturally constrained or naturally unconstrained. Does this mean there are more formalist poets with the tragic view of life? Does this mean that free verse poets are more optimistic about humans being able to design the world? Perhaps. One would expect to see this in the world views they express in their art. 

 

As we learn more and more about the world, we learn that the world is in fact full of constraints, that there is a power in limits, and that these elements of the world are what have led to ever-greater complexity and order in the cosmos. Does this mean the formalist poets are the one who “got it right”? Hardly. There are plenty of areas in our cultures and societies in which we can and do consciously structure our environments—not the least of which being businesses, legislation, and our organizations. And these are necessary. The free verse poets have their place, and the formalists have their place. Each contributes, and each finds their own kinds of freedoms. 

 

Each poet must find their voice, and each, I think, can only find their voice by experimenting across the different forms and various versions of free verse and avant-garde poetry. What you end up choosing, though, might say a great deal more about your world view than perhaps you realized.

Making Meter

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In a previous lesson, I discussed the nature of meter. However, knowing what meter is and knowing why using it in poetry is important, and writing meter are hardly the same thing. Since these lessons are intended to help you write poetry, theory has to meet practice. 

There's a degree to which the English language follows a simple iambic pattern, which results in many people writing mostly iambic verse unconsciously. But art is supposed to be purposeful--at least, to a great degree. As an artist, I want to make sure that I am using the words I want to use, the rhythm I want to create, and so on. To this end, we need to try to understand how the English language naturally falls into certain rhythmic patterns. 

Most people have difficulty learning to write in rhythm. Many fall into writing free verse because of this difficulty. However, nobody should be writing free verse because they cannot write in iambic pentameter, trochaics, or whatever rhythmic patterns you can imagine. That is like becoming an abstract expressionist artist because you cannot draw. You're not making a choice in the matter--the lack of skill is what's directing what you do--and if you're not making a choice, you're not an artist. That's why getting all the fundamentals down is important. 

There are many words and syllables which are naturally stressed or unstressed. However, there is variability of how stressed a given syllable may be, and context can certainly matter. A weakly unstressed syllable or word can be pressed into becoming stressed by being surrounded by more strongly unstressed syllables/words. The same is true of stressed words and syllables--if a weakly-stressed syllable is surrounded by more strongly stressed syllables/words, it will become unstressed. To practice, though, it's probably good to try to stick with simple, clear stressed-unstressed syllables.

There are several shortcuts to getting a rhythm down in your poem.

The first thing to note is that the articles--a, an, the--are all unstressed words. 

   ˘ /

The rock

It's hard to push an article into being stressed, but hardly impossible. 

A word like "of" is typically going to be unstressed, but it can be easily pushed into being stressed. For example:

   ˘ / ˘ /

The Book of Forms

   ˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘

The Making of a Poem

In the above book titles, the rhythm of the word "of" is different because of the words which surround it. In the first, "book" and "forms" are both strongly stressed, so there's no question about whether or not "of" should be unstressed. In the second, "making" is stressed-unstressed, and "a" is unstressed. "Of" is thus surrounded by strongly unstressed syllables, pushing it into being slightly stressed. 

This can also happen within words. For example, the word "able" is stressed-unstressed. However, notice what happens when you make it a suffix of "believe":

 ˘ / ˘ /

believable

The strong stress of the second syllable of "believe" pushes the "a" of "able" into becoming unstressed, and the "ble" into becoming stressed. You'll note that this is very common in words with the suffix "able."

Indeed, the stresses in "believe" are strong enough that they will even turn a prefix such as "un," which is typically unstressed, into being stressed:

/ ˘ / ˘ /

unbelievable

Here, we have another example of a natural unstressed syllable, which is the suffix. Much of the time, both prefixes and suffixes are unstressed. (Ironically, the words "prefix" and "suffix" violate this general pattern.)

As just noted, prefixes are typically unstressed.

  ˘ / ˘ / ˘ /

unkempt        unloved       unfair

  ˘ / ˘ / ˘ / ˘

before            behind          befuddled

Notice that, though the "b" sound is a strong sound and might typically be part of a stressed syllable, the "be" prefix is nevertheless unstressed.

In "befuddled," we also see that the "ed" ending, when fully pronounced, is unstressed. This is typical of suffixes. If we take the stressed word "love," and add the "ly" suffix, we get

  / ˘

lovely

Suffixes added to a stressed word will thus be unstressed:

  / ˘.  / ˘    / ˘

granted          truly         walking

Again, the presence of an unstressed syllable at the end of the root word can press the suffix into being stressed:

/ ˘ / / ˘ /

fidgeted          nervously

As you can see, then, this is more an art than a science (it is poetry, after all). However, the general rule that articles, prefixes, and suffixes are unstressed will generally help you create regular meters. As you practice using very strongly stressed and unstressed words, you will eventually hear the rhythm and internalize it more and more. Once that happens, you can then play around with less clearly stressed and unstressed words and syllables, and play around with metrical patterns to create meaning in violations of a regular meter. 

The greatest art, including the greatest poetry, is balanced between regularity and irregularity. The variations within stressed and unstressed syllables themselves help to create additional music/rhythms on top of the regular rhythms of iambic, anapestic, trochaic, etc. meters. As you learn to hear the regularities, you'll start to write good, solid meter. Once you hear the regularities, you'll then be more able to hear the irregularities as well. And then, you'll start to write more complex, more beautiful meter--and do so more intentionally as well. 

A Mirror or a Lamp?

Is poetry a mirror or a lamp on the world? 

