Iambic Quintains
This poem is pretty form-y in lots of the usual ways. The stanzas all have the same number of lines (well, except for that last one, but we'll get to that later), and the lines are, for the most part, iambic. But the poem also uses form in some more subtle ways, too.
First things first: those five-line stanzas are what's called in the poetry biz "quintains." These particular quintains happen to be iambic, which means that they have a rhythmic pattern of unstressed, then stressed, syllables. An iamb is just a two-syllable combination where the first syllable is unstressed and the second is stressed: daDUM. Check out an example:
The force that drives the water through the rocks. (6)
Hear that daDUM pattern of unstressed syllables followed by stressed syllables? That's our pal the iamb in action.
Most of the lines are in fact in iambic pentameter, but the third line of each quintain breaks the pattern and has only 2 metrical feet. So, why the change? Good question. Poets break metrical patterns for lots of different reasons, but two of the most common are to mirror the content (what is being described in the line or stanza) and for emphasis (to make certain words or phrases stand out). We can see examples of both these variations in the poem. What's that? You want proof? You got it.
In line 2, we would expect the first syllable to be unstressed to follow the iambic pattern:
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees.
But Thomas gives us the stressed word "drive." The idea of the force powering, fueling, driving the flower and the speaker is important. Thomas wants that driving action to be emphasized. Not only is the word repeated in stanza 1, it's also stressed in a place where we would expect to find an unstressed syllable. That makes it hit our ear in a harder way than it would if it didn't break the pattern. You know how it is when the beat changes in a song—you notice.
Line 3 is another good example of breaking a pattern for emphasis:
Is my destroyer.
The poem begins with two lines of iambic pentameter. Just as we are settling in to the 5-foot rhythm, line 3 comes along and upsets our groove. What gives, Thomas? Well, take a look at that word dangling there at the end of the line: "destroyer." That word has a lot to do with the poem's themes regarding time's destructive power. So, by cutting the line short (in essence destroying the pattern established in the previous lines), the poet is able to create emphasis on the words and ideas that he wants to resonate throughout the poem. Neat trick, right?
Now, a word about end words: notice anything about those words, like "destroyer," dangling off the end of each line? Well, there are a couple things you might have noticed. First of all, they are all vivid, imagistic words. They are words and images that Thomas wanted to emphasize. Take a look at this list: "flower," "tree," "rose," "rock," "stream," "veins," "wind," "man," "head," "blood."
There's certainly a lot of nature and body imagery in this list, and that's no accident. When we consider what Thomas is saying about the force's (time's) ability to create and destroy individuals, the natural world, and beyond, it makes sense that these are the words and images emphasized as end words. But wait, there's more.
Did you get the sense that there was something else going on with these end words, but you just couldn't quite put your poetry-finger on it? Well, your hunch was right. The end words follow a loose (very loose) rhyme scheme: ABABA, where each letter stands for that line's end rhyme. Check it out:
flower A
trees B
destroyer A
rose B
fever A
Yes, yes, yes—we know. These words don't rhyme in any greeting-card kind of way. But the words do sound similar enough to qualify as slant rhyme.
Now you're probably asking yourself, "Why didn't Thomas just take the time to come up with some good old-fashioned perfect rhymes?" Well, by using these shadowy slant rhymes instead of crystal-clear, perfect rhymes, the poem's rhyme scheme mirrors that shadowy, mysterious force that the speaker keeps going on about. Remember—the force is difficult for the speaker to grasp. He's "dumb [unable] to tell" us about it in concrete terms. This force is far too slippery to be discussed with something as obvious as perfect rhyme. Good call on the half rhyme, D.
That loose rhyme scheme is super-tough to see in stanza 4. Know why? It's because it isn't there. Yup, even the rhyme scheme is destroyed by the end of the poem. Check it out:
head A
blood A
sores B
wind A
stars B
Once again, by deviating from the established pattern, Thomas mirrors the poem's content with the form. The rhyme scheme is subject to the same destructive force that the poem explores.
Hang in there. We're almost finished with form. Let's end with… the end. You probably noticed that the poem doesn't end with a full quintain stanza. Instead, there's an ending couplet. The quintain pattern is destroyed, just like the rhyme scheme, in the poem's concluding lines. Let's all say it together this time: "The form is mirroring the content." The destruction of the poem's stanza pattern reflects time's destructive power.
Now, we know what you're thinking. "But wait, time (the force) is supposed to be simultaneously a destructive and creative force, right? Where's this creativity mirrored in the form?" Good question, Shmoopers. If we step back and look at the big picture for a second, we can see that the force's creative, positive power is there as well. Despite the fact that the form breaks down in many ways, something is still created: the poem itself. Out of destruction there is creation. Just like the life cycle the poem explores. And we think that's pretty cool.