The Art of Poetry

MANY people have said to me, “I wish I could write poems. I often try, but——” They mean, I gather, that the impulse, the creative itch, is in them, but they don’t know how to satisfy it. My own position is that I know how to write poetry, but I can’t be bothered. I have not got the itch. The least I can do, however, is to try to help those who have.

A mistake commonly committed by novices is to make up their minds what it is they are going to say before they begin. This is superfluous effort, tending to cramp the style. It is permissible, if not essential, to select asubject—say,MUD—but any detailed argument or plan which may restrict the free development of metre and rhyme (if any) is to be discouraged.

With that understanding, let us now write a poem aboutMUD.

I should begin in this sort of way:—

Mud, mud,Nothing but mud,O my God!

Mud, mud,

Nothing but mud,

O my God!

It will be seen at once that we are not going to have much rhyme in this poem; or if we do we shall very soon be compelled to strike a sinister note, because almost the only rhymes tomudarebloodandflood; while, as the authors of our hymns have discovered, there are very satisfactory rhymes toGod. They shamefully evaded the difficulty by using words likeroad, but in first-class poetry one cannot do that. On the whole, therefore, this poem had better bevers libre. That will take much less time and be more dramatic, without plunging us into a flood of blood or anything drastic like that. We now go on with a little descriptive business:—

Into the sunset, swallowing up the sun,Crawling, creeping,The naked flats——

Into the sunset, swallowing up the sun,

Crawling, creeping,

The naked flats——

Now there ought to be a verb. That is the worst ofvers libre; one gets carried away by beautiful phrases and is brought up suddenly by a complete absence of verbs. However at a pinch one can do without a verb; that is the best ofvers libre:—

Amber and gold,Deep-stained in mystery,And the colours of mystery,Inapprehensible,Golden like wet-gold,Amber like a woman of ArabiaThat has in her breastThe forsaken treasures of old Time,Love and Destruction,Oblivion and Decay,And immemorial tins,Tin upon tin,Old boots and bottles that hold no moreTheir richness in them.And I——

Amber and gold,

Deep-stained in mystery,

And the colours of mystery,

Inapprehensible,

Golden like wet-gold,

Amber like a woman of Arabia

That has in her breast

The forsaken treasures of old Time,

Love and Destruction,

Oblivion and Decay,

And immemorial tins,

Tin upon tin,

Old boots and bottles that hold no more

Their richness in them.

And I——

We might do a good deal more of this descriptive business, bringing in something about dead bodies, mud of course being full of dead bodies. But we had better go on. We strike now the personal note:—

And I,I too am no more than a bottle,An empty bottle,Heaving helpless on the mud of life,Without a label and without a cork,Empty I am, yet no man troublesTo return me.And why?Because there is not sixpence on me.Bah!The sun goes down,The birds wheel home,But I remain here,Drifting empty under the night,Drifting——

And I,

I too am no more than a bottle,

An empty bottle,

Heaving helpless on the mud of life,

Without a label and without a cork,

Empty I am, yet no man troubles

To return me.

And why?

Because there is not sixpence on me.

Bah!

The sun goes down,

The birds wheel home,

But I remain here,

Drifting empty under the night,

Drifting——

When one is well away with this part of the poem it is almost impossible to stop. When youare writing in metre you come eventually to the eighth line of the last verse and you have to stop; but invers libreyou have no assistance of that kind. This particular poem is being written for instructional purposes in a journal of limited capacity, so it will probably have to stop fairly soon; but in practice it would go on for a long time yet. In any case, however, it would end in the same way, like this:—

Mud, mud,Nothing but mud,O, my God!

Mud, mud,

Nothing but mud,

O, my God!

That reasserts, you see, in a striking manner, the originalmotif, and somehow expresses in a few words the poignant melancholy of the whole poem. Another advantage in finishing a long poem, such as this would be, in the same way as you began it is that it makes it clear to the reader that he is still reading the same poem. Sometimes, and especially invers libreof an emotional and digressive character, the reader has a hideous fear that he has turned over two pages and got into another poem altogether. This little trick reassures him; and if you are writingvers libreyou must not lose any legitimate opportunity of reassuring the reader.

To treat the same theme in metre and rhymewill be a much more difficult matter. The great thing will be to avoid havingmudat the end of a line, for the reasons already given. We had better have long ten-syllable lines, and we had better have four of them in each verse. Gray wrote an elegy in that metre which has given general satisfaction. We will begin:—

As I came down through Chintonbury HoleThe tide rolled out from Wurzel to the sea.

