Poetry

http://www.uni-koeln.de/~ame02/pppp.htm, downloaded 8/3/08
A Guide to the Theory of

Poetry

Manfred Jahn
Full reference: Jahn, Manfred. 2002. A Guide to the Theory of Poetry. Part I of Poems, Plays, and Prose: A Guide to the Theory of Literary Genres. English Department, University of Cologne.
Version: 1.7.
Date: August 2, 2003
This page: http://www.uni-koeln.de/~ame02/pppp.htm
Project introductory page: http://www.uni-koeln.de/~ame02/ppp.htm
To facilitate global indexing, all paragraphs in this section are prefixed 'P' for 'poetry'. If you quote from this document, use paragraph references (e.g., P2.1) rather than page numbers.

Contents
P1. Rhythm and Meter
P2. Rhyme, verse sequence, stanza
P3. Semantic analysis of poetry
P4. Minima Rhetorica
P5. An interpretation of Robert Graves, "Flying Crooked" (1938)
P6. Poetry websites
P7. References

P1. Rhythm and Meter
P1.1. Poetry vs prose. Give us a concise definition of poetry. Can't think of one off the cuff? Well, admittedly, it is always difficult to define a phenomenon in isolation. Asked in this manner, the question has little direction or purpose. So let me rephrase the question, seemingly making it a more difficult one. Let us try to define poetry in contradistinction to prose. In other words, let us aim at a 'differential definition' whose purpose is to bring out the specificity of poetry and whose validity (i.e., success or failure to differentiate as intended) is easily tested.
Obviously, on a printed page a poem looks different from a prose passage (a page from a novel, say). In a poem, the individual lines seem to be relatively independent units (and it is no accident that lines of poetry are identified by a special term: verse). Prose, in contrast, is not made up of verses. In a prose text, it does not really matter whether the lines are short or long. Apparently, then, what we have isolated is a 'sufficient condition' (if this text is written in verse then it must be poetry), possibly even a 'necessary condition' (if this is poetry then it must have verses). Indeed, some recent approaches (see reference in P6) use these conditions as their basic assumptions. The following account, in contrast, builds on a more traditional approach which recognizes an essential poetical quality even in the absence of versification. Consider the three short passages quoted below. They may all look like prose, yet the truth is that only one of them is prose, while two of them come from poetical texts whose versification has been suppressed (credit goes to Raith 1962: 15 for inventing this experiment). Nevertheless, many people will be able to spot the difference and identify which is prose and which is poetry.
• In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree; where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man . . .
• If it assume my noble father's person, I'll speak to it though hell itself should gape and bid me hold my peace.
• And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning -- fresh as if issued to children on a beach.
Most people are reasonably confident to state -- correctly -- that the first two items are poetry and that the last item is prose. (The first one is the beginning of Coleridge's poem "Kubla Khan"; the second is a line from Shakespeare's Hamlet, a play which is largely written in verse, and the third is the beginning of the novel Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf.) Apparently, then, the visual impression that poetry is written in verse, though useful as an initial differentiation, is not enough. Indeed, many theorists assume that the true differentiating criterion is not a visual but an auditory one. But how can that be? Because, reading a text, one pronounces it mentally. Reading the three passages cited above, many people note that the poetical passages have a certain 'rhythm', and this is what interests us in the following. The prose passage from Woolf's novel, in contrast, has no such rhythm; it is 'rhythmically free'.
P1.2. Of course, we cannot just go on introducing new terms -- verse, rhythm -- that are themselves in need of definition. Let us therefore stipulate the following definition of 'rhythm':
• rhythm The iteration (repetition) of a group of elements.
This is quite a general definition, as it must be, since rhythm is a very general phenomenon. For instance, the definition covers cases like the sequence of tides (high tide, low tide, high tide, low tide ...), the seasons of the year (spring, summer, autumn, winter), the rhythm of breathing (breathing in, breathing out, ...); the rhythmic contraction and expansion of one's heart (systole, diastole) etc. Note that in all of these examples, rhythm is indeed characterized by (i) elements, (ii) groups, and (iii) iterations.
In the following, we are combining Wertheimer's principles of grouping (a Gestalt-theoretical approach, see Jackendoff 1983: ch. 8.1 for a more detailed account) with the traditional study of verse also known as prosody. As an exercise, identify the elements, the groups, and the iterations in the examples given above.
P1.3. It is no accident that the following lines (and virtually thousands more in the corpus of English poetry) are all identical in one specific feature. Which?
• I find no peace, and all my war is done (Wyatt, 1557)
• One day I wrote her name upon the strand (Spenser, 1594)
• That time of year thou mayst in me behold (Shakespeare, 1609)
• Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part (Drayton, 1619)
• And ten low words oft creep in one dull line (Pope, 1711)
Answer: These lines are all identical in length. Not length as measured by number of letters or number of words (as is misleadingly suggested by item five -- note that item three has nine words, not ten); no, it is the number of syllables: the lines are all exactly ten syllables long. And when one reads these lines (either mentally or out loud) one notices that they tend to break down into smaller groups of syllables.
Poetical rhythm of this sort is called 'meter' (fr. Greek 'measure'), and a line (or verse) that is rhythmical in this manner is said to be 'metrical'.
• meter The syllabic rhythm of poetry. A line of verse consists of a sequence of metrical groups (or metrical units). Metrical groups consists of one stressed syllable and one, two, or three unstressed syllables.
P1.4. A poem's meter can be brought out by using a technique called scansion, a kind of enforced metrical reading. In order to 'scan' a line of poetry, make one radical assumption: assume that a syllable can be either stressed or unstressed, and nothing else. To scan a line means to assign to each of its syllables either zero stress or maximum stress. Suppose, for a moment, that an unstressed syllable sounds like a weak "da" and a stressed one like a strong "DUM". Now take the sequence "da-DUM" and repeat it a few times (you'll get the hang of it). What you get is clearly rhythmical. Next, take a group of syllables that go like "DUM-da-da", and iterate that. An unmistakable rhythm, a bit like a waltz, but different from the one before. Take one that goes "da-da-DUM". Another kind of rhythm. Take one that goes "da-DUM-da-da". There are many more syllabic patterns -- thirty-two exactly -- that can be created by combining up to four stressed and unstressed syllables, and an expert prosodist can all identify them by name. (I am not an expert prosodist, but da-DUM is an 'iamb', DUM-da-da is a 'dactyl', da-da-DUM is an 'anapest', and da-DUM-da-da is a 'second paeon'.) In the following, however, we will focus on just the four most frequent metrical patterns (see Bonheim 1990: ch 18 for the full list).
If you are interested in a bit of critical reflection, consider a limit case. Take the single syllable "DUM" and iterate it. Do you get a rhythm? The obvious answer is "No" (Why?). A less obvious but interesting alternative is to say "It depends". Explain, if you can, but perhaps you will have to wait until P1.12. Para P1.7 and its note on the term 'beat' might also be pertinent.
P1.5. Rather than continue with "da" and "DUM", which would be a bit silly, we will now introduce a notation which amounts to exactly the same thing but looks more distinguished and more scholarly. Following a suggestion by Bonheim (1990), we will henceforward use a lower-case "o" for an unstressed (zero stressed) syllable, and a "1" for a stressed one. (Dedicated prosodists use a variety of special characters for this, but "o"s and "l"s have the advantage of being easily displayed in all kinds of formats, including HTML.)
P1.6. Apart from assigning stress patterns, scansion evidently also involves counting syllables. Counting syllables is an ability that comes intuitively and automatically (possibly, an all-too easy way out, I admit). Let us just note in passing that the number of syllables in a word is usually equal to the number of vowels (or vowel clusters) in a word. Scanning individual words, we see, for instance, that "compare" has a stress pattern of o1, "practice" one of 1o, and "feminine" one of 1oo. Note, however, that stress patterns may vary both contextually and historically. Hence, sometimes one has the option of either pronouncing a syllable or of swallowing it ("interesting" could be 1oo or 1ooo). Some speakers stress "harassment" on the first syllable, some on the second (= 1oo or o1o). In ordinary pronunciation, a word like "rattlesnake" has a strong stress on its first syllable, no stress on the second syllable, and a kind of 'medium stress' on the third syllable. In scansion, as was stipulated in P1.4, we are forbidden to use medium stresses, so the third syllable of "rattlesnake" must either be upgraded to full stress or downgraded to zero stress. Hence the scansion of "rattlesnake" could be either 1o1 or 1oo (whichever, as we shall see in P1.9, is more suitable in a given context). As a general rule, any word in a sentence (including 'function' words like articles and prepositions such as the, in, to, etc.) can receive maximum stress (This is the man -- This is the man -- This is the man -- This is the man).
P1.7. Here is how one determines whether a line is 'metrical':
• A metrical line is a line which, when scanned, has a regular rhythmical pattern. A sequence like o1o1o1 is metrical because it consists of three groups of "o1"s; so is 1oo1oo (two groups of 1oo). In contrast, the sequence o1oo1ooo1o1 is not rhythmical because there are no iterated syllabic groups. Neither is 111111..., for the same reason (this is just an iterated single element, not a group -- in modern dance music this is usually called a beat; perhaps one should consider this a limit case of rhythm?).
• A foot is a minimal syllabic metrical unit (or rhythmical group).
P1.8. The four most common feet consist of two or three syllables of which one is stressed.
• iamb (o1) An iambic foot is a two-syllable foot that begins with an unstressed syllable, and ends with a stressed one. This is the most common type of foot in English poetry and a useful mnemonic is to associate it with what is probably the best-known line in English literature, "to be or not to be" (Shakespeare).
• trochee (1o) A trochaic foot is a two-syllable foot that begins with a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable; an inverted iamb, if you want. Example: "Go and catch a falling star" (Donne).
• dactyl (1oo) A dactylic foot is a three-syllable foot that begins with a stressed syllable and ends in two unstressed ones. Example: "Virginal Lilian, rigidly, humblily, dutiful" (Poe 1969 [1846]: 127).
• anapest (oo1) An anapestic foot is a three-syllable foot that begins with two unstressed syllables and ends in a stressed syllable; an inverted dactyl, if you want. Example: "It was many and many a year ago" (Poe, "Annabel Lee").
Many prosodists also allow for (at least) two limit-case feet which serve strictly local functions only: the spondee (11) and the pyrrhic (oo) (see also 'mixed meter', P1.13, below). It is obvious, however, that neither of these 'feet' allows repetition as a rhythmical group. Moreover, we will soon introduce a distinction between scansion and recitation (P1.14, below) which removes the need for exceptional feet such as these -- usually, they are just ad-hoc fillers touching up local irregularities.
P1.9. For a simple exercise (more difficult ones will soon follow), determine, by scansion (P1.4), the type of foot used in Lewis Carroll's "Mad Gardener's Song":
He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife;
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said,
"The bitterness of Life."
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The middle of next week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
Is that it cannot speak!"
