Tim Love discusses 'Notation in Poetry and Music' at http://www2.eng.cam.ac.uk/~tpl/texts/notation.html and claims, rightly, that in poetry, 'the paucity of auxiliary notation is surprising.' Here, I suggest one simple kind of auxiliary notation: a timing.
Compact disks of recorded music have timings for the individual tracks. In the same way, many of the poems on this site have a timing in seconds (s). The timing provides useful information about the spoken poem.
Of all guides for the interpreter, an approximate timing, in seconds, of the complete poem is the simplest. A timing gives information about the poet's interpretation of the poem, or one of the poet's interpretations. Of course, the timing can be disregarded, like a composer's metronome marking. Different timings for a poem are a clue to different interpretations of a poem. Within the timing are accommodated the surges, the climaxes, the giving of weight to words, the significant pauses. Poems, like pieces of music, have, surely, a 'tempo giusto' as well as interpretations of the spoken poem that are insensitive or ludicrous simply because the timing is arguably faulty.
I have two recordings of Beethoven's Symphony Number 6, the Pastoral. Both interpretations seem to me to be badly flawed, in particular the interpretation of the first movement, which bears the title 'Awakening of joyful feelings on arrival in the country.' One interpretation (by Harnoncourt) conveys very little sense of joy because it's too slow, ponderous, sluggish. The other (by Hans Swarowsky) conveys little sense of joy because the movement is rushed. The timing for the first movement in the first version is 13.07 min. and the timing for this movement in the second version is 10.57 min., a significant difference. I'm sure that an artistically successful interpretation of this movement, one at the 'tempo giusto,' must lie between these two, at something like twelve minutes. A timing, then, conveys a great deal about an interpretation.
It's obviously essential to go beyond the timing and to take account of many fine details. Some performances may reveal depths, or telling details, which other performances and recordings don't bring out at all. A slight, insensitive hesitation at one point may be enough to diminish the artistic impact of the work
A gifted interpreter shapes the poetic phrase as sensitively as a gifted singer, instrumentalist or conductor shapes the musical phrase. A musician won't rely on the inspiration of the moment to interpret the score, but will make a careful study of it. In the same way, the interpreter of poetry must study the text thoroughly. The methods of analysis I propose should be helpful in this preliminary work.
Composers have available a notation to give guidance on such matters as tempo and dynamics - allegro, andante, forte, piano, and so on. A notation - necessarily much more simple than the musical one - to guide the interpreter of spoken poetry would be useful.
I would like to see informed comment on different recordings of poetry - before that, of course, the making of different recordings. Even more important, there's the need to foster poetry readings, and the need to respond to spoken poetry with some of the sophistication and intelligence to be found amongst music critics and drama critics, when they consider different interpretations of the same score or text, finding some interpretations searching and very significant, others, perhaps, mannered or pretentious.
[Supplementary: timing in performances of Mahler.]
Tony Duggan makes a very interesting use of timings in his criticism of a performance of Mahler's Fifth Symphony (not a recording but a performance conducted by Simon Rattle at the Proms in 1999). He compares the timings for the movements in this performance with the timings for a performance of Boulez on Deutsche Gramophon (Boulez' timings in brackets below):
1. 11.42 (12.52)
2. 12.57 (15.02)
3. 14.56 (18.12)
4. 8.15 (10.59)
5. 13.46 (15.12)
The comments of Tony Duggan below relate to Simon Rattle's performance. To produce the timings above he had to use a stopwatch! This is a memorable instance of the fact that a concern for the technical need not be in conflict with a passionate concern for artistic success and failure, in this case with a passionate concern for conveying Mahler's vision.
"The faster tempo effect was clear right from the beginning in tonight's performance. The Funeral March, so important in establishing the mood of tragedy out of which the contrasts that Mahler is setting up to be resolved emerge, sounded at this speed more wistful than tragic. This was even accentuated by the slightly clipped articulation of the strings, beautifully prepared let it be said, but ultimately surely too careful. I know that in these crucial opening bars what I think Mahler intended was something more weighty and overwhelming...