As I came down through Chintonbury Hole

The tide rolled out from Wurzel to the sea.

In a serious poem of this kind it is essential to establish a locality atmosphere at once; therefore one mentions a few places by name to show that one has been there. If the reader has been there too he will like the poem, and if he hasn’t no harm is done. The only thing is that locally Chintonbury is probably pronounced Chun’bury, in which case it will not scan. One cannot be too careful about that sort of thing. However, as an illustration Chintonbury will serve.

It is now necessary to show somehow in this verse that the poem is about mud; it is also necessary to organize a rhyme for “Hole” and a rhyme for “sea,” and of the two this is the more important. I shall do it like this:—

And like the unclothèd levels of my soulThe yellow mud lay mourning nakedly.

And like the unclothèd levels of my soul

The yellow mud lay mourning nakedly.

There is a good deal to be said against thesetwo lines. For one thing I am not sure that the mud ought to be yellow; it will remind people of Covent Garden Tube Station, and no one wants to be reminded of that. However, it does suggest the inexpressible biliousness of the theme.

I think “levels” is a little weak. It is a good poetical word and doesn’t mean anything in particular; but we have too many words of that kind in this verse. “Deserts” would do, except that deserts and mud don’t go very well together. However, that sort of point must be left to the individual writer.

At first sight the student may think that “nakedly” is not a good rhyme for “sea.” Nor is it. If you do that kind of thing in comic poetry no Editor will give you money. But in serious poetry it is quite legitimate; in fact it is rather encouraged. That is why serious poetry is so much easier than comic poetry. In my next lecture I shall deal with comic poetry.

I don’t think I shall finish this poem now. The fact is, I am not feeling so inspired as I was. It is very hot. Besides, I have got hay-fever and keep on sneezing. Constant sneezing knocks all the inspiration out of a man. At the same time a tendency to hay-fever is a sign of intellect and culture, and all the great poets were martyrs to it. That is why none of them grew very lyricalabout hay. Corn excited them a good deal, and even straw, but hay hardly ever.

So the student must finish this poem as best he can, and I shall be glad to consider and criticize what he does, though I may say at once that there will be no prize. It ought to go on for another eight verses or so, though that is not essential in these days, for if it simply won’t go on it can just stop in the middle. Only then it must be headed “Mud: A Fragment.”

And in any case, in the bottom left-hand corner, the student must write:

Chintonbury, May 28th, 1920.

In this lecture I propose to explain how comic poetry is written.

Comic poetry, as I think I pointed out in my last lecture, is much more difficult than serious poetry, because there are all sorts of rules. In serious poetry there are practically no rules, and what rules there are may be shattered with impunity as soon as they become at all inconvenient. Rhyme, for instance. A well-known Irish poet once wrote a poem which ran like this:—

“Hands, do as you’re bid,Draw the balloon of the mindThat bellies and sags in the windInto its narrow shed.”

“Hands, do as you’re bid,

Draw the balloon of the mind

That bellies and sags in the wind

Into its narrow shed.”

This was printed in a serious paper; but if the poet had sent it up to a humorous paper (as he might well have done) the Editor would have said, “Do you pronounce itshid?” and the poet would have had no answer. You see, he started out, as serious poets do, with every intention of organizing a good rhyme forbid—or perhaps forshed—but he found this was more difficult than he expected. And then, no doubt, somebody drove all his cattle on to his croquet-lawn, or somebody else’s croquet-lawn, and he abandoned the struggle. I shouldn’t complain of that; what I do complain of is thedeceitfulnessof the whole thing. If a man can’t find a better rhyme thanshedfor a simple word likebid, let him give up the idea of having a rhyme at all; let him write—

Hands, do as you’reTOLD,

Into its narrowHUT(or evenHANGAR).

That at least would be an honest confession of failure. But to writebidandshedis simply a sinister attempt to gain credit for writing a rhymed poemwithout doing it at all.

Well, that kind of thing is not allowed in comic poetry. When I opened my well-known military epic, “Riddles of the King,” with the couplet—

Full dress (with decorations) will be wornWhen General Officers are shot at dawn.

Full dress (with decorations) will be worn

When General Officers are shot at dawn.

the Editor wrote cuttingly in the margin, “Do you saydorn?”

The correct answer would have been, of course, “Well, as a matter of fact I do”; but you cannot make answers of that kind to Editors; they don’t understand it. And that brings you to the real drawback of comic poetry; it means constant truck with Editors. But I must not be drawn into a discussion about them. In a special lecture—two special lectures—— Quite.

