The Book Shelf

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume XVIII, Issue 297, 1 December 1928, Page 9

The Book Shelf

(By

“Lector”)

HINTS TO READERS

appreciation of poetry.

DEVELOPMENT OF RHYTHMICAL SENSE.

Poetry is an oral art. That is, like music, it must be heard by the ear to be appreciated fully. It deals not only with bright images cf thought but with rhythm and interesting sounds as well. If. therefore, one reads it silently he loses part, at least, of its essential beauty. The oral reading of poetry, however, presents some problems that prose does not. But in mastering these difficulties one will not only improve his reading but reap some valuable by-products as well. One of the first of these problems will have to do with rhythms. The rhythm of English conventional poetry is metrical. A poem, in other words, naa a pattern more or less complex in iff 1 ’ > Stressed and unstressed syllables follow each other in regular depricked out by some device, which is often rhyme. A beginner will probably get more pure delight put of his poetry reading and have less confusion in regard to it if he doesn’t pay much attention to technicalities. but Will let poetry speak for herself.

TAKING AN EXAMPLE.

Let us, therefore, begin our studv by reading the story of little Miss Muffet. Read it several times aloud until you can really feel the rhythm. Fos rhythm is something that must be Mi as well as heard by the ear. Stress Heavily the metrical accents. Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating her curds and whey. There eame a big spider And sat down beside her And frigh/ened Miss Muffet away. Nosr, forgetting the rhythm, tell the story as if it were prose, but use the same words in the same order. You will find, in general, that the words which receive the metrical accent when you are thinking of the meter will receive the same accent when you are thinking of the storv only . In other words, the metrical annant Zdu* to sensei 10l I i/vratbar But if you are somewhat dramatic by nature you may wish to say BIG apider, giving a strong stress to the word “big.’’ In this case the metrical accent and phrase accent pait company. An interesting illustrat'cn of thia disagreement is given by Mr Alden, in his Introduction to Poetry. In the sentence, “to be or not to be. that is the question,” the word “that’’ demands the phrase accent while the meter calls for the accent on “is.”

Sat on a tuffet,

Even word accents may sometimes refuse to rot in harness with the metrical accent. Again to quote from Mr Alden’s book, read aloud.

,Yon cant’ have any of my peanuts

When your peanuts are gone.

Here our rhythmical sense is so strong that it it almost impossible not to say “peaniits,” though in sober prose we always properly call them ‘peinuts.’’ Try this and see how true it is.

It is thia constantly recurring de parture from and return to the metrical pattern in obedience to thought, that is one of the beauties of poetry. The great poets have all recognised and been governed by this underlying law. Without this variety m u;>k poetry would become mere jingle. REGARD FOR BOTH. But in such a plight what is the poetry reader to do? Shall he take sides with the rhythm and pound away on the metrical accent (as most children do, being naturally lovers of rhythm) or shall he ignore the rhythm and read according to sense? But in this case he might just as wen be reading prose. What he must do is to have regard for both at the same time. He must do as the pianists say, “play two against three.” Or to illustrate farther, his rhythm will be his accompaniment, played in perfect metrical time with his left hand while his right hand uses considerable freedom in playing the melodyin this case the depth of meaning in the poem which he wishes to bring out. To use a more homely example, many of us when we were children used to try the experiment of patting our heads and rubbing our stomachs at the same time. If this seemed very • difficult to do we began by patting first until the pat became established before we began to rub. Now this is just what the poetry reader must do. He must get his patting (the meter) thoroughly going • before he starts to rub (the interpretation).

Let us now go back to Little Miss Muffet and see how it works out. Having started by establishing our rhythm we will then try to keep it marching steadil.* along but will detour at the word “big” long enough to give this word its full dramatic value. But immediatelv we win swing back into step again at the wora “spider.” If this seems difficult to do we must go back and work out each separately again. Phrase accents, being entirely dependent on the thought of the reader, no one else can arbitrarily fixe these accents for him. The following is. therefore, just suggestive as a further example of how to work out this problem of opposing accents. Read the first stanza of the peom, Tn Flanders Fields. It has a beautiful rhythm and strongly marked accents.

I I li In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row — And so on. Hie second stanza begins I I li

We are the dead: short days agoA reader might, however, wish to read this line with the accents as follows;

tve are the dead; short days ago

Again, in the last stanza instead of

I ' • J < 1 1 Take up our quarrel with the foehe might prefer ti interpret it.