If you do it right everybody will hear that Carroll uses an iambic meter throughout. It seems sensible, too, that "Rattlesnake" (cf. discussion in P1.6), in the given context, should be stressed 1o1, not 1oo. Note that, in the approach used here, scansion always attempts to establish a regular rhythmical sequence. Theoretically, in line 1, one could easily stress the two occurrences of "he" and leave "thought" unstressed. As a consequence, however, one would then be forced to stress "an", and "Elephant" would come out as o1o -- a horrible idea!
P1.10. In order to describe a metrical line one indicates (i) type of foot and (ii) number of iterations.
• The metrical length of a line equals the number of feet contained in it. On this basis, a verse can be a monometer (one foot), a dimeter (two feet), a trimeter (three feet), a tetrameter (four feet), a pentameter (five feet), a hexamater (six feet) or a heptameter (seven feet).
In combination, type of foot plus metrical length yields categories like 'trochaic dimeter' (1o 1o), 'iambic pentameter' (o1 o1 o1 o1 o1) etc. The iambic pentameter, in particular, stands out as the most popular line in English verse literature, and you do not have to look far in this script (hint, hint) to find a suitable example of it.
Of course, it is always sensible to query definitions -- do you see the problem that comes with the notion of a 'monometer'?
P1.11. Poetic licence. Sometimes a poet intentionally deviates from ordinary language usage or pronunciation to create or maintain a regular meter. Specifically, poetic licence provides two standard tricks for gaining and losing a syllable.
• An expansion yields an unstressed syllable, and a contraction/elision removes an unstressed syllable.
Example of an expansion:
But came the waves and washèd it away (Spenser)
Example containing two contractions:
And moan th'expense of many vanished sight
Then can I grieve at grievances forgone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er (Shakespeare).
Editors often signal expansions by using a gravis accent mark (`), and elisions by using an apostrophe mark (').
Some expansions (as in a learned man, a crooked leg) (be careful not to mispronounce these words), and many contractions (like don't etc.) are in ordinary use and do not constitute a case of poetic licence. There are, however, a number of typically poetic contractions: o'er (over), e'er (ever), e'en (even) -- pronounced like or, air, Ian.
• inversion A deviation from ordinary word order for the purpose of maintaining a regular meter. In the examples cited above, "grievances forgone" und "came the waves" are metrically motivated inversions.
P1.12. Both a pause and the absence of a pause can be used for metrical purposes.
• A caesura is a pause in the body of a line, often marked by punctuation. Occasionally a caesura substitutes for an otherwise 'missing' syllable. Example:
I have a litt-le step--son of on-ly three years old
o 1 o 1 o 1 o 1(!) o 1 o 1 o 1
As Poe (1969 [1846]: 141-2) argues, the caesura after "stepson" takes the place of a missing stressed syllable.
• cadence The final rhythm group of a verse (or sentence), usually closing with a pause. Sometimes the final pause is accepted as a substitute for a missing syllable. Example: "Tiger! Tiger! Burning bright" (Blake) [missing syllable at the end substituted by verse-final pause]. Conversely, supernumerary unstressed syllables are freely tolerated in the context of a cadence, yielding a 'hypermetrical line'. Example: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever". A masculine cadence is one that ends on a stressed syllable; a feminine cadence is one that ends on an unstressed syllable.
For reasons best known to prosodists, a hypermetrical line does not count as an irregular line.
• run-on line/enjambement A line whose flow of speech continues, without a pause, into the next. Occasionally, the meter 'wraps' to the next line, too. Examples:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . (Shelley, "Ozymandias")
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime --
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle
Now melt into softness, now madden to crime? (Byron, "The Bride of Abydos")
Again it was Poe who pointed out that the lines of the Byron poem have a 'wraparound meter' (Poe did not, of course, use the term 'wraparound'). At any rate, they are not as irregular as they may seem at first glance (Poe 1969 [1846]: 144-47).
P1.13. Using the metrical potentialities of elision, expansion, caesura, cadence, hypermetrical lines, and enjambement, many seeming irregularities can simply be explained away. There comes a point, however, when a line cannot be regarded as truly regular any longer. Hence a certain amount of rhythmic variation has to be tolerated even within the reduced framework of scansion.
• mixed meter A meter whose basic type of foot is occasionally substituted by a different type of foot.
Mixed meter is governed by what R. Wells has termed the 'principle of maximization' (qtd Ludwig 1990: 55).
• principle of maximization Take a line's 'predominant meter' to be the one that maximizes the line's regularity. To maximize a line's regularity, keep the number of substitute feet to a minimum.
Useful but nonstandard terms would be 'endogenic feet' vs 'exogenic feet' (insider/outsider feet). Hence, the principle of maximization could be rephrased as, When scanning a line use as many endogenic feet as possible. Examples:
• There lived a wife at Usher's well
And a wealthie wife was she (P2.7)
• When that I was, and a tiny little boy (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night V.1.375)
Hint: The problem areas are "And a wealthie" in item 1 (why not simply scan this line as a trochaic tetrameter?), and "and a" in item 2.
P1.14. Scansion vs recitation. Scanning is not the same as reciting. Scansion attempts to establish the metrical basis (or 'metrical grid', Ludwig 1990: 47) of a poetical line. Reciting a poem aims at reading it for sense and effect; scansion is an enforced metrical reading which sounds (intentionally) monotonous and boring. Although sense clearly overrides predominant meter (Smith 1961: 24), a reciter must have a conception of the metrical grid on which a poem has been fashioned; and, sense permitting, s/he will take good care to let this rhythm be perceived.
P1.15. As an example, consider the following lines:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky (Wordsworth)
Smith (1961: 23) argues that the first line should be stressed o111o1o1, pointing out that "The three stressed syllables, heart leaps up, are like three strong bounds, and we feel the delight of the poet". Well, possibly. But are we talking of scanning or of reciting? Scansion of the two lines, as any reader can verify, is regularly iambic. How a reciter actually reads those lines is a different matter altogether. The first thing a reciter will throw overboard is the scansion restriction concerning zero stress and maximum stress (o's and 1's, P1.4). When scanning you do not recite, and when reciting you do not scan: it is really as simple as that. Failure to recognize this basic distinction has resulted in a host of pointless controversies in the history of prosody.
In this context, consider the following argument by M.H. Abrams, the general editor of the reputable Norton Anthology. Abrams quotes the initial quatrain of Shakespeare's sonnet 116:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
"It is perfectly possible", Abrams says, "if one crushes all one's sensitivities, to read the first line of this poem as a mechanical iambic pentameter [...]. But of course nobody ever reads it that way, except to make a point; read with normal English accent and some sense of what it is saying, the line should probably form a pattern something like this [...] [indicating a stress pattern of 1oooo1oo11, MJ], which is neither pentameter nor in any way iambic. The second line is a little more iambic, but, read for expression, falls just as far short of pentameter. Only in the third and the fourth lines do we get verses which read as well as scan like five iambic feet" (Abrams 1986: 2550-51).
Abrams argues for replacing scansion by "reading for expression". Make up your mind whether you want to accept this argument -- if you do you can tear up this section. The odd thing is that Abrams is quite right initially. True enough, it would be absurd to recite Shakespeare's lines as a "mechanical iambic pentameters"; it is true, too, that if one did read them in this manner one would probably do it "to make a point", namely to establish the poem's meter. So far so good. Once we accept Abrams's conclusion, however, we find ourselves in a corner. Surely, pronouncing line number one as "LET me not to the MARRiage of TRUE MINDS", as Abrams suggests, will not exactly thrill an audience. There is really no sensible reason why a recital should be restricted to using full or zero stresses exclusively. Worse, line 3 supposedly "read[s] as well as scan[s] like five iambic feet", hence has a stress pattern of "Which ALters WHEN it ALterAtion FINDS", followed by "Or BENDS with THE reMOVer TO reMOVE". Well, if that rendering doesn't crush "all one's sensitivities" then I don't know what does. Finally, consider line 5 of the same poem, which runs "O no, it is an ever fixed mark". Should the word "fixed" be rendered as one or as two syllables? Virtually every scholar, including Abrams (I think), would expand it, make it into two syllables (P1.11), and rightly so. But on what basis does one come to that decision; on the basis of reading for expression or on the basis of scansion?
P1.16. Hopefully, bearing in mind the foregoing discussion, you are now in a position to explain and resolve the well-known metrical problems of the following lines, also from a sonnet by Shakespeare (Chatman 1970: 328). (This should not be too difficult.)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate (Shakespeare)
P1.17. Here are some more scansion exercises, but be warned, they are not quite as easy as the examples cited earlier.
Swift of foot was Hiawatha;
He could shoot an arrow from him,
And run forward with such fleetness,
That the arrow fell behind him.
(Longfellow, "The Song of Hiawatha")
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
(Tennyson, "The Charge of the Light Brigade")
If thou be'st borne to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee.
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear
Nowhere
Lives a woman true, and fair.
(Donne, "Go and catch a falling star")
There was a young lady of Niger
Who smiled as she rode on a tiger;
They returned from the ride
With the lady inside,
And the smile on the face of the tiger!
Hints: if the Donne poem poses a problem consider that one line of it was used for illustrating one of the most common feet (P1.8). If you find that the limerick seems to be slightly irregular -- it is -- try to establish its predominant meter on the basis of the concluding three lines.
P1.18. Poets often enjoy playing with exotic metrical effects. Given the concepts and strategies introduced here, comment on the following games and experiments.
HEAR the sledges with the bells --
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells --
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
(Poe, "The Bells")
There was a merry passenger,
a messenger, a mariner;
he built a gilded gondola
to wander in, and had in her
a load of yellow oranges
and porridge for his provender;
he perfumed her with marjoram
and cardamom and lavender.
(J.R.R. Tolkien, "Errantry")
P1.19. Historical shift of emphasis. Historically, 'early' poetical texts tend to conform strictly to metrical rules, while more 'modern' texts (roughly, from the middle of the 19C onwards) allow increasing degrees of variation and irregularity. The development towards increasing freedom is typified in the 19C concept of 'sprung rhythm' and the 20C concept of 'free verse'.
• sprung rhythm "G.M. Hopkins' term for a mixed meter in which the foot consists of a stressed syllable which may stand alone, or may be combined with from one to three more unstressed syllables" (Abrams 1964: 52).
I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's
dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air
(Hopkins, "The Windhover")
• free verse "is verse which, although more rhythmic than ordinary prose, is written without a regular metric pattern" (Abrams 1964: 39).
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table
(T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")
Can you give me a precise description?
Said the policeman. Her lips, I told him,
Were soft. Could you give me, he said, pencil
Raised, a metaphor? Soft as an open mouth,
I said.
(Barry Cole, "Reported Missing")
Although these texts exemplify a gradual loss of metrical (i.e., syllabic) rhythm, and begin to sound more and more like ordinary prose (well, some of them do), they still use elements like visual versification, cadences, and regular pauses that might be constitutive of a different kind of poetical rhythm. To my knowledge, little has been done in this area of prosody.