The lowest form of comic poetry is, of course, the Limerick; but it is a mistake to suppose that it is the easiest. It is more difficult to finish a Limerick than to finish anything in the world. You see, in a Limerick you cannot begin:—

There was an old man of WestHam

and go on

Who formed an originalplan.

finishing the last line withlimborhenorbun. A serious writer could do that with impunity, and indeed with praise, but the more exacting traditions of Limerical composition insist that, having fixed onHamas the end of the first line, you must find two other rhymes toHam, and good rhymes too. This is why there is so large a body of uncompletedLimericks. For many years I have been trying to finish the following unfinished masterpiece:—

There was a young man who said “Hell!I don’t think I feel very well——”

There was a young man who said “Hell!

I don’t think I feel very well——”

That was composed on the Gallipoli Peninsula; in fact it was composed under fire; indeed I remember now that we were going over the top at the time. But in the quiet days of Peace I can get no further with it. It only shows how much easier it is to begin a Limerick than to end it.

Apart from the subtle phrasing of the second line this poem is noteworthy because it is cast in the classic form. All the best Limericks are about a young man, or else an old one, who said some short sharp monosyllable in the first line. For example:—

There was a young man who said “If——

Now what are the rhymes toif? Looking up myRhyming DictionaryI see they are:—

Of these one may rejecthippogriffat once, as it is in the wrong metre.Hieroglyphis attractive, and we might do worse than:—

There was a young man who said “IfOne murdered a hieroglyph——”

There was a young man who said “If

One murdered a hieroglyph——”

Having, however, no very clear idea of the nature of a hieroglyph I am afraid that this will also join the long list of unfinished masterpieces. Personally I should incline to something of this kind:—

There was a young man who said “IfI threw myself over a cliffI do not believeOneperson would grieve——”

There was a young man who said “If

I threw myself over a cliff

I do not believe

Oneperson would grieve——”

Now the last line is going to be very difficult. The tragic loneliness, the utter disillusion of this young man is so vividly outlined in the first part of the poem that to avoid an anticlimax a really powerful last line is required.But there are no powerful rhymes.A serious poet, of course, could finish up withdeathorfaith, or some powerful word like that. But we are limited toskiff,sniff,tiffandwhiff. And what can you do with those? Students, I hope, will see what they can do. My own tentative solution is printed, by arrangement with the Publisher, on another page (87). I do not pretend that it is perfect; in fact it seems to me to strike rather a vulgar note. At the same time it is copyright, and must not be set to music in the U.S.A.

I have left little time for comic poetry other than Limericks, but most of the above profound observations are equally applicable to both, exceptthat in the case of the former it is usual to think of thelastline first. Having done that you think of some good rhymes to the last line and hang them up in mid-air, so to speak. Then you think of something to say which will fit on to those rhymes. It is just like Limericks, only you start at the other end; indeed it is much easier than Limericks, though, I am glad to say, nobody believes this. If they did it would be even harder to get money out of Editors than it is already.

We will now write a comic poem about Spring Cleaning. We will have verses of six lines, five ten-syllable lines and one six-syllable. As the last line for the first verse I suggest

Where have they put my hat?

We now require two rhymes tohat. In the present contextflatwill obviously be one, andcatordratwill be another. Our resources at present are therefore as follows:—

As for the blank lines,wifeis certain to come in sooner or later, and we had better put that down,supported bylife(“What a life!”), andknifeorstrife. There are no other rhymes, exceptrife, which is a useless word.

We now hold another parade:—-

Terumti—umti—umti—umti—wife,Terumti—umti—umti—umti—flat;Teroodle—oodle—oodle—What a life!Terumti—oodle—umti—oodle—cat (or drat);Teroodle—umti—oodle—umti—knife (or strife);Where have they put my hat?

Terumti—umti—umti—umti—wife,

Terumti—umti—umti—umti—flat;

Teroodle—oodle—oodle—What a life!

Terumti—oodle—umti—oodle—cat (or drat);

Teroodle—umti—oodle—umti—knife (or strife);

Where have they put my hat?

All that remains now is to fill in the umti-oodles, and I can’t be bothered to do that. There is nothing in it.

III

In this lecture I shall deal with the production of Lyrics, Blank Verse and (if I am allowed) Hymns (Ancient and Modern).

