Oh, goody, this one will run and run.
I love those lists of definitions: I always find myself reading them
and going yes, yes, uh-huh, that's right, ok etc, and getting to the
end and thinking is that it? And so? There must be more surely?
Because it seems to me that, if we take one of the basic building
blocks of poetry like rhythm, surely, we're always redefining, or
exploring the definitions of, these blocks, as we go, yes? And our
willingness to accept one or more of these definitions as "it" must
mean that we've, to some extent, ceased to negotiate it, yes?
Here's a partial account of one way:
Walking, my body establishes a rhythm which is broadly duple (I'm a
biped - I intend no slight or insult to members of this list with
other propulsive mechanisms). To this my pulse and breathing establish
their own relational rhythms, complementary and/or contrary. Against
this, language (my own or that around me) comes as a descant,
oppositional to, or querying the authority of, the other rhythms. The
units of language, call them "phrases", weave in and out of the body
rhythms, developing and troping, and some of them attain an identity
where I can, for want of better words, say "I" "made" "that". Under a
wide range of other circumstances (in the still of the evening; on a
bus; under desk at work) I might write them down. The original rhythm
box has gone now, the phrases have acquired their own rhythmic
identity in which my footsteps, for instance, may be barely if at all
discernible, tho it has certainly "informed" their origin. Much later
(I'm cutting through the process here, thank you) I read them, or as
we say today "perform" them to people, against the matrix of rhythms
in those circumstances (my bod, your bod, traffic and the people
watching football downstairs). Or someone reads them in their own
totally different and unexpected circumstances.
At no stage is the "rhythm" of the language of the poem an isolated
unit. It always has to negotiate its space against the rhythms around
it, and to ignore that is to run on a closed model of the world, to
forego the option of response (please note: I'm not being censurious
about those who chose so to do, I'm a big Vachel Lindsay fan).
That's one reason why, for instance, two realisations of the same poem
can be completely happily different. It also suggest why, for me,
consideration of rhythm (in anyone's work) is never finite, always
developing and presenting new possibilities. I'm pleased to say.
OK. Sure there's enough there to tear into...
RC
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
|