Poiesis Habitus III: Lines
These installments explore poetry not merely as a literary form, but as a way of seeing, shaping, and inhabiting the world. Through close readings of poets such as Mary Oliver (with emphasis on her book “A Poetry Handbook”), Denise Levertov, Marianne Moore, and Robert Frost, among other 20th-Century Poets, the reader can expect reflections on sound, line, imagery, form, and freedom alongside personal meditations on writing habits, aesthetics, faith, and artistic formation. Blending literary criticism with spiritual and philosophical reflection, these short essays consider how poetry cultivates attentiveness to beauty, truth, and human experience while tracing the author’s own evolving understanding of poetic design and creative practice.
Much like sound, lines in poetry can make or break a poem. With the existence of free verse, it almost seems an irrational thing to say: that lines can make or break a poem. Why would lines or meter even matter if we have the freedom to do whatever we want with our words? Oliver argues that it is beneficial for all poets to understand the effect of turning the line and its usefulness as a tool to convey deeper meaning (35). For example, when a poet utilizes line and rhythm, such as iambic pentameter, the effect produced by adding or subtracting just one syllable can enhance the underlying meaning (Oliver 40). When William Shakespeare utilized the breaking of iambic pentameter in his plays, this worked to cue the actors in on some heightened emotional state, such as in Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” line.
The first poem I will analyze is Countee Cullen’s “Yet I Do Marvel.” Grappling with how a good God could allow suffering, Cullen uses a stunning conglomeration of iambic pentameter, end-stops, and enjambment to cultivate rich emotion in the heart of the reader, whether it is recognized or not. The first line, “I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,” introduces us to the meter and rhythm of the poem (Cullen 132). Notice how the stressed syllable of each iamb falls on the key words of the poem: “doubt,” “God,” “good,” “mean—” and “kind” (Cullen 132). It seems less as though Cullen happened to stumble into iambic pentameter, and more as though he orchestrated each of the most important words to fall on the stressed syllables. This line also serves as an end-stop, one of only a few throughout the poem, and it is used almost as if to pause and recognize his acceptance of the goodness of God before going on to raise some questions about it (Cullen 132). Much of the rest of the poem uses enjambment to force the reader from one line to the next, as though his concerns about the harshness of the world are some sprawling spiral that cannot be withheld. Cullen goes on to write, “inscrutable His ways are, and immune / to catechism by a mind to strewn / with petty cares...” (132) Though it does not end there, the feeling of thoughts racing uncontrollably is effectively conveyed through his use of enjambment of the lines. Lastly, Cullen closes with “Yet I do marvel at this curious thing: / to make a poet black, and bid him sing!” (132) As if he is composing himself to pause and revel again at the grace of God, after all his fast-paced frustrations, he concludes with two perfect end-stops. This is an exceptional and thoughtful use of enjambment and end-stopping: to end-stop the authority of God, and enjamb the human struggle to understand.
The second poem I will analyze is “Visits to St. Elizabeths” by Elizabeth Bishop. “This is the house of Bedlam...” Bishop begins, preparing each of the coming lines to add to it (151-153). Throughout the poem, Bishop also uses enjambment and end-stops to convey meaning, but not in the same way as Cullen. As each stanza adds to the rhythmic poem, Bishop goes on, “This is the time / of the tragic man / that lies in the house of Bedlam.” (151-153) This enjambment unsettlingly speeds the reader through her repetitive description of the things and people at St. Elizabeth’s (Oliver 54). End stops are also used, not to convey the authority of God like in Cullen’s poem, but to hint at a sense of confinement. In twelve stanzas, the line “that lies in the house of Bedlam...” is repeated 11 times unchanging, as if you too were trapped in the house of Bedlam (Bishop 151-153). It seems to me almost that enjambment rushes the reader through both honorable and degrading descriptions of the man, only to convey the idea that he cannot escape St. Elizabeth’s.
Practice Using Lines
Thousand Island Lake, CA (Original Version: Endstop)
Take to the tired tracks or tranquil trails,
Beyond the tepid lakes and minecart rails.
A tie between heaven and earth is taut,
Where net is set to capture scraps of God.
This net has caught a wet and gold-hewn scene,
A lake I thought to be the most serene,
Where islands rise to give the place her name,
While dotting mirrored skies, all lit aflame.
Her lure coddled, she settles in her seat;
The mountains keep her banks between their feet.
Steepest might, draped in white of ice, stands high,
Scraping stony scars across the ambered sky.
