Re: Accentual/syllabic metre
Posted: Sun Jan 16, 2011 11:01 am
Thanks to those who’ve responded to this…I hope you found it worthwhile. If you’re only interested in my idea of the correct order then here’s the short answer:
First: 4; Second: 2; Third: 3; HC: 1; C: 5
But if you want to know what prompted the exercise then please read on.
Neville has asked why it was specifically directed at him. That’s simple. Because he was criticising judges, one in particular, but all in general…presumably the “authorities” in the bush poetry scene, those who “say what bush poetry must be”. I thought it might be useful to see how judging works from the other side, albeit in a somewhat artificial situation.
It’s easy to attack judging decisions, and most poets do it at one time or another. I regularly accuse judges of being dopey dimwitted dolts…but in private. I then remember that a lot of people are undoubtedly saying much worse about me. So this is my attempt to defend the job that bush poetry judges do. Perhaps call it “A Judge Strikes Back”. Although, be warned that it’s a long post, so maybe pack a cut lunch and a bottle of water before diving into it. The starting point is something that clearly has Neville mystified. He wrote: “…we go through this strange contortion that what passes in performance does not necessarily apply in written work. For the life of me, I CANNOT SEE WHY.”
This seems to suggest that the “authorities” are trying to squash bush verse into a straitjacket…in effect, to squeeze the life out of it by not accepting in written work what is okay in performance. So a central purpose of the exercise was to illustrate the reality of judging written competitions…that judges have to make decisions based purely on the written word. They don’t have the luxury of hearing each individual poet perform his or her work. Poets sometimes say on the website things like: “I’m not too fussed about (or don’t really understand) metre, but when I perform my poems people love them, so why worry?” That’s fine, but a judge can’t look at a poem in a written competition and say: “Oh well, I guess if the poet read it this way or that way, it would work…so I’ll give it a prize.”
Metre is a tool to be used by the writer to enhance whatever he or she is trying to say and, as a judge, I have to see clear evidence that the poet understands metre and is using it effectively. In other words, I have to be able to justify my decisions. That doesn’t mean there can be no variation, and Will’s bowerbird poem is a case in point. Yes, the last two lines do break the metric pattern, but it’s obvious that the poet is in control and not merely letting the words tumble out. And I assume the other stanzas match the first. It’s a clever piece of writing, and deserved recognition.
Judges have to differentiate between intent and carelessness (or lack of understanding). Neville also states: “I think the best way to scan any verse is just say it in ordinary speech patterns.” But what is an ordinary speech pattern? Neville gives two of the five verses the wooden spoon for “…sleeping through Noel Stallard's lesson on iambic metre.” In fact, he says one of them, number 5, looks like prose. But, using Neville’s own argument, I might object to that and insist that number 5 can be performed word-for-word in such a way that nobody could tell there was anything wrong with the metre. I could do it easily, using an ordinary speech pattern. So has he changed his mind? What happened to flexibility? Is he now saying that what passes in performance shouldn’t necessarily apply in written work?
A lot of things are possible in performance…it’s why performers can so successfully present their own work in their own idiosyncratic style. But those entering a written competition need to remember that judges are not mind-readers. They don’t have the poet sitting beside them saying: “Now this is the way to read it.” As Marty points out, you can’t “fudge” the metre in a written competition…judges have to make decisions based on what’s in front of them and, although a generalisation, it has to be said that regular metre (or, if you prefer, a clearly identifiable pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables) makes it easier to read a poem at first glance and see what the poet is trying to achieve.
Now Neville might respond to all this by saying that he doesn’t care if I can perform number 5…the metre is simply too erratic and he’s only talking about small variations like family/fam’ly and gathering/gath’ring. Presumably this also applies when, in kicking off this thread, he had a go at the “judge” who said the metre was “out” in his line of trochaic tetrameter: “Bright red coats and royal blue trousers”. Trochaic tetrameter is a line with four sections (or trochaic feet) to it, each consisting of a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed one (i.e. DUM-de-DUM-de-DUM-de-DUM-de…as in the nursery rhyme ‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater’). Neville's line only works as trochaic tetrameter if “royal” (2 syllables, stress on the first) is pronounced “royle” (one syllable). I’m guessing the judge didn’t like that (and couldn’t hear Neville reading it), so made a decision accordingly.
