The Re-Enchantment of Poetry

Why poetry should be heard, not seen



The proxy war in Syria between Russia and Turkey is only the latest of many clashes between these two great powers. The Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78 left its mark in Anglo-American literature and culture, when it inspired the British songwriter Percy French to write “Abdul Abulbul Amir,” a comic ballad about the fatal duel between an Ottoman soldier and a Russian soldier:

The sons of the Prophet are brave men and bold
And quite unaccustomed to fear,
But the bravest by far in the ranks of the Shah,
Was Abdul Abulbul Amir …

Now the heroes were plenty and well known to fame
In the troops that were led by the Czar,
And the bravest of these was a man by the name
Of Ivan Skavinsky Skavar.

Sung or recited, the ballad became a staple of vaudeville halls in Britain and college glee clubs in the United States. The late Thomas M. Disch told me he heard it recited at county fairs in the Midwest in the mid-20th century. MGM made a cartoon based on the ballad in 1941, called “Abdul the Bulbul Ameer,” which I remember having seen as a child in the 1960s. In the 1980s, the British actor and writer Stephen Fry portrayed the Russian count in a Whitbread beer advertisement on television.

The literary merit of “Abdul Abulbul Amir” is slight and perhaps nonexistent and its mix of “Orientalism” and ethnic stereotypes with violence would no doubt prompt a trigger warning on today’s politically-correct campuses, as well as result in the expulsion of any college students who performed it. I mention it only because it came to mind as I was reading a brilliant new essay by the poet and critic Dana Gioia, “Poetry as Enchantment.”

A century ago, Gioia observes:

Poetry was read most widely in newspapers, magazines, almanacs, and popular anthologies. A poet could become internationally famous through the publication of a single poem, as in the case of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Edwin Markham’s poem “The Man with the Hoe,” which dramatized the oppression of labor, was quickly reprinted in 10,000 newspapers and magazines. Laurence Binyon’s “For the Fallen” gave solace to millions of mourners for the dead of World War I. Critics may denigrate these poems, but the magnitude of their reception is indisputable. Poetry permeated the culture at all levels. It was read and recited by people of all classes. They may not have admired the same texts as Ezra Pound did, and they didn’t discuss verse in the manner of T.S. Eliot, but poetry played a part in their personal formation and continued to shape their imagination.

What happened? Gioia, formerly the head of the National Endowment of the Arts and now the Poet Laureate of California, first pondered this question in a famous — in some circles, notorious — essay he published in The Atlantic in May 1991, “Can Poetry Matter?” That essay began:

American Poetry now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group. Little of the frenetic activity it generates ever reaches outside that closed group. As a class poets are not without cultural status. Like priests in a town of agnostics, they still command a certain residual prestige. But as individual artists they are almost invisible.

A quarter century later, Gioia writes: “I suspect one thing that hurt poetry was being too well taught.” While professing his admiration for them, Gioia blames the “New Critics” of the mid-20th century — “R.P. Blackmur, Allen Tate, Kenneth Burke, Cleanth Brooks, John Crowe Ransom, and Yvor Winters” — for inadvertently alienating the public by inspiring generations of teachers to treat poems as difficult texts to be deciphered like the Rosetta Stone, rather than as enjoyable scripts for oral performance. Poetry was less like dance or drama than like philology or philosophy.

“By the time I entered high school in 1965,” Gioia writes, “California teenagers were taught poetry mostly as close reading of a visual text on a printed page.” Instead of being asked to memorize and recite poems, he and his classmates “read and analyzed poems, line by line, as clusters of meaning on the page.”

A decade later, I had a similar experience in junior high school in Texas. Enough of the older poetic culture survived that we recited poems in one class; I chose Poe’s “The Raven.” But we also had textbooks that treated poems as subjects of close critical analysis.

Gioia concludes his case with a quote from Oscar Wilde: “There are two ways of disliking art. One is to dislike it. The other, to like it rationally.”

I am not entirely persuaded by Gioia that the blame for the alienation of the public should fall chiefly on modernist critics, rather than on the major modernist poets who preceded them and whose works the critics taught students to decipher. Near the beginning of “Poetry as Enchantment,” Gioia makes the point that in most societies, and our own until a few generations ago, poetry was chanted, not spoken or sung: “Verse was not spoken in a conversational manner, which was an early 20th century development. Poetic speech was always stylized — usually either chanted rhythmically or sung, sometimes even sung and danced in chorus.” For whatever reason, chanting audibly metrical verse came to seem vulgar and ludicrous in Anglo-American culture a century or so ago.

