What distinguishes a song from a poem? Is it the melody or the vocal delivery, the lyrics or the musical arrangement? Certainly, it encompasses all these elements. However, for me, the key difference lies in how songs tend to generalise, whereas many contemporary poems do not. When I refer to “contemporary poems”, I primarily mean anecdotal or descriptive pieces that lack ambiguity or mystery, which are often read by poetry enthusiasts. Such poems often fail to resonate personally with readers because they primarily serve as vehicles for straightforward information transfer—information that could easily be conveyed through prose. These poems aim to express the poet’s thoughts and emotions regarding specific events, situations or places, without necessarily inviting readers to connect personally. The focus is on clarity of communication, whether conveying a profound insight, a prosaic observation or a commentary on everyday life.
Songs go beyond mere description. They activate both the imagination and emotions, allowing listeners to delve into their own deeply personal reservoirs of images, memories and associations. There was a time when poetry achieved this too, similar to songs, by employing generalisation. However, since Wordsworth’s era—and largely influenced by him—poetry has shifted more towards novelistic and descriptive forms. Before Wordsworth, poets like William Blake or Thomas Wyatt adhered more closely to the traditions of song and ballad, avoiding extensive descriptive elements. It is widely acknowledged that songs pre-date poetry—or rather, songs transformed into poems once they were transcribed and read privately.
The limitations of poetry that does not generalise are plain to see if we compare some lines from one with those of a song. First the poetry—a stanza from Frank O’Hara’s ‘Cambridge’:
It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit
looks silly round a window giving out on winter trees
with only three drab leaves left. The hot plate works,
it is the sole heat on earth, and instant coffee. I
put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater,
and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe.
What we see here is straightforward and descriptive writing that leaves little room for the reader’s imagination. In contrast, let’s examine song lyrics, specifically those of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. In Cohen’s ‘Night Comes On’, we find this verse:
I said mother I’m frightened,
the thunder and the lightening,
I’ll never get through this alone.
She said I’ll be with you,
my shawl wrapped around you,
my hand on your head when you go.
And the night came on,
it was very calm.
I wanted the night to go on and on
but she said go back,
go back to the world.
In contrast to O’Hara, Cohen embraces generalisation in his verse, opening up a wealth of interpretive possibilities. Right from the outset, ambiguity dominates as listeners are left pondering whether the speaker addresses his literal biological mother or if ‘mother’ serves as a metaphor for God or Mother Nature. Similarly, the thunder and lightning that instil fear are ambiguous—whether they are literal or symbolic remains uncertain. This ambiguity enriches each listener’s experience, allowing them to interpret the nature of the speaker’s fear differently.
Furthermore, this ambiguity invites numerous inquiries. When the speaker’s mother assures him of her presence wherever he goes, the listener is prompted to question: Where exactly is he headed? Is he venturing into the fearful scenario symbolised by thunder and lightning? Could this be an existential ordeal akin to the “dark night of the soul” as described by Christian contemplatives? Is the “night” in ‘the night came on’ also metaphorical, perhaps representing a sense of comfort and reassurance? If so, does the speaker desire this reassurance to persist? Likely so, yet there’s a suggestion to ‘go back to the world’. Who issues this advice—the maternal figure or the night itself, in whatever symbolic form it represents?
The fact that this verse provokes such inquiries underscores its transcendence over the earlier quoted stanza by O’Hara.
Similar ambiguities and the questions they prompt can be found in the following verse from Dylan’s ‘Changing of the Guards’:
Fortune calls.
I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,
Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.
She’s smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born,
On midsummer’s eve, near the tower.
Similar to Cohen, Dylan embraces generalisation in his verse, blending various poetic registers to create a tapestry of language that both diversifies his expression and pays homage to his poetic lineage. He interweaves archaic phrases like ‘I stepped forth’, ‘smelling sweet like the meadows’ and ‘on midsummer’s eve’ with more colloquial language such as ‘last deal gone down’. This linguistic variety enriches the verse while acknowledging his poetic heritage.
The verse begins by declaring ‘fortune calls’, yet Dylan leaves it open-ended, leaving listeners to ponder: Is fortune beckoning the speaker, the audience or humanity at large? This ambiguity empowers the listener to interpret as they see fit. The introduction of a persona stepping forth from shadows adds another layer of intrigue—the identity of this persona remains ambiguous and unexplored, leaving ample room for interpretation. Even the term ‘shadows’, deliberately vague, invites myriad interpretations.
Moreover, Dylan employs phrases like ‘merchants and thieves’ and ‘hungry for power’ not only as specific symbols of corruption, decay and amorality but also as broader statements on the human condition. These phrases provoke further questions: Who is the woman ‘smelling sweet’ like the meadows? Why is “meadows” plural—does it symbolise something beyond its literal meaning? And what about the tower—does it hold symbolic significance as well?
In essence, Dylan’s verse, like Cohen’s, invites interpretation through its generalisations and poetic blending, making it a rich and layered piece that transcends simple description.
Similarly with Dylan’s song ‘The Wicked Messenger’, more questions are raised than answered:
There was a wicked messenger
from Eli he did come,
with a mind that multiplied
the smallest matter.
When questioned who had sent for him,
he answered with his thumb,
for his tongue it could not speak, but only flatter.
We note immediately the presence of ambiguity with the line: ‘from Eli he did come’. We are not told if Eli is a place or a person. The name has biblical connotations and can easily be a person. In the Old Testament Eli was the judge and high priest of Israel and although loyal to God, his reluctance to remove his two corrupt sons from the priesthood resulted in disgrace. Dylan’s lack of indication as to whom or what Eli is allows us to perhaps see a biblical reference in the name. If we take the name as referring to the biblical Eli then we have to ask the question: If the messenger was sent by Eli (who was a faithful servant of God) why is he seen as wicked? Is it because his mind ‘multiplied the smallest matter’ (possibly meaning he was neurotic) or that his ‘tongue it could not speak, but only flatter’ (possibly meaning he was a liar)? Are these common human failings sufficient grounds for someone to be designated as wicked? Alternatively, perhaps the messenger is wicked because there is a crudity about him—he ‘answered with his thumb’ (he gave the finger, perhaps?). For want of detailed information, we simply do not know.
So for me, each reader deserves the essential right to craft a personal meaning that encapsulates the essence of a poem. The poem itself serves primarily as a catalyst for this interpretive act. Embracing such an approach to poetry reading could potentially elevate poetry back to its rightful place as a significant and widely appreciated art form.
