Word choice is something we deal with every week at Wednesdays@One, but we've never actually dedicated a week's discussion to the choices we make and how we might improve what we do in this part of our poetry lives.
To begin at the beginning, Aristotle declared that diction is "fourth among the elements" of tragedy. (The order is plot, character, thought, diction, song and, lastly, spectacle.)
For us in the 21st Century, in our small coterie of W@1, and as writers of expressive, usually lyric poetry, diction seems more urgent than "fourth among the elements," doesn't it?
Aristotle addresses this topic in the Poetics, parts XIX through XXII, the last part dealing with diction as a determining element of style. In part XXI, Aristotle discusses words specifically--their uses, forms, parts, powers, limitations . . .
Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed of nonsignificant elements, such as ge, 'earth.' By double or compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant element (though within the whole word no element is significant), or of elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple, quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions, e.g., 'Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].'
Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental, or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.
By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among a people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country. Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current, but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, 'lance,' is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.
Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as: 'There lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought'; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large number generally. From species to species, as: 'With blade of bronze drew away the life,' and 'Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here arusai, 'to draw away' is used for tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein, again for arusai- each being a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the shield 'the cup of Ares.' Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore be called, 'the old age of the day,' and old age, 'the evening of life,' or, in the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.' For some of the terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence; still the metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet 'sowing the god-created light.' There is another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as if we were to call the shield, not 'the cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless cup'.
The big paragraph on metaphor and related figures of speech is worth rereading because it touches on all those operations that we perform on a text of poetry either consciously or subconsciously, either from our experience as readers of poems or from our more general experience with the language in our everyday lives. That is to say, metaphor is the stuff of poetry, and we use figures of speech in almost every utterance, even when we're just having a conversation with someone.
Aristotle describes words as "newly coined," "local," "ordinary" and "altered." How often have you experienced one or more of these conditions when feeling your way through an image or a line of poetry? How frequently do you feel you have to choose between the local and the latinate term for something, or the word that might drive your reader to the dictionary and the more accessible word? Aristotle defines this process as "style" in part XXII of Poetics.
"The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the same time it is mean . . ." says Aristotle.
By "mean" he means, more or less, accessible--as in, normative. Think Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, and much that is published in our local, middling poetry journals today. I would describe this style as "see-through." You are intended to see through the diction, the words, to the meanings they point to, or to those that their authors would like you to see without his or her language getting in the way. Obviously, Aristotle does not (fully) equate clarity with "perfection of style."
So just as obviously, Aristotle does not equate loftiness of language with "perfection of style." Poems are neither mini-expostitory essays nor riddles, not in their intrinsic "poem-ness," at least. He seeks that middle ground or golden mean that Roman writers would later pick up on, style that steers between the maelstrom of see-through diction and the rocks of the obscure. With his references to "perspicuity" and "distinction," Aristotle seems to be saying a poem gives you a lens upon the world that you will also hold in your hands and admire its design and engineering.
"Cleanness of diction that is remote from commonness"--who could describe better what we at W@1 aim for in our own writing?
But how do we accomplish this clean but distinct style in our choices of words? That is for each of us to decide (to wrestle, to force or acquiesce to) as we work our way through the writing of a poem, with all of its decision points, stops, starts, false beginnings, revisions, leaps of faith, discoveries, and defeats. Sharing our efforts with others, such as we do at W@1 each week, can clue us in to where we might want to think further about things like word choice, arrangement of words, phrasing, line breaks, borrowings, coinings, etc. For in writing a poem, like in no other literary activity, we are working with words as the material of our art. Here are some tools I'm sure you use regularly, but might not think about too often:
Rhyme
Concrete words (as opposed to abstract)
Nouns and action verbs
Alliteration
Metonymy and synecdoche
Meter and rhythm (or meter vs rhythm, "breath")
Juxtaposition and disjointedness
Number (related to meter, breath, e.g. counting beats or syllables)
Caesura
Metaphor and simile
Cliche/colloquialism
Hyperbole and other forms of exaggeration (e.g. understatement)
Epithet, oath, expletive
And then there are other aspects of word choice that you can (and often already do) deploy in a poem:
Strangeness/unfamiliar words or usages
Archaisms
Borrowings (e.g. from other languages, disciplines, vocabularies, subcultures)
Vernacular vs Latinate
Local expressions
New coinings (often understood as slang or jargon)
Old usages (often archaic or out-of-style words or "poeticisms")
Coded words vs "transactional"
Finally, "cleanness" and "distinctiveness" may not be what you're after when writing a poem. You may prefer a more hermetic style, or a pedantic, or a clotted style, or something more rock 'n roll, or ballad-like or cutesy or even expository--all style decisions with implications for word choice and, I must add, audiences. The point Aristotle makes is that the decision is yours and should be made as consciously as possible, or at least strategically (I mean to write like Homer; I intend to write like a beat poet; I plan to make my reader tear up; I want my reader to feel what I feel or to understand how I feel). What we can do at W@1 is to expose you to the variety of styles available to you as a writer of poems, help you recognize what style you're working in, and give you some sense of how well you execute.
To begin at the beginning, Aristotle declared that diction is "fourth among the elements" of tragedy. (The order is plot, character, thought, diction, song and, lastly, spectacle.)
