How Do You Actually Become A Better Writer?
Part 3: Finishing Kubla Khan
This is part 3 of a 3 part series on the practice of learning to write by emulating the brilliant minds that have done it before. If you haven’t yet, read parts 1 and 2 to get all caught up. Don’t worry, I’ll wait.
Let’s get right to it; for the sake of brevity, we’ll stick to the first short stanza of the poem- I’ve numbered the lines for easy reference.
- In Xanadu did KubIa Khan
- A stately pleasure dome decree:
- Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
- Through caverns measureless to man
- Down to a sunless sea.
- So twice five miles of fertile ground
- With walls and towers were girdled round:
- And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
- Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
- And here were forests ancient as the hills,
- Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
First we will count out the syllables. Lines 1–4 all have 8 syllables, with 5 being a shortened line of 6 syllables. If we overemphasize every other syllable, we can figure out the meter of each line; we won’t get into fancy naming conventions or anything here, this is just about how to break it down.
For example:
in XAN a DU did KUB la KHAN
a STATE ly PLEAS ure DOME de CREE
(Note: this is great to do for this exercise, but please never do this while performing a poem. You will sound like Dr. Seuss- I do not like them on Mount Abora, I do not like them with incense-bearing flora!)
Lines 6 and 7 go back to 8 syllables, and then lines 8 and 9 do something very interesting, which is to switch to 11 syllables. This gives them an odd cadence (pun very much intended) because a syllable in each line is going to get swallowed; in other words there will be 2 unemphasized syllables in a row.
And THERE were GAR dens BRIGHT with SIN u ous Rills,
Where BLOS somed MA ny an IN cense BEAR ing TREE
When read aloud, sin-you-us becomes closer to sin-yus and, and many an becomes ma-nyin. Again, you don’t hear that emphasis when you perform a poem like this, but knowing where it lands (and why) will help both your writing and reading skills.
Finally, lines 10 and 11 drop down to 10 syllables- what you’d find in a classic sonnet.
We can see that if you simply read this stanza through the meter might feel random, but most lines are at least paired with another of the same length into a couplet. The exception is line 5, which provides an intentional break- notice it is also the end of a sentence.
Next let’s look at rhyme; lines 3 and 4 rhyme (ran/man), with 1 being a half rhyme to them (at least in my Pacific Northwest American accent) Khan with a long ‘ah’ sound. Lines 2 and 5, and then 9 and 11 also all rhyme. Finally we have rhymes in lines 6 and 7, and then in 8 and 10.
So, what does all that tell us?
Okay, since we are looking at 11 lines, there will probably be an odd-line-out. That looks to be line 1 with its half rhyme, so let’s ignore it. Now we have 3 seperate rhyming schemes.
Lines 2–5 make a classic A/B/B/A rhyme scheme. Lines 6–7 are a C/C couplet. And lines 8–11 are the different but also classic D/E/D/E rhyme. This is great info to have. We can use any of these later on, but we see right away that we should be writing with some classical rhyme schemes in mind.
I won’t go through every line here, but I urge you to do so for the rest of the piece (written in full in part 2 of this series). When you do, you’ll see that while Coleridge slips into looser structures of both rhyme and meter, he always returns back to a more classic form- so if you were writing your own sections for this poem, do the same. But then mix it up again, use lines that are a syllable too long or short, or that have half rhymes- remember you aren’t writing a sonnet. But it’s not Beat poetry either, the form still exists.
When I wrote my conclusion to this poem, I would literally count out Coleridge’s lines- “Okay, he’s got 4 lines here with an A/B/A/B rhyme pattern, the first 2 have 12 syllables, the next 2 have 10. I’m going to write 4 lines with exactly that same pattern.”
If you are working with prose, do the same thing. Take a paragraph and break it down by numbered line like we did here. What’s the meter? Do you see any rhymes? Do the vowel sounds repeat (assonance)? Or the consonant sounds (consonance)? I like starting with older poems because they have more structure built into them already, there’s less guesswork involved. But you can do this with anything using this same process to gain a better understanding of the mechanics behind the page.
Remember, the point is to emulate, and the more you do this, with different kinds of writers and work, the greater your ability will be to create something new, interesting, and entirely your own.¹
So now you’ve read the poem (or short story or essay or scene) through a couple dozen times, and then combed through it a couple dozen more as you break down line structure. Next it’s time to write. Don’t sweat this part too much- it’s the byproduct of all your actual work. Nevertheless- once you have something on paper, check your work.
Look at those lines you have, how do they match to the size, sound, and feel of the originals?
Read through the original another 10 or 20 times. Do the same with your writing. How does the feeling match up? The emotion?
Finally, read the whole thing to someone who doesn’t know the original. Can they tell where the old piece ended, and yours began? If they can, that’s okay, but try to figure out why.
And finally… Huzah! You’re done!
