The Perfect Swing

From “Preface to Some Imagist Poems” by Amy Lowell, this:

The definition of vers libre is—a verse-form based upon cadence. Now cadence in music is one thing, cadence in poetry quite another, since we are dealing with tone but with rhythm. It is the sense of perfect balance of flow and rhythm. Not only must the syllables so fall as to increase and continue the movement, but the whole poem must be as rounded and recurring as the circular swing of a balanced pendulum. It can be fast or slow, it may even jerk, but this perfect swing it must have, even its jerks must follow the central movement.

and that:

The unit in vers libre is not the foot, the number of syllables, the quantity, or the line. The unit is the strophe, which may be the whole poem, or may be only a part. Each strophe is a complete circle: in fact, the meaning of the Greek word “strophe” is simply that part of the poem which was recited while the chorus were making a turn around the altar set up in the center of the theater. The simile of the circle is more than a simile, therefore; it is a fact. Of course the circle need not always be the same size, nor need the times allowed to negotiate it be always the same. There is room here for an infinite number of variations. Also, circles can be added to circles, movement upon movement, to the poem, provided each movement completes itself, and ramifies naturally into the next. But one thing must be borne in mind: a cadenced poem is written to be read aloud, in this way only will its rhythm be felt. Poetry is a spoken and not a written art.

Cadences, flows and rhythm, rounded and recurring, in strophes whole or parts of poem, variable but completed circles, naturally ramifying other circles, and all read aloud. This definition is woven together with stronger thread then some but the weave is still a loose one. It all comes down to the perfect swing. Ted Williams, the last man to hit 400 in Major League baseball, described it this way:

"It's a pendulum action, a metronome--move and countermove. You might not have realized it, but you throw a ball that way, you swing a golf club that way, you cast a fishing rod that way. You go back, and then you come forward. You don't start back there. And you don't "start" your swing with your hips cocked."

And you don't step on Benny Goodman's cape.

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Previous "Twentieth-Century American Poetics" postings:
-Bass Thoughts (J.V. Cunningham)
-On the Other Side of the Line (Denise Levertov)
-That Line is Out of Focus (Denise Levertov)
-Buildings Built for Ghosts (Robert Creeley)