The Enduring Allure of Byron’s She Walks in Beauty

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She Walks in Beauty Lord Bryon How to Read a Poem aloud
The poems that endure, endure for a reason, but I usually can’t say why. For every beautiful, cutting, or mysteriously gripping poem you read to me, I can read you a dozen more. But some of them have, I don’t know. . .a nameless grace? One image the more, one line the less, and the poem becomes impaired, impure, a little less lit by stars.

Dissection can surely uncover the technical workings of a poem’s anatomy. And while there is nothing inherently wrong with dismembering a poem in the name of literary investigation–it can be disturbingly fun, in fact– you won’t find its soul that way. You can memorize your lover’s every hair, freckle, and laugh line with a series of photographs, but until you spend time with him, you will never really know him or her.

On my quest to experience some classic poems afresh, I decided to first take up “She Walks in Beauty” by Lord Byron. Of course I’ve heard it countless times. In a way, that’s the biggest challenge with the classics. We hear them so much, we stop listening.

So my goal was to listen. Really, really, listen. First I read the poem aloud about ten times. Then, for an entire morning and afternoon, I read it aloud on the hour, sometimes every half hour, and just let it work its way in. Different words and images hit me at different times. Sometimes I lingered over “cloudless climes and starry skies,” placing myself in the night. Sometimes I got tangled in the “raven tresses.” I read it quickly, I read it slowly. I read it loudly and quietly. I read it while making coffee, stir-frying zucchini, walking upstairs with laundry, and, well, going to that other room where people tend to read.

What did I discover?

This is where I need to be careful. As tempting as it was to consult the “outside,” I refrained from reading commentaries or talking to professor friends while spending the day with this poem. Likewise, I wouldn’t want this post to color your date with “She Walks in Beauty” too much. But here are a few questions I began to ask myself while reading:

● What is the best of dark and light in this poem? With “she?” With a person I know?

● How do the rhyme and rhythm of the poem help me “walk” with her? How does it feel to walk with her?

● “One shade the more, one ray the less.” What or whom do I have these kinds of feelings for? Why?

● What kind of beauty do I see in this poem? What does beauty mean here? With someone important to me?

Of course I’m not finished. That is why the poem endures.

What about you? Go ahead. Read it aloud. Once, twice, on the hour. Try to name what is nameless, which, I believe, is the greatest reward of reading poetry.

She walks in beauty, like the night
      Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
      Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
      Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
      Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
      Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
      How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
      So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
      But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
      A heart whose love is innocent!

—Lord Byron

Photo by Ashton, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Tania Runyan, author of How to Read a Poem.

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5 Great Tips for Reading Poetry Aloud

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Yellow Flower How to Read a Poem Aloud

Formal poetry-recitation projects and competitions are important artistic ventures. However, sometimes we just want—or need—to read a poem aloud spontaneously, whether during a class discussion, solo reading time, or Mischief Café.

How can we read a poem aloud in a way that captures its essence?

The following five tips will help you celebrate a poem by reading it aloud with intentionality and confidence. We’ll use Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese 43,” one of the most-recited poems, as a model.

 
Sonnets from the Portuguese 43

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

1) Pay Attention to Lines (But Not Too Much)

When reading a poem aloud, remember, you are dealing partly with lines. Poet David Wright, author of The Small Books of Bach, likens a poetic line to a measure of music. Just as measures in a musical piece flow and connect with one another without jarring separations, so poetry lines keep their shapes, their individual counts.

When reading a poem aloud, think of the end of a line as signaling a slight pause, even if the line ends without punctuation. On the other hand, if you linger too long, you end up with a kind of marching song or limerick effect. Remember, lingering isn’t loitering. What is the impact of letting these lines from Browning’s sonnet linger for just a moment (but not too long)?

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

2) Pay attention to sentences

One of the top complaints poetry readers receive regards their use of Poet Voice. What is the trademark characteristic of Poet Voice? Reading every sentence, including declaratives, like a question? Perhaps that habit removes emotional depth and variety from a poem?

Paying attention to sentences means paying attention to punctuation. Often, beginning readers of poetry gloss over punctuation, not only employing Poet Voice but ignoring the subtle differences between commas, semicolons, colons, exclamation points, and dashes.

Browning’s sonnet employs the question mark at the beginning, of course, and a semicolon near the end. How might this mid-line break influence a reader’s expression? What would a reader lose if he or she were to treat the semicolon like “just another comma?”

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

3) Slow down and let the language come alive

Remember, you are reading a poem, not a market report. Don’t think about communicating information, but emotion and story. The poet makes language choices that are as subtle—and powerful—as our own facial expressions and body language. When you come across sound-play in a poem, such as alliteration, internal rhyme or repetition, don’t be afraid to emphasize it. A poem is a very small story, in its way, and your emotional expressions will help tell it.

How can you emphasize, yet vary, the repetition in these lines?

