Poetry is a musical construction in which the melody of the letters is interwoven into the rhythm of the verses. Without rhythm, there is no poetry. Take away the rhyme, build in irregular verses, invent whatever you want—but without rhythm, there is no poetry. “If that’s so, what is so-called concrete poetry?” Anything but poetry. How can one call an unreadable, unpronounceable construction a poem? If they wanted to invent, let them also invent a name for the creation—”concrem”? From this, of course, it does not follow that this so-called concrete poetry is not art; in fact it is, but it is a visual art, an art to be contemplated, not to be read or recited. Let the stones be cast! I admit to being thrilled to come across a concrem in which the word “love” is genially arranged in the shape of a heart; but I will continue to judge the concretist as a visual artist, and not as a poet.
There Seems to Be a Consensus that a Poem Should Be Recited as Prose
There seems to be a consensus that a poem should be recited as prose or, rather, as dramatic interpretation. Where does this idea come from? It is true: by declaiming “dramatically,” one can express emotion, one can make a passionate declamation—what one definitely cannot do is convey to the listener the rhythm of the poem. The reason is very simple. What is rhythm, in music? It is the relationship between musical notes and silence in a metre. What is a metre? It is a regular interval that repeats itself for as long as the composition lasts. In music, play the same notes disrespecting the relationship between them, and the rhythm is gone, the music itself is gone. If we wish to speed up the execution of a piece, we alter the so-called tempo, which is the duration of each unit of the metre—that is, we proportionally alter the relationship of all the musical notes within the composition. If we intend a slower performance, we simply do the opposite process. What we can never change—at least, without disfiguring the music—is the rhythm of the composition; and rhythm, as said, requires regularity. Why should poetry be any different? In fact, it is not. If the verses of a regular poem are recited in varying lengths, if the intonation of the syllables does not follow a regularity, if the obligatory and standard pause at the end of each verse is disrespected, there is no way to convey the rhythm of a poem. It is impossible! Listening to what we are calling “dramatic declamation,” one cannot identify where the verse begins and ends, or which feet compose it—which does not occur when we listen to someone singing a poem. And if we consider that rhythm is the essence of a poem, how can we justify this way of declamation? Who invented this rule that a poem should not be sung? Did not the lyre, to the Greeks, support singing? I am sorry, I am sorry in several languages: but for those who consider a poem a melodic construction, to recite it without musicality seems unnatural—no matter how many diplomas the reciter collects.
Routine and Planning
The positive effects of routine and planning in the execution of difficult and time-consuming work cannot be overstated. One could say that both are mandatory, if there were not, as always, exceptions that invalidate the rule. Planning transforms the immensity of the work into small tasks; thanks to it, there is no thinking when one should simply execute; it facilitates, directs the effort, illuminates the path to be taken, prevents from beforehand unjustified frustrations—and the list could be endless. Of routine, needless to say of the force of habit: routine represents the anticipated victory over all psychological barriers; it is the certainty of advancement and the conversion of the effectiveness of planning into a matter of time. In short: routine and planning are weapons that sweep away difficulties and ensure focus on the final goal.
It Seems Necessary to Sketch Answers
Immersing oneself in problems, there comes a time when it seems necessary to sketch answers. To do otherwise is to give up or, at least, to stop moving forward. Much can be said about the answers that, for example, Dostoevsky’s work culminated in; what cannot be said is that it did not embody a complete cycle. In it, multiple problems are represented in various manifestations, and for all of them, Dostoevsky points to the solution—whether it is accepted or not. There is no escape: although it is possible to postpone the ultimate confrontation, this veiled need always seems to lurk asking, “So what?”—and it seems a matter of honor to present a conclusion to it.