"The second movement was very fast indeed and here I was reminded of Bruno Walter to start with. There is, of course, a case to be made for the vehement sections to go at a furious pace. However, the conductor should know when to contrast this with a slower tempo when needed, notably the great cello lament. It isn't a question of it being pulled around and moulded, this unforgettable passage ought to contrast more with the maelstrom around it and Rattle failed again to mark this.
"I suppose the performance was still capable of redemption at this point. All hinging on the Scherzo. So it is with regret I have to report that here, for me, Rattle finally blew it. Mahler is on record as saying he knew conductors would ruin this movement by taking it too fast and he was surely right. The performances that are a success are surely the ones that can reconcile overall structure with inner detail, making the listener aware of the episodic nature of the piece, the peaks and troughs, the passages of solitary contemplation set against the passages of wild abandon. Alas, at Rattle's breakneck speed any hope of paying more than a passing nod to the narrower paths of this great movement were doomed...
"The tempo for the Adagietto was, for me, perfect. Would that all conductors could take it at this kind of speed and with this kind of simplicity. The nobility and beauty of the movement is surely enhanced at a flowing tempo..."
And he ends with, "Now, where's my Barbirolli?"
Classical music and poetry are not separate worlds, but I think that analysis of classical music and analysis of poetry are separated to a marked extent and to too great an extent. Their common ground has been insufficiently explored but my intention here is not to explore this common ground but to urge poets and lovers of poetry who reject close analysis of poetic technique, who claim that very detailed analysis is incompatible with the writing or appreciation of poetry, with appreciation of emotional heights and depths in poetry, to reconsider.
There are many musical analysts who unite very detailed analysis with appreciation of the music - love of the music - as well as evaluation of the music. I give extended quotations below from one of these, Basil Lam, writing about the Beethoven string quartets. It's significant that he finds one movement comparatively weak. He isn't purely concerned with elucidation.
The technical discussion is given in a font different from the non-technical discussion, so that readers who have no knowledge of the technicalities can skim these sections. As for myself, my knowledge of musical technicalities is very uneven - far better in musical form than in harmonic analysis. I very often use a musical score when listening to music, but I can't claim to understand all the harmonic discussion below.
From Basil Lam: 'Beethoven String Quartets.' (BBC Music Guides - published at a time when the BBC wasn't as mediocre and moronic as now.)
Quartet Opus 132, 2nd movement (titled 'Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, an der lydischen Tonart,' 'Holy Song of Thanksgiving of a Convalescent to the Godhead, in the Lydian Mode.')
The Andante, with its trills and grace-notes, breaks forth into joy with the with the innocence of George Herbert.
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
The return to the Molto adagio of the 'Heiliger Dankgesang' is mediated by the calmer melody (significantly marked both cantabile and espressivo) at bar 67. The hymn now floats serenely above suspensions not heard - but for some passing wonders in the finale of Mozart's 'Jupiter' symphony - since Bach's 'Dorian' fugue. The contrast between Lydian F and D is now established, and the return to the Andante is given tonal solidity by a dominant seventh on the last beat (cf. bars 30 and 113). The movement's formal scheme (A-B-A-B-A) needs this return, but whereas the hymn, in its affinity with the old choral partitas, virtually demands variation, the contrasting section is already on its first appearance a variation on an unstated theme, and further elaboration would be unnecessary.
'The climax to which all this moves is Cistercian in its grandeur, rejecting with such severity all that could give pleasure that Palestrina by contrast sounds positively worldly in his beautifully-spaced euphony of choral voices. Here too the plainest diatonic progressions are transformed into something never heard before: the F major tonic chord of the modal key is not merely in 6/4 position, but of its seven notes five are given to the bass, and the notoriously rich-sounding dominant ninth is hardly recognisable on the second minim of bar 192. Awe and dread have taken the place of the contemplative ecstasy of the Adagio in Op. 59 no. 2.
Quartet Op. 59 no. 2, 2nd movement
'Czerny (to Jahn) and Holz stated independently that Beethoven said the idea for the slow movement came to him as he gazed at the star-lit sky, thinking about 'the music of the spheres'. He is known to have read Kant, from whose Theory of the Heavens (1755) he may have taken these ideas, and, as is well known, was fond of the Kantian phrase about the starry heavens above and the moral law within. To quote all this is not to suggest that the music is programmatic, but to note its association with one type of the highest reach of the imagination.