If poetry is a mirror on the world, reflecting what is there, then it is surely a funhouse mirror, distorting what is there. Everything is bent, fragmented, stretched, and/or widened.  Many free verse poets argued precisely this, that it would be their free verse poetry that would finally provide this mirror on the world, no longer distorted by rhythm and rhyme. The surrealists also made this claim. Who, now, would agree that the surrealists provided any kind of mirror?

If poetry is a lamp, lighting up the darkness in the world, then it is surely more a moon than a sun. (Ah, but the moon itself is reflective!--a kind of mirror of the sun, imperfect and dimmer.) While the Greeks considered Apollo, the sun god, to be the leader of the Muses, practically every other polytheistic mythological tradition considers the moon goddess to be the source of poetry. Poetry is thus considered to be a product of the moon--a dim light within the darkness, playing with the shadows, perhaps part of the shadows themselves, with the shadows moving, undulating, as the poem's light crosses the darkness, faintly uncovering what lies where people fear to look. 

Orpheus descends into the underworld to retrieve his wife from death, but can only return with his poetry. There are many traditions of men descending into the underworld to retrieve something but are only able to return with the gift of poetry. 

Plato, in the Allegory of the Cave, instead shows a man ascending out of the cave and into the sun, where he is enlightened. He then returns to the cave to bring the people knowledge of what he saw. He argues that most would reject the philosopher bringing the good news of the sunlight outside the cave. The philosopher thus comes closest to bringing a lamp--but in reality, he's attempting to bring the people to the lamp/sun, which requires persuasion. If you live in dimness and only view shadows, how could you believe in the light?

The poet, on the other hand, can bring the same information to the public without rejection. Why? Because the message is hidden under imagery, metaphor, and sound. The reader is first enchanted by these things, which creates the conditions for acceptance. Of course, this is hardly perfect. There have been plenty of persecuted poets in the world--burned at the stake, in its various metaphorical forms. 

Plato wrote in dialogues in an attempt to bring the light of philosophy to the people in poetry. He felt the best poetry was that which was true, and which was trying to get people to see the truth. If this is your goal, remember that you have to do it under a veil.

Too many attempt to make their poetry either a lamp or a mirror. Didactic poetry, ham-handed political poetry--propaganda for a party and an ideology--are almost universally failures. The existence of the brilliant Langston Hughes hardly proves the opposite. Neither you nor I are Langston Hughes. And he had enough sense to write his poems by moonlight. 

Having the right understanding of poetry will help you write better poems. For many of you, I am sure that you are already in this kind of lunar headspace and are thus proper lunatics. Some of you are perhaps a little (or a lot) prone to wanting to shine the sun on the world. Alas, such poetry doesn't last, as it mostly annoys readers, preaches to the choir for those who do like it, and really doesn't last. Instead, bring your truths to the world in imagery, metaphor, sound, fable, parables, mythology, and other forms of narrative. Afraid there will be many interpretations of your work? Then write essays. Everyone will bring their own perspectives to your poetry, when it's good, and if you're particularly good (and if you're particularly metamodern), you'll bring multiple perspectives to your reader within your poems themselves. 

Acrostic Poetry

By Dearborn - American Broadsides and Ephemera, Series 1, Public Domain

 An acrostic poem is a poem in which the first letter of each line, read from top to bottom, makes a word, phrase or sentence. This can be a fun way to create a poem through yet another kind of restriction--in this case, a restriction on what the word beginning of each line must be. 

Let's say, for example, that I wanted to write a love poem to my wife, Anna. I could have an acrostic of

TROY LOVES ANNA

The weight within me has been borne by you,

Rewarding in this constant rain of sun

Over the clouds, the clouds that blanket through

Your warmth, your warmth which past this pain has run.

Low though I go, I can but go so low

Out in the wilderness where all the snakes,

Vipers have struck, but shed their skins--we know

Enough to know we'll be reborn. Cool lakes

Shall baptize us and, cleansed, we both shall grow.

A warmth has broken through--the stones will warm,

Now we shall settle in the sun together,

Naked to all the world in our new norm

Of love resisting venom, drowning, weather.

If we really wanted to challenge ourselves, we could even do an acrostic with a telestich (the last letters spell out the word), to do a double acrostic. Here, we could do 

TROY (first letters of the lines) and ANNA (last letters of the lines)

There's nothing in the lovely realm of flora

Rewarding to my eyes as what I've won

On that July where us truly'd begun--

You are my ever-shining, bright aurora. 

For my money, using acrostics in a free verse poem would "cheating" simply because that would make your task much easier. And where's the fun in that? The point of all constraints is precisely that it's supposed to make you wrack your brain, twist and turn your words and sentences, until you find something that fits. The more restrictions you have, the more twists and turns you'll have to make, and the more likely it will be that you'll have to find something you wouldn't have otherwise thought of on your own. And that's when your poetry truly gets interesting. 

Of course, with something like acrostic poetry, there are inevitably going to be those who object that you're simply engaging in word play, that it's not serious. Well, what else is poetry in general but word play? And what else is play than a nonserious thing done seriously? An acrostic poem is or can be as serious as any other form. More, you can add layers to the poem, having a serious sentence read down in an otherwise light poem, or vice versa. Especially if you don't point out that the poem is acrostic. Just let your reader discover it. 

Of course, there are any number of other things you could do to play around with the idea of acrostic. You could have the first letter of the last word of each line spell out a word. You could have a triple acrostic in which the first letters of the first word, the caesura, and the last word could each make a word. Or you could write a triple acrostic with the last letter of the last word spelling out the word. One could even invent a kind of alliterative "acrostic" in which the alliterating letters are what spell out the word(s) in question. 

I'm tempted to try, to tip-toe these terms

Round rhythms and rhymes that reel through the real,

On over through other orbiting orbs

Of yesterday's yearnings for yokes of yore.