Poetic Rhythm

Poetic Rhythm

The rhythm of poetry is heartbeat of the poem. In fact its most popular metre, iambic, even sounds like the beat of a human heart. Given the stressed nature of English speech, it is very difficult for a poem in our language NOT to have a rhythm.

Poetry is built on words and words can be divided into syllables. Each syllable must consist of a vowel, usually surrounded by consonants as in con|so|nant. The word is then shaped by adding stress to one syllable, as in con´|so|nant.

Ninety percent of all two and three syllable words in English stress the first syllable. But the more syllables in the word, the longer the stress is delayed. So we have pho´|to|graph, pho|tog´|raph|y, pho|to|graph´|i|cal

Sixty-five percent of all verbs in English take their stress on the second syllable. This leads to some confusion with similar words. A con´|vict (noun) is someone in jail. To con|vict´ (verb) means to judge someone as guilty.

This brings us to poetic rhythm. Poetry follows normal stress rules of English speech, but constrains them within a certain pattern in order to achieve a rhythmic effect.

The rhythmic forms are:

iambic (- /) trochaic (/ -) anapestic (- - /) dactylic (/ - -) spondaic (/ /)

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LondonWilliam Blake

I wander through each chartered street,Near where the chartered Thames does flow,And mark in every face I meetMarks of weakness, marks of woe.

Iambic (-/)

In every cry of every man,In every infant’s cry of fear,In every voice, in every ban,The mind-forged manacles I hear.

Trochaic (/-)

How the chimney-sweeper’s cryEvery blackening church appalls;And the hapless soldier’s sighRuns in blood down palace walls.

Iambic (-/)andTrochaic (/-)

But most through midnight streets I hearHow the youthful harlot’s curseBlasts the new-born infant’s tear,And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

LochinvarSir Walter Scott

Anapestic (--/)

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,Among brides-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tideAnd now I am come, with this lost love of mineTo lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by farThat would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet: the knight took it up,He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sighWith a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a gailiard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fumeAnd the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whispered, "'twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

O Captain, My CaptainWalt Whitman

Spondaic (//)

O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack; The prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, The people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, The vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Row, Row, Row your Boat

Spondaic (//)

Row, row, row your boatGently down the streamMerrily, merrily, merrily, merrilyLife is but a dream

Trochaic (/-)


Dactylic (/--)


Trochaic (/-)



Guess that Metre!

Whose woods these are I think I knowHis house is in the village, thoughHe will not see me stopping hereTo see his woods fill up with snowIambic

With the sheep in the fold and the cows in their stalls.

Anapestic

Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, She shall have music wherever she goes.

Dactylic

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat.

Dactylic

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

Iambic

The sunlight shames November where he grievesIn dead red leaves, and will not let him shunThe day, though bough with bough be overrun.

Spondaic

Your Turn!

Compose a poem that begins with the following line. It is to be in the same iambic rhythm. Try to keep the lines to a regular length. This one has four metrical feet, so aim for that. Alternatively you might do four feet in one line and three in the next. Ready?Here’s your line…

I think that I shall never see…

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Poetic Rhythm