This subject has come up before, but...  I've noticed of many, many recent poetic entries a near arbitrary quality to the line breaks; in fact, many recent posts are, at the end of the day, just prose lines broken up willy-nilly with no sonic, syllabic, syntactic, or metrical rational.  Mostly for provocation's sake I'll say this:  It's not enough to hit the "return" key and call what results a line of poetry.  "Free verse" of course is a form itself by now, just like the sonnet or sestina; we know when a sonnet isn't really a sonnet, but when should we say that something in "free verse" isn't really built of lines of poetry?  Any thoughts?

eric, I'm looking forward to reading comments offered on this discussion.  I think I'm guilty of the seemingly will-nilly factor.  I do read a lot of other established poets; I do try to understand why and where the line breaks appear.  My own sometimes occur for emphasis, sometimes to remind me to breathe as I read, sometimes to allow the reader to breath as he/she breathes.  But I admit freely that I am sometimes lax in my choices, that I have much yet to learn and consider.  Hopeful that others will offer their thoughts here.  lynn

When line breaks are willy-nilly they seem merely a visual vestige. The break signifies the line, a unit of measure, of structure. Its end is then a signal often used as a pause with some kind of rhetorical or performative intent. Perhaps the weight of the word at line’s end is part of the strategy. Sometimes the break seems to serve a grammatical emphasis, a kind of stress to the syntax. I think it is why I am drawn to the prose layout, finding language that is intrinsic to the argument with out the “tricks” of line. Interesting that you raise this question as I was rereading “Engines” a collaborative piece by Rae Armantrout and Ron Silliman. Each sentence almost stands alone rubbing its adjoining sentence like flotsam in a tide pool. It breaks the obvious language flow of sense into something fragmented and different like the dissonance of Coltrane. I think in the end it is the words and their particular use of a structure in the moment that makes a piece work. I have often taken a first draft and restructured into prose just to see what is really there, beyond the ear. Often, I discover a completely different structure being called for in the piece. Four weeks later it of course sounds different. When the work seems willy-nilly, I think both the saying and the said are impacted. It is in the balance. Some work has marvelous saying with out much being said, and conversely, some work has so much being said there is nothing interesting in the saying.

Have I adequately avoided the question?

larry

not at all, larry.  thoughtful response and much appreciated.  thanks, lynn

I definitely need help with this. Lawrence, I love the idea of putting it all into prose and seeing what happens. I'll be using that little trick to avoid having line breaks that are only 'tricks.' But on that note, one difference between poetry and prose is that the words can have a visual impact or sychronicity and that, in large part, happens because of the line breaks. Eric, it seems that a poet might have other reasons for breaking than the ones you listed...sonic, syllabic, syntactic, or metrical. Visual, being one of them. Now I shall go away and try to think of any others! thanks for the topic.

~nanc

I certainly did not mean my list of possible rationales for line breaks (sonic, syllabic, syntactic, metrical) to be exhaustive...  Breath is, of course, a tried and true logic, made much of my Williams who believed that American English tended towards a three beat unit in ordinary speech--he then applied that theory to his poetry.  The "new sentence" that Larry discusses (via Ron Silliman and other Language Poets) was another attempt to characterize how change in the poetic line signifies an ideological and poetical shift in thinking about poetry in general.  In any case, the saying and the said achieving a balance is the proper end result--it's just a matter of finding that balance--of letting the poem almost speak for itself.  One problem is that in ALL other art forms, practitioners start with the basics--in painting, e.g., one sketches, takes color theory classes, works on the figure, sketches, copies other paintings and style, works on the figure, works on the figure...  Once that's all down, then the painter explodes whatever aspect she wants to.  How many people writing poetry--even those who have been in MFA programs--take prosody classes?  Write sonnets?  Syllabic forms?  Willabella?  Can scan other people's work?  Is it poetry's loss that more people don't practice these basic aspects of the tradition of poetry?  Is it poetry's loss that, in the US at least, "free" verse has achieved hegemonic status?

Eric E.:

Your query about line breaks definitely strikes at the periphery of poetry's heart.  In a poem, lines are (or at least should be) broken for some cognizable (and palpably creative purpose).  You've noted a few:  "sonic, syllabic, syntactic, metrical."  Indeed, I've read/heard of others -- "breathing point," "in lieu of punctuation," and perhaps more. 

I view 'the line' as a vehicle which carries the operation of poetry's distinct elements such as:  rhythm, consonance, enjambment, assonance, alliteration, wit, syntax twist(s), form (open or closed), sense music, rhyme, and too many others for me to list 'off the cuff' (which is my base of momentary movement).  Accordingly, when reading a poem, I expect its line breaks to serve a 'poetic function'. 