'What follows, awe-inspiring in its intensity, is prosaically to be described as a rising sequence on the first two minims of the whole movement, leading to a climax in which the chords of F sharp minor and G major are twice heard in succession - the Neapolitan effect of the first movement. When the prolonged dominant preparation for the reprise arrives there is no place for the relaxed human warmth of its major triad, and the dominant minor ninth of the first movement coda, now cold and distant as starlight, haunts the listening ear until the theme enters...The long tonic pedal that now prevails is broken by the very surprising return of the chorale. Beethoven was not one to heed Johnson's warning that he who has experienced the unutterable would do well not to attempt to utter it. As the barely realisable vision fades, the end of the theme is almost lost in the deep register of the viola, and the subdominant touch appropriate to a coda comes from the inflection of the codetta figure between D natural, C natural, C sharp and D sharp, even this vague disquiet vanishing before the last bars.'
Quartet Op. 59 no. 2, 3rd movement
'Its bare textures look forward to late Beethoven, but the troubled restless brooding of the opening, alternating with outbursts of undirected energy, is characteristic of the Beethoven of whom Goethe was to write (letter to Zelter, 2 September 1812), 'His talent amazed me, but unhappily his is a character utterly lacking in self-control'. Perhaps he had more to control than his august contemporary (control is never lacking in the music), but these quartets are not directed towards social occasions. It is not by chance that the forte is each time in F major, a further consequence of the opening theme of the first movement.
'When he arrives at the 'thème russe' that serves as trio to this gloomy non-scherzando scherzo, Beethoven makes no attempt to develop his theme but repeats it, seemingly ad infinitum in a good-humoured parody of academic counterpoint, becoming openly derisive when, before making amends, as he had done in the finale of the first quartet, by an exquisitely sensitive harmonisation of the alien theme, he forces it into canonic imitations which refuse to 'go'. By insisting on a double repetition both of minore and trio section, he leaves at the end of the movement a strange sense of unresolved contradictions.'
Quartet Op. 59 no. 2, 4th movement
'Exhilarating though it is in its humour and force, this finale fails to attain the level of the first and second movements.'
Quartet Op. 59 no. 1, 2nd movement
Nothing can be more inhibiting to the artist than total liberty, a truth recognised by those twentieth composers who from Schoenberg onwards have imposed arbitrary disciplines of one kind or another on themselves in order to be able to compose at all. So Beethoven writes this scherzo (it does not bear that title) in sonata form, though the result is quite un-sonata-like in its variety of themes, key-relations and dynamics.'
'A convincing if laborious demonstration of the differences between symphony and quartet would be to transfer to the orchestra the scherzo of Op. 59 no. 1. That which in the four strings is totally convincing in its alternations of wit, rough humour, lyrical calm and formidable violence would seem excessive and crude, even expressionistic, in terms of the much more extreme contrasts of the orchestra medium.'
Quartet Op. 127, 2nd movement
'The Adagio of Op. 59 no. 2 (Si tratta questo pezzo con molto di sentimento) expresses a mood of contemplation; this theme is the object of contemplation, no more concerned with expression or communication than is a Gothic interior that evokes a response by its perfection of order, harmony and remoteness from common experience ... The melody emerges, as from a vast distance, over a pedal that becomes explicit (as a dominant seventh) only on the last quaver, the bass moving to the A flat chord after the melody, and instead of ending, the last phrase merges into a brief coda, wonderfully expressive in its warm harmonies through which the vision is withdrawn ... A heavenly levity pervades the Andante con moto, with its naïve serenade-like accompaniment to the fantastically elaborate duet of the two violins; nothing like this had been heard since the 'Domine Deus' of the B minor Mass.
'Beethoven's In dulci jubilo, though it sounds completely spontaneous, is a true variation, not a free fantasia.'
Basil Lam is an exceptionally perceptive analyst, but the best musical analysts have this ability to combine concern for technicalities with love and appreciation of the music.
