Line Lengths #4: Mixed lengths

This article is for: Beginners and Intermediate

This is the fourth and last article in my series about line lengths.

The first article goes over general ideas about how line lengths work in a poem, and how you might choose them.
The second article dives deeper into what short lines can do for a poem.
The third article runs over some ways that poets have used long lines.

In this article, I’m going to round things off, by looking at:

What you can gain from mixing up short and long lines.

Mixed line lengths are rare—but exciting

First, let me justify this topic, because there aren’t all that many contemporary poems that vary line lengths a lot.

Most of the time, if you pick up a book or journal of poetry at random, you’ll find that most poets pick a line length for each poem and stick with it.

There can be a good reasons for this. Maybe the poet is using a form that dictates the line length, or perhaps—as I cover in this article about lines—the writer used the fixed line length as a kind of “rule” to help them make choices about the poem.

But if you only ever use consistent line lengths, you might be missing out.

Mixed line lengths bring their own gifts, that consistent line lengths can’t.

So in this article, I’m going to do a survey of a few poets who have used diversified line lengths, so you can get an idea of some of their possibilities.

Thomas Hardy: building the stanza

I’ve said that mixed lengths are somewhat unusual, and that is true of contemporary poetry in English (especially in America, I find).

But actually, classic English-language poets have been blending different line lengths for centuries.

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) was the first poet I read really extensively, and I still love his work. Thanks to him, I “grew up” as a poet thinking that mixing line lengths was just normal, because he does it all the time.

Hardy generally uses varied line lengths as a part of his stanza structure.

Longer and shorter lines are combined in a regular pattern that gets reused from one stanza to the next.

This is very much in the tradition of English poetry: you’ll see it in Shakespeare, Keats, all the old dead guys.

But we might as well look at Hardy as anyone else, and I think he shows us a good range of how stanzas made this way can work.

Here are the first lines of his poem “Weathers”:

            This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
                        And so do I;
            When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
                        And nestlings fly;
            And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
            And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,'
            And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
            And citizens dream of the south and west,
                        And so do I.

This is classic English poetry stuff: the shorter lines are indented to make a nice pattern, and by switching between longer and shorter lines, Hardy gives the verse a pleasing variation in pace.

If all the lines were longer, or all short, then we wouldn’t get the kind of “bounce” or “spring” that we find as we move from the 10 syllables (and 4 stresses) of “When showers betumble the chestnut spikes” to the mere 4 syllables (and 2 stresses) of “And nestlings fly.”

Also, the four longer lines at the end of the stanza build up a fast, rolling tempo, then the final short line brings that up short and gives a satisfying feeling of conclusion and definiteness.

Hardy particularly likes that short line to finish a stanza (and poem), and does it a few different ways.

Here’s another example, from “A Broken Appointment”:

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb,—
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness’ sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You can see the same technique happening at this ending: the convoluted longer lines are undercut by the short, simple “You did not come,” again to create finality and emotional impact, though this time the mood is one of loss and regret.

But this poem also shows us another thing varied line lengths in a stanza can do, which is make a particular line stand out. “You did not come” is the stanza’s emotional keynote, and it is set apart from the rest of the stanza by its different length. (Of course it’s also repeated, but it would stand out as the stanza’s strongest moment even if it weren’t.)

While I could write many analyses of Hardy, I think it’s time to move on. So I’ll just sum up:

What can you learn from how Hardy does it?

Even if you don’t use rhyme and meter as Hardy does, you probably still write in stanzas, so you can borrow stanza-construction from older poets like him.
There’s no need to make all your lines the same length: you can create patterns of length that add to your poem both visually and musically.
Juxtaposing shorter and longer lines allows you to create or strengthen contrasts between different parts of a stanza.
Changing line length at the end of stanza may boost your ending.
Using a different length can help make a particularly meaningful line stand out.

Not bad for starters! But let’s move on.

George Herbert: lines prescribe meaning, or lines respond

I will move to modern poets soon, but first I can’t resist showing you two poems by another classic English poet, George Herbert (1593–1633).