Well, you’ve done 1. Do it again. And again. And again. Change it up, challenge yourself. After a Coleridge poem, try a scene from a contemporary Indian sci-fi comedy. Or a short essay from a Peruvian author on what the latest discovery that T-Rex tasted exactly like chicken means to both the worlds of ornithology and Kentucky-fried fast foods.
This isn’t always fun or exciting, but it will get easier. Remember, we’re sketching. We’re running scales. We’re practicing. And that, as they say, is how you get to Carnegie Hall. Although, to be honest, I haven’t heard from them yet.
¹ Writing something “entirely your own” is actually a misnomer, it doesn’t exist. Unique writing is actually just writing that has stolen bits and pieces from other writers, and put those pieces together in a moderately new way. So don’t worry about sounding unique, worry about stealing from as many writers as you can- the larger that pool is, the more “unique” your voice will become.
You can read my finished emulation poem, along with the original, below. But try it yourself first! Feel free to ask me why I made certain choices, or about anything at all.
In Xanadu did KubIa Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chafly grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And `mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And `mid this tumult KubIa heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight `twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honeydew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
And so it was with vision done
That I then set my feet to move,
To seek the palace of the sun
To chase my Abyssinian love.
Reclined in pleasure domes above that sunless sea,
These dreams from Heaven’s dulcimer had come:
One foot before the other, how uncountable my steps,
‘Till lifetimes I had traveled, and yet I had to rest.
But oh! and there were gardens full of light,
And yes that deep romantic chasm,
Chasing laughter down the slope
To where I crouched no muscle moving,
Cedarn boughs my face concealing.
Eyes ever watchful for The Kahn,
But with my ears did spy him first:
I drank his words down in my thirst.
As he spoke with voice outside him,
In tongues I’d known but only heard,
In visions which precluded choice.
And those same ancestral voices
Which from fountainhead had sung;
Spoke again in rolling thunder,
Telling Kubla she would come.
And her poems, and her playing,
Just as they had always done:
Would turn the one against the other,
Brother laying sword to brother,
Fathers slaying only sons.
Lifeless armies sailing sunless oceans-
Wave to sky their endless masts would span.
And without breath their ranks would overflow:
Those caverns measureless to man!
And only blood would flow where once the sacred river ran.
And I saw from cedarn cover where I hid,
Those visions meant for Kubla’s eyes alone
Of Xanadu in ruins and in flame
That caves of ice alone could never tame.
Oh! false visions which had held me,
Disguised as damsel when at first she came.
Now seen in Glory! Oh that vengeful angel!
Who shall put Xanadu to sword, to flame.
But she had brought me all these miles,
I knew she had but knew not why.
Was I the bard to tell the story?
Her sacrifice: brought here to die?
And lost in musings where I wandered,
The Warrior King had disappeared.
No pleasure palace any longer
With gardens growing only spears;
All twice-five miles once fertile ground
And towered walls manned all around,
Spread out before their fearsome lord:
The tens, the thousands, His Mongol Horde!
Fog arose from horse’s nostrils,
Thick as foam upon the sea,
Only pierced by standards hostile.
Strong and brave they spread subastral
To fight for homes they’ll never see-
For momently I felt that fountain
Bursting forth from deep inside,
With power of that fearsome mountain
Erupt, Abora, in my mind!
And so momently I knew
That Abyssinian’s temptress will,
Mouth flavor-filled by honeydew,
Though no fruit had passed my lips.
And my body; nay, entire being filled
By maid-come-angel, from her bowl I sipped
The milk that paradise did spill.
And as I rose into the air,
So too did cries rise up around me
And loud the shouts: Beware! Beware!
Now flash my eyes! Now float my hair!
So many other fountains now.
And down it came that rocky hail,
Till screams arose as horse and man
Were crushed under Her thresher’s flail.
My body twisted, bent, contorted,
She fills me with a Godly pain:
My mouth split wide to scream to Heaven,
To call for mercy in His name.
No mercy nor a scream are given,
For only light escapes my mouth.
Her lighthouse now my body beckons,
As her armies ships are driven
By winds unnatural from the south;
No sound they make as they approach us
On Alph’s waters which run red,
Their sails are flapping silently
Over Her armies, lifeless, dead.
The clash of swords! The cries of battle!
And I there watching from above,
As Kubla’s Hordes are slain like cattle
Gasping out their last breaths rattle
Dying on this land they loved.
Then into chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
The earth indeed in thick fast pants now breathing
Swallowing both armies whole.
As ground begins to heal back over
Kubla’s fearsome roar I hear;
Emerging from the earth below me
Defiant cries, now only fear.
Then twice as awful as their screaming
Is the silence on its heels
That deafens me with nightmare dreaming
In Xanadu, where Khan once ruled.
Now damned by light I lie here dying,
Without her milk my race is run.
No soldier, king, or prophet living
Can face her armies or her will:
And you will know when she approaches,
But that to-morrow is yet to come.
