8 minute read
Natallia Valadzko | Poetic Space and How Lines Break
from Issue 11
I can’t finish thi-
Natallia Valadzko | Poetic Space and How Lines
Break
A page in a novel and a page from a poetry volume look drastically different in comparison. In the case of the latter, stanzas come in short lines or long lines. Some lines can be aligned to the left while others may be indented differently all over the page. Older poetic forms might have a more predictable layout when it comes to the number of lines per stanza or the use of spaces. At the same time, contemporary free verse often exhibits way more freedom when it comes to unconventional punctuation and white space on the page. If one rewrites a few sentences of prose using the typical poetry layout, has the text been automatically turned into a poem?
While prose follows the constraints of the page, poets choose to break the text in their poems wherever they see fit. That is the defining characteristic of poetry – the poetic line. It is the marked threshold where a line of poetry ends, and the next one begins. The line does not have to form a complete phrase or a syntactic unit: there are no restrictions on what is left dangling or is moved to the following line. There are countless ways to break a poem, and each would result in a very different reading experience. Some say that a well-chosen line break is what distinguishes a good poem from a great one.
First, it feels important to sort out how poetry is consumed – whether it’s by being looked at or by being listened to. On the one hand, there is solitary reading of poems that includes attending to the page full of white space and well- (or ill-) behaved lines of writing. On the other hand, there is reciting and listening to poems, where the performed prosody and pauses are not necessarily restricted to what is recorded on the page (if there was a written record of the performed poem in the first place!). However captivating both experiences can be, certain things are afforded by the graphic level. For example, how do you even recite indentation, extended spaces, parentheses, and punctuation besides expressing it just by pausing? Another thing that seems special about the graphic layer of communication in poems is that, in some ways it may transcend the linearity of language. To put it differently, the page space may be manipulated in a way that allows the reader to escape the linear order and attend to several things simultaneously. The resources of page space could be exploited to convey meanings in unconventional ways.
When we read a poem, we read more than its words; we read words against the page, against its white space. Line breaks are only one of the ways a poet may control the white space – there are many more opportunities since white space surrounds the “islands” of text from all sides. Poets and critics often talk of white space as the unsayable. It can be silence, fear (as the genre of horror might have taught us), grief, absence, hesitation, and time. Sometimes saying nothing is saying everything. This is why poets keep the silences, the white spaces, the careful line breaking in their toolboxes.
One of the reasons why it might be hard to talk about a line break is that it doesn’t function independently of other poetic elements. You can’t divorce it from the meaning, syntax, sound, or rhythm; instead, it modifies and amplifies them all. Let me give a superficial example by embedding the concept into this very text. This article is not a poem; it does not care for line breaks and negative space, and yet, should it? It might. What follows next is a silly experiment in response to the question asked before: what happens if you linebreak a piece of prose?
this article is not a
poem
it does not care for line
breaks and negative
space and
yet should it might
I’d be lying if I said that I put too much thought into breaking this string of words. However, would it still come across as a poem to an unsuspecting reader? Perhaps, perhaps not. If this piece of writing were found in an artbook or painted on the wall, even if it didn’t start as a poem, would one perceive it as such? Even this simple example can be used to highlight a couple of things. A line break slows a reader down and makes them linger, so when we reach the end of “this article is not a,” we have the space to ask ourselves, “Is not a what?” And for a moment, there are infinite options, until we get to “poem.” It’s not a poem, okay. What’s next? “It does not care for line.” Lines? Oh, line breaks? But for a second, the idea of disregarding lines as well as line breaks may be entertained. The next line finishes with “and,” and one might expect another thing this article does not care for, but we are met with the opposite. Instead of adding to what we know, we get the contrastive “yet” that leaves us with the finishing question.
So what are the possible functions (or the effects) of line breaks? I’d like to analyze parts of Ann Lauterbach’s poem “Table” as an example. First of all, line breaks are a game changer when it comes to creating tension and opposition. Take a look at the first two stanzas:
People gather. They
eat, drink, speak. They
are among themselves
happily. They
celebrate this or that
occasion.
The cat
does not like
the cat door I installed.
It is not transparent.
Three lines end in “they” (where “They” also starts each of the sentences!), which isolates and puts the spotlight on a group of “them.” Due to the hesitation of a line break, what gets foregrounded is not what they do but rather the mere declaration of the existence of “them.” As a result, “they” are contrasted with something else. As I am reading it, I am thinking: “they” as opposed to us, me, the poet? But then we get to the second stanza that perhaps rewrites these answers – it is the cat. “The cat” is isolated by a line break and also cushioned by the left indentation. “They” and “the cat” are almost aligned on the page in neat opposition; but “the cat” is still keeping its distance.
The following part goes:
A distant
sound, a small engine
in the sky. I recall
planes at night when
I was a child. I feared
they carried bombs.
Line breaks are said to create movement; they shape the rhythm. Long lines are slow, short ones are fast, sometimes even ragged, edgy. The stanza above reads as somewhat asymmetrical, as if stumbling over your own words when remembering something traumatic. Besides tension, line breaks contribute to holding the intrigue. “I recall” – the pause is pregnant with the abundance and weight of one’s memories. A wellformed sentence, which could be easily placed in a prose memoir, is broken across three lines. The proximity of “I was a child. I feared” creates an impression of causeand-effect; I was just a child, so I feared? As for the last line, isolating it makes the idea more potent when it is unobstructed by the surrounding noise of other clauses. At the same time, it may be read as a declarative: it is not the fear of whether they carried bombs; they did carry bombs.
The final point concerns the endstopped lines: instances when a whole idea or phrase stands on its own, almost like a complete sentence, often marked with a comma, a period, or a dash. Here’s the fifth stanza to consider:
I wish to be clear.
Clarity is not the same
as the literal. I object
to the literal.
What does this mean?
There are two end-stopped lines here: the first and the last. End-stopped lines are thought to provide a sense of completion, finality, and even reassurance. Quite often, there is something anxious about breaking a line part-way through the clause or phrase. Such lines may keep readers on the edge of their seats or invite introspection. “I wish to be clear” would not seem nearly as unfaltering if it were line-broken. It exudes determination and intention.
Line breaks serve a special purpose in every poem: they are a way to teach the reader how to read the poem, where to look closer, where to stop and think for yourself before continuing. It may seem chaotic, almost random, but providing readers with a unique experience requires knowing
where to break
the line
.
