The Sounds In Poetry
By Jerry McGinley
For many readers one of the hardest concepts to grasp about poetry is the relationship between sounds
and meaning. Poetry is considered a musical event. But we’ve all heard poetry readings that are not very
musical. So what ingredients are required to make a poem tuneful? What separates poetry from prose?
The two most obvious answers are meter and rhyme. Most pre-twentieth century English poetry was
written in strict meter and rhyme patterns. The most common English meter is based on the iambic foot
(ta--dum) of an unaccented syllable followed by an accented syllable. If you refer to any literature
textbook, you can get definitions and descriptions of numerous common metric patterns, but for this essay I
will deal only with iambic. Iambic rhythm essentially echoes the human heartbeat or the inhale-exhale
pattern of breathing. If you listen to Native American ceremonies, you notice the basic drumbeat of many
dances is a simple iambic pattern. In fact, in our daily speech patterns, we often speak in a rhythm fairly
close of iambic pentameter—five iambic feet. We might hear a conversation like this: “Hey, Ken, it’s good
to see you here today.” That might be followed with this response: “I’d never miss a chance to be with
you!” Both sentences sound natural, and both are written in iambic pentameter. Now that is not to suggest
we all walk around speaking in blank verse—unrhymed iambic pentameter. Unless we are characters in a
Shakespearean play, we have much more variety in our speech patterns. And, honestly, if we carefully
scan poetic lines of iambic pentameter we find many variations on this basic rhythm. In fact, I find strict
adherence to such a pattern pretty boring. It’s like listening to a metronome. So most good writers find
ways to add variety. The obvious way is to simply reverse some ascents in some of the units. Throw in a
few (dum--ta) feet, called a trochee, to break the monotony. For example, if we take the opening line of
“My Last Duchess” by Robert Browning: “That's my last duchess painted on the wall,” we can stress the
first syllable of the word duchess as would fall naturally in the iambic pentameter of the line, or we could
modify the pattern and put the emphasis on the word last. To me, the second approach gives the line a
slightly more sinister feel and contributes more to the overall reading of the poem. Secondly, in any line
of strict iambic meter, there are great variations in the amount of stress placed on the various stressed
syllables. Robert Pinsky has a great discussion of this in his book The Sounds of Poetry, A Brief Guide.
He emphasizes the fact that the iambic stress pattern only involves each two-syllable unit and within a given
line there is a great deal of variation (p. 59). Other ways to add variation to set meter is by occasionally
adding an unstressed syllable to a line, or perhaps deleting a syllable and replacing it with a strategically
placed pause (or caesura). These techniques maintain the essential rhythm but allow the reader to intensify
the meaning of the words by drawing particular attention to key words or phrases. Skillful poets slip in
these variations without drawing attention to the strategy.
For myself, I have always preferred reading poems written in free verse where the writer has complete
freedom to scatter stressed and unstressed syllables in whatever fashion fits the natural rhythm of the
poem. Choosing words that fit a prescribed formula or reversing word order in order to stay on the beat
seems artificial, overly restrictive, and distracting. Modern poets who work outside the structure of preset
meter create a more original music that fits the exact occasion of that certain poem. If preset metric
patterns restrict the creative potential of the poem, then the structure simply needs to modified or
discarded. Music varies greatly from culture to culture, generation to generation, and most significantly
from individual to individual. Imposing arbitrary limitations on the writing process stifles inventiveness and
stunts creative development. Gary Snyder, in his book The Real Work, says his rhythms often reflect the
beat or cadence of physical labor or even patterns within the geographic landscape. Some of his poems
mimic the rises and falls of ridges and gorges in his mountainous region of northern California. By ignoring
the stricture of culturally mandated metric rules, Snyder is able to create poems that meld sound and
meaning. This should be a goal of all poets. For some writers it could mean adhering to preset patterns
works; for others it might be necessary to step away from convention and create a sound that works
specifically for that poem. The crucial job for the reader is not to define or classify the rhythmic pattern,
but rather to decide why a certain pattern has been chosen and how that pattern affects the overall
effectiveness of the work.
Like strict meter, a regular rhyme scheme can also put shackles on the poet. Very skillful writers such
as Robert Frost or W.B. Yeats can create set rhymes so adroitly that the reader does not even notice the
pattern until it is pointed out. Doing this, however, is a rare skill. Weaker poets strain so hard to find the
perfect rhyme to end a line that they totally abandon whatever it was that they intended to do when the
poem started. In my creative writing classes, I discouraged end rhyme patterns because for many students
the whole quest became finding words that rhyme. It was more like creating a crossword puzzle than a
poem. That may be unfair, but to me putting rigid boundaries around the creative process is
counterproductive. There are much more effective ways of repeating similar sounding words and tempos.
So now that I’ve put a negative spin on set meter and prescribed rhyme schemes, what can be said
about the musical qualities of poetry? Good question. First, the easiest way to hear the music in a poem is
to hear the poet read the poem aloud. Obviously, this is not always possible, but with the magic of
YouTube, we can hear a lot of poets. Anyone who listens to Dylan Thomas read “Fern Hill” or “Do Not
Go Gentle into that Good Night” will have no trouble hearing the music in the performance. But not
many poets perform like Dylan Thomas. For many other writers, hearing the music is more of a
challenge. Yet hearing the poet read is the best way to hear the sound as it was intended. I bristle a bit
when I hear people comment about how badly a poet might read his or her own work. Who could read it
better? But that may be getting away from the point. Go online and listen to Yeats or Frost or Eliot. Is
there music? Listen to Theodore Roethke read “Elegy for Jane (My Student Thrown from a Horse).”
