“Otkuda berutsya stikhi.” Knizhny ugol 7 (1921): 21-25.
In this short essay, I will not be concerned with the question, “How and when did poetry originate in history?” I will, therefore, leave our ape-like ancestors alone, as well as the German Karl Bücher’s Labor and Rhythm (1896) and similar grand forays, and restrict myself to the simple question: how does it happen that in certain, rare moments in his humdrum existence, citizen X, who is perfectly capable of expressing himself in the most ordinary Russian, French, German, etc., discovers within himself the poetic “source of limpid, simple sounds” (Lermontov).
Where do citizen X’s poems come from?
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The question having been posed with sufficient clarity, let’s now try and answer it.
Let’s also agree from start that whatever it is that distinguishes poetry as a verbal art in its own right resides in the phonic aspect of speech. That much is clear. For even if poetry contains something beyond sound, that something emerges, exists, and is perceived solely owing and in relation to its sounds. Sound determines poetry. If we take sound out of poetry, there will be no poetry left.
And so: phonic monism in the study of verse is what we stand for. Let’s move along.
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What are the phonic characteristics of poetry?
1. Rhythm, meter, measure.
2. Phonic relations (associations) between words and combinations of words: repetitions, alliterations, assonances, etc.
3. The phonic structure’s axiological independence both in respect to articulation and sound—hence all that babble about euphony (often misguided, but facts are facts).
4. The emotional significance of sounds and sound combinations: sounds and sound combinations express emotion; the content of the phonetics of poetry depends on its emotional tonality; plenty of verbiage has been generated on this subject (including by yours truly); still, you should take a look at my essay “On the Sounds of Poetic Language.”
5. The complexity and “heightened difficulty” (Shklovsky) of the sound texture of poetry in comparison with ordinary speech.
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Poetry is not the only form of speech where sounds reign supreme.
First, there are dreams (not always, of course): I dream of Lila, then lilies, then lullabies—all this is sufficiently well known; words connect through sounds, thus determining the dream content. Second, there is mental illness: some mentally ill deliver long, incoherent tirades (as can be expected) that are nonetheless deeply coherent and well measured in terms of their phonic structure. Third, there is ecstasy and trance: think, for instance, of the practice of glossolalia in certain cults.
All of these phenomena have been explained by Sigmund Freud; he juxtaposes them with the “babble” of early childhood, which is gradually supplanted by “conscious” speech.
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There is no experience or impression that doesn’t leave a trace, a memory in the human psyche, faint and barely discernable though it may be; this also applies to the verbal impressions of childhood. Not useful in everyday life, these impressions tend to lie dormant on the bottom of Lethe; but in certain irregular, abnormal mental states they can rise to the surface. As Freud has noted, this is true not only of verbal impressions but of any early childhood impression whatsoever (sexual, etc.). Dreams, ecstasy, and mental illness are such irregular, abnormal mental states. In these states, immemorial verbal impressions from early childhood rise to the surface and in combination with conscious adult speech (or whatever is left of it in these states) produce new forms of verbal expression.
It is very interesting to apply this method of explication to poetry: all the more so given that poetic speech has much more in common with infantile speech than with the language of ecstasy or mental illness.
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What, then, are the characteristics of infantile speech?
1. The rhythmicality of its monologic babble.
2. The prevalence of phonic assonances: repetition, doubling, etc.
3. The fact that to the child this babble is valuable in itself: the child babbles for the sake of babbling and derives great pleasure from this babble, both from the very act of babbling and from hearing and listening to it.
4. The emotional significance of the child’s phonic expressivity: initially, the child only ‘speaks’, emits sounds, as a way of expressing and articulating emotion.
5. The phonic complexity of the child’s babble and first verbal articulations more generally: the child articulates sounds and sound combinations that it will take a long time to ‘relearn’ as it transitions to conscious speech; some of these sounds, moreover, will no longer be used at all in ordinary, cultured language.
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The astute reader will have noticed that the phonic features of poetry and early childhood babble coincide. The conclusion being: while we tend to ‘forget’ verbal impressions from early childhood, they do resurface in certain abnormal (or rather ‘irregular’—lest anyone get scared) states of consciousness, including the poet’s state of inspiration; and as they surface, they enter into contact with ordinary language and, owing to their specific characteristics, radically shape the new verbal ‘body’ that is eventually born of this process—in our case: poetry. The conscious craft of poetry consists precisely in joining and harmonizing infantile and ordinary verbal elements.
And that’s how poetry originates in infantile babble.
That’s it—for now. If you don’t believe me, suit yourself.