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use

4) Target a line or two as your “nerve center” for highest expression

Of course every word of a poem deserves careful consideration. But as a reader, you will most likely find a line or two that really resonate with you. Luxuriate over those lines. Slow them down; adjust the volume high or low; pause between words. Don’t hold back.

Consider two of my favorites:

I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I connect with these two lines because they seem to speak to a long-term, deep relationship. As one who has been married for twenty-one years (and married at twenty-one), I find a gentle, but strong, beauty here. Even without punctuation, I feel the need to focus on “thee” with a slight pause after the word and draw out “every.” I can practically whisper “sun and candle-light,” mirroring the light’s peaceful flickers.

5) Be human

Remember, you are speaking to people. Even when reading to yourself alone in a room, you’re sharing poetry with a person worthy of your attention. Keep good public speaking practices in mind, such as confident posture and eye contact. If you can prepare beforehand by memorizing an entire poem or at least the beginning of its lines, do so. If you are reading in the moment, still look up from time to time, and don’t worry if it takes you a moment to find your place. If anything, it will help you slow down the language. Enjoy the moment; it is what the poem was written for.


Photo by Gemma Stiles, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Tania Runyan, author of How to Read a Poem.

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Coming of Age: How to Read a Poem’s Linebreaks (or Write Them)

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Coming of Age Monarch Caterpillar

During my recent visit to a state poetry society’s annual meeting, a man asked me how to write free verse.

“What are the rules?” he asked.

“There are none,” I said. “It’s free.”

“So it’s just random, then?”

“Absolutley not.”

“Then how do you do it?”

“I don’t know. But it takes me a long, long time.”

Free verse gets the lazy rap. It’s what today’s feel-good relativists write because they don’t want to put the intellectual commitment into sonnets and villianelles. In fact, when a formalist reviewed one of my mostly free-verse collections, she wrote that my linebreaks were random, arbritrary. That bothered me—not that she didn’t like my line breaks, but that she assumed I invested no time in the hateful things.

Now time does not always equal consciousness. When I work on my line breaks, I can’t always articulate why I’m doing what I’m doing, but I write, break, re-break, re-stanza, and cut—all while reading aloud—over and over and over, to help my poem come of age. The right line break resonates, rings in the bones. It echoes an emotion or idea in the reader’s brain, often without the reader realizing it until he or she takes some time to explore.

Consider the poem “Tree” by Andrew Hudgins:

Tree

I’d like to be a tree. My father clinked
his fork down on his plate and stared at me.
“Boy, sometimes you say the dumbest things.”
You ought to know, I muttered, and got backhanded
out of my chair. Nowadays, when I chop wood
and my hands gum with resin and bark flakes,
I hunker at the tap and wash them human.
But in math class, I’d daydream of my choices:
not hickory or cedar not an oak —
post, red, live, pin, or water oak. Just pine.
If not longleaf, I’d settle for loblolly.
My skin would thicken with harsh bark, my limbs
sprout twigs, my twigs sprout elegant green needles.
Too soon, Miz Gorrie’d call on me. “Why did
you do step four that way?” Who me? It looked
good at the time, I guess — and got invited
to come back after school and guess again.
And that’s when I decided it: scrub pine.

A lot can be said about this poem. Eighteen lines draw up a boy’s history and psyche better than many full-length memoirs. Every time I read it, I find a new angle or receive a new twinge in my heart. At the aforementioned poetry society meeting, several of us discussed the poem for over an hour then used it as a model for our own drafting. Without a doubt, it is a rich piece in its images, figurative language, sounds, and themes.

But for now, let’s look at the first line:

I’d like to be a tree. My father clinked

That last word. It rings like a flung fork. It hits against a plate’s greasy enamel and makes my teeth vibrate. On the heels of a little boy sharing his imagination, an instrument of nourishment and joy becomes a weapon of anger and intimidation.

I know. This past week, my daughter and I disagreed on the respectful qualities of her tone and body language at a groggy 6:30 a.m., and when I couldn’t take the conversation any longer, I threw my coffee spoon in the sink. Stainless steel on stainless steel. Clang.

It was a break, all right. She gathered up her things and left the room.

Sometimes the best way to figure out how, why, or if a line break works is to break the line at other places and compare the effects. What if the line broke after tree? Father? Fork? Down?

Poetry is the heart distilled, words in their most concentrated form. In his poem Introduction to Poetry, Billy Collins advises readers to “. . .drop a mouse into a poem/and watch him probe his way out.” When you crawl around these words, what do you discover? What happens when you linger on the edges, when you let the words make you catch your breath?

Read the poem aloud. Several times. Feel the end words. Then read just the end words themselves.

clinked
me
things
backhanded
wood
flakes
human
choices
oak–
pine
loblolly
limbs
needles
did
looked
invited
again
pine

How do these words work together, work in you as a whole? Of course I’m not going to give you an answer. Mine is different from yours. It’s free verse, after all—in all its clinking, ringing, painstaking coming-of-age glory. And there is nothing random about it.

Photo by LadyDragonflycc, Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Tania Runyan, author of How to Read a Poem.