Listen to James Wright read “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffey’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota.”
What do the voices add to the scripted words? The two things I notice most are the pace and the pauses
(caesuras). Most poets speak slowly allowing every syllable to soak in, and the pauses deliver a clear signal
as to where we must pay closest attention.
Words are the primary tools for poets. How the writer chooses and arranges words determines the
effectiveness of the literary work. This, of course, seems obvious—yet, readers often do not pay enough
attention to these elements of writing. Good writers skillfully manipulate denotation, connotation, and
sound in order to achieve their objectives. As readers we need to constantly ask ourselves why the writer
chose a particular word or phrase and why he/she arranged the words in that certain way. What other
words and what other arrangements could the writer have chosen, and how would those choices have
affected the feeling or meaning of the piece? This is particularly true with the English language which has
roots in the early Celtic languages, Germanic Anglo-Saxon, Latin, Norman French, and many others. This
makes it hard to learn the language, but it offers writers a wide variety of different sounding words to
choose from. Skillful writers take advantage of this to not only choose words with the intended meaning
but to also match the sound of the word to the desired response. Generally, words derived from Anglo-
Saxon have a harsher sound, are shorter and more direct. Words coming from Latin and French have a
smoother sound, include more syllables and sound more elegant. For example, the Anglo-Saxon word
muck refers to the same animal excrement as does the French derived manure. Yet the sound of the word
conveys a different feeling. Likewise, the Germanic wurst tastes exactly the same as the Norman French
sausage, but the connotation conveyed by the sound might affect different readers differently. Therefore,
the skillful poet will consider not only the meaning of the word but also the effect of the sound of the
word. Readers need to ask why the poet wanted that particular sound.
Clearly the critical sound effects in poetry come from the repetitions and contrasts of sounds. We have
talked about meter and rhyme which are simply repetitions of similar rhythms and sounds. But there are
many more subtle ways a poet creates music through repetition and contrast. Two important ones are
assonance and consonance—repeating similar vowels sounds and repeating similar consonant sounds.
Closely related is alliteration—the repetition of similar beginning sounds of words. Robert Bly referred to
these devices as “chiming.” These repeated syllables and words may not exactly rhyme, but they do create
a musical sound. Let’s look at two lines from a poem called “Talk and Low Clouds” by Bly.
We talked: of Lorca, the broken father, children lucky
To get out of the house alive. Dark clouds hover above,
In the first line we have a hard k sound in Lorca, broken, lucky, and later dark (rather harsh sounds). In the
second line we have the have the repeated ou sounds in out, house, clouds (softer sounds). The second
line ends with the slant rhyme hover and above. Try to decide why the writer selects these particular
sounds. More subtle than predictable rhyme, these techniques do bring music to the poem. Once fully
utilized, these various sound devices can create an almost chanting effect. In most cases poets probably
combine these sounds instinctively rather than contriving a plan to incorporate five examples of alliteration,
three of slant rhyme, nine of assonance, five of consonance, and at least two samples of onomatopoeia.
The actual meaning of the words, the suggestive meaning of the words, and the sounds of the words all
work together to create a certain effect. In many cases that effect is not planned, but the poet can feel
when it is right.
My favorite example of this “sound and sense” is probably Robert Frost’s two line gem, “The Span of
Life”
The old dog barks backwards without getting up.
I can remember when he was a pup.
Much has been written about the little poem—just 16 words, only 21 syllables. To me, the most obvious
point is that the first line has only one more syllable than the second, but it takes a lot longer to say the first
line than the second. That’s because of the types of sounds Frost has chosen. The sounds in line one are
a chore to say. The second line jumps off your tongue. Old dogs (and perhaps old people) move slowly,
awkwardly. Nimble puppies (and kids) are quick and graceful. Since the title suggests that poem is really
about people, it can be argued that Frost is making the point that the first half of our lives moves slowly as
we wait for milestones. The second half races past. How many times do we hear something like this from
an elderly person? “Years go by so fast. I just don’t know where the time goes.”
Some poets such as W.B. Yeats and Gary Snyder actually chant or sing some of their poems during live
readings. This adds a dynamic potency to the performance, and if we trace poetry back to its earliest
stages of evolution, we would see poetry as a critical ritual around the tribal campfire. With the
development of printed books, it’s easy to overlook the theatrical aspects of poetry. Yet to fully appreciate
and understand poems, it is important to embrace the significance of the sound of the words as well as the
meaning. Robert Frost said a lot when he coined the phrase “sound and sense” when stressing the
importance of hearing the poem as well as simply seeing the words on a page. This aspect of poetry is
easily overlooked, especially in the classroom where poems appear in a textbook followed by discussion
questions. The issue is compounded by the fact that the audible qualities of poetry can be complex and
difficult to grapple with. However, it is a challenge which can provide a whole new dimension to our
reading of literature.
(Taken from a handout presented at a workshop for high school Advanced Placement English teachers.)