The idea is that metrical mastery is not achieved at the level of the single line, but in the construction of larger structures. It is pretty simple-minded. It would be like looking at musical composition at the level of the phrase instead of the entire composition. Why would you want to do that?
In my first draft of this article I realize I didn't articulate how important this step is.
I was thinking of the concept of metrical signatures: the Gestalt of any given poet in terms of metrical preferences or tendencies. What makes that poet sound like him or her self.
With Claudio, the enjambment of adj / noun is one element of his signature. I've found it in Baroque poetry, like Quevedo's "postrera / sombra." There is some of it in Góngora. Góngora seems to be thinking strophically, not line-by-line, even in stanzas without enjambment.
Another element of his signature would be what you might call awkward syntax in metrical sound forms, or seeming variability and irregularity, with the simultaneous presence of a strong forward pull in the meter.
This seems to be virgin territory. Sure, there is a lot on prosody, but it tends to be geared toward establishing the basic facts rather than exploring nuances.
This dream. I was writing something, like an exam, trying to find scratch paper not used by someone else already. I kept running out of paper, because not that many words fit on each sheet.
My essay was called about a game that I called "academia." I explained that it was a game in which one developed projects, like cataloging every instance of phenomenon X, or memorizing a certain amount of information.
Cuándo hablaré de ti sin voz de hombre para no acabar nunca, como el río no acaba de contar su pena y tiene dichas ya más palabras que yo mismo. Cuándo estaré bien fuera o bien en lo hondo de lo que alrededor es un camino limitándome, igual que el soto al ave. Pero, ¿seré capaz de repetirlo, capaz de amar dos veces como ahora? Este rayo de sol, que es un sonido en el órgano, vibra con la música de noviembre y refleja sus distintos modos de hacer caer las hojas vivas. Porque no sólo el viento las cae, sino también su gran tarea, sus vislumbres de un otoño esencial. Si encuentra un sitio rastrillado, la nueva siembra crece lejos de antiguos brotes removidos; pero siempre le sube alguna fuerza, alguna sed de aquellos, algún limpio cabeceo que vuelve a dividirse y a dar olor al aire en mil sentidos. Cuándo hablaré de ti sin voz de hombre. Cuándo. Mi boca sólo llega al signo, sólo interpreta muy confusamente. Y es que hay duras verdades de un continuo crecer, hay esperanzas que no logran sobrepasar el tiempo y convertirlo en seca fuente de llanura, como hay terrenos que no filtran el limo.
I've written out the poem as prose, and bolded the rhyming words, which occur every two lines. The rhyme is i/o. 6 of these have punctuation following, and 9 are enjambed. This means that end-rhyme becomes practically internal rhyme. And difficult to hear, since it occurs every 22 syllables and is assonant (only vowels). The most extreme enjambment is noun-adjective or adjective noun. distintos / modos // sitio / rastrillado // limpio / cabaceo // continuo / crecer. 4 times! 3 of these with the adjective coming first, which is even more abrupt.
Sentence length is long, in most cases stretching over multiple lines. The line is not very often a self-contained unit.
(Rodríguez Claudio. Antología poética (El libro de bolsillo - Literatura) (Spanish Edition) . Alianza Editorial. Kindle Edition.)
There are two ways of looking at free verse. One, is that it should open the door toward greater metrical invention. It is an opportunity. It is freedom to do something else.
The other way: theoretically, it ought to lead to that, but in practice, it ends up being kind of dull and uninventive. Why? Because it is also the freedom to do nothing at all (or very little) prosodically.
Thus, we have double movement: toward innovation, with a first two groups of innovators, then mere stagnation.
Part of it is that there is no meaningful way of talking about it. Free verse practitioners tend not to want to talk about technical stuff, in actual linguistic rigor, so it becomes almost a mystique.
I say this because prosody could be almost the most objective thing there is. Where the syllables fall and where the accents are. Instead, it becomes mystical and ultra-subjective.
It is a mystery, because it is quite possible to have a whole tradition in which enjambment never occurs. For example, in many poems of Baudelaire. Not every line ends with a punctuation mark, but usually there is a pause, and the next line begins with a prepositional phrase, or the predicate of a sentence. If you wrote it out as prose the metrical divisions would still be obvious. Despite the fact that French lacks accent.
At the other extreme are traditions in which enjambment is the norm, like English blank verse. The question is to what extent the line of verse coincides with the grammatical unit. Also, the particular rhetorical effects of enjambment. Is it a poetic device? Is the end stopped line a poetic device, or just a norm?
It's possible to say that the end-stopped line is limiting, and transcending it is a good thing, without thinking there is anything wrong with Racine or Pope.
I'm sorry my thinking on this is very murky, but I promise I will come to some clarity at some point.
My aunt had been working for a winery in a significant role. I argued with my dad that this was inappropriate, because my aunt had never tasted wine. He argued that this was irrelevant, did a cancer doctor need to have had cancer? Similar nonsensical arguments. I couldn't get him to see my point at all, nor could I understand his, and the argument turned quite heated. I guess you could work as an accountant for a winery without drinking wine, but her role there seemed more crucial. (Of course, both my father and his older sisters are no longer among the living; none of them drank,)