For us in the 21st Century, in our small coterie of W@1, and as writers of expressive, usually lyric poetry, diction seems more urgent than "fourth among the elements," doesn't it?
Aristotle addresses this topic in the Poetics, parts XIX through XXII, the last part dealing with diction as a determining element of style. In part XXI, Aristotle discusses words specifically--their uses, forms, parts, powers, limitations . . .
Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed of nonsignificant elements, such as ge, 'earth.' By double or compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant element (though within the whole word no element is significant), or of elements that are both significant. A word may likewise be triple, quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions, e.g., 'Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].'
Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental, or newly-coined, or lengthened, or contracted, or altered.
By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among a people; by a strange word, one which is in use in another country. Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current, but not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, 'lance,' is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a strange one.
Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either from genus to species, or from species to genus, or from species to species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as: 'There lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble deeds hath Odysseus wrought'; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large number generally. From species to species, as: 'With blade of bronze drew away the life,' and 'Cleft the water with the vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here arusai, 'to draw away' is used for tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein, again for arusai- each being a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the second, or the second for the fourth. Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the shield 'the cup of Ares.' Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore be called, 'the old age of the day,' and old age, 'the evening of life,' or, in the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.' For some of the terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence; still the metaphor may be used. For instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet 'sowing the god-created light.' There is another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as if we were to call the shield, not 'the cup of Ares,' but 'the wineless cup'.
Aristotle describes words as "newly coined," "local," "ordinary" and "altered." How often have you experienced one or more of these conditions when feeling your way through an image or a line of poetry? How frequently do you feel you have to choose between the local and the latinate term for something, or the word that might drive your reader to the dictionary and the more accessible word? Aristotle defines this process as "style" in part XXII of Poetics.
"The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest style is that which uses only current or proper words; at the same time it is mean . . ." says Aristotle.
By "mean" he means, more or less, accessible--as in, normative. Think Billy Collins, Mary Oliver, and much that is published in our local, middling poetry journals today. I would describe this style as "see-through." You are intended to see through the diction, the words, to the meanings they point to, or to those that their authors would like you to see without his or her language getting in the way. Obviously, Aristotle does not (fully) equate clarity with "perfection of style."
That diction, on the other hand, is lofty and raised above the commonplace which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean strange (or rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that differs from the normal idiom. Yet a style wholly composed of such words is either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence of a riddle is to express true facts under impossible combinations. Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of metaphor it can. Such is the riddle: 'A man I saw who on another man had glued the bronze by aid of fire,' and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain infusion, therefore, of these elements is necessary to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical, the ornamental, and the other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean, while the use of proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes more to produce a cleanness of diction that is remote from commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words. For by deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the language will gain distinction; while, at the same time, the partial conformity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error who censure these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to ridicule.
So just as obviously, Aristotle does not equate loftiness of language with "perfection of style." Poems are neither mini-expostitory essays nor riddles, not in their intrinsic "poem-ness," at least. He seeks that middle ground or golden mean that Roman writers would later pick up on, style that steers between the maelstrom of see-through diction and the rocks of the obscure. With his references to "perspicuity" and "distinction," Aristotle seems to be saying a poem gives you a lens upon the world that you will also hold in your hands and admire its design and engineering.
"Cleanness of diction that is remote from commonness"--who could describe better what we at W@1 aim for in our own writing?
But how do we accomplish this clean but distinct style in our choices of words? That is for each of us to decide (to wrestle, to force or acquiesce to) as we work our way through the writing of a poem, with all of its decision points, stops, starts, false beginnings, revisions, leaps of faith, discoveries, and defeats. Sharing our efforts with others, such as we do at W@1 each week, can clue us in to where we might want to think further about things like word choice, arrangement of words, phrasing, line breaks, borrowings, coinings, etc. For in writing a poem, like in no other literary activity, we are working with words as the material of our art. Here are some tools I'm sure you use regularly, but might not think about too often:
Rhyme
Concrete words (as opposed to abstract)
Nouns and action verbs
Alliteration
Metonymy and synecdoche
Meter and rhythm (or meter vs rhythm, "breath")
Juxtaposition and disjointedness
Number (related to meter, breath, e.g. counting beats or syllables)
Caesura
Metaphor and simile
Cliche/colloquialism
Hyperbole and other forms of exaggeration (e.g. understatement)
Epithet, oath, expletive
And then there are other aspects of word choice that you can (and often already do) deploy in a poem:
Strangeness/unfamiliar words or usages
Archaisms
Borrowings (e.g. from other languages, disciplines, vocabularies, subcultures)
Vernacular vs Latinate
Local expressions
New coinings (often understood as slang or jargon)
Old usages (often archaic or out-of-style words or "poeticisms")
Coded words vs "transactional"
Finally, "cleanness" and "distinctiveness" may not be what you're after when writing a poem. You may prefer a more hermetic style, or a pedantic, or a clotted style, or something more rock 'n roll, or ballad-like or cutesy or even expository--all style decisions with implications for word choice and, I must add, audiences. The point Aristotle makes is that the decision is yours and should be made as consciously as possible, or at least strategically (I mean to write like Homer; I intend to write like a beat poet; I plan to make my reader tear up; I want my reader to feel what I feel or to understand how I feel). What we can do at W@1 is to expose you to the variety of styles available to you as a writer of poems, help you recognize what style you're working in, and give you some sense of how well you execute.
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