I see all this beyond her looking glass:
Golden trout flashing past in schools by class,
Reflected peaks and dawn-warmed evergreens,
My filthy face, in awe of all it’s seen.
Thousand Island Lake, CA (Final Revision: Endstop)
There is a place beyond the trodden trails.
It lies past tepid lakes and minecart rails.
A tie between heaven and earth is taut.
Its net is set to capture scraps of God.
This net has caught a wet and gold-hewn scene.
It could—should—be how I define serene.
There, islands rise to give the place her name.
They dot the mirrored skies, all lit aflame.
Her lure coddled, she settles in her seat.
The mountains keep her banks between their feet.
Steepest might, draped in white of ice, stands high.
They scrape stony scars across the ambered sky.
What great delight beyond her looking glass!
Golden trout are flashing past in shoals like wrasse.
Dawn-warmed peaks are painted on her surface.
The rising, citrus sun knows its purpose.
It stains the glass—this crystalline cathedral.
It warms the young and proud surveying eagle.
Revision Narrative
My revisions for Thousand Island Lake were inspired by feedback on the original poem. The purpose of the original poem was to highlight the feeling of needing to stop and admire a place of beauty by using end-stops. Upon receiving feedback on where the end-stops were weak or lacking, I aimed to make every sentence a complete, perfect thought. The spacing and size of the stanzas is meant to heighten the effect of the end-stops. I want the reader to consider every line on its own, and I find that I will slow down from line to line when the text appears dense.
Other revisions made include leaning away from the cliche about fish swimming in schools by class, adding more imagery to imply that the sun is rising without explicitly stating it, and removing “myself” from the poem. The original poem’s purpose was to articulate the beauty of a place then contrast it with the face of a filthy hiker who had to climb eight miles just to get there. The issue was that this contrast was not set up well earlier on in the poem, and therefore it did not pack as much of a punch as it otherwise should have.
Grandfather’s House (Original Version: Enjambment)
Hid in green hills that roll like
unwasted minutes, my grandfather’s house
surveys the quieted land
Before brooding storm unveils itself.
I lock up the barn, shutting
in cattle, which low through the whistling
wind as though they had sinned
And the hush was some judgment against them.
The chickens are fine, secured
in their home—the hen house where they await
the storm to abate. And may
I do the same in the house on the hill?
What's in the wind? A whiff
of some melodious aroma: sweet
dish of rice and cake light up
My nose’s reminiscent symphony.
My grandfather’s house, where work
gets done to best the somber summer squall,
to plead for heaven’s rain to
Fall gloriously on withering wheat.
Stepping inside, my blistered
feet feel relief. I take a seat beside
the man who fried up rice and
Cakes, and there we wait for the storm
to pass and
eat.
Grandfather’s House (Final Revision: Enjambment)
Hid in green hills that roll like
unwasted minutes, my grandfather’s house
surveys the quieted land
before the looming clouds unveil their wrath.
I lock up the barn, shutting
in cattle, which low through the whistling
wind as though they had sinned
but the hush judged their hesitant lament.
The chickens cower, secured
in their home—the hen house where they await
the storm to abate. Now I should
do the same in the house atop the hill—
My grandfather’s house, where prayer
and work bests the sobering summer squall,
pleading for heaven’s rain to
fall gloriously on withering wheat.
What’s in the wind? A whiff
of some melodious aroma: sweet
dish of rice and cake light up
my nose’s reminiscing symphony.
Stepping inside, my blistered
feet cry “relief!” I take a seat beside
the man who fried up rice and
cakes, and there we wait for the storm
to pass. We pray and eat.
Revision Narrative
Many of the revisions within Grandfather’s House enhance tone and clarity without losing the “rural charm” of the piece. I replaced weak and vague descriptions with ones that heighten the tone and stakes, such as “the chickens are fine” with “the chickens cower.” Other changes to improve diction and tone include changing “brooding” to “looming” and “somber” to “sobering.” I also changed “my feet feel relief” to “my feet cry ‘relief!’” to personify the anguish of my feet after a day of work and to eliminate the ambiguity of “feel.”
Another element I felt was necessary to give an honest depiction of what it is like to be at my grandfather’s house is prayer. It is not merely work that gets the job done, as this grandfather might say, for work without prayer proves futile. I reimagined this poem through the lens of divine reliance.
Another significant change was the placement of the stanza beginning with “my grandfather’s house.” This change was inspired by feedback received in the course workshop and helped me realize the transition from the house on the hill to the aroma, then back to my grandfather’s house did not make sense. Especially after the stanza about the chickens, if someone were to ask what that smell was, I would assure them they were smelling the chickens.