Poetry vs. Songwriting: Part I

Practical Observations on Songwriting's Rhetoric
I began this “Dead Letter Project” as an inquiry into why poetry has lost much of its relevance in contemporary society. Through discussions with my students and comments from fellow bloggers, I’ve realized that music (specifically here, songwriting as music with lyrics) has taken poetry’s place as the art form most relevant to the average person. As I’ve noted in previous posts, the general consensus seems to be that most people listen to music more than they read.

I am actually a-typical then, as I read more than I listen to music. Perhaps this is because I grew up playing classical music and writing my own poetry, so the two activities were distinctly separate in my life. Music, for me, had no words, and poetry was only language. So to blend the two seemed like a compromise in most cases.

For the purpose of today’s blog, I am writing about “songwriting,” or music that incorporates lyrics. I’ve thought a lot about the divide I see between songwriting and poetry. I have to admit that it’s an unnatural distinction, since poetry was originally an oral, musical tradition. Perhaps my own biases have caused me to emphasize the divide more than I should. After all, I too have been moved by songwriting.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been wondering about the actual difference between songwriting and poetry. Why do my students find songwriting so much more accessible and relevant? Yes, perhaps the content of the lyrics reflects their experiences more than a Shakespearean sonnet, but even when we read contemporary poetry, they still felt alienated from it due to the form. So what can songwriting offer that poetry can’t? After much thought, I realized that the biggest difference is actually the addition of music to the words. The music itself provides cues to the listener in a way that language alone may not.

While recognizing music's role probably seems simplistic and even obvious, it was a sort of epiphany for me, because it helps me understand why most people can relate to music but have trouble reading poetry. When we listen to songs, the actual music directs our response to itself. If the music is upbeat, we implicitly understand that this is a “happy” song or maybe an “angry” song, depending on the type of music. If the music is slow, we understand that our response should be empathy or perhaps even melancholy. We don’t have to guess about the author’s intentions or wonder what he/she means by certain phrases. The music removes the guesswork by making the lyrics accessible; it provides the bridge and allows the listener a “way in.”

I do think some songwriters exploit the way music and lyrics work to create songs that are ironic. Maybe one will use upbeat, energetic music with sad or disturbing lyrics. Or maybe one will use a slower song with lyrics on love or worship. The listener still has to do some work to discover the author’s intention and to determine how to respond, but the presence of music definitely assists with this.

Poetry, on the other hand, does not have this easy path to understanding. Instead, much of its meaning can seem veiled. When we remove the music, the words become more emphasized, to the point where they can even be intimidating, as if they are some code to be broken or deciphered. The readers’ cues now lie in the rhythm and arrangement of the words on the page. We have to ask: How many lines are there? Is there a rhyme scheme? What is the meter? Is the writer using rhythm ironically or sincerely? Where does this poem fit into the larger tradition of poetry as a whole? How can we possibly know that our interpretation of the poem is what the poet intended? (This is probably the most common question I hear, and one I think we rarely ask of songwriting).

Our anxiety about being “correct” often inhibits us from exploring poetry. Reading it, after all, does require some effort since language is fraught with ambiguity. Songwriting provides a more comfortable alternative, because the music removes the guesswork. Listeners can easily enjoy lyrics because the writer has already cued them on how to respond. There is little room for anxiety here.

And where there is no anxiety, there is enjoyment and a feeling that the author has said it “just as we would have” or expressed our situation or feelings “better than we could have said it ourselves.” (Which I find rather amusing since many people said this about poetry, years ago, when poetry was more regularly read).

But I wonder if it’s the songwriter’s words that capture our emotions or the music that does?

In my next post, I want to look at Walter Pater’s ideas from his art criticism work The Renaissance. Pater says:

All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music. For while in all other kinds of art it is possible to distinguish the matter from the form, and the understanding can always make this distinction, yet it is the constant effort of art to obliterate it. (from “The School of Giorgione”)

In layman’s terms, Pater argues that music is the only formless art (you can’t see it, read it, touch it, etc.), yet it still moves us with its beauty. Instead of an “obvious” demonstration of beauty, he says, music acts abstractly (without form) on the listener. Pater believes all art should strive to move us spiritually, to reveal beauty, but to do so in a way that discards the form (the painting, the poem, the sculpture) and points to the truth beyond the form itself.

For Pater, only music truly does this -- here, there are no words, no images, to which we can cling. Instead, we recognize the truth of beauty solely through our spirits; the intellect no longer plays a part. Is this realistic? Does all art strive to act on us as music does? And if so, does this theory demonstrate poetry’s limitations? More on this soon.