P2. Rhyme, verse sequence, stanza
P2.1. Like rhythm, rhyme is a sound-oriented poetical feature.
• Two words rhyme if they are identical or similar from the last stressed vowel onwards. A rhyme is a pure rhyme or a perfect rhyme when the rhyming bits are identical in sound (ran/man, bright/night, many/any, subdue/renew, glorious/victorious); whereas a half rhyme/ slant rhyme is one in which the rhyming parts are only similar in sound (often it is exactly the vowels that differ: load/lid, stone/frown, over/recover).
There are two main exceptions:
• An eye rhyme links two words that look as if they ought to rhyme perfectly but in reality do not, e.g., daughter and laughter. Usually, an eye rhyme is only a half rhyme. Note, however, that what may appear as an eye rhyme may once have been a pure rhyme (as prove/love was in Shakespeare); and in the special case of the word wind there was once a poetic licence (P1.11) that permitted it to rhyme perfectly with words like find etc. (Cases like these have to be checked in a good etymological dictionary such as the Oxford English Dictionary.)
• A rich rhyme links two words that sound wholly alike (homophones): reed/read, rite/right.
P2.2. Further common distinctions concern the position of rhymes and the number of syllables involved.
• An end rhyme is one in which the rhyming words occur at the end of two lines (this is, of course, the standard case).
• An internal rhyme is one in which one of the rhyming words occurs in the middle and the other at the end of a line ("Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary" -- Poe).
• A masculine rhyme is one that ends in a single stressed syllable (ran/man).
• A feminine rhyme is one that ends in one or more unstressed syllables (Niger/tiger).
P2.3. Rhymes have a variety of functions: they emphasize the end of a line; they help memorize verses; and they link and bind verse sequences. For an analysis of complex rhyming patterns, ordinary lower-case letters (with the exception of 'x') are used to represent rhyming lines, and the letter 'x' represents a non-rhyming line. The two most common and basic rhyming patterns are alternate rhymes and embracing rhymes:
• An alternate rhyme is a verse sequence that rhymes abab (or similarly, such as xaxa);
• an embracing rhyme is a verse sequence that rhymes abba (or similarly, such as axxa).
A rhyming pattern such as xaxaxa (clearly a variant of an alternate rhyme) consists of a verse sequence of six lines of which the second, fourth and sixth rhyme (Carroll's "Mad Gardener's Song", partially quoted in P1.9, provides an example). Occasionally, one adds an indication of the lines' metrical length so that the general formula for the stanzas of the "Mad Gardener's Song" becomes x4a3x4a3x4a3.
P2.4. The following standard verse-sequence patterns have acquired proper terms:
• A couplet is a verse sequence consisting of exactly two rhyming lines (aa).
• The short couplet or octosyllabic couplet is a verse sequence consisting of the pattern a4a4:
I am his Highness' Dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, Sir, whose Dog are you? (Pope)
• The heroic couplet uses the pattern a5a5:
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see;
Till then, in patience our proceeding be. (Hamlet V.1.291)
• A tercet is a verse sequence using either the rhyme pattern axa or aaa (the latter is also called a triplet).
• A quatrain is a verse sequence consisting of four lines, usually of the rhyming pattern xaxa, abba or abab.
Longer verse sequences (whose possible rhyming patterns are too varied to be listed here) include quintets, sestets, septets, octets, and nonets.
P2.5. As was pointed out above (P1.13), the most popular type of verse sequence in English as well as European dramatic literature is the blank verse.
• blank verse A sequence of unrhymed iambic pentameters. Blank verse is 'blank' because it has neither rhymes nor a rhyming pattern. For an example, we can fall back on a couple of lines that we used to establish the rhythmical character of poetry (P1.1):
If it assume my noble father's person,
I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape
And bid me hold my peace. (Hamlet)
P2.6. Verse sequences usually accumulate in larger structures called stanzas:
• A stanza is sequence of lines that is visually marked off as a separate unit. A stanza consists of one or more verse sequences, and a poem consists of one or more stanzas.
P2.7. Some types of poems such as ballads, limericks and sonnets can be defined on the basis of their formal features.
• A ballad stanza is a four-line stanza conforming to the pattern x4a3x4a3. Example:
There lived a wife at Usher's Well
And a wealthie wife was she;
She had three stout an stalwart sons,
And she sent them o'er the sea.
• limerick (define it yourself -- P1.17 cites a typical example)
• sonnet A poem consisting of exactly fourteen lines (usually, iambic pentameters). The Italian sonnet subdivides into two quatrains (or one octet) and two tercets (or one sestet), usually following the pattern abba abba cde cde. The English sonnet (as used, among others, by Shakespeare) subdivides into three quatrains and one couplet (usually abab cdcd efef gg). Many sonnets move towards a volta, a sudden turn in thought -- "from question to answer, from problem to solution" (Holman 1977), often occurring either at the end of the octet or the end of the third quatrain.
P2.8. Meter and rhyme are culturally determined patterns. For a type of poem that is based on a different set of formal features consider the haiku:
• haiku A three-line poem of Japanese origin, often consisting of exactly 17 syllables arranged in a 5-7-5 sequence. By preference, a haiku treats a natural event (often a trivial or quotidian one related to one of the seasons of the year). It is usually offered and received in (or used to reinforce) a spirit of tranquillity, harmony, meditation, and contemplation. (All this is typical, apparently, of Zen Buddhism, the Japanese tea ceremony, etc.)
Here is a haiku by Moritake, a 16C poet, translated by Babette Deutsch:
The falling flower
I saw drift back to the branch
Was a butterfly.
As Deutsch comments, "the poem refers to the Buddhist proverb that the fallen flower never returns to the branch; the broken mirror never again reflects" (qtd Gwynn, Condee and Lewis 1965: 143).
Mastery of Japanese haiku poetry is usually credited to the 17C poet Matsuo Basho. Here is one of his haikus (qtd Encyclopaedia Britannica s.v. Basho):
On a withered branch
A crow has alighted:
Nightfall in autumn.
Perhaps Basho's most famous haiku is the one cited in the opening scene of Edward Bond's Narrow Road to the Deep North (a play on the life of Basho):
Silent old pool
Frog jumps
Kdang!
(A more popular version, which falls slightly low on syllables, goes "Pond/Frog/Plop".) In the early 20C, the 'imagists', a group of English and American poets, made occasional use of the form. Best known is the following haiku by Ezra Pound:
In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
Some useful web links to the art and history of haiku writing can be found at dir.yahoo.com/Arts/Humanities/Literature/Poetry/Haiku/ .
P2.9. Strange as it may seem, the haiku has recently been revived in the form of 'internet haikus' or 'error-message haikus', thematizing a malfunctioning computer component or program:
Yesterday it worked
Today it is not working
Windows is like that
Out of memory.
We wish to hold the whole sky,
But we never will.
First snow, then silence.
This thousand dollar screen dies
so beautifully.
The Tao that is seen
Is not the true Tao, until
You bring fresh toner.
A file that big?
It might be very useful.
But now it is gone.
How would one analyze the effectiveness of these poems? (A difficult exercise, I think; perhaps concepts such as parody, system intertextuality [(Broich and Pfister 1985: ch. III] and/or epiphany [N3.3.10] might prove helpful.)