At the same time, silent reading replaced public declamation or public reading in family circles as the main way that poetry was experienced. And the invention of the typewriter made possible “free verse.” Typewriters enabled poets to see more or less at once how their poems would look on the published page. The result has been a century of poems created for the eye, not the ear.

In most, though not all, historic literary traditions, verse is distinguished from prose by the fact that the lines or stanzas are identified as such by recurrent patterns of sound (quantity, accent, rhyme, or assonance) which are independent of both the syntax and the meaning. This strict definition of verse excludes rhythmic prose like ancient Hebrew poetry and the free verse of Walt Whitman, in which the “verses” or lines are defined not by fixed, recurrent sound patterns, as in Greek hexameters or English heroic couplets, but rather by syntactical devices used in conventional prose as well, like parallelism.

Silent reading plus the typewriter permitted a new kind of poetry which was not verse, in the traditional sense — that is, composed of lines or stanzas identifiable to listeners. Most modern free verse is verse only to the eye. When I say that free verse is unconventionally-enjambed prose, I do not mean to be insulting. A good poem in prose is better than a bad poem in verse. But the distinction between verse and prose is real and important.

Here is the opening of a poem in verse, which as Gioia notes is the most frequently anthologized poem in English, William Blake’s “The Tyger,” written as prose:

“Tyger, Tyger, burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

And here is a famous modern free verse poem by William Carlos Williams, in its entirety, also rewritten as prose on the page:

“So much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.”

“The Tyger” is meant to be heard, not read, and its meter and rhymed line endings are audible no matter whether it is written in stanzas or as continuous prose. Someone who heard it and knew the conventions of published verse could easily reconstruct Blake’s stanza pattern. But nobody, reading the sentence from Williams above for the first time, would be likely to guess the way he arranged the lines on the page and dispensed with capitalization and punctuation:

so much depends

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

The impact of this poem depends chiefly on the surprising effects of breaks among lines printed on the page: “depends/upon,” “wheel/barrow,” “rain/water,” “white/chickens.” These enjambements can be seen, but they cannot be heard. Or rather, they cannot be heard unless the poem is read in a grotesque and exaggerated way, with long pauses indicating the breaks: “So much depends….upon…a red wheel…barrow…glazed with rain…water…beside the white…chickens.” A reading like this, with unexpected pauses, would bring to mind the bombastic, often-parodied style of the actor William Shatner or the annoying, deliberate distortion of songs by a stereotypical “lounge lizard” singer of Las Vegas.

I have been taught since I was a child that anybody who doubts that “The Red Wheel Barrow” is a great work of literature is a philistine, so I will stipulate that the damn thing is one of a few artistic masterpieces that should be chosen to represent human civilization in a time capsule should humanity ever be threatened with mass extinction. My point is simply that poems for the eye of this kind were not and could not have been composed and valued before the age of typewriters and silent reading.

Typewriters have given way to PCs, iPhones, and even computer voice dictation, but the college-educated still live mainly in a text-based world of silent reading. The college-educated, however, have always been a minority, even in the richest western societies, and a case can be made that the dominance of aural culture never ended for the working-class majorities in North America, Europe, and East Asia, to say nothing of the rest of the world. Americans may no longer recite “Abdul Abulbul Amir” or “Casey at the Bat” at rural county fairs, but, from its origins in American cities, rap — a modern version of chanted verse — has spread worldwide. The redefinition of “poetry” as mostly short, arbitrarily-enjambed prose passages published in little magazines by academics to be read by other academics may turn out to have been a fad of a century or so. If a post-print oral and aural culture of the kind predicted by Marshall McLuhan eventually does arise, then perhaps a kind of popular and accessible verse like that of Homeric bards or Norse skalds or modern rap and popular songs will evolve.

In the meantime, Gioia is surely right when he suggests, “Memorization and recitation should be restored as foundational techniques… Like song or dance, poetry needs to be experienced in performance before it can be fully understood.” William Blake would approve. •

Michael Lind is a contributing writer of The Smart Set, a fellow at New America in Washington, D.C., and author of Land of Promise: An Economic History of the United States.


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  • Percy French was actually Irish, not British. He composed the song in question while a student at Trinity College Dublin

  • As long as poetry has existed in English, there have been popular forms and more academic forms. The alliterative verse tradition that produces Beowulf was, in fact, a complex form aimed more at a courtly audience, though there were no doubt popular forms as well. In no way were the sonnet sequences of Elizabethan writers chanted in the streets. But ballads were and we credit Bishop Percy for collecting them. Today people who don’t care for, say, John Ashberry, take a lot of pleasure from T.I. or Adelle. I like TI and Ashberry. They are just different sorts of the same thing.

