Thy beauty's form in table of my heart: A love letter to iambic pentameter

There is a rhythm in the way we speak,
Just like a heartbeat: patterns in our words.
And sometimes, when we want to make them known,
We set these patterns down and call them “verse”.

That up there is an example of my favourite type of verse: iambic pentameter. It’s the favoured rhythmic structure of early modern poets and playwrights, like my old pal Shakespeare, and after years of reading and performing it, iambic pentameter has become a very natural form of poetic expression for me. But what the dickens, I hear you ask, is “iambic pentameter” supposed to mean anyway? Why, my dear hypothetical reader, I am so very glad you asked! Let’s start with the basics.

What is metre?

For those of my readers who are not already familiar with poetic techniques, metre is how we refer to patterns in the way syllables are stressed. When we speak, we naturally stress some syllables in our words more than others; when we arrange the words in a certain way, then, we can create metre. Say the following sentences aloud, and pay attention to where you emphasise syllables:

Mary had a little lamb; its fleece was white as snow.

Marie had a small lamb, with snow-white fleece.

The first example has a clear pattern to it: Mary had a little lamb; its fleece was white as snow. Even without the rest of the nursery rhyme, the rhythm of the line tells us that it’s intentionally arranged this way, and indicates that it’s part of a larger poem.

Now, compare that to the second example: Marie had a small lamb, with snow-white fleece. We don’t have any discernible pattern in the rhythm at all, which makes this sentence sound more spontaneous and conversational—more prosaic. So we can see that while the first example has a clear metre to it, the second does not.

There are several types of metre describing different patterns in the emphases (e.g. DUH-duh, duh-DUH, DUH-duh-duh, and so on), and the number of times the pattern repeats in a single line usually depends on the type of poem it’s in. (Note: each repetition of the pattern of metre is called a “foot”.) I won’t get into the details of all the types of metre today, but let me know if you’d like me to do a future Grammar Talk post about it!

What is iambic pentameter, specifically?

The lines I opened this post with are, as I’ve mentioned, an example of iambic pentameter, so let’s have a look at a couple of those:

There is a rhythm in the way we speak,
Just like a heartbeat: patterns in our words.

When we emphasise the stressed syllables, we can see what pattern they follow:

There is a rhythm in the way we speak,
Just like a heartbeat: patterns in our words.

This “duh-DUH” metre is the type we call iambic, which explains that part of the name. The “pentameter” half refers to the number of feet in each line: five. So a line of iambic pentameter has ten syllables in total, alternating between unstressed and stressed syllables.

What’s so special about iambic pentameter?

If iambic pentameter is just a fancy way of saying “duh-DUH-duh-DUH-duh-DUH-duh-DUH-duh-DUH”, what’s the big deal about it, then?

Iambic pentameter is the cornerstone of the sonnet, a form of English poetry that exploded in popularity in the early modern period. Plays from that time are also stuffed with iambic pentameter (usually unrhymed, unlike sonnets—we call that “blank verse”). One could argue that iambic pentameter was a defining feature of the written arts of the period; anyone studying Shakespeare’s works today needs to familiarise themselves with it as a way of understanding the Bard’s work. But, again, what’s so special?

Perhaps the secret lies with something else that rather famously has a “duh-DUH” rhythm: a heartbeat. It may be that we subconsciously recognise the metre as a part of ourselves, or maybe we just find it easy to remember, pattern-seeking creatures that we are.

As for why five feet in the line specifically, I suspect it’s because that’s the best length to communicate a single idea fully in one line, with a bit of poetic flourish. Four feet (tetrameter) also tends to sound a bit less natural, making it less ideal for something like dialogue, while six feet (hexameter) is possibly starting to get a bit unwieldy (though it has been used fairly often in classical styles of poetry).

On a more pragmatic note, the memorability of verse in general is certainly part of the reason why there was so much of it about in a social setting where much of the populace was semi- or illiterate and information—and, importantly, entertainment—was often verbally shared. Consider how much easier it is to remember song lyrics than a conversation you’ve had, and you’ll get the idea.

With regard to plays, using verse for the dialogue was an important trick for helping actors learn their lines quickly. It was also a useful vehicle for communicating subtext and tonal shifts, as audiences would be able to follow along with the patterns aurally and notice when something changed, for example:

• Characters finishing each other’s lines of pentameter to indicate a oneness of thought or spirit
• Breaking out of verse to indicate a comic interlude or a character’s emotional or mental disarray

We may not all use iambic pentameter like our forebears—I count myself an anomaly in this—but it’s a form of structure with a great deal of history and meaning behind it, and doesn’t it just roll off the tongue so well? I will certainly continue to have oodles of fun playing with my favourite type of verse, and I hope I have inspired you to experiment a bit, or at least appreciate a little bit more.

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