Herbert was also a master of mixing line lengths, and he has more to teach us.

First, here’s the first part of “Easter Wings”:

            Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store,
            Though foolishly he lost the same,
            Decaying more and more,
            Till he became
            Most poore:

            With Thee
            O let me rise,
            As larks, harmoniously,
            And sing this day Thy victories:
            Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

As you can see, the lengths of the lines are fundamental to this poem, which is one of the first examples in English of Concrete poetry, where the shape is part of the meaning. The poem is about how God gives humanity wings to rise from out fallen state, and so the line lengths are chosen to create the shape of wings.

This might seem pretty facile, but Herbert is a smarter poet than that (much smarter): As well as the shape changing with the changing line lengths, the mood and meaning follow them too.

So in the first stanza, as the lines reduce, the “decay” of humanity grows more and more acute, till it reaches a miserable climax in “Most poore.” But in the second stanza, as the lines expand again, the mood opens too, becoming lighter and more joyous, especially with verbs like “rise” and “sing.”

In other words, what we’re seeing here is:

You can choose your line lengths at the start of drafting, and then let them shape the tone of different parts of the poem.

If you want the emotion of a poem to develop from dark to jubilant, you too could decide to grow from shorter lines to longer ones—and then that choice will help you work out how to craft each of those parts of the poem.

Another of Herbert’s poems can show us something different. Here’s the start of “The Collar”:

            I struck the board, and cried, "No more;
                                     I will abroad!
            What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
            My lines and life are free, free as the road,
            Loose as the wind, as large as store.
                      Shall I be still in suit?

And here’s a part from closer to the ending:

                      Away! take heed;
                      I will abroad.
            Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears;
                      He that forbears
                     To suit and serve his need
                      Deserves his load."

In this poem a character protests, loudly and at length, against various constraints thar are holding him back.

You can immediately see the changes in line lengths, but this is not the same as either Hardy’s approach, or Herbert’s own approach in “Easter Wings.”

For a start, there’s no pattern to the different lengths. There are no stanzas and no predictable way that shorter or longer lines to come back. They seem to change just when they want! Moreover, at the beginning of the poem the longer lines predominate, but by the end the shorter ones are more common.

What’s happening here is something new:

These line lengths are responding to the demands of the speaker’s voice and feelings.

When the speaker is calmer and more rational, Herbert uses longer lines to show us that the speaker is still in control of their voice and feelings.

But when the speaker gets especially worked up about something, the short lines come in. And since he gets more and more worked up as the poem goes on, those short lines occur more and more often!

This is the first example in English (that I know of) of a poem that does this—but it sure wasn’t the last!

This way of using line lengths has been explored a lot in the last 120 years or so, from Ezra Pound onwards.

And it’s still being used today, every effectively, especially by poets writing or publishing in Britain. Here are some lines from a poem published in Poetry Review, the UK’s leading poetry journal. It’s called “sympathy for ishaq” by Asmaa Jama:

            my mother hands us an oregano plant
            he wants it to bloom, so he can burn its leaves as an offering
            as he sleeps

            i drown it,
            we wake each morning to its rotten roots—i want to you accept this in his place
            i want you to let my brother live as you let ishaq do
            I want him back

(The “he” appears to be the speaker’s brother, while the “you” I think is God.)

Here you can see the lines shrink or stretch as the speaker’s feeling does: when they’re’ angry and bitter we get the 3 words of “i drown it,” but when they are imploring God and their heart is full of pleading, the line gets to 17 words!

So varied line lengths to show your speaker’s state of mine is a tool that you can definitely explore.

Lines that shape experience

For our last stop on the tour, let’s flip the picture around.

Instead of being a way to express the speaker of the poem, here are two poets who use mixed line lengths to control the journey or impressions of the reader.

