Crafting Poetry: Dissonance
Crafting Poetry: Dissonance
Dissonance can be a poet’s carefully deployed tool. We can achieve dissonance on the page, a visual effect, or—if the poem is read aloud—stage direction, using line drops, font shifts (large to small, bold to italic, black to barely legible), ambiguous punctuation, words abutted against other words, deliberate misspellings, puns.
In “The Cleaner Fish and the Dust Mite” (Mystery Plays, Book Two, “Mr. Boots”), I include an additional type, that of subject-verb agreement:
See how your fragile walls
Your world encased in glass
Magnify the room . . . perhaps
Lines of verse draw meaning from predecessors, convey it to followers—and each transition, not confined in poetry to the logical ordering of a prose sentence, can act as free agent, playing one role and then another, while the storyline builds. We have two things here, walls and glass together; or, we may have a rhetorical string: “How your walls . . . how your world . . . ” The center line serves as interjection, while the last may be an imperative. All this bears on the question of magnify/magnifies.
Another Boots poem (“You Have No Whiffle Ball”):
Door that your poor dog nose
My finely honed and agile claws
Have never nudged or pried
I went back and forth on the “have”. The door would like to be the subject—it makes a strong bid—but in the end, just can’t be friends with the claws. In the first example, the “world encased in glass” is a descriptive phrase that augments the fragility of the walls (these belonging to a goldfish tank). In the second, the claws are literal claws, another medium the household pets have used in attempting to breach the refrigerator.
So I find the walls magnify, while the nose and claws in tandem fail to pry.
In “Trouble the Pawn” (The Poor Belabored Beast), I’ve allowed the poem’s final line to stand, a dissonant construction of fair pestiferousness . . . a conceit, in fact, since I know of no rule in augury by offal, for pluralizing.
Netted with its lolling neck
Its flipper beats and slaps
Long dead the odd sea creature is
Yet lulling waves and bloated gas
Make onlookers start
As it rises from the deck
Where next will fall the hammer blow
The augury its guts foretells
And there’s a reason for not rhyming “blow” with “foretold”. In storyline terms, the foretelling is future menace, one of the threats dredged up with the “odd sea creature”.
I take the guts, then, as a thing of themselves, like “the panel”, or “the congress”; but the two ess sounds together—the way they perturb—is also pleasing.
In the Wake arc of the Folly series, Wake’s portion of “The Depth” has him narrate, as to the prussic acid:
Samuels has placed a vial
With a plink of glass his fingers snuffs
Next the basin . . . shall I fill it?
Wake has reason to record detail vividly in his mind, to count the ticking past of each second. He comprehends the import of this vial; Samuels’s thought for the unseemliness of the proposal he is convinced must be the only resolution; his care to stop the noise.
In this case, “his fingers” functions as metonymy, a part that stands for the whole; the whole, in short, Samuels. And so Samuels snuffs the plink of glass, but Wake is staring at each movement of his fingers, as he does so.
My final example from my own work, “Paranoia”:
Pillars of standing corpses
A little army of his own making
Have spored into a rain forest
Corey Jack’s vision of corpses bridges an interjection; however, using old-fashioned diction, an army may also be expressed as a plural.
To me, dissonance should be a kind of aural illusion, a line that rings false; then, read twice, rings true . . . then false again, true again, etc. Some poems I’ve seen labeled dissonant seem more experimental, Gertrude Stein’s work, for one, where the idea seems to have been juxtaposing words and asking the reader to invent a connection.
Here are two lines from Wilfred Owen‘s “Strange Meeting”:
Through granites which titanic wars had groined
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned
The word “groined” has connotations, and this may force the reader to regroup and move forward; next, it echoes groaned. There are hidden puns here, the soldiers sleeping and groaning, sleeping possibly in death, groaning often used in poems to describe the tomb; the architectural conceit of the shells forming new cathedrals in the rock—and the term sleeper, a type of structural element in a building, supporting an arch or other feature.
“Envoi”, by Kathleen Raine, is a poem dissonant in theme, every verse ending with a twist: we are given a hawk, a tree, a rose, each returning respectively, to the poised hanging figure, the fountain of blood, and the sacrifice. The poem reads at least three ways: as pastoral musing, countered by insistent personal suffering, countered by the transfiguration of suffering into holiness. A well-known verse:
See how against the weight in the bone
the hawk hangs perfect in mid-air—
the blood pays dear to raise it there
the moment, not the bird, divine