暗网吃瓜

Speakers of a language rely on its words to carry out even the most mundane acts of communication. But the same words are poets鈥� medium of creation.

How do poets turn bare utterance into art?

, the Joseph Henry Gilmore Professor of English at Rochester, offers an answer with his newest book, (W. W. Norton, 2018). It grows out of his decades of teaching poetry. 鈥淚 was pushing myself to find a way to describe how we work with the most basic elements of the poem,鈥� he says.

鈥淭he sonic nature of the language鈥攖he way that you鈥檙e seduced into a web of patterns that has to do with like and unlike sounds, that has to do with the stress of syllables, that has to do with the length of the sentences, that has to do with the length of the lines and the ways they introduce tensions into the lengths of the sentences鈥攁ll those things are pacing your experience of the poem and giving momentum and release to your experience of the poem,鈥� he says. 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 all taking place on the level of sound.鈥�

A singular focus on the sonic quality of language sets poetry apart from all other forms of writing. It鈥檚 what makes poems a form of literature that people are especially apt to listen to, or read, again and again鈥攁nd again.

鈥淵ou might want to read a parking ticket a second time, but I doubt you鈥檇 do it for pleasure,鈥� says Longenbach. 鈥淭he language, rightfully in that situation, isn鈥檛 trying to bring attention to itself in a way that鈥檚 creating sonic patterns within the sentences, within the words, within the syllables, that are giving you a tactile or a sensory feeling that in turn gives you pleasure. A poem, one way or another, has to do that, or else there鈥檚 no reason for it to be a poem.鈥�

Poems aren鈥檛 simply vehicles for conveying information; they鈥檙e sonic and temporal events. Longenbach writes that 鈥渨e savor our experience of the poem鈥檚 language as it unfolds in time, luring us forward.”

The sounds of English

Longenbach draws on examples stretching from Old English poet聽C忙dmon to poets of the Renaissance and Romantic eras, and on to modern and contemporary poets. His book is explicitly about poetry in English. At its root a Germanic language, English was reshaped with the Norman invasion of England in the 11th century, when the French language became the tongue of the English royal court. Today, more than 70 percent of words in English come from non-Germanic sources. Modern English pivots endlessly between Germanic and Latinate words; 鈥渙ften we feel we鈥檙e grappling with more than one language at once, as if the act of writing in English were already an act of translation,鈥� Longenbach suggests.

Germanic English words can seem plain, and even vulgar; words from Latin might sound authoritative or captivating. 鈥淲e聽all hear the difference, even if only subconsciously,鈥� he says. 鈥淭hings like that are revealed in every sentence you speak. Even in the sentence I just uttered. Things like that are鈥攁ll those grungy little German words. Then I leapt to a Latinate French word: revealed.鈥� But a poet’s skill can upend such associations, Longenbach notes, juxtaposing words to make even 鈥渢he bluntest monosyllables seem magical.鈥�

English鈥檚 complex history underpins the first of the poetic building blocks he names: diction, or word choice. He identifies the other fundamental tools as syntax, or the arrangement of words; figure, or metaphor; and rhythm, the pattern of stressed syllables forged by choices in diction and syntax. The interplay of these components creates a 鈥渟onic drama鈥� that is performed from the level of a single line to that of an entire poem.

The thrill of the plunge

Emily Dickinson once wrote about a fellow poet, whose name has been lost: 鈥淒id you ever read one of her Poems backward because the plunge from the front overturned you? I sometimes (often have, many times) have鈥擜 something overtakes the Mind.鈥�

The 鈥減lunge鈥� she describes is 鈥渢he temporal process of getting from the beginning to the end of the poem,鈥� Longenbach says. Moving the poem鈥檚 reader or listener through the time of the poem, gaining the momentum of inevitability that gives readers the thrill of a plunge, is the work of the poet鈥檚 sonic choices. Throughout How Poems Get Made, he joins聽Dickinson in her experiment of reordering a poem鈥檚 lines to find how drama builds.

鈥淛ust getting the words down on the page鈥攖hat鈥檚 like a painter squeezing out the paint on the palette. Now you鈥檝e got something to work with, when you鈥檝e got the words on the page,鈥� says Longenbach, the author of 13 books of and about poetry and a poetic contributor to such publications as The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and The New Republic. 鈥淎nd working with it often means moving them around. Changing the order. What happens if I put this first? What happens if I take what I wrote first and put it last? And that can be wonderfully revelatory and very exciting for students when they see the huge effect that comes from what might seem like to them, at first, doing almost nothing.鈥�

Getting to the heart of poetry

But what can strike students as a small editorial gesture in fact goes to the heart of what poetry is. Through its simultaneous acts of echo, diction, figuration, syntax, and rhythm, a poem forges a 鈥渞epeatable path of discovery鈥� and a 鈥渘ew knowledge of reality.鈥� It鈥檚 a kind of understanding that Longenbach labels 鈥渓yric knowledge.鈥� It鈥檚 not an information-based form of knowledge; it鈥檚 an enchantment by 鈥渢he movement of the medium,鈥� a pleasure that鈥檚 infinitely repeatable, growing richer with time.

It might sound mysterious, but Longenbach points out to his students that they revel in sound and repetition when they listen to pop songs.

鈥淭hey鈥檝e got the song completely memorized in their head and yet they listen to it over and over again. It鈥檚 not because they鈥檝e forgotten the song. It鈥檚 because they like how it feels to do it again.鈥�

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