Neville would have preferred a more flexible approach, but how far along that track do we go? Consider, for argument’s sake, the line: “Every family gathering brought memories of royal blue clothes”. Given that five words have possible alternatives… ev’ry, fam’ly, gath’ring, mem’ries and royle…there are 32 different ways of scanning the line. What should a judge do? Decisions! Decisions!
Now multiply those decisions by the number of lines in the average poem and the 100 or more (445 in the 2010 Bryan Kelleher Award) poems in a written competition and it’s easy to see why judges appreciate consistency and are wary of variations. Something different is terrific when done well, but it requires considerable skill to tread that path safely amongst other poems where metre is simply badly handled. By all means write with passion, write with feeling, write in your natural voice…but always keep in mind the decisions that a judge has to make if you send a poem off to a competition. If judges start guessing how a poet might read a poem, where is the eventual line in the sand drawn?
Which brings us to the five verses. And please read these comments in conjunction with John’s, because we seem to be on the same wavelength. This task was obviously different to the one normally faced by judges because it only involved variations of one verse. And I kept all the rhymes, so there was no need to worry about them. The challenge was also a little unfair, because I couldn’t avoid one issue that some people commented on. First prize goes to number 4 because it is the only one to use perfectly consistent metre…and yes, those who said it seemed rather cold are quite correct. But that is deliberate, which needs some explanation. This verse is actually taken from a poem of mine that won a first prize last year. It’s called “Walking Away” and it tells the story of a family forced to leave their land. Here’s the first verse:
The drought was bad enough, but then the markets fell,
and things got very tough, a brutal road to hell.
The bank just wouldn’t wait another single day,
and left us to our fate because we couldn’t pay.
The rhythm is deliberately abrupt to indicate the ruthless nature of what happens to the family. Then, in the second half of the poem, the mother develops dementia and has to be placed in a nursing home…where she accuses the son (who is the ‘voice’ of the poem) of walking away from her. Hence the staccato, impersonal rhythm and language are used to mirror what happened earlier, and also to emphasise the harsh truth of the situation she faces. This is what I mean by using metre to create an effect. But, given only one verse out of sixteen, you weren’t to know that, so I can only apologise.
The problem with the other four verses relates partly to the issue I alluded to earlier…the difficulty of distinguishing between intent and carelessness when it comes to metre. All I did was take the original and mess around with it…changing the metre in particular, but also a few words. So second prize goes to number 2 because it’s nearly accurate when it comes to acceptable metre. It’s one of those verses that is frustrating because it could so easily have been fixed. It just doesn’t quite flow. There’s also the repeated “the” in line three, which is unnecessary.
Third prize goes to number 3. This will upset those who liked this one, but the metre is far too irregular to place it any higher, with stresses falling erratically. John’s criticism of the “quite” is legitimate as it creates uncertainty about the stresses in that line. It seems as though the writer is not paying much attention at all to metre. On the other hand, a “fog of dreams” (which Zondrae likes) is better than “foggy dreams” from number 2, so that balances things a little.
Highly Commended goes to number 1. The metre here is clumsy, but it’s better than number 3. However the repetition of all the “ing” endings, particularly with the internal rhymes, detracts significantly from the impact of the lines…“are merging” and “are converging”, for example, is very awkward.
Finally, Commended goes to number 5. It should be noted that every line has 17 syllables, but this is a case where a straight syllable count doesn’t help much. A check of the stresses shows a lot of inconsistency and the lines just don’t flow. Then there’s the use of words. The lines are unnecessarily long, it’s too verbose (as Zondrae says), all the “ing” words are still present, and there are a few others that seem a waste of space. Judges look for words to be used effectively, and have doubts when they appear to be dumped in a line for no apparent reason. For example, the repeat of “almost” is poor, and “which has her almost sometimes seeming” is clumsy.
So there it is. It’s only my view and is offered as a defence of the judging process and an insight into how one judge’s mind works. The syllable counts that Neville so dislikes are certainly not the be-all and end-all, but they can be a useful part of a judge’s set of resources because they lead to stress patterns, which lead to the effect the poet is trying to achieve, and that leads to…and so on.