I I i I Take up our quarrel with the foe— He will, then, have to work out these opposing accents exactly as we did

with little Miss Muffet. taking his meter and interpolation separately and then trying to put them together. The phrase accent will dominate the metrical accent whenver these conflict. So, usually, will the primary word accent. Secondary word accents usually adjust themselves to the meter without causing much trouble to the reader. Anyone who will have the patience to work out a few poems this way will be delighted with the new pleasure he can now derive from his reading and the enlighnteneu understanding he will have of the masterly skill underlying fine poetry. If he hasn’t a strong rhythmical sense poetry reading will develop it. This is one of the byproducts spoken of above. To his surprise the conscientious poetry reader may wake up some morning to find his game of golf greatly improved or his swimming or his car driving or his tennis or, indeed, any physical activity in which he engages, all of which depend so much on their rhythmical sense.—Carilyn Stevens, in the “Christian Science Monitor.”

♦ » * ♦ THE SECRET OF THE PSALMS

The secret of the Psalms lies in the fact that they spring from the constant realization tuat everything in the universe and in the fortunes of men is dependent on God’s will, and must finally fulfil His purpose. These ancient poets o ffer us a striking contrast to their modern successors. It would seem that nowadays men seek the inspiration of their verse by turning their thouglits upon themselves to be absorbed in reflecting on their own sensations, their own sorrows, their own perplexities, or their own triumphs. They eyes are turned entirely to the little things of their human experience, and everything is judged in its relation to themselves. It is not so with the Psalmists. The central theme of life for them is God, and His praise is their joy. Their customary refrain is:

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, From whence cqmeth my help. My help cometh from the Lord, Which made heaven and earth. —The (London) Times.

* * ♦ ▼ STONE BLUNTS SCISSORS

By GERARD FAIRLIE. (Hodder and Stoughton.')

The author of “Scissors Out Paper” has gone one better in his sequel to that most excellent yarn. Derek Sinclair turns up as a lovely villain, who wears a green silk hood so that his own minions never see his face, and Victor Oaryll, after the usual give-and-take, ups-and-downs, desperate situations and miraculous escapes by secret passages, tunnels, automatic lifts and so forth, is finally able to even the score with his arch enemy. His love romance with Patricia, the adopted daughter of one of Derek’s henchmen, comes to a most satisfactory conclusion. This is not the kind of story that can be told over again without being spoiled. But it will keep the reader engrossed all the time.

* ♦ * « SHEILA BOTH-WAYS

By JOANNA OANNAN. (Ernest Benn.)

“You cannot ever have jt both ways” may be described ae the text of this amusing and cleverly written story. There is a fragment of an old jingle that goes somewhat like this: “I maintain, as a rule, man’s a fool. When it’s hot, he wants it cool; When it’s cool, he wants it hot; ' Always wanting what is not, And never liking what he’s got.” But in this case it is a woman, and very charming at that. Sheila is the daughter of Andrew Clavering, a happy-go-lucky, systemlese, easygoing K.C., who allows his children to do very much as they please, and when the solid and somewhat staid qualities of .Douglas Toye appear alongside the erratic vagaries of the father’s temperament, Sheila is attracted bv the very force of the contraet, and marries Douglas because of his stability. It was her sister Dorian, also a very charming girl and possessed of much more force of character, who invented the nickname “Sheila BothWays,” because she realised that Sheila’s deeire was to possess two incompatible privileges at the same time—the old, free, careless homelife and the steady responsibilities of matrimony.

Haying crossed the river into the promised land of safety, and having had time in which to realise the deadly dullness of her new life. Sheila naturally looks back with longing to the old days. So it goes on for twelve dull years, when Robert Marston, an old fellow-soldier of her husband’s, romes on the scene bringing with him the temptation to a wider life of liberty. But the ways of human psychology are not to be thwarted, and twelve years is a long time. Sheila is accustomed to the Toye life, and finds it impossible to make the break. Exit Marston, and Sheila, like a sensible woman, settles down for good.

♦ ♦ » ♦ HOME! SWEET HOME!

“Home! Sweet Home!” I have listened long To the nleasant strains of the maiden’s song. Till all around me the soft air thrills With a joyous sound, as of gushing

rills; Gayly she sings in her father’s halls. And I hoar her voice as it floats and

falls. And minded with it are tones of

mirth From a gathered group by a lighted hearth. . . .

“Home! Sweet Home!” ’Tis a simple song, But it fetters the weak and subdues the strong; And evermore will its flute-notes low With the sweeping sound of the wind-harp flow. —Belle Bush, in ‘“Voices of the Morning.”

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