The Professor
04-05-2009, 03:38 AM
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Shakespeare is by head and shoulders the greatest playwright in the history of our language, no one's really close.
Likewise, in all English-language poetry, our greatest ever singer is John Milton, altho the margin betwixt the overworked, puritannical polemicist for Cromwell and his many lyrical rivals is not so great as the Bard's.
But Milton is an amazing songster. And to understand what he is doing is to know poetry as a craft.
His 19th sonnet, When I Consider: its form is sonnet, 14 lines of perfect iambic pentameter.
Pentameter---10 syllables per line.
Iambic---stress (accent, in the dictionary) on syllables 2, 4, 6, 8 and 10.
Examples:
Iambic---and JUS-ti-FY the WAYS of GOD to MAN.
Not iambic---jus-TI-fy TOO the WAYS of GOD to MAN.
The second example is not iambic, because if you look up "justify" in your Funk & Wagnalls, the accent is NOT on the second syllable, "TI."
People don't say, "jus-TI-fy."
They say, "JUS-ti-FY."
That's how it works.
The accents in the dictionary gotta matchup with the stresses in the iambic.
Ok. So Milton's greatest sonnet, #19.
14 lines of perfect pentameter iambic.
Count the beats in each line. Hear the rhythm of 10-syllable poetry.
If you study long enough, you begin thinking in pentameter.
Next: the master's magnificent rhyme pattern, 14 lines.
ABBA ABBA CDE CDE
These are the craftsman's rhyme words. Please read them twice: spent, wide, hide, bent, present, chide, denied, prevent, need, best, state, speed, rest, wait.
Now, read Milton's finest short poem.
But the key to the secret of HEARING his finest song:
DO NOT READ FROM LINE TO LINE. INSTEAD, READ FROM PUNCTUATION MARK TO PUNCTUATION MARK.
Exactly like an essay, prose, a newspaper article, or book.
Pause for commas, stop for periods, keep on reading/singing if there is no punctuational stop.
You'll hear subject and predicate.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, tho my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker and present
My true account, lest he returning chide:
"Doth God exact day labor, light denied,"
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post oer land and ocean without rest.
They also serve who only stand and wait."
What it means is not that interesting to me. It's just the music that rips at my guts.
But what Milton's saying is---when i consider that I'm already blind (having read and written so much, burned out my eyes, for Cromwell's Roundhead, regicidal cause), ere half my days, ie, still a young man.
And when I realize that the talent of gold was deposited with me, as in Christ's Parable of the Talents:
Matthew 25: 26---(Jesus speaking) "It is like a man going abroad who called his servants and put his capital in their hands. To one, he gave 5 talents of gold, to another 2, to another one, each according to his capacity."
The servant with 5 weights, the lesson continues, "employed them in business," doubling his master's sum.
He with 2 did the same.
But the schmo with little gold and small capacity dug a hole and buried his money, because he was afraid to lose it.
When the master returned, he was pleased with and rewarded his more industrious pair. But he chided the last---"You lazy rascal. You know that I reap where I have not sewn and gather where I have not scattered." (New English translation).
Give your gold to Mr Ten Talents, here, cuz "the man who has will always be given more... and the man who has not will forfeit even what he has."
Milton's sonnet is a calling out, his anxiety over his inability to serve therewith his Maker, to present his true account.
By poem's end, tho, "patience" prevents his murmur...
That word, murmur---the SOUND of that word, like a pillow, or baby talk, or something---mur-mur.
By line 12 or so, the poet's feeling better cuz he knows he's doing all he can.
Thousands at God's bidding speed. We also serve who only stand and wait.
"We also serve who only wait ta-BLES."
Pentameter, yes!
Iambic not!
Damn. Try again.
It's TA-bles. Not ta-BLES.
No one waits ta-BLES.
This aint France.
Read Milton's sonnet again.
That is one master craftsman.
The Prof
Shakespeare is by head and shoulders the greatest playwright in the history of our language, no one's really close.
Likewise, in all English-language poetry, our greatest ever singer is John Milton, altho the margin betwixt the overworked, puritannical polemicist for Cromwell and his many lyrical rivals is not so great as the Bard's.
But Milton is an amazing songster. And to understand what he is doing is to know poetry as a craft.
His 19th sonnet, When I Consider: its form is sonnet, 14 lines of perfect iambic pentameter.
Pentameter---10 syllables per line.
Iambic---stress (accent, in the dictionary) on syllables 2, 4, 6, 8 and 10.
Examples:
Iambic---and JUS-ti-FY the WAYS of GOD to MAN.
Not iambic---jus-TI-fy TOO the WAYS of GOD to MAN.
The second example is not iambic, because if you look up "justify" in your Funk & Wagnalls, the accent is NOT on the second syllable, "TI."
People don't say, "jus-TI-fy."
They say, "JUS-ti-FY."
That's how it works.
The accents in the dictionary gotta matchup with the stresses in the iambic.
Ok. So Milton's greatest sonnet, #19.
14 lines of perfect pentameter iambic.
Count the beats in each line. Hear the rhythm of 10-syllable poetry.
If you study long enough, you begin thinking in pentameter.
Next: the master's magnificent rhyme pattern, 14 lines.
ABBA ABBA CDE CDE
These are the craftsman's rhyme words. Please read them twice: spent, wide, hide, bent, present, chide, denied, prevent, need, best, state, speed, rest, wait.
Now, read Milton's finest short poem.
But the key to the secret of HEARING his finest song:
DO NOT READ FROM LINE TO LINE. INSTEAD, READ FROM PUNCTUATION MARK TO PUNCTUATION MARK.
Exactly like an essay, prose, a newspaper article, or book.
Pause for commas, stop for periods, keep on reading/singing if there is no punctuational stop.
You'll hear subject and predicate.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide
And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, tho my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker and present
My true account, lest he returning chide:
"Doth God exact day labor, light denied,"
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post oer land and ocean without rest.
They also serve who only stand and wait."
What it means is not that interesting to me. It's just the music that rips at my guts.
But what Milton's saying is---when i consider that I'm already blind (having read and written so much, burned out my eyes, for Cromwell's Roundhead, regicidal cause), ere half my days, ie, still a young man.
And when I realize that the talent of gold was deposited with me, as in Christ's Parable of the Talents:
Matthew 25: 26---(Jesus speaking) "It is like a man going abroad who called his servants and put his capital in their hands. To one, he gave 5 talents of gold, to another 2, to another one, each according to his capacity."
The servant with 5 weights, the lesson continues, "employed them in business," doubling his master's sum.
He with 2 did the same.
But the schmo with little gold and small capacity dug a hole and buried his money, because he was afraid to lose it.
When the master returned, he was pleased with and rewarded his more industrious pair. But he chided the last---"You lazy rascal. You know that I reap where I have not sewn and gather where I have not scattered." (New English translation).
Give your gold to Mr Ten Talents, here, cuz "the man who has will always be given more... and the man who has not will forfeit even what he has."
Milton's sonnet is a calling out, his anxiety over his inability to serve therewith his Maker, to present his true account.
By poem's end, tho, "patience" prevents his murmur...
That word, murmur---the SOUND of that word, like a pillow, or baby talk, or something---mur-mur.
By line 12 or so, the poet's feeling better cuz he knows he's doing all he can.
Thousands at God's bidding speed. We also serve who only stand and wait.
"We also serve who only wait ta-BLES."
Pentameter, yes!
Iambic not!
Damn. Try again.
It's TA-bles. Not ta-BLES.
No one waits ta-BLES.
This aint France.
Read Milton's sonnet again.
That is one master craftsman.
The Prof