P3. Semantic analysis of poetry
P3.1. Types of poems. British and American Classical Poems is a carefully annotated and lovingly illustrated anthology of poetry in which the poems are arranged not, as is usual, by author or historical sequence but by text types. Among their sixteen types, editors Herrig, Meller, and Sühnel include "Ballads", "Narrative Poems", "Dramatic Monologues", "Short Lyrics and Songs", "Pastorals", "Sonnets", "Elegies", "Odes", "Reflective Verse and Verse Essays", "Epigrams", and "Nursery Rhymes". Some of these types of poems are defined by formal criteria (sonnet -- a 14-line poem), some by pragmatic criteria (Nursery Rhymes -- poems for children), and some by semantic criteria (Pastoral -- a poem set in idyllic rural surroundings [often identified as "Arcadia"] and revolving around the life of shepherds and shepherdesses).
P3.2. Regarding the type of discourse presented by a poem, the most useful distinction is that between lyrical poems and narrative poems (cp. this project's genre taxonomy in I2.
• A lyrical poem is a subjective and reflective type of discourse in which a speaker presents or describes an emotion, or discusses a philosophical problem (example: Wordsworth, "My heart leaps up"). The sentences of a lyrical poem are typically framed in the present tense. Common subtypes of lyrical poems are odes, elegies and verse essays. See P5 for an interpretation of a lyrical poem.
• A narrative poem, in contrast, "is one that tells a story" (Preminger 1975). The speaker of a narrative poem is a narrator who tells a story that either happened to her/himself or to other characters (see the distinction between first- and third-person narrators in the narratology section, N3). The sentences of a narrative poem are typically framed in the past tense ("There lived a wife at Usher's Well"). The most common types of narrative poems are ballads, nursery rhymes and verse epics.
Note that this is not intended to be a watertight division; indeed, many poems have both lyrical and narrative features, or lyrical and narrative passages. Still, it is usually possible to determine a dominant orientation, especially in the sense that a narrative passage can work in the service of a lyrical poem, or else a lyrical passage in the service of a narrative poem (cp. Chatman's notion that text types "can operate at each other's service", 1990: 8).
P3.3. Regarding the person or subject who utters the poetical text, modern theoretical and analytical discourse is very circumspect in its use of the terms 'author' and 'speaker'. Like all texts, poems have a communicational structure involving senders and addressees (compare D2.1 and N2.3.1 on the definition of these terms in drama theory and narratology, respectively).
• speaker The text-internal agency (usually a first person) who acts as the subject, originator and 'voice' of the poetical text (or part of the poetical text, since a poem may have several speakers). The term 'speaker' is useful for two reasons: (i) it emphasizes the auditory characteristics (meter, rhyme) of most poetical texts, and (ii) it avoids automatic equation with the text's external author (see below). Once the speaker of a poem identifies him- or herself in the first person, one can use a nominalized I as a form of reference ("the I of this poem reflects on... "). If the poem happens to be a lyrical poem (P3.2), then the term lyrical I is appropriate. If the text is a narrative poem (P3.2) then narratological terms such as narrator, narrating I (N3.3.2), etc., are appropriate. Finally, if one has reasons to believe that a poem's speaker is not the author then the speaker is often called a persona (typically, the speakers of dramatic monologues are personae -- example: the Duke of Ferrara in Browning's "My Last Duchess").
The speaker's communicational partner is, logically enough, a hearer or more generally an addressee. The addressee may be present, named, and 'overt'; often, however, s/he is absent, nameless, indeterminate, or imaginary (cf. the rhetorical figure of apostrophe P4.5). In an act of self-communication, the speaker's addressee is, of course, the speaker him- or herself.
• The author, in contrast to the speaker, is the real-life poet him- or herself, the text-external creator (writer) of the poetical text: people like Auden, Dickinson, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and so on. Since it is always possible that the author may use the voice of a persona (see above), or use several speakers, many scholars today do not automatically identify a poem's speaker with its author.
Even though speakers and authors are here treated as distinct 'textual roles', they may, of course, share certain characteristics; indeed, biographical and other text-external evidence may add considerable substance and meaning to a poem. In this case it is clearly legitimate to use the terms 'speaker' and 'author' side by side.
Finally, we, i.e. 'real' readers, are the author's and the poetical text's external addressees.
P3.4. Whatever you may think of 'political correctness' in general, interpretive discourse must decide on which politically correct pronoun to use for referring to a text's speaker. Since a generic 'he' is clearly out of the question, most scholars today follow what has become known as 'Lanser's rule' (1981: 166):
• Lanser's rule In the absence of any text-internal clue as to the speaker's sex, use the pronoun appropriate to the author's sex. For instance, a speaker of indeterminate sex in a poem by Emily Dickinson would be referred to as "she", while a similar speaker in a poem by William Carlos Williams would be referred to as "he".
Note, Lanser's rule originally applies to narrators in fictional narrative texts (N3.1.3).
P3.5. The basic assumption guiding all analyses of meaning is that texts are coherent. A random collection of words such as "The king of and is" does not constitute a (meaningful) text, and neither does a random collection of sentences that may be meaningful in isolation. In fact, let us assume that coherence is the feature that separates texts from 'non-texts':
• A non-text (Werlich 1976: 23) consists of a basically random accumulation of words or sentences.
It was a dark and stormy night. Suddenly a shot rang out. The maid screamed. Suddenly a pirate ship appeared on the horizon. While millions of people were starving, the king lived in luxury. Meanwhile, on a small farm in Kansas, a boy was growing up. (Charles Schulz, You're Out of Sight, Charlie Brown)
• A coherent text, in contrast, is based on a network of meaningfully related expressions:
And wow he died as wow he lived,
going whop to the office and blooie home to sleep and biff got married and bam had children and oof got fired,
zowie did he live and zowie did he die (Francis Fearing, "Dirge")
Words and sentences must cohere if we want to speak meaningfully: describe something, tell a story, argue a point, or convey a message.
P3.6. Most approaches toward an analysis of thematic coherence use the concept of 'isotopies' proposed by the French structuralist A.J. Greimas.
• An isotopy (or level of isotopy) is a sequence of expressions joined by a common 'semantic denominator'. An isotopy identifies one of the text's themes. On the most basic level, names, descriptive phrases, and pronouns are isotopically related in coherent texts ("Kate was a young woman who ..."). More generally, synonyms and co-referential expressions ("Pluto", "my dog") and members of a set ("cats", "dogs") are isotopically related, and so are contrasts ("black", "white") and opposites ("hot", "cold"). Often, one has to move up or down on the abstraction ladder of the language (that is, generalize or exemplify) to find the relevant semantic commonality (cp. examples given here, and exercises below). Ultimately, the theory claims that in a coherent text all expressions are isotopically linked; there are no isolated islands of expressions. See Greimas (1983 [1966]); Culler (1975: ch. I.4).
Thematic analysis usually begins with an attempt to collect expressions that constitute an isotopy -- either by co-reference or common set membership. Titles, repetitions, parallelisms, oppositions and contrasts are important pointers to central isotopies. Hopefully, when all relevant themes have been identified, the inter-thematic links (which are also isotopies) will ultimately constitute a text's global message.
P3.7. Exercise. In P3.5, a stanza from Fearing's "Dirge" was cited as an example of a (coherent) text. Establish the main levels of isotopies in this text and relate them to the title of the poem. Note that the somewhat unusual occurrences of "pow", "wow", "biff" etc. also constitute a recurrent thematic level. Where do these 'words' come from, what do they 'mean', and how are they related to the other themes of the poem?
P3.8. Consider the following programmatic poem by William Wordsworth, a poet of the 'Romantic' era.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So it is now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The Child is Father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
Highlight the text's isotopically related expressions. For instance, find the co-referential expressions identifying the speaker's various states of existence. How is the theme of "when my life began" (line 3) taken up again in the poem? Is it related to larger themes that are linked by a common semantic denominator? What is meant by "The Child is Father of the Man" (line7)? Technically, this is a paradox, a seemingly nonsensical statement. To explain a paradox, you will have to show that what the speaker means is not at all nonsensical. Finally, what is the meaning of "natural piety" in the last line? If you cannot relate it to anything that has been mentioned before your interpretation is not yet finished.
P3.9. Read Spenser's sonnet "One day I wrote her name upon the strand", and present a thematic analysis. Hint: begin by marking and drawing connecting lines between all expressions that designate, broadly, a medium of language. Find one or more parallels for "washed it away". Identify the themes of life and death (remember that opposites are important pointers to isotopies); note the link between these themes and make a list of all textual allusions to them as they occur in the text. After a while, your copy will be marked by a crisscross of lines of correspondence which goes to show (a) that Spenser's sonnet is a highly coherent text and (b) that your thematic analysis is on the right track. Finally, adding up all themes, formulate a concise statement that summarizes the message of the poem and might serve as a title.
P3.10. Using the concepts of thematic analysis, let us finally turn to imagery, a central subject in both literary analysis and linguistic theory (Jakobson 1987, Ortony, ed. 1979, Lakoff and Turner 1989, Fauconnier and Turner 1998). The following approach combines classical 'comparison theory' (Levinson 1983: ch. 3.2.5) and Greimas's theory of isotopies.
• A rhetorical comparison compares a thing A (the primum comparandum) to a thing B (the secundum comparatum) on the basis of a common feature or similarity (the tertium comparationis). The comparison pattern can usually be formulated as either A is like B with respect to C, or A is as C as B, or A is like B because both are, or do, or look like, C. Variant terms for primum comparandum are tenor, target, recipient field; for secundum comparatum: vehicle, source, donor field.
Typically, a rhetorical comparison presents an unexpected or even unlikely introduction of B, seemingly making the text incoherent. Facing an apparent rupture in textual coherence, the reader's task is to establish an isotopy that supplies the missing link, usually by guessing a suitable tertium comparationis.
P3.11. Rhetorical comparisons come in two forms: as 'similes' or 'metaphors':
• A simile is a rhetorical comparison in which primum comparandum and secundum comparatum are linked by an explicit comparison word such as "like" or "as". Example:
My love is like a red red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
My love is like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune. (Burns)
The speaker's "love" (this is the woman he is in love with, not the emotion as such) is here compared to, first, a rose, and then a "melodie". Regarding the first simile, how is a woman like a plant (a seeming incoherence)? The ensuing line "That's newly sprung in June" suggests that the tertium comparationis (and the linking isotopy the text intends to establish) is something like freshness -- the woman I love, the speaker suggests, is as fresh as a rose. Note that in another context the tertium comparationis of the identical simile might well be beauty, thorniness, or dangerousness.
• A metaphor is a rhetorical comparison that leaves out the comparison particle (hence, "my love is a rose" would be a metaphor). Frequently, the secundum comparatum simply replaces the primum comparandum ("My [wife, who is as beautiful as a] rose kissed me and said ...."). Here are some less silly examples:
o "Her backbone (A) was a bended bow (B)" (Nash) -- a metaphor invoking a dog's youthful sprightliness.
o "That time of year (B) thou mayst in me behold" (Shakespeare) -- the current stage in a man's life, (A), is compared to a season (B). Further context indicates that the season alluded to is autumn and that the common feature is decay, imminent death, etc.
o "Forests (B) at the bottom of the sea" (Whitman) -- the speaker suggests that there are underwater growths (A) that look like (C) forests (B).
For more recent directions in 'metaphor theory', which also includes a treatment of simile and metonymy (P4.4), see Ortony, ed. (1979), Lakoff and Johnson (1980), Levinson (1983: ch. 3) [pragmatic approach; critique of 'comparison' and 'interaction' theories], Lakoff and Turner (1989), Fauconnier and Turner (1998), and the special issue of Poetics Today 20.3 (1999).
P3.12. Exercise on coherence and imagery.
• Discuss the main subject of Elton John's song "A Candle in the Wind". There are two versions, and the more recent one begins with the words "Goodbye England's rose". But, I take it, the song is neither about candles nor roses.
• Find a copy of the poem "The Fly" by Karl Shapiro. Strangely enough, it begins with the words "O hideous little bat" -- and thus immediately confronts the reader with an apparent incoherence. Analyze the poem's imagery and work out its contribution to the text's overall thematic structure and message.
P3.13. Exercise: (a) Present an isotopical analysis of the metaphor "my leaves and flowers" in Yeats's poem, below; (b) Sum up the poem's overall message in one sentence.
THE COMING OF WISDOM WITH TIME
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth. (W.B. Yeats)

