Welsh poetry has a system of rhymes, alliterations and counter-stresses called cynghanedd (being 1000 years older than English, there are strong roots beneath that rubble strewn ground). Despite being a bit of a mathematical formula, and fairly easy to follow, it is very difficult for the newbie to write any poetry within its strict discipline. Developed as a way of tautening the pleasure of hearing poetry declaimed – especially in early times when writing things down wasn’t practicable – its enduring benefit is the exalted and sublime works that those who have mastered it produce.
This relationship between richness and discipline struck me on my first visit to New York earlier this year – as I wended my way up and across the Streets and Avenues. It was dramatically brought home to me how a grid, that you might expect would reduce and make uniform, actually stresses variety and brings out the richness of the city. This was cynghanedd I thought.
Eisenman’s Memorial for The Murdered Jews of Europe in Berlin has the same relationship with a grid. What at first appears simple to read and uneventful quickly becomes complex and a much richer experience as you encounter a range of levels, heights and horizons. Quite a bit more involved than purely visual allusion and text.
When we set out to enrich the encounter with place, the observer registers a system (and it needn’t be a rectangular grid, it can be literal, conceptual, or technical) and is drawn into it when there is a realisation that the Moment of discernment has been deepened. A step towards the idea of the thing.
My job is to make poetry of that Moment.