Your query about 'arbitrary line breaks' seems to square (or even circle) well with Caleb Murdock's observations about the proliferation of "free verse" (and 'prose poetry'):

"When an art form devolves to the point where it no longer contains the elements that define it, we have to question whether the result is art or something else?... The prosaic vignettes they write do not fit any category, so they are called "poems" by default.  Sadly, in the second half of the 20th century, the prosaic poets gained the reins of power, and their mediocre poetry became the new standard.  Most editors, also having grown up on free verse, went along with the trend...The prosaic poets may be setting the current standards, but no one seriously believes that their pabulum is art." [quoting, C. Murdock -- “Is It Poetry or Prose” (2001).](emphasis supplied)

In my view, "free verse" really isn't all that 'free' (in the largest sense).  Rather, it is "free" of definition in terms of a 'specified / prescribed form'.  Yet it is "not free" of the employment of poetic elements such as those mentioned herein and others noted elsewhere. 

The work of a "line break," therefore, is no different -- whether it appears in a 'free verse' poem, 'metered' poem, or 'prose' poem.  Its function should be furtherance of the whole poem's beauty (as to center, substance, form, and so forth).  If not, then I believe such break to probably be arbitrary and to merit the benefit of reconsideration. 

Great discussion topic.  I appreciate the opportunity to share my half-penny on topic for the evening. 

Take care.

Carol Elizabeth

Eric,

I think it is yes. There is a loss when we do not work at the basic structures, try to master the structure as a part of craft in order to change it. Free verse is the dominant form for the reason that Americans tend to "just do it" as our mantra indicates. We have all seen poetry that seems to not even possess the rudiments of language. The process of poetry for me is the immersion into reading. Finding a new way to express the inexpressible must come from the idea that someone can read, discern through language. Unfortunately, it is said that there are more writers of the medium than readers.

In Czeslaw Milosz’s Treatise on Poetry, Part Three, The Spirit of History, first stanza:

When gold paint flakes from the arms of sculpture,
When the letter falls out of the book of laws,
Then consciousness is naked as an eye.

seems to me speaks to the “craft” and understanding it as a path to consciousness. I think that word carries a bit more baggage than our aircraft can lift, but it addresses one of the primary consequences of reading poetry.  The act of ‘grasping’ is similar to the charge a golfer gets when his shot lands in proximity of his aim. It’s a rush; learning the craft enhances it.

larry

However, a poem perfect in technique will, quite often, make a lousy poem...

Many considerations, have turned by mileage, mermaids call and wind's push.
Of late, and for some time, tension has guided the process. I say "guided"
because art needs flexibility to find truth. Artists love art because they can defy the rules, and sometimes things get worse before they get better.

The basics are a healthy necessity, but I don't think that you have to crawl before you walk. People can not explain how they learned language, unless it was learned in a formal environment. Yet who is more flexible, spontaneous and engaging? The native speaker or the student of the language? The body of knowledge behind any skill or art will be sought after by the true lover of its cause. The process can be either inductive or deductive. But remember, we can know without knowing how. It is our heritage as primates, monkey heard monkey said, and then came synthesis.

Who is to judge?  Apparently everyone, and there is nothing more fickle than a mob. This is why the artist must first and foremost please himself. Be content with where you are and strive to improve. Read. Monkey who follows well can everntually lead.

In view of some recent comments about line breaks I thought I would bring this back up. One thing I think I have learned since this discussion began, is that each of the elements used to create a poem are in fact part of the artifice of language and that all of them work at different times to create an effective and working poem. What sometimes gets gnawing is the idea that for something to be RIGHT or the WAY IT SHOULD BE, something else must be wrong. In the end if in order to defend an element we must make another wrong, I suspect what's being defended hasn't much value. Line breaks by themselves are only an artifice and do not make the poem. It takes a lot more than that. So in the sense of how the discussion began, can line breaks, poorly utilized, detract from a poem's effectiveness?

larry

Thanks for bringing this back up larry. A topic never far away from my thoughts and now a thread I will refer back to many times, I'm sure.

In answer to your question, yes, I think line breaks can affect the reading of a poem negatively. How often have we found on the boards here, suggestions for a change in line break leading to new and "better" readings of a poem?
Personally, I find if I have to question the reason for a line break on a first read then that is a problem. For me, as a reader.
Of course, in subsequent reads, especially as Lynn noted above, when reading established poets, it is useful/enjoyable/etc to try and understand why, but if that question occurs on a first visit, there is cause for concern. For me. For this
reader.



B.



Cheers.
B.

Thanks Larry for returning this to the top. Some excellent points here. Now, I'm going to have a think about my point of view.