P4. Minima Rhetorica
The following brief survey of classical rhetorical figures is based on Korte and Jahn (1985), a 10-page brochure still widely used at the English Department of the University of Cologne. When we compiled that handout, our main sources were Abrams (1981), Holman (1977), Preminger (1975), and Shipley (1971); we also consulted some standard dictionaries such as Webster's Collegiate and the Shorter Oxford English. For our main organizational principle of grouping the figures by their dominant linguistic effect we are indebted to Plett (1975). A more recent standard handbook is Lanham (1991). For an excellent internet source see Harris (1997) at www.uky.edu/ArtsSciences/Classics/Harris/rhetform.html
P4.1. Phonological figures (sound-oriented figures)
• alliteration Repetition of initial consonant sounds in neighboring words. A subtype of 'consonance' (see below).
o He clasps the crag with crooked hands (Tennyson)
o Love's Labour's Lost (Shakespeare)
o Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper
• assonance Repetition of vowel sounds.
o mad as a hatter
o I saw old autumn in the musty morn (T. Hood)
• consonance Repetition of consonant sounds.
o last but not least.
o Has your soul sipped/ Of the sweetness of all sweets?/ Has it well supped/ But yet hungers and sweats? (W. Owen)
• onomatopoeia Imitation of the sound associated with a thing or an action.
o Cock a doodle doo! My dame has lost her shoe. (Nursery rhyme)
o The moan of doves in immemorial elms/ And murmuring of innumerable bees (Tennyson)
P4.2. Morphological figures (word-oriented figures)
• anadiplosis Use of the last word of the previous verse or sentence to begin a new verse or sentence.
o Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. (Romeo and Juliet)
o She walks with Beauty - Beauty that must die (Keats)
• anaphora Repetition of a word or expression at the beginning of successive phrases, sentences, or verses.
o Help! I need somebody/ Help! Not just anybody/ Help! You know I need someone (Song)
o And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,/ And she forgot the blue above the trees,/ And she forgot the dells where waters run,/ And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze. (Keats, "Isabella")
• archaism Use of an old-fashioned word.
o He holds him with his skinny hand,/ 'There was a ship,' quoth he./ 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'/ Eftsoons his hand dropped he. (Coleridge)
• enallage Unusual combination of words.
o And with Sansfoy's dead dowry (Spenser)
• epanalepsis Use of the same word to begin and end verses, phrases, or sentences.
o Live and let live.
• epiphora Repetition of a word or expression at the end of successive phrases, sentences, or verses.
o Little Lamb, who made thee?/ Dost thou know who made thee? (Blake, "The Lamb")
o Whirl your pointed pines/ Splash your great pines (H.D.)
• figura etymologica The repetition of a word's root, involving different word categories (often, verbs + nouns).
o I name no names.
o Speak the speech, I pray you (Hamlet)
• geminatio Doubling of a word.
o Tiger, tiger, burning bright (Blake)
• polyptoton The repetition of a word in a differently inflected form, involving a change in case, gender, number, tense, person, mood, or voice.
o There's nothing you can do that can't be done,/ Nothing you can sing that can't be sung. (The Beatles)
• tautotes Frequent repetition of a word.
o O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful/ wonderful! And yet again wonderful,/ and after that, out of all hooping! (As You Like It)
o To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. (Macbeth)
P4.3. Syntactical figures (arrangement figures)
• ellipsis Omission of a word or phrase.
o Beauty is truth, truth Beauty (Keats)
• zeugma The merging or overlap of two normally distinct constructions (such as take counsel and take tea below).
o Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,/ Dost sometimes counsel take -- and sometimes tea. (Pope)
• inversion Deviation from normal word order.
o No living man/ all things can.
o Strange fits of passion have I known. (Wordsworth)
• hysteron proteron Inversion of the natural order of events.
o Let us die and rush into battle (Virgil)
• parallelism Repetition of syntactical units (phrases, clauses, sentences).
o easy come, easy go. Out of sight, out of mind.
o O well for the fisherman's boy,/ That he shouts with his sister at play!/ O well for the sailor lad,/ That he sings in his boat on the bay! (Tennyson)
• chiasmus Cross-wise (or mirror-image) arrangement of elements.
o Fair is foul, and foul is fair. (Macbeth, I.i)
o with wealth your state/ your mind with arts improve. (Donne)
• asyndeton Unusual omission of conjunctions.
o O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown/ The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword (Hamlet)
• polysyndeton Use of (unnecessarily) many conjunctions.
o it runs and runs and runs. (Advertisement)
o When you are old and grey and full of sleep. (Yeats)
P4.4. Semantic figures (meaning-related figures)
• antonomasia (a) Use of a proper name in place of an ordinary word; (b) Use of a descriptive phrase in place of a proper name.
o (a) a hoover, a xerox, a Croesus, ...
o (b) The Bard, The Swan of Avon (= Shakespeare)
• periphrasis Use of a descriptive phrase (circumlocution) in place of a simple expression.
o Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness (Keats, "To Autumn")
• euphemism Use of an inoffensive expression in place of an unpleasant one.
o to be under the weather (ill); passed away (dead)
o Remember me when I am gone away,/ Gone far away into the silent land. (C. Rossetti)
• oxymoron Combination of incongruous words.
o O heavy lightness! serious vanity!/ Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!/ Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! (Romeo and Juliet)
• catachresis Use of an inappropriate word; incompatible imagery (mixed metaphor).
o take arms against a sea of troubles (Hamlet, III.i)
• synesthesia (Illogical) combination of sense-impression terms.
o Have you ever seen such a beautiful sound? (Advertisement)
o The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. (Midsummer Night's Dream)
• pleonasm (Unnecessary) accumulation of expressions that mean the same thing.
o I have a daughter, have while she is mine. (Hamlet)
• antithesis Parallel arrangement of opposite terms.
o Fair without, foul within.
o Ars longa, vita brevis - Art is long, and Time is fleeting.
o My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. (Hamlet)
• paradox Seemingly nonsensical or illogical statement; resolvable contradiction.
o The child is father of the man. (Wordsworth) (P3.8 for discussion)
o In the midst of life we are in death.
• simile A comparison of things or actions introduced by "like" or "as". See P3.11 for detailed discussion.
o Like a bridge over troubled water/ I will lay me down.
o I wandered lonely as a cloud (Wordsworth)
o My love is like a red red rose (Burns)
• metaphor A comparison of things or actions not introduced by "like" or "as". See P3.11 for a detailed discussion.
o You are a machine. (Shaw)
o The apparition of these faces in the crowd;/ Petals on a wet, black bough. (Pound)
o Sometime too hot the eye of heaven (= the sun) shines (Shakespeare)
o The ship ploughs the waves.
(A dead metaphor is an unoriginal metaphor, one that is in common use, e.g., You are the apple of my eye.)
• personification Attribution of human qualities to a thing or an abstraction.
o Fortune is blind.
o The dish ran away with the spoon.
o Because I could not stop for Death --/ He kindly stopped for me (E. Dickinson)
• metonymy Substitution of a word by a spatially or causally related term.
o to read Shakespeare (= Shakespeare's works)
o The crown will find an heir (= the monarch will ...) (Winter's Tale)
o What action has Whitehall (= the British Government) taken?
• synecdoche Substitution of a part for the whole or the whole for a part; use of a narrower or wider concept (pars pro toto or totum pro parte).
o Let's count noses; there were many new faces at the meeting. (= people)
o The western wave (= sea) was all aflame. (Coleridge)
• hyperbola Use of an exaggerated expression.
o An hundred years should go to praise/ Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze./ Two hundred to adore each breast;/ But thirty thousand to the rest. (Marvell)
o this/ fine specimen of hypermagical/ ultraomnipotence (Cummings)
• litotes Ironical understatement; often expressed by a double negation.
o he is not a bad sort.
o Nor are thy lips ungraceful,/ Sire of Men, Nor Tongue ineloquent. (Milton)
• hendiad Use of a combination of two words to express a single idea.
o law and order; aims and objectives
o Even in the afternoon of her best days,/ Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,/ Seduced the pitch and height of his degree. (Richard III)
• paronomasia, pun A play on words exploiting similarity in writing or sound ('homonymy').
o Tu be or not Tu be. (Hamlet on the London Underground)
o When I am dead I hope it may said:/ His sins were scarlet, but his books were read. (Belloc)
o Much science fiction offers a horrorscope.
o These times of woe afford not time to woo. (Romeo and Juliet)
• climax A list of expressions arranged in increasing order of importance.
o Veni, vidi, vici: I came, I saw, I conquered.
o thou motive of stars, suns, systems. (Whitman)
• anticlimax A list of expressions culminating in an unexpectedly trivial or ludicrous element.
o Nearly all of our best men are dead! Carlyle, Tennyson, Browning, George Eliot ... I'm not feeling well myself! (Punch)
P4.5. Pragmatic figures (speaker-hearer related figures)
• apostrophe The addressing an absent person or a personified object.
o O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being (Shelley)
o With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st the skies! (Sidney)
o Milton! Thou should'st be living at this hour (Wordsworth)
• rhetorical question A question that has an obvious answer.
o Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? (Merchant of Venice)
• irony A statement that expresses the opposite of what is literally stated.
o Wonderful day, isn't it? (it's really raining outside)
o Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest -/ For Brutus is an honourable man;/ So are they all, all honourable men -/ Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. (Julius Caesar)
P4.6. Exercise: Identify the rhetorical figures used in the following items. (Don't bother about alliterations and parallelisms, these are almost always present.)
1. The things which I have seen I now can see no more. (Wordsworth)
2. Alone, alone, all, all alone,/ Alone on a wide wide sea! (Coleridge, Ancient Mariner)
3. For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky/ Lay like a load on my weary eye. (Ancient Mariner)
4. George the First was always reckoned/ Vile, but viler George the Second. (W.S. Landor)
5. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter. (Keats, "Ode On a Grecian Urn")
6. Snip! Snap! Snip! the scissors go;/ And Conrad cries out Oh! Oh! Oh! ("The English Struwwelpeter")
7. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me. (Richard II, V.v)
8. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,/ The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes. (Eliot, "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock")
9. In every voice, in every ban,/ The mind-forged manacles I hear. (Blake, "London")
10. and it seems to me you lived your life/ like a candle in the wind.
11. Rain, rain go away, Come again another day.
12. It's the little things that make us bigger. (Advertisement)
13. Noise is the one thing you can't close your eyes to. (Advertisement)
14. Now is the winter of our discontent / Made glorious summer by this sun of York. (Richard III, I.1)
15. Where the bee sucks, there suck I. (The Tempest, V.1)
16. Lies have short legs. (Proverb)
17. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu, / My mother and my nurse that bears me yet! (Richard II, I.iii)
18. A verbal contract isn't worth the paper it's written on. (S. Goldwyn)
19. Small birds on stilts along the beach/ Rose up with piping cry. (O. Nash)
20. I think I exist; therefore I exist, I think. (Graffito)
21. Little Big Man. (Film title)
22. Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds/ Or bends with the remover to remove. (Shakespeare, sonnet 116)
23. Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. (Measure for Measure, II.ii)
24. They have committed false reports; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders. (Much Ado About Nothing, V.i)
25. The worst is death, and death will have its day. (Richard II, III.ii)
26. For you and I are past our dancing days. (Romeo and Juliet, I.v)
27. Antony: You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more./ Enobarbus: Go to, then; your considerate stone. (Antony and Cleopatra, II.ii)
28. We have seen better days. (Timon of Athens, IV.ii)
29. The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,/ the solemn temples, the great globe itself,/ Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve. (The Tempest, IV.i)
30. Not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms - capital thing! (Dickens, Pickwick Papers)
P4.7. Solutions (only figures other than alliteration and parallelism).
1. Polyptoton. 2. Tautotes, anaphora, epanalepsis, geminatio. 3. Chiasmus, simile. 4. Polyptoton. 5. Paradox. 6. Onomatopoeia, geminatio. 7. Chiasmus, personification. 8. Anaphora, epiphora, personification. 9. Metaphor, inversion. 10. Figura etymologica, simile. 11. Geminatio, apostrophe, assonance. 12. Paradox. 13. Synesthesia. 14. Pun (sun/son), metonymy (Duke of York). 15. Chiasmus, polyptoton. 16. Personification. 17. Apostrophe, metaphor, hendiadioyn, paradox, pun ("bears": sustains/gives birth to). 18. Paradox. 19. Metaphor (stilts = legs). 20. Chiasmus. 21. Oxymoron. 22. Figura etymologica (twice). 23. Antitheses, chiasmus, inversion. 24. Pleonasms. 25. Anadiplosis. 26. Periphrasis. 27. Ellipsis (I'll be your ...), metaphor, enallage. 28. Litotes. 29. Climax; metaphor (cloud-capped towers); pun (globe/Globe Theater [D4.2]), antithesis. 30. Ellipsis.