Writing bush poetry for competition purposes has similarities to judging it. Both processes are like building a wall, and, no matter what the shape, if too many of the lower bricks are missing then it just keeps falling down.
Cheers
David
First: 4; Second: 2; Third: 3; HC: 1; C: 5
But if you want to know what prompted the exercise then please read on.
Neville has asked why it was specifically directed at him. That’s simple. Because he was criticising judges, one in particular, but all in general…presumably the “authorities” in the bush poetry scene, those who “say what bush poetry must be”. I thought it might be useful to see how judging works from the other side, albeit in a somewhat artificial situation.
It’s easy to attack judging decisions, and most poets do it at one time or another. I regularly accuse judges of being dopey dimwitted dolts…but in private. I then remember that a lot of people are undoubtedly saying much worse about me. So this is my attempt to defend the job that bush poetry judges do. Perhaps call it “A Judge Strikes Back”. Although, be warned that it’s a long post, so maybe pack a cut lunch and a bottle of water before diving into it. The starting point is something that clearly has Neville mystified. He wrote: “…we go through this strange contortion that what passes in performance does not necessarily apply in written work. For the life of me, I CANNOT SEE WHY.”
This seems to suggest that the “authorities” are trying to squash bush verse into a straitjacket…in effect, to squeeze the life out of it by not accepting in written work what is okay in performance. So a central purpose of the exercise was to illustrate the reality of judging written competitions…that judges have to make decisions based purely on the written word. They don’t have the luxury of hearing each individual poet perform his or her work. Poets sometimes say on the website things like: “I’m not too fussed about (or don’t really understand) metre, but when I perform my poems people love them, so why worry?” That’s fine, but a judge can’t look at a poem in a written competition and say: “Oh well, I guess if the poet read it this way or that way, it would work…so I’ll give it a prize.”
Metre is a tool to be used by the writer to enhance whatever he or she is trying to say and, as a judge, I have to see clear evidence that the poet understands metre and is using it effectively. In other words, I have to be able to justify my decisions. That doesn’t mean there can be no variation, and Will’s bowerbird poem is a case in point. Yes, the last two lines do break the metric pattern, but it’s obvious that the poet is in control and not merely letting the words tumble out. And I assume the other stanzas match the first. It’s a clever piece of writing, and deserved recognition.
Judges have to differentiate between intent and carelessness (or lack of understanding). Neville also states: “I think the best way to scan any verse is just say it in ordinary speech patterns.” But what is an ordinary speech pattern? Neville gives two of the five verses the wooden spoon for “…sleeping through Noel Stallard's lesson on iambic metre.” In fact, he says one of them, number 5, looks like prose. But, using Neville’s own argument, I might object to that and insist that number 5 can be performed word-for-word in such a way that nobody could tell there was anything wrong with the metre. I could do it easily, using an ordinary speech pattern. So has he changed his mind? What happened to flexibility? Is he now saying that what passes in performance shouldn’t necessarily apply in written work?
A lot of things are possible in performance…it’s why performers can so successfully present their own work in their own idiosyncratic style. But those entering a written competition need to remember that judges are not mind-readers. They don’t have the poet sitting beside them saying: “Now this is the way to read it.” As Marty points out, you can’t “fudge” the metre in a written competition…judges have to make decisions based on what’s in front of them and, although a generalisation, it has to be said that regular metre (or, if you prefer, a clearly identifiable pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables) makes it easier to read a poem at first glance and see what the poet is trying to achieve.
Now Neville might respond to all this by saying that he doesn’t care if I can perform number 5…the metre is simply too erratic and he’s only talking about small variations like family/fam’ly and gathering/gath’ring. Presumably this also applies when, in kicking off this thread, he had a go at the “judge” who said the metre was “out” in his line of trochaic tetrameter: “Bright red coats and royal blue trousers”. Trochaic tetrameter is a line with four sections (or trochaic feet) to it, each consisting of a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed one (i.e. DUM-de-DUM-de-DUM-de-DUM-de…as in the nursery rhyme ‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater’). Neville's line only works as trochaic tetrameter if “royal” (2 syllables, stress on the first) is pronounced “royle” (one syllable). I’m guessing the judge didn’t like that (and couldn’t hear Neville reading it), so made a decision accordingly.