James

the substance of poetry has never been it's rhyme, meter, syllables or whatever else.  the substance, as far as i can gather, is mostly imagery and sound.  the imagery is constant; even stark prose can have a sensory connection reader.  what remains is sound, and most of the things you've mentioned, eric, are tools used to manipulate sound.  now, you say that arbitrary use of line breaks doesn't make prose poetry, which i agree with completely.  but is it any better to default to using meter?  or any other tool for that matter?  an instrument used without reason will not produce art, in music, painting, poetry, or any other form because art, in its most reduced definition, is human creativity.

now, must a poet take the time to learn to use all instruments available to him?  i would say not necessarily.  does a musician need to learn the bagpipes or harpsichord to be a musician?  no.  i mean, it's not going to hurt to do so, but if the musician particularly hates the sound of these instruments, there is really no need to learn them.  likewise, a poet who enjoys postmodern writing and wishes to write for others like himself is much better off learning to manipulate sound through pauses from line breaks than, say, using outdated meter.

I wrote a poem once in which I made a crack about prose chopped up to look like poetry.

;)

Two Poets

  --By Jay Dougherty

Jan came into the room, sat down in the rusted
lawn chair, opened a bottle of cola and pushed her
feet up onto the table. It was the kitchen
table, and the living room
table, and the television
table.

Jan and Harry had, in short, just one other
piece of furniture:
the mattress.

"Shit," Jan said, taking a gulp
of coke.

"What's wrong, Jan," Harry said--
"just the usual?"

"Uh uh," she said. "This time it's worse.
This time I've had it, and I may never go back."

"Jan," Harry said, "some day we're both going to die,
and if we die the usual way, like everybody else, we'll
most likely be apart when it happens, maybe one of us
at work while the other one kicks off. Anyway, we haven't
worked it out the usual way so far; why shouldn't we die
together? What I'm saying is, quit the damn job; let's starve
together or take enough drugs together so that we both
kick off."

"I don't know if I want to kick off, though," Jan said.
"Why can't you get a job for awhile and let me stay home
and write the poems?"

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," said Harry.
"I've been writing the poems so long now that all I can
think of is death, and you know it never works
to talk about death during a job interview."

"But you don't have to talk about death
during the interview," she said.

"Jan," Harry said, lowering his voice,
"be serious. All the employers will know that I'm faking it
if I don't talk about death. They've all read my poetry
by now."

"You have flipped out," Jan said. "You think anybody reads
those dumb little xeroxed rags that publish your shit...?"

"Jan, don't call my poetry shit," Harry said flatly.
"Before you started working full-time you had more respect
for my works."

"Well, I was either naive then or your works have deteriorated
in quality quite a bit," Jan said. "I mean,
your poems are nothing but prose cut up into lines
now."

"Jan," Harry said, "I think this discussion is
getting us nowhere."

"Oh, just great," she said. "What then? I'll tell you
what. Jan keeps working and you keep on writing your shit
and sending it off to those dumb fucking little
magazines. Jan pays the bills and you continue paying for
a cup of coffee for yourself once every week with those
fifty-cent checks you get in the mail.
Is that it?"

"Jan, I asked you not to call my poems shit."

"Oh, my god, you conceited bastard--you don't even respond
anymore to my complaints. All you can talk about is your dumb,
stupid SHIT--and DEATH--you and your stupid SHIT about
DEATH! I can't take it anymore!"

"Okay, look," said Harry. "You've had a rough day.
Why don't we eat some dinner and talk about this
when we're both in a better mood?"

"SHIT and DEATH," she went on. "That's all you are:
SHIT and DEATH. I HATE your SHIT and I HATE your DEATH!
If you don't want to change things, then you can just
EAT your SHIT and DIE!"

Harry got up from the kitchen table, walked into the
bathroom, and shut the door.
He stayed in there, no noise,
five, ten, fifteen minutes.

Jan listened, telling herself she didn't
care.

A half an hour passed, no sound from within.

Finally Jan got up, walked to the bathroom door. "Harry, look,
you okay in there?"

"I'm okay," said Harry.

Jan could tell he had been crying.

"Just leave me alone a little while longer. I've been trying
to write a poem. I don't think I can
anymore."

"Look," Jan said, "why don't you take a laxative.
Something's bound to come out in a couple of hours."

"Good idea," Harry said. "Does this mean
you aren't mad anymore?"

"Well," Jan said, "we'll have to
talk about this awhile."
"I understand," said Harry.

Jan heard Harry unlock the door, and then it opened.
Harry stood there, face red from crying, pants bunched up
around his ankles, penis shriveled and
pitiful-looking.

Jan kissed him on the forehead.

"You shit," she said, a little tear forming at the edge
of her eye, "someday you'll be the death of me."

"Now you're talking," Harry said.

Harry pulled up his pants with one hand, and they
walked over to the mattress, turned on the small
black-and-white television with a coat hanger for an antenna,
lay in each other's arms,
and fell asleep.