P5. An isotopies-oriented interpretation of Robert Graves, "Flying Crooked" (1938)
FLYING CROOKED
The butterfly, the cabbage white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has -- who knows so well as I? --
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.
P5.1. At first glance, this seems to be an 'animal poem', basically describing the flight characteristics of a common butterfly (a "cabbage white", 1). Later in the text, the flying-animal isotopy is taken up again when the butterfly's manner of flight is compared and contrasted to that of "the aerobatic swift" (9). The poem's title adds an evaluative slant by calling the butterfly's flight "crooked"; later lines add to this derogatory judgment by using the term "idiocy of flight" (2), and describing the animal as lurching about (7) in the manner of a drunkard. "Flying straight", in contrast, is termed an "art" (4) and clearly marked as a positive opposite to "flying crooked". The level of isotopy isolated so far suggests that the butterfly's way of flying is aimless, instable, inept, and haphazard.
P5.2. And "yet" (5), though less noticeable at first, the poem also increasingly foregrounds certain redeeming qualities in the butterfly's way of flight, which is also a way of life. Already in line 2, the butterfly's "idiocy of flight" is accompanied by "honest", an unexpectedly positive term. In line 7, the butterfly is granted a "just sense of how not to fly", and when the speaker finally compares the butterfly and the swift, the concluding oxymoron of the butterfly's "flying-crooked gift" (15) surprisingly privileges the butterfly's erratic behavior over the mastery, artfulness and elegance of the swift. Overall, the poem's strategy is to reverse not only first impressions but also the 'natural' value judgments inherent in expressions like crooked, straight, art, mastery etc.
P5.3. The poem's point is notably supported by syntactic and rhythmical formal features, mainly through a technique known as "expressive form". Most of the lines of the poem contain semantic or rhythmical stumbling blocks, reversals, and inconsistencies, imitating the erratic nature of the butterfly. For instance, line 2 is not linked either syntactically or isotopically to its preceding context. Line 7 offers the highly unusual collocation "here and here" in place of the more common "here and there". Lines 7-8 throw an incoherent polysyndetic list at the reader: "by guess/ And God and hope and hopelessness". The significant exception, of course, is "Even the aerobatic swift" (9), a metrically fluid line which formally imitates the elegant and smooth flight of the swift.
P5.4. The speaker's involvement in all this is already implied in his [P3.4] evaluative mode of description. Of course, there is also a striking parenthesis -- "who knows so well as I?" (5) -- which indicates that the speaker is not at all interested in a "neutral", objective or scientific account of the behavioral patterns of butterflies (so much, then, for its being purely an animal poem; but very few animal poems are pure in that sense anyway). One notes, too, that the butterfly is referred to not by the normal neuter pronoun but by "he", a rhetorical strategy that personifies the animal and makes it the speaker's counterpart. What the speaker is really concerned with, then, is a philosophical reflection on a style of living which he observes in the butterfly and which he, for bad and good (in exactly that order), recognizes in himself. Intriguingly, the speaker then fails to specify more explicitly what, for him, the flying-crooked gift might be. Indeed, it is this gap that makes Graves's poem so stimulating and thought-provoking. Clearly, what it lets the reader become aware of is that language-encased values are not final judgments and that it is not always the straight-and-logical way that leads to a goal, that provides the impulse for an artist to produce a piece of art, or for a scientist to make a discovery.

P6. Some useful poetry websites
• www.english.cam.ac.uk/vclass/virtclas.htm
Colin Burrow's Virtual Classroom Page at Cambridge University. Contains a course on practical criticism, case study of a Shakespeare sonnet, a glossary of terms, and a quiz.
• www.uni-duisburg.de/FB3/GERM/Brandmeyer/Gedichtanalyse/home.html
Rudolf Brandmeyer's poetry page at the German Dept. of the U of Duisburg, Germany. Text is all German, but references are international; detailed intro to the theory of verse (rather than of meter), overview of poetic forms, sample interpretations (termpapers, in German), large classified list of poetry websites.

P7. References
Abrams, Meyer H. 1964.
A Glossary of Literary Terms. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston.
---. 1986.
"Poetic Forms and Literary Terminology". The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Fifth edition. London: Norton.
Bonheim, Helmut. 1990.
Literary Systematics. Cambridge: Brewer.
Broich, Ulrich; Pfister, Manfred, eds. 1985.
Intertextualität: Formen, Funktionen, anglistische Fallstudien. Tübingen: Niemeyer.
Burdorf, Dieter. 1995.
Einführung in die Gedichtanalyse. Stuttgart: Metzler.
Culler, Jonathan. 1975.
Structuralist Poetics. London: Routledge.
Chatman, Seymour. 1970.
"The Components of English Meter". In Freeman, Donald C., ed., Linguistics and Literary Style. New York: Holt. 309-335.
---. 1990.
Coming to Terms: The Rhetoric of Narrative in Fiction and Film. Ithaca: Cornell UP.
Fauconnier, Gilles; Turner, Mark. 1998.
"Conceptual Integration Networks". Cognitive Science 22: 133-87.
Frank, Horst J. 1991.
Wie interpretiere ich ein Gedicht? Tübingen: Francke.
Greimas, Algirdas Julien. 1983 [1966].
Structural Semantics. Trans. McDowell, D., Schleifer, A., Velie, A. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P.
Gwynn, Frederick L., Condee, R.W., Lewis, A.O. 1965.
The Case for Poetry: A Critical Anthology. London: Prentice-Hall.
Harris, Robert.
1997. "A Handbook of Rhetorical Devices." 19 August 1997. Internet document accessed 25 October 1999. http://www.sccu.edu/faculty/R_Harris/rhetoric.htm
Herrig, Ludwig; Meller, H.; Sühnel, R., eds. 1966.
British and American Classical Poems. Braunschweig: Westermann.
Holman, C. Hugh. 1977.
A Handbook to Literature. Indianapolis: Odyssey.
Jackendoff, Ray. 1983.
Semantics and Cognition. Cambridge: MIT.
Jakobson, Roman.
1987. Language in Literature, ed. Pomorska, Krystyna, Rudy, Stephen. Cambridge: Harvard UP.
Korte, Barbara; Jahn, Manfred. 1985.
Minima Rhetorica. Mimeograph. Cologne: Englisches Seminar.
Lakoff, George; Johnson, Mark. 1980.
Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: U of Chicago P.
---; Turner, Mark. 1989.
More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. Chicago: U of Chicago P.
Lanham, Richard A. 1991.
A Handlist of Rhetorical Terms. Berkeley: U of California P.
Lanser, Susan S. 1981.
The Narrative Act: Point of View in Prose Fiction. Princeton: Princeton UP.
Levinson, Stephen C. 1983.
Pragmatics. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Ludwig, Hans-Werner. 1990.
Arbeitsbuch Lyrikanalyse. 3rd ed. Tübingen: Narr.
Ortony, Andrew, ed. 1979.
Metaphor and Thought. Cambridge: Cambridge UP.
Plett, Heinrich F. 1975.
Textwissenschaft und Textanalyse: Semiotik, Linguistik, Rhetorik. Heidelberg: Meyer.
Preminger, Alex, ed. 1975.
The Princeton Encyclopaedia of Poetry and Poetics. Princeton: Princeton UP.
Poe, Edgar Allan. 1969 [1846].
"The Rationale of Verse". Poems and Essays. London: Everyman.
Raith, Joseph. 1962.
Englische Metrik. München: Hueber.
Shipley, Joseph T., ed. 1971.
Dictionary of World Literary Terms. London: Allen & Unwin.
Smith, L.E.W. 1961.
A Short Course on Poetry. London: Methuen.
Standop, Ewald. 1989.
Abriß der englischen Metrik. Tübingen: Francke.
Werlich, Egon. 1976.
A Text Grammar of English. Heidelberg: UTB.
Wilpert, Gero von. 1964.
Sachwörterbuch der Literatur. Stuttgart: Kröner.

News Report Writing Tech.10 Maret 2008

Ass. w.w.
Mohon maaf, hari ini saya tidak bisa bertemu di kelas karena harus ke luar kota (Semarang). Sebagai gantinya, silahkan buka artikel dengan judul "News Writing Techniques" di blog ini. Terjemahkanlah lalu tulis terjemahan Anda dengan tulisan tangan Anda sendiri di kertas folio bergaris. Tulis identitas Anda (Name and Name) serta tulis "News Report Writing Technology"di pojok kanan atas halaman sampul.Kumpulkan terjemahan Anda di atas meja saya selambat-lambatnya hari Sabtu, 15 Maret 2008 pukul 12.00. Terima kasih dan selamat bekerja.