Performers can not only combine a concern for technicalities with a concern for artistry but have to: without the concern for technicalities, achieving artistry is impossible. To achieve and maintain the ability to play musical masterpieces, sustained practice has to include things which are not musical masterpieces, scales, arpeggios, studies. For the violin, viola or cello player, there are the studies of Sevcik. Without any musical value at all, ultra-systematic and ultra-diversified ('Alternation of double-stoppings with single notes. Two examples with 174 variants,' 'Arpeggios in groups of 4 notes with 76 changes of bowing') but one of the best ways of reaching as quickly as possibly the ability to commune with Beethoven and the other composers by performance.
Phrasing is as important to the interpreter of a poem as it is to the singer, instrumentalist or conductor whose concern is to make the interpretation of the written score as expressive as possible. I've introduced a technique, sectional analysis, for the study of the linkage between the line of poetry, the phrase and the sentence.
I use the term 'sections' to refer to different phrases (present as a whole or in part) in each line, and I use sectional analysis to study the relationship between sections, and in so doing the relationship between lines and phrases. Square brackets are used to enclose phrases. These brackets may be opened and closed within one line, or they may be opened in one line and closed in another. I also refer to 'opening the phrase' and 'closing the phrase.' I apply sectional analysis to some very great lines of 'The Prelude' (lines 452-457, 1805 version) In all the lines except for 454 there are two sections.
452 [And in the frosty
season,] [when the sun
453 was set,] [and visible for many a mile
454 The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,]
455 [I heeded not the summons;] [happy time
456 it was indeed for all of us,] [to me
457 it was a time of rapture.] ...
In this extract, short though it is, there's a very effective contrast of phrase length. Shorter phrases are contrasted with the longer phrase which is opened in line 453 and closed in line 454. Line endings may divide the phrase or not: the phrase. 'And in the frosty season' and the phrase 'when the sun was set' are different in the way in which they are linked with the lines. The first phrase is divided, the second is not.
As regards meaning rather than sound, there are remarkable contrasts to do with the meaning of the phrases, giving to the whole passage an overwhelming sensuous immediacy. Each phrase has a dominant theme. Here, I draw attention to words within the phrases:
season" - cold
"sun was set" - light turned to darkness
"through the twilight blazed" - lighting up the darkness
"happy time" and "a time of rapture" - happiness and an intensification of happiness in the next phrase
"clear and loud" - sound
Sectional analysis and phrase analysis are ways of aiding the appreciation of phrase rhythm in poetry, the counterpart of expressive prose rhythm, and, like the rhythm of stressed and unstressed syllables, contributing to the overall power and beauty of a poem. A close study of phrasing is also useful for the interpreter, who tries to make the spoken poem as effective as possible.
would be an interesting study to carry out sectional analysis on a great number
of lines of poetry in pentameters to find out if it's more common for lines
to be divided into sections by the ratio of 2:3 (or 3:2) feet than by the
ratio of 1:4 (or 4:1) This study of poetic ratio belongs to the
neglected field of
quantitative poetry criticism. The study of ratio is well established in architecture and the fine
arts. The best known example of ratio concerns the 'golden section.' The golden
section is defined in terms of a line divided in such a way that the smaller
section is to the greater as the greater is to the whole. It can also be defined
in terms of the proportion of the two dimensions of a plane figure. The golden
section can't be calculated in exact mathematical terms, but is approximately
5:8 (the ratio above of 2:3 is closer to this than 1:4, of course.) A great
many artists and architects have used the golden section, consciously or unconsciously.
The proportion between exterior and interior in a zoned poem is another instance
of poetic ratio. The harmony of a great painting or a great building may be
linked with mathematical relationships.
In general, '...wherever Proportion exists at all, one member of the composition must be either larger than, or in some way supreme over, the rest. There is no proportion between equal things.' (Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture, IV 26.)