  • I’d love to hear from instructors who bring poetry in performance to their courses. At Greenhill School, I’ve had success in soliciting readers to bring poetry to the ear for my students

  • Like others who have left comments on this article, choosing Blake as an example of how the poem is meant to be primarily heard and not seen is very odd indeed — difficult to think of an English-language poet more concerned with the actual layout and look of his poem than Blake (maybe Dickinson rivals that concern?). The notion, moreover, that Blake’s poem was being sung or chanted on the streets of London during his lifetime is also ridiculous.

    These thinly-veiled screeds against Modernist/contemporary “free” verse appear periodically and can easily be discredited. e.e. cummings’ poems continue to seep into popular culture (think of Björk’s renditions) and he was as concerned with the look and sound of his poems perhaps thanks to his type-writer. What Gioia and Lind are really lamenting is how the poetic tradition has by and large forsaken the ballad; but more than a few popular songwriters have kept the ballad alive, so this is a lot of ink/pixels being spilled over nothing.

  • This is not quite true. In fact, poetry is a multi-billion-dollar industry, a result of its popularity. It’s just that the poetry section of Barnes & Noble is covered with cobwebs. But pouring out of the radios is hip-hop, pop, rock, and other lyric poetry that the cognoscenti do not deign to notice.

    The question is: is academic poetry more profound, or merely more opaque, than the stuff the public gobbles up?

  • I think that to really address the question why poetry has become less popular over the past century and a half, first of all, we need a lot more comparative data about people’s poetry reading habits. For instance, how has the total circulation of poetry in magazines etc. changed? It could be that though no single poem has gained the audience that poems once gained, that poetry in general is read more often by a more diverse group of people.

    Second, the author begins gesturing towards a definition of poetry that largely has to do with rhythm, and seems to imply that it is because modern poets eschew rhythm that their poetry has become less popular. This definition also allows him to consider rap as the successor of poetry. Well, if we follow this definition, we might as well consider music as a whole to be a form of poetry, not just rap — in which case, you would say poetry is as popular as its ever been.

    All of this still seems somewhat superficial. What remains unstated throughout the piece, but is certainly implied by its title, is that the decline of poetry has so to speak moral significance. So I think if we ask these questions, we need to make explicit not just what we consider to be poetry, but why we think poetry is worthwhile. It would be open to modern poets to reply to the author, for instance, that though poetry has become less popular in the last century, it has artistically and intellectually matured, and that poets today are much more serious and engaged than the scribblers of sentimental verses celebrated by our grandparents.

  • I don’t agree that “William Blake would approve” of Gioia’s idea that poetry must be performed to be appreciated. Blake was a master book maker. He produced all of his poetry by hand, by “printing in the infernal method”: he engraved his poems, along with his own illustrations, on metal sheets and used those to produce small quantities of exquisite volumes. Blake, more than many poets, treated his poems as visual objects.

    I would also draw your attention to one of his remarkable “prose poems,” “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.”

  • Perhaps part of a broader sectioning-off of performance from the experience of education and culture formation. We are not often enough performers and audience to each other. The knowledge that one will inevitably be both is one of life’s most important lessons in the importance of general goodwill.

    • But one can be a performer and an audience to one’s self. Even when I silently read a poem the words appear to my mind as spoken, not just as graphic reference to meaning and that internal speech responds to rhyme and rhythm sonorously as if it were spoken. I can only know this is true for myself. I have no idea what the mental mechanisms of other people might be.

  • Poor e e cummings. He’ll never be fully understood.

    • Read cummings carefully. Some of his most potent poems are traditional forms, typographically elongated or scattered, which when sounded out yield many of their expected sound patterns, rhythmic schemes, and lyric or ribald pleasures.

  • Very interesting, thank you. Poems that can be recited are the most satisfying. But, before any incensed Irishperson posts to correct you, Percy “Mountains of Mourne” French was not British.


    My thoughts, when fashioned into words,
    Words which twist and interlock
    And echo on themselves in rhyme and beat,
    When sounded, ring like choruses of bells,
    Or waves that swirl and separate and meet.

    Words and thoughts, when married into form,
    When joined and folded into shapes
    Wherein their grasp holds to each other tight
    And yet extends a reach into the world
    Engenders sorcery to make a magic light.

    So, complete, these origamis of the mind
    Encage, engage a coterie of notions
    That weld into a small totality
    Like a perfect little paper boat
    To be launched onto an endless sea.

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