First we will write a humorous lyric for the Stage, bearing in mind, of course, the peculiar foibles, idiosyncrasies and whims of Mr. Alf Bubble, who will sing it (we hope). Mr. Bubble’s principal source of fun is the personal appearance of his fellow-citizens. Whenever a new character comes on the stage he makes some remark about the character’s “face.” Whenever he does this the entire audience rolls about on its seat, and cackles and gurgles and wipes its eyes, andrepeats in a hoarse whisper, with variations of its own, the uproarious phrasing of Mr. Bubble’s remark. If Mr. Bubble says, “But look at hisface!” the audience, fearful lest its neighbours may have missed the cream of the thing, splutters hysterically in the intervals of eye-wiping and coughing and choking and sneezing, “He said, ‘Whata face!’” or “He said, ‘Didyouseehis face?’” or “He said, ‘Is it aface?’”

All this we have got to remember when we are writing a lyric for Mr. Bubble. Why Mr. Bubble of all people should find so much mirth in other men’s faces I can’t say, but there it is. If we write a song embodying this great joke we may be certain that it will please Mr. Bubble; so we will do it.

Somebody, I think, will have made some slighting remark about the Government, and that will give the cue for the first verse, which will be political.

We will begin:—

Thompson ...

I don’t know why the people in humorous lyrics are always called Thompson (or Brown), but they are.

Thompson, being indigent,Thought that it was time he wentInto England’s Parliament,To earn his daily bread....

Thompson, being indigent,

Thought that it was time he went

Into England’s Parliament,

To earn his daily bread....

That is a joke against Parliament, you see—Payment of Members and all that; it is good. At the same time it is usual to reserve one’s jokes for the chorus. The composer, you see, reserves his tune for the chorus, and, if the author puts too much into the verse, there will be trouble between their Unions.

Now we introduce theface-motif:—

Thompson’s features were not neat;When he canvassed dahn our streetThings were said I won’t repeat,And my old moth-ah said:—

Thompson’s features were not neat;

When he canvassed dahn our street

Things were said I won’t repeat,

And my old moth-ah said:—

This verse, you notice, is both in metre and rhyme; I don’t know how that has happened; it ought not to be.

Now we have the chorus:—

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,It isn’t any good;I shouldn’t like to vote for you,So I won’t pretend I should;I know that you’re the noblestOf all the human race....”

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,

It isn’t any good;

I shouldn’t like to vote for you,

So I won’t pretend I should;

I know that you’re the noblest

Of all the human race....”

That shows the audience thatfaceis coming very soon, and they all get ready to burst themselves.

“I haven’t a doubt, if you get in,The Golden Age will soon begin—But IDON’T LIKE—your FACE.”

“I haven’t a doubt, if you get in,

The Golden Age will soon begin—

But IDON’T LIKE—your FACE.”

*Solution: It comes of my having a sniff (see page 83).

At this point several of the audience will simply slide off their seats on to the floor and wallow about there, snorting.

The next verse had better be a love-verse.

Thompson wooed a lovely maidEvery evening in the shade,Meaning, I am much afraid,To hide his ugly head...

Thompson wooed a lovely maid

Every evening in the shade,

Meaning, I am much afraid,

To hide his ugly head...

Headis not very good, I admit, but we must havesaidin the last line, and as we were mad enough to have rhymes in the first verse we have got to go on with it.

But when he proposed one night—Did it by electric light—Mabel, who retained her sight,Just looked at him and said:—

But when he proposed one night—

Did it by electric light—

Mabel, who retained her sight,

Just looked at him and said:—

Now you see the idea?

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,It isn’t any good;I shouldn’t like to marry you,So I won’t pretend I should;I know that you have richesAnd a house in Eaton Place ...

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,

It isn’t any good;

I shouldn’t like to marry you,

So I won’t pretend I should;

I know that you have riches

And a house in Eaton Place ...

(Here all the audience pulls out its handkerchief)

I haven’t a doubt that you must beThe properest possible match for me,But IDON’T LIKE—your FACE.”

I haven’t a doubt that you must be

The properest possible match for me,

But IDON’T LIKE—your FACE.”

I have got another verse to this song, but I will not give it to you now, as I think the Editor is rather bored with it. It is fortunate for Mr. Bubble that he does not have to perform before an audience of Editors.

Having written the lyric the next thing to do is to get a composer to compose music for it, and then you get it published. This is most difficult, as composers are people who don’t ever keep appointments, and music publishers like locking up lyrics in drawers till the mice have got at the chorus and the whole thing is out of date.