Neville would have preferred a more flexible approach, but how far along that track do we go? Consider, for argument’s sake, the line: “Every family gathering brought memories of royal blue clothes”. Given that five words have possible alternatives… ev’ry, fam’ly, gath’ring, mem’ries and royle…there are 32 different ways of scanning the line. What should a judge do? Decisions! Decisions!
Now multiply those decisions by the number of lines in the average poem and the 100 or more (445 in the 2010 Bryan Kelleher Award) poems in a written competition and it’s easy to see why judges appreciate consistency and are wary of variations. Something different is terrific when done well, but it requires considerable skill to tread that path safely amongst other poems where metre is simply badly handled. By all means write with passion, write with feeling, write in your natural voice…but always keep in mind the decisions that a judge has to make if you send a poem off to a competition. If judges start guessing how a poet might read a poem, where is the eventual line in the sand drawn?
Which brings us to the five verses. And please read these comments in conjunction with John’s, because we seem to be on the same wavelength. This task was obviously different to the one normally faced by judges because it only involved variations of one verse. And I kept all the rhymes, so there was no need to worry about them. The challenge was also a little unfair, because I couldn’t avoid one issue that some people commented on. First prize goes to number 4 because it is the only one to use perfectly consistent metre…and yes, those who said it seemed rather cold are quite correct. But that is deliberate, which needs some explanation. This verse is actually taken from a poem of mine that won a first prize last year. It’s called “Walking Away” and it tells the story of a family forced to leave their land. Here’s the first verse:
The drought was bad enough, but then the markets fell,
and things got very tough, a brutal road to hell.
The bank just wouldn’t wait another single day,
and left us to our fate because we couldn’t pay.
The rhythm is deliberately abrupt to indicate the ruthless nature of what happens to the family. Then, in the second half of the poem, the mother develops dementia and has to be placed in a nursing home…where she accuses the son (who is the ‘voice’ of the poem) of walking away from her. Hence the staccato, impersonal rhythm and language are used to mirror what happened earlier, and also to emphasise the harsh truth of the situation she faces. This is what I mean by using metre to create an effect. But, given only one verse out of sixteen, you weren’t to know that, so I can only apologise.
The problem with the other four verses relates partly to the issue I alluded to earlier…the difficulty of distinguishing between intent and carelessness when it comes to metre. All I did was take the original and mess around with it…changing the metre in particular, but also a few words. So second prize goes to number 2 because it’s nearly accurate when it comes to acceptable metre. It’s one of those verses that is frustrating because it could so easily have been fixed. It just doesn’t quite flow. There’s also the repeated “the” in line three, which is unnecessary.
Third prize goes to number 3. This will upset those who liked this one, but the metre is far too irregular to place it any higher, with stresses falling erratically. John’s criticism of the “quite” is legitimate as it creates uncertainty about the stresses in that line. It seems as though the writer is not paying much attention at all to metre. On the other hand, a “fog of dreams” (which Zondrae likes) is better than “foggy dreams” from number 2, so that balances things a little.
Highly Commended goes to number 1. The metre here is clumsy, but it’s better than number 3. However the repetition of all the “ing” endings, particularly with the internal rhymes, detracts significantly from the impact of the lines…“are merging” and “are converging”, for example, is very awkward.
Finally, Commended goes to number 5. It should be noted that every line has 17 syllables, but this is a case where a straight syllable count doesn’t help much. A check of the stresses shows a lot of inconsistency and the lines just don’t flow. Then there’s the use of words. The lines are unnecessarily long, it’s too verbose (as Zondrae says), all the “ing” words are still present, and there are a few others that seem a waste of space. Judges look for words to be used effectively, and have doubts when they appear to be dumped in a line for no apparent reason. For example, the repeat of “almost” is poor, and “which has her almost sometimes seeming” is clumsy.
So there it is. It’s only my view and is offered as a defence of the judging process and an insight into how one judge’s mind works. The syllable counts that Neville so dislikes are certainly not the be-all and end-all, but they can be a useful part of a judge’s set of resources because they lead to stress patterns, which lead to the effect the poet is trying to achieve, and that leads to…and so on.
Writing bush poetry for competition purposes has similarities to judging it. Both processes are like building a wall, and, no matter what the shape, if too many of the lower bricks are missing then it just keeps falling down.
Cheers
David