English Journalism, 11 Maret 2008

Ass wr. wb.
Mohon maaf, saya tidak bisa hadir di kelas karena saya harus ke Semarang. Sebagai ganti pertemuan, silahkan anda baca/ copy/ print artikel "What is Journalism" di blog saya ini. selanjutnya, silahkan Anda terjemahkan. Hasil terjemahan Anda silahkan dikumpulkan di meja saya paling lambat hari Senin, 17 Maret 2008 pk. 12.00. Tulislah terjemahan Anda di kertas folio bergaris dengan tulisan tangan Anda sendiri. Jangan lupa tulisn identitas Anda dan Kelas Anda di halaman depan. InsyaAllah kita bertemu minggu berikutnya. Terima kasih dan selamat bekerja.

What is Journalism?

What is "Journalism?"
http://www.robertniles.com/journalism/, downloaded: 29/2/08
By Robert Niles

Prepared for McKinley Elementary School, Pasadena, Calif.
You may download a PDF version of this page to print and copy for non-commercial classroom use.

Journalism is a form of writing that tells people about things that really happened, but that they might not have known about already.
People who write journalism are called "journalists." They might work at newspapers, magazines, websites or for TV or radio stations.
The most important characteristic shared by good journalists is curiosity. Good journalists love to read and want to find out as much as they can about the world around them.
Journalism comes in several different forms:
I. News
A. Breaking news: Telling about an event as it happens.
B. Feature stories: A detailed look at something interesting that's not breaking news.
C. Enterprise or Investigative stories: Stories that uncover information that few people knew.
II. Opinion
A. Editorials: Unsigned articles that express a publication's opinion.
B. Columns: Signed articles that express the writer's reporting and his conclusions.
C. Reviews: Such as concert, restaurant or movie reviews.
Online, journalism can come in the forms listed above, as well as:
• Blogs: Online diaries kept by individuals or small groups.
• Discussion boards: Online question and answer pages where anyone can participate.
• Wikis: Articles that any reader can add to or change.
The best journalism is easy to read, and just sounds like a nice, smart person telling you something interesting.
Reporting
How do you get the facts for your news story? By reporting!
There are three main ways to gather information for a news story or opinion piece:
• Interviews: Talking with people who know something about the story you are reporting.
• Observation: Watching and listening where news is taking place.
• Documents: Reading stories, reports, public records and other printed material.
The people or documents you use when reporting a story are called your "sources." In your story, you always tell your readers what sources you've used. So you must remember to get the exact spelling of all your sources' names. You want everything in your story to be accurate, including the names of the sources you quote.
Often, a person's name is not enough information to identify them in a news story. Lots of people have the same name, after all. So you will also want to write down your sources' ages, their hometowns, their jobs and any other information about them that is relevant to the story.
Whenever you are interviewing someone, observing something happening or reading about something, you will want to write down the answers to the "Five Ws" about that source:
• Who are they?
• What were they doing?
• Where were they doing it?
• When they do it?
• Why did they do it?
Many good reporters got their start by keeping a diary. Buy a notebook, and start jotting down anything interesting you hear, see or read each day. You might be surprised to discover how many good stories you encounter each week!
Writing
Here are the keys to writing good journalism:
• Get the facts. All the facts you can.
• Tell your readers where you got every bit of information you put in your story.
• Be honest about what you do not know.
• Don't try to write fancy. Keep it clear.
Start your story with the most important thing that happened in your story. This is called your "lead." It should summarize the whole story in one sentence.
From there, add details that explain or illustrate what's going on. You might need to start with some background or to "set the scene" with details of your observation. Again, write the story like you were telling it to a friend. Start with what's most important, then add background or details as needed.
When you write journalism, your paragraphs will be shorter than you are used to in classroom writing. Each time you introduce a new source, you will start a new paragraph. Each time you bring up a new point, you will start a new paragraph. Again, be sure that you tell the source for each bit of information you add to the story.
Whenever you quote someone's exact words, you will put them within quotation marks and provide "attribution" at the end of the quote. Here's an example:
"I think Miss Cherng's class is really great," ten-year-old McKinley student Hermione Granger said.
Commas go inside the closing quote mark when you are providing attribution.
Sometimes, you can "paraphrase" what a source says. That means that you do not use the source's exact words, but reword it to make it shorter, or easier to understand. You do not use quote marks around a paraphrase, but you still need to write who said it. Here's an example:
Even though the class was hard, students really liked it, McKinley fourth-grader Hermione Granger said.

The Nature of Literature

http://www.plu.edu/~jensenmk/271wellek.html, downloaded 29/2/08
Wellek & Warren on

The Concept of Literature
In Chapter 2 of their classic Theory of Literature>, René Wellek and Austin Warren discuss the concept of literature and conclude that it refers to "imaginative literature." From René Wellek & Austin Warren, Theory of Literature, 3rd ed. (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1956), pp. 20-28:

