so much depends
For some reason today someone said something that dredged up a memory of this poem:
It's by William Carlos Williams, a Puerto Rican poet who was a doctor in his spare time. It's apparently intended to be simple and direct, in contrast to the writings of his contemporaries, big on allusion and remote from everyday life. Look how stark and vivid the colour words are, red and white, and how ordinary the wheelbarrow and the chickens are, until the rain provides a glaze.
But the reason why I ever came across it, avoiding literature as much as possible as I did, is because of the sounds not the imagery. In class we noticed how all the second lines consisted of two-syllable words. We observed the consonant clusters at the end of depends /nz/, and chickens /nz/, and in the pivotal word glazed, /gl/ and /zd/. Then we graphed all the symmetry in the vowels, and made inventories of the voiceless consonants. In short, we established that the reason why it's such a masterpiece isn't just the pictures it conjures up in your head, it's because it pleases your ear too.
See, you thought it was images that made poetry, but really it's the words that evoke the images that have to go together right.
And it's still not certain what all depends.
So much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
It's by William Carlos Williams, a Puerto Rican poet who was a doctor in his spare time. It's apparently intended to be simple and direct, in contrast to the writings of his contemporaries, big on allusion and remote from everyday life. Look how stark and vivid the colour words are, red and white, and how ordinary the wheelbarrow and the chickens are, until the rain provides a glaze.
But the reason why I ever came across it, avoiding literature as much as possible as I did, is because of the sounds not the imagery. In class we noticed how all the second lines consisted of two-syllable words. We observed the consonant clusters at the end of depends /nz/, and chickens /nz/, and in the pivotal word glazed, /gl/ and /zd/. Then we graphed all the symmetry in the vowels, and made inventories of the voiceless consonants. In short, we established that the reason why it's such a masterpiece isn't just the pictures it conjures up in your head, it's because it pleases your ear too.
See, you thought it was images that made poetry, but really it's the words that evoke the images that have to go together right.
And it's still not certain what all depends.
posted by cath at
8:38 pm
2 Comments:
That's really interesting - I remember that poem, I think from the GINN Books way back in primary ( I detested those books with their rubbish pictures >-O ) and it stuck on my mind for some reason. You've provided a very likely explanation. Did he design it that way I wonder? With the similar vowel sounds, etc.? If so he was a clever guy.
By
Anonymous, at 9:03 pm
Belated reply here - I thought about digging up a book on this question but in fact i can't even remember what it was called so looks like it's not going to happen.
Did he design it that way? I'm not sure - i would doubt it actually - it's the same when you analyse all sorts of creative writing, including prose - there are symmetries and balance throughout, which you can identify when you pick through it paying attention to the format more than the content. My guess would be that the gift/skill probably consists of sensing what words/sounds/constructions go well together, whether or not the writers are able to verbalise what they're doing, or bring it to consciousness.
Part of the craft must also involve knowing when to break with the regular symmetries - same way as a short snappy sentence that follows a longer and syntactically-conventionally-formed one can really give rhetorical effect. Like the deliberate flaws that they used to weave into persian carpets (or something!) - the tiny irregularity only shows up and heightens the beauty and perfection of the rest.
anyway i'm glad you liked it :-)
By
cath, at 11:36 am
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