By the time that this song is ready Mr. Bubble may quite possibly have exhausted theface-motifaltogether and struck a new vein. Then we shall have wasted our labour. In that case we will arrange to have it buried in somebody’s grave (Mr. Bubble’s for choice), and inA.D.2000 it will be dug up by antiquaries and deciphered. Even a lyric like this may become an Old Manuscript in time. I ought to add that I myself have composed the music for this lyric, but I really cannot undertake to explain composing as well as poetry.

The serious lyric or Queen’s Hall ballad is a much easier affair. But I must first warn the student that there are some peculiar customs attaching to this traffic which may at first sight appear discouraging. When you have written a goodlyric and induced someone to compose a tune for it your first thought will be, “I will get Mr. Throstle to sing this, and he will pay me a small fee or royalty per performance”; and this indeed would be a good arrangement to make. The only objection is that Mr. Throstle, so far from paying any money to the student, will expect to be paid about fifty pounds by the student for singing his lyric. I do not know the origin of this quaint old custom, but the student had better not borrow any money on the security of his first lyric.

For a serious or Queen’s Hall lyric all that is necessary is to think of some natural objects like the sun, the birds, the flowers or the trees, mention them briefly in the first verse and then in the second verse draw a sort of analogy or comparison between the natural object and something to do with love. The verses can be extremely short, since in this class of music the composer is allowed to spread himself indefinitely and can eke out the tiniest words.

Here is a perfect lyric I have written. It is called, quite simply,Evening:—

Sunshine in the forest,Blossom on the tree,And all the brave birds singingFor you—and me.Kisses in the sunshine,Laughter in the dew,And all the brave world singingFor me—and you.

Sunshine in the forest,Blossom on the tree,And all the brave birds singingFor you—and me.

Sunshine in the forest,

Blossom on the tree,

And all the brave birds singing

For you—and me.

Kisses in the sunshine,Laughter in the dew,And all the brave world singingFor me—and you.

Kisses in the sunshine,

Laughter in the dew,

And all the brave world singing

For me—and you.

I see now that the dew has got into the second verse, so it had better be called quite simply “The Dawn.”

You notice the artistic parallelism of this lyric; I mean, “The brave birds singing” in one verse and “The braveworldsinging” in the next, That is a tip I got from Hebrew poetry, especially the Psalms: “One day telleth another; and one night certifieth another,” and so on. It is a useful trick to remember, and is employed freely by many modern writers, the author of “The King’s Regulations,” for example, who in Regulation 1680 has the fine line:—

“Disembarkations are carried out in a similar manner to embarkations.”

That goes well to the Chant in C major by Mr. P. Humphreys.

But I am wandering. It is becoming clear to me now that I shall not have time to do Blank Verse or Hymns (Ancient and Modern) in this lecture, after all, so I will give you a rough outline of that special kind of lyric, the Topical Song. All that is required for this class of work is agood refrain or central idea; when you have got that, you see how many topics you can tack on to it. But if you can tack on Mr. Winston Churchill you need not bother about the others.

Our central idea will be “Rations,” and the song will be called “Heaps and Heaps”:—

Now Jimmy Brown

(always begin like that)

Now Jimmy BrownHe went to town,But all the people said,“We’re rationed in our jam, you know,Likewise our cheese and bread;But we’ve lot of politiciansAnd Ministers galore,We’ve got enough of them and, gee!We don’t want any more.”

Now Jimmy Brown

He went to town,

But all the people said,

“We’re rationed in our jam, you know,

Likewise our cheese and bread;

But we’ve lot of politicians

And Ministers galore,

We’ve got enough of them and, gee!

We don’t want any more.”

Chorus.

We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of Mr.Smillie(Loud cheers);We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of our M.P.(Significant chuckles);At political carousesWe’ve had heaps of (paper) housesBut though weWAIT, no houses do weSEE(Bitter laughter).The khaki-boys were good enough for fighting,But now we hear the khaki-coat is barred;If they ration us in Mr.Winston Churchill,Why, anyone may have my ration-card! (Uproar.)

We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of Mr.Smillie

(Loud cheers);

We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of our M.P.

(Significant chuckles);

At political carouses

We’ve had heaps of (paper) houses

But though weWAIT, no houses do weSEE(Bitter laughter).

The khaki-boys were good enough for fighting,

But now we hear the khaki-coat is barred;

If they ration us in Mr.Winston Churchill,

Why, anyone may have my ration-card! (Uproar.)

All you have to do now is to work in some more topics. I don’t think I shall do any more now. The truth is, that that verse has rather taken it out of me.

I feel all barren.

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