THE NATURE OF LITERATURE
THE first problem to confront us is, obviously, the subject matter of literary scholarship. What is literature? What is not literature? What is the nature of literature ? Simple as such questions sound, they are rarely answered clearly.
One way is to define 'literature' as everything in print. We then shall be able to study the 'medical profession in the fourteenth century' or 'planetary motion in the early Middle Ages' or 'witchcraft in Old and New England'. As Edwin Greenlaw has argued, 'Nothing related to the history of civilization is beyond our province'; we are ' not limited to belles-lettres or even to printed or manuscript records in our effort to understand a period or civilization ', and we 'must see our work in the light of its possible contribution to the history of culture. According to Greenlaw's theory, and the practice of many scholars, literary study has thus become not merely closely related to the history of civilization but indeed identical with it. Such study is literary only in the sense that it is occupied with printed or written matter, necessarily the primary source of most history. It can, of course, be argued in defence of such a view that historians neglect these problems, that they are too much preoccupied with diplomatic, military, and economic history, and that thus the literary scholar is justified in invading and taking over a neighbouring terrain. Doubtless nobody should be forbidden to enter any area he likes, and doubtless there is much to be said in favour of cultivating the history of civilization in the broadest terms. But still the study ceases to be literary. The objection that this is only a quibble about terminology is not convincing. The study of everything connected with the history of civilization does, as a matter of fact, crowd out strictly literary studies. All distinctions fall; extraneous criteria are introduced into literature; and, by consequence, literature will be judged valuable only so far as it yields results for this or that adjacent discipline. The identification of literature with the history of civilization is a denial of the specific field and the specific methods of literary study.
Another way of defining literature is to limit it to 'great books', books which, whatever their subject, are 'notable for literary form or expression'. Here the criterion is either aesthetic worth alone or aesthetic worth in combination with general intellectual distinction. Within lyric poetry, drama, and fiction, the greatest works are selected on aesthetic grounds; other books are picked for their reputation or intellectual eminence together with aesthetic value of a rather narrow kind: style, composition, general force of presentation are the usual characteristics singled out. This is a common way of distinguishing or speaking of literature. By saying that 'this is not literature', we express such a value judgement; we make the same kind of judgement when we speak of a book on history, philosophy, or science as belonging to 'literature '.
Most literary histories do include treatment of philosophers, historians, theologians, moralists, politicians, and even some scientists. It would, for example, be difficult to imagine a literary history of eighteenth-century England without an extended treatment of Berkeley and Hume, Bishop Butler and Gibbon, Burke and even Adam Smith. The treatment of these authors, though usually much briefer than that of poets, playwrights, and novelists, is rarely limited to their strictly aesthetic merits. In practice, we get perfunctory and inexpert accounts of these authors in terms of their speciality. Quite rightly, Hume cannot be judged except as a philosopher, Gibbon except as a historian, Bishop Butler as a Christian apologist and moralist, and Adam Smith as a moralist and economist. But in most literary histories these thinkers are discussed in a fragmentary fashion without the proper context -- the history of their subject of discourse -- without a real grasp, that is, of the history of philosophy, of ethical theory, of historiography, of economic theory. The literary historian is not automatically transformed into a proper historian of these disciplines. He becomes simply a compiler, a self-conscious intruder.
The study of isolated 'great books' may be highly commendable for pedagogical purposes. We all must approve the idea that students -- and particularly beginning students -- should read great or at least good books rather than compilations or historical curiosities. We may, however, doubt that the principle is worth preserving in its purity for the sciences, history, or any other accumulative and progressing subject. Within the history of imaginative literature, limitation to the great books makes incomprehensible the continuity of literary tradition, the development' of literary genres, and indeed the very nature of the literary process, besides obscuring the background of social, linguistic, ideological, and other conditioning circumstances. In history, philosophy, and similar subjects, it actually introduces an excessively 'aesthetic' point of view. There is obviously no other reason than stress on expository 'style' and organization for singling out Thomas Huxley from all English scientists as the one worth reading. This criterion must, with very few exceptions, favour popularizers over the great originators: it will, and must, prefer Huxley to Darwin, Bergson to Kant.
The term 'literature' seems best if we limit it to the art of literature, that is, to imaginative literature. There are certain difficulties with so employing the term; but, in English, the possible alternatives, such as 'fiction' or 'poetry', are either already pre-empted by narrow meanings or, like 'imaginative literature' or belles-lettres, are clumsy and misleading. One of the objections to 'literature' is its suggestion (in its etymology from litera) of limitation to written or printed literature; for, clearly, any coherent conception must include 'oral literature'. In this respect, the German term Wortkunst and the Russian slovesnost have the advantage over their English equivalent.
The simplest way of solving the question is by distinguishing the particular use made of language in literature. Language is the material of literature as stone or bronze is of sculpture, paints of pictures, or sounds of music. But one should realize that language is not mere inert matter like stone but is itself a creation of man and is thus charged with the cultural heritage of a linguistic group.
The main distinctions to be drawn are between the literary, the everyday, and the scientific uses of language. A discussion of this point by Thomas Clark Pollock, The Nature of Literature?, though true as far as it goes, seems not entirely satisfactory, especially in defining the distinction between literary and everyday language. The problem is crucial and by no means simple in practice, since literature, in distinction from the other arts, has no medium of its own and since many mixed forms and subtle transitions undoubtedly exist. It is fairly easy to distinguish between the language of science and the language of literature. The mere contrast between 'thought' and 'emotion' or 'feeling' is, however, not sufficient. Literature does contain thought, while emotional language is by no means confined to literature: witness a lovers' conversation or an ordinary quarrel. Still, the ideal scientific language is purely 'denotative ': it aims at a one-to-one correspondence between sign and referent. The sign is completely arbitrary, hence it can be replaced by equivalent signs. The sign is also transparent; that is, without drawing attention to itself, it directs us unequivocally to its referent.
Thus scientific language tends towards such a system of signs as mathematics or symbolic logic. Its ideal is such a universal language as the characteristica universalis which Leibniz had begun to plan as early as the late seventeenth century. Compared to scientific language, literary language will appear in some ways deficient. It abounds in ambiguities; it is, like every other historical language, full of homonyms, arbitrary or irrational categories such as grammatical gender; it is permeated with historical accidents, memories, and associations. In a word, it is highly 'connotative'. Moreover, literary language is far from merely referential. It has its expressive side; it conveys the tone and attitude of the speaker or writer. And it does not merely state and express what it says; it also wants to influence the attitude of the reader, persuade him, and ultimately change him. There is a further important distinction between literary and scientific language: in the former, the sign itself, the sound symbolism of the word, is stressed. All kinds of techniques have been invented to draw attention to it, such as metre, alliteration, and patterns of sound.
These distinctions from scientific language may be made in different degrees by various works of literary art: for example, the sound pattern will be less important in a novel than in certain lyrical poems, impossible of adequate translation. The expressive element will be far less in an 'objective novel', which may disguise and almost conceal the attitude of the writer, than in a 'personal' lyric. The pragmatic element, slight in 'pure' poetry, may be large in a novel with a purpose or a satirical or didactic poem. Furthermore, the degree to which the language is intellectualized may vary considerably: there are philosophical and didactic poems and problem novels which approximate, at least occasionally, to the scientific use of language. Still, whatever the mixed modes apparent upon an examination of concrete literary works of art, the distinctions between the literary use and the scientific use seem clear: literary language is far more deeply involved in the historical structure of the language; it stresses the awareness of the sign itself; it has its expressive and pragmatic side which scientific language will always want so far as possible to minimize. More difficult to establish is the distinction between everyday and literary language. Everyday language is not a uniform concept: it includes such wide variants as colloquial language, the language of commerce, official language, the language of religion, the slang of students. But obviously much that has been said about literary language holds also for the other uses of language excepting the scientific Everyday language also has its expressive function, though this varies from a colourless official announcement to the passionate plea roused by a moment of emotional crisis. Everyday language is full of the irrationalities and contextual changes of historical language, though there ate moments when it aims at almost the precision of scientific description. Only occasionally is there awareness of the signs themselves in everyday speech. Yet such awareness does appear - in the sound symbolism of names and actions, or in puns. No doubt, everyday language wants most frequently to achieve results, to influence actions and attitudes. But it would be false to limit it merely to communication. A child's talking for hours without a listener and an adult's almost meaningless social chatter show that there are many uses of language which are not strictly, or at least primarily, communicative.
It is thus quantitatively that literary language is first of all to be differentiated from the varied uses of every day. The resources of language are exploited much more deliberately and systematically. In the work of a subjective poet, we have manifest a 'personality' far more coherent and all-pervasive than that of persons as we see them in everyday situations. Certain types of poetry will use paradox, ambiguity, the contextual change of meaning, even the irrational association of grammatical categories such as gender or tense, quite deliberately. Poetic language organizes, tightens, the resources of everyday language, and sometimes does even violence to them, in an effort to force us into awareness and attention. Many of these resources a writer will find formed, and preformed, by the silent and anonymous workings of many generations. In certain highly developed literatures, and especially in certain epochs, the poet merely uses an established convention: the language, so to speak, poeticizes for him. Still, every work of art imposes an order, an organization, a unity on its materials. This unity sometimes seems very loose, as in many sketches or adventure stories; but it increases to the complex, close-knit organization of certain poems, in which it may be almost impossible to change a word or the position of a word without impairing its total effect.
The pragmatic distinction between literary language and everyday language is much clearer. We reject as poetry or label as mere rhetoric everything which persuades us to a definite outward action. Genuine poetry affects us more subtly. Art imposes some kind of framework which takes the statement of the work out of the world of reality. Into our semantic analysis we thus can reintroduce some of the common conceptions of aesthetics: ' disinterested contemplation ', ' aesthetic distance', 'framing'. Again, however, we must realize that the distinction between art and non-art, between Literature and the non-literary linguistic utterance, is fluid. The aesthetic function may extend to linguistic pronouncements of the most various sort. It would be a narrow conception of literature to exclude all propaganda art or didactic and satirical poetry. We have to recognize transitional forms like the essay, biography, and much rhetorical literature. In different periods of history the realm of the aesthetic function seems to expand or to contract: the personal letter, at times, was an art form, as was the sermon, while today, in agreement with the contemporary tendency against the confusion of genres, there appears a narrowing of the aesthetic function, a marked stress on purity of art, a reaction against pan-aestheticism and its claims as voiced by the aesthetics of the late nineteenth century. It seems, however, best to consider as literature only works in which the aesthetic function is dominant, while we can recognize that there are aesthetic elements, such as style and composition, in works which have a completely different, non-aesthetic purpose, such as scientific treatises, philosophical dissertations, political pamphlets, sermons.
But the nature of literature emerges most clearly under the referential aspects. The centre of literary art is obviously to be found in the traditional genres of the lyric, the epic, the drama. In all of them, the reference is to a world of fiction, of imagination. The statements in a novel, in a poem, or in a drama are not literally true; they are not logical propositions. There is a central and important difference between a statement, even in a historical novel or a novel by Balzac which seems to convey 'information' about actual happenings, and the same information appearing in a book of history or sociology. Even in the subjective lyric, the 'I' of the poet is a fictional, dramatic 'I '. A character in a novel differs from a historical figure or a figure in real life. He is made only of the sentences describing him or put into his mouth by the author. He has no past, no future, and sometimes no continuity of life. This elementary reflection disposes of much criticism devoted to Hamlet in Wittenberg, the influence of Hamlet's father on his son, the slim and young Falstaff, ' the girlhood of Shakespeare's heroines ', the question of 'how many children had Lady Macbeth'. Time and space in a novel are not those of real life. Even an apparently most realistic novel, the very 'slice of life' of the naturalist, is constructed according to certain artistic conventions. Especially from a later historical perspective we see how similar are naturalistic novels in choice of theme, type of characterization, events selected or admitted, ways of conducting dialogue. We discern, likewise, the extreme conventionality of even the most naturalistic drama not only in its assumption of a scenic frame but in the way space and time are handled, the way even the supposedly realistic dialogue is steered and conducted, and the way characters enter and leave the stage. Whatever the distinctions between The Tempest and A Doll's House, they share in this dramatic conventionality.
If we recognize 'fictionality', 'invention', or 'imagination' as the distinguishing trait of literature, we think thus of literature in terms of Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Balzac, Keats rather than of Cicero or Montaigne, Bossuet, or Emerson. Admittedly, there will be 'boundary' cases, works like Plato's Republic to which it would be difficult to deny, at least in the great myths, passages of 'invention' and 'fictionality', while they are at the same time primarily works of philosophy. This conception of literature is descriptive, not evaluative. No wrong is done to a great and influential work by relegating it to rhetoric, to philosophy, to political pamphleteering, all of which may pose problems of aesthetic analysis, of stylistics and composition, similar or identical to those presented by literature, but where the central quality of fictionality will be absent. This conception will thus include in it all kinds of fiction, even the worst novel, the worst poem, the worst drama. Classification as an should be distinguished from evaluation.
One common misunderstanding must be removed. 'Imaginative' literature need not use images. Poetic language is permeated with imagery, beginning with the simplest figures and culminating in the total all-inclusive mythological systems of a Blake or Yeats. But imagery is not essential to fictional statement and hence to much literature. There are good completely imageless poems; there is even a 'poetry of statement'. Imagery, besides, should not be confused with actual, sensuous, visual image-making. Under the influence of Hegel, nineteenth-century aestheticians such as Vischer and Eduard von Hartmann argued that all an is the ' sensuous shining forth of the idea', while another school (Fiedler, Hildebrand, Riehl) spoke of all art as 'pure visibility'. But much great literature does not evoke sensuous images, or, if it does, it does so only incidentally, occasionally, and intermittently. In the depiction even of a fictional character the writer may not suggest visual images at all. We scarcely can visualize any of Dostoyevsky's or Henry James's characters, while we learn to know their states of mind, their motivations, evaluations, attitudes, and desires very completely.
At the most, a writer suggests some schematized outline or one single physical trait - the frequent practice of Tolstoy or Thomas Mann. The fact that we object to many illustrations, though by good artists and, in some cases (e.g. Thackeray's), even by the author himself, shows that the writer presents us only with such a schematized outline as is not meant to be filled out in detail.
If we had to visualize every metaphor in poetry we would become completely bewildered and confused. While there are readers given to visualizing and there are passages in literature where such imaginings seem required by the text, the psychological question should not be confused with analysis of the poet's metaphorical devices. These devices are largely the organization of mental processes which occur also outside of literature. Thus metaphor is latent in much of our everyday language and overt in slang and popular proverbs. The most abstract terms, by metaphorical transfer, derive from ultimately physical relationships (comprehend, define, eliminate, substance, subject, hypothesis). Poetry revives and makes us conscious of this metaphorical character of language, just as it uses the symbols and myths of our civilization: Classical, Teutonic, Celtic, and Christian.
All these distinctions between literature and non-literature which we have discussed - organization, personal expression, realization and exploitation of the medium, lack of practical purpose, and, of course, fictionality - are restatements, within a framework of semantic analysis, of age-old aesthetic terms such as 'unity in variety', 'disinterested contemplation', 'aesthetic distance', 'framing', and 'invention', 'imagination', 'creation'. Each of them describes one aspect of the literary work, one characteristic feature of its semantic directions. None is itself satisfactory. At least one result should emerge: a literary work of art is not a simple object but rather a highly complex organization of a stratified character with multiple meanings and relationships. The usual terminology, which speaks of an 'organism', is somewhat misleading, since it stresses only one aspect, that of 'unity in variety', and leads to biological parallels not always relevant. Furthermore, the 'identity of content and form' in literature, though the phrase draws attention to the dose interrelationships within the work of art, is misleading in being overfacile. It encourages the illusion that the analysis of any element of an artefact, whether of content or of technique, must be equally useful, and thus absolves us from the obligation to see the work in its totality. 'Content' and 'form' are terms used in too widely different senses for them to be, merely juxtaposed, helpful; indeed, even after careful definition, they too simply dichotomize the work of art. A modern analysis of the work of art has to begin with more complex questions: its mode of existence, its system of strata?