First, French Surrealist poet Tristan Tzara (1896-1963) in “total circuit by the moon and color” (translated from the French by Lee Harwood). This is the opening:

            the iron eye will change to gold
           the compasses have put flowers in our ear-drums
           watch for the fabulous prayer sir
           tropical
           on the eiffel tower’s violin and star chimes
           the olives swell pac pac and will symmetrically crystallize
           everywhere
           lemon
           the ten sou piece
           Sundays have brilliantly fondled god dada dance
           sharing the cereals
           the rain
           newspaper
           slowly slowly

A picture is being painted here of Paris. Ignoring the surreal imagery of this (a topic for another email!), let’s look at what the varied line lengths add:

The changing line lengths of this poem change the way I read it.

When I’m in one of long lines, like “the olives swell pac pac and will symmetrically crystallize,” I feel as though I need to zoom through this line as fast as I can in order to keep up with the rush of ideas.
But when I hit a short line, or several together, like “sharing the cereals / the rain / newspaper,” I find myself slowing to barely a crawl. I’m like a pedestrian who has just seen something amazing on the sidewalk, and stops to stare at it, transfixed by what’s been isolated in those few words.

I don’t think these differences are inherent in the things described: I think these effects are created deliberately by Tzara manipulating his lines, to give me different experiences of aspects of the city.

So, sometimes different line lengths mold the reader’s experience of the material.

Lastly, here’s a very small part of “Let’s Say” by British poet Deryn Rees-Jones—actually from the same edition of Poetry Review as Jama’s poem earlier (thus supporting my point about Britain being more into varied lines!).

We were on our own. All of us. Let’s say there’s so much fear the dead
rise up.

Let’s call the day Here’s a memory like a little tear of fear.

            (I was in a taxi and
           the doctor couldn’t get her hazmat suit on and so for what seemed
           hours I waited.

This is another poem with surreal elements, including perhaps the line lengths this time.

In this short extract, you might at first think that the line lengths reflect the speaker’s feelings, George-Herbert style, as “rise up” is set into a line by itself, perhaps to show a feeling of dread.

But can that apply to “I was in a taxi and”? It’s hard to see how!

And if “hours I waited” were meant to show the heaviness of waiting, wouldn’t it be just “I waited”? Moreover, the long lines don’t seem notably full of flowing feeling—the words go on, yes, but I don’t see emotion in “the doctor couldn’t get her hazmat suit on and so for what seemed.”

I think something different is happening here:

Line lengths are being used in a more abstract way, to create a feeling of strangeness and discomfort for the reader.

The poem is largely about the strangeness and dislocation of severe illness, and it uses many techniques to convey that experience to the reader. The changing line lengths are doing their part in this by being arbitrary and unsettling.

To sum up

I hope I’ve done enough to show you that playing about with line lengths within a poem can have many positive results.

It can give more energy or focus to your stanzas, guide your reader on the journey you want them to take, or show more about your speaker.

It isn’t the right approach for every poem, and may well be something you’ll want to do every so often rather than most of the time, but it’s well worth trying out!

Next Steps: Writing mixed line lengths

There are so many ways to use mixed line lengths, it’s hard to choose just one activity for you to try them out! So here’s one that asks you to use two approaches, so you can compare them.

Find or create a poem draft that uses a consistent line length throughout.
You can draft a new poem: make it abut 10-20 lines. If you need a topic, use “Cold.”
Or take an old draft that’s not working too well.
Convert this draft to one where you use line lengths to show the feelings behind the words.
This is like George Herbert’s “The Collar” and Jama’s “sympathy for ishaq.”
Make some lines much longer, perhaps to show flowing feeling or confidence.
Make other lines much shorter, maybe to show confusion, anger, or hurt.
Try to make the lines an emotional autobiography of your speaker!
Next, try again. This time, create a stanza shape using a mixture of short and long lines.
Once you’ve done this, rewrite your original poem into this stanza shape.
Let the new line lengths influence the new tone and emotion of each line—as Hardy does, or like Herbert in “Easter Wings.”
In other words, see how the stanza you’ve chosen helps to shape the poem emotionally as well as physically
Lastly, take a look at your two redrafts, as well as your original, and see if you can create a version that combines aspects of all three of them.
Think about, What has been most useful, where? Which parts do you want to keep?
This one might be quite random—but is there some way that this could match the intent of the poem?
Give it a try!

One of these three versions is bound to add something special!