In his discussion of the first paragraph of 'Tintern Abbey' in his book 'The Passion of Meter: A Study of Wordsworth's Metrical Art,' Brennan O' Donnell provides this note (P. 271):
'In Wordsworth's careful structuring both of this introductory verse paragraph and of the poem as a whole - particularly his gradual accumulation of descriptive detail and his amassing of smaller formal structures into larger and more comprehensive structures - Lee M. Johnson has found evidence that Wordsworth constructed the poem according to strict geometrical proportions: " "Tintern Abbey" is a modified Pindaric ode in the form of a double golden section, which is built upon the lesser details of repeated images and the ornamental patterns of misple binaries" (Wordsworth's Metaphysical Verse, 60).
The contrasts that are so common within single works of music are very instructive. In classical sonata form, the slow movement of a symphony, concerto, string quartet or sonata may be an adagio, the finale very much faster: molto allegro or presto. There may be differences of tone which are equally marked: to give just one example, the second and fourth movements of Beethoven's Eroica symphony. There are analogues in poetry for musical contrasts of tempo and contrasts of tone, but not for contrasts of key.
In general, the use of contrast in music is instructive for students of poetry, but so also is music's use of repetition. This is despite the fact that one procedure in classical music would be unthinkable in poetry: repetition of a sizeable block, the repetition of an entire exposition section in sonata form ('block' including music at its most inspired). Repetition in this one context should not lead us to believe that exact repetition is common in other musical contexts. The classical composer uses such differences as differences in instrumentation and the all-important differences of tonality to deflect exact repetition.
Classical music is strongly directional, the music drawn towards the closing chord as strongly as water drawn towards a waterfall. Repetition of an exposition section has to be understood in the context of directionality. The development section which follows the exposition will be strongly directional. Repeating the exposition makes the listener more fully aware of what the listener knows will be developed and given further direction. This is repetition with expectation.
Repetition in poetry doesn't serve the same structural (and dynamic purposes). In such a directional art, repetition is anti-directional, not, as in sonata form, the prelude to further momentum. This is repetition as a series of reminders of a first occurrence.
The size of the repeated element is less important than the number of repetitions. The exposition section is repeated once. When repetition takes place in poetry, it is often much more than twice. Yeats repeats the line 'Daybreak and a candle-end' seven times in his poem 'The Wild Old Wicked Man.'
I think that almost all repetition in poetry is problematic. To begin with the final stanza of Blake's 'The Tyger.' This is an exact repetition of the first (except for the substitution of 'Dare frame' for 'Could frame.') This repetition cannot be counted a success in this otherwise magnificent poem. (Blake's design for this poem is another weakness - the picture is tame and devoid of power.)
It's difficult to achieve artistic success even with repetition of short elements, such as a single line. In general, the more obvious the repetition the less the artistic success - although the overall success may be very great. In the same way, the more obvious the rhyme, the less the artistic success. Deflecting attention from a repetition in poetry is valuable, as was deflecting attention from a repetition in classical music.So also is naturalness of repetition, the seeming inevitability of repetition. This is one of the reasons why I admire the villanelles of Jared Carter, which I discuss in the page on Modulation.
Few if any great poets have used repetition of lines as much as Yeats, one of the twentieth century poets I most admire, and I think that in every case, the repetition diminishes the artistic success of the poem. Just a few examples:
Jane On God' and repetition of
All things remain in God.
'Crazy Jane Grown Old Looks At The Dancers and repletion of
Love is like the lion's tooth.
Curse of Cromwell' and repetition of
O what of that, O what of that,
what is there left to say?
Wild Old Wicked Man' and repetition of
Daybreak and a candle-end.
Pilgrim' and repetition of
'fol de rol de rolly O' (preceded by 'Is,' 'But,' or 'Was.'
'Long-legged fly' and repetition of
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
uses repetition on a larger scale than repetition of one or two lines. In
'Three Marching Songs' there's repetition of four lines in each of the songs.
In the second, there's repetition of
What marches through the mountain pass?
No, no, my son, not yet;
That is an airy spot
And no man knows what treads the grass.
Almost half of the thirty-one lines of the intolerable poem 'I Am Of Ireland' consists of the repeated lines
am of Ireland,
And the Holy Land of Ireland,
And time runs on,' cried she.
'Come out of charity,
Come dance with me in Ireland.'