Among the many sections of the cabinet you find a small stack of papers. The first page is filled with what looks like a set of printed…

Among the many sections of the cabinet you find a small stack of papers. The first page is filled with what looks like a set of printed instructions.

Start reading.

'1. Read the poem silently, then aloud. Consider the line breaks, and identify the meter and rhyme scheme, if any. Is the poem written in open form, or closed form?'

What is this?

Tutorial guidelines for the interpretation and critique of written verse.

Whoever's using these isn't trying to get better at writing poetry -- they're trying to get better at reading it.

Seems odd for someone working at a poetry magazine to need pointers on reading.

Notes have been scribbled in the margins: 'Read aloud.' 'Line breaks.' 'Too many metaphors?'

It seems they lack an artist's spirit.

Does it keep going on like that?

'2. Paraphrase the poem. You may wish to do this with the entire poem, or line by line. If this is too confusing, focus on distinct imagery, or isolated parts first.'

'3. Consider the poet's word choice. Identify figures of speech. Identify metaphors and / or similes, if they are present.'

This is how they judged my poem?

Every house has its style and set of parameters with which they must filter through the submissions.

No one in this establishment has a chance at understanding your art. Perhaps no one does.

This is the cheat sheet of a complete amateur.

You at least deserve to be judged by someone with an eye that has been trained by years of experience.

Yawn.

Your eyes are starting to glaze over.

This promotes the analysis of soul-work as if it were a logic puzzle. It's pity-inducing.

Interesting. Feel like I'm learning something here.

Perhaps you are a creature made for soul-work.

There should never have been any doubt about that. You are possessed with art.

Don't count on that. Keep your day job for now.

Flip the sheet over.

A printed table labelled TETRASYLLABLES. The first column contains hieroglyphics; the second has a series of words.

Look over the first column.

Strange series of U-shaped symbols and underscores.

Scancions, used to represent stressed and unstressed syllables. Prosodists have fought over whether they're worth anything for millenia.

What's the verdict?

Two types of people worship scancions: poets too fond of structure, or tenured academics. Neither are to be trusted.

The same goes for that woman.

I really don't care about that.

Suit yourself, o' mysterious holder of knowledge you have no use for.

You vaguely remember these are used to measure or describe the sound of poems.

This feels suspiciously like math.

That's poetry's dirty little secret. Often enough, the rhythm follows a predictable pattern.

I don't play by those rules. My poetry comes straight from the guts.

An easy claim to make when one is not staring at a blank page.

Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum... How about that.

The poets like to act as if it's some sort of magic, but structurally, it's not that hard.

Did you hear it? The song in your head? 'Twas the sacred art of versecraft, inaccessible to all but the most radiant of hearts.

Really you just need to be able to count to ten or so.

Are poets just rhythm technicians?

And word selectors. Occasionally, punctuation dispensers.

So it's like code.

Certainly a type of one.

Look over the second column.

'Proceleusmatic'. 'Ditrochee'. 'Diiamb'. 'Choriamb'. 'Antipast'. 'Dispondee'.

The word 'choriamb' has been circled in red pen.

The same pen hanging from the subeditor's neck.

The Editor-in-Chief said she's the janitor of this building. That means she sets the door codes.

Door downstairs -- repeating pattern. This? Juicy.

Feels important. Feels juicy. Unsure why.

The same pen hanging from the younger woman's neck.

Memorise the pattern for 'choriamb'.

The corresponding meter notation reads '— U U —'.

This may be exactly what you need to crack the code of that door in the basement.

If you ever need it, you can now pluck that information from the archives.

Flip back to the front. (Go back.)

The paper spins in your hands with a rustle.

These papers belong to the subeditor?

Very likely, given that her desk is next to the cabinet.

Alright, that's enough tutoring. [Leave.]

You put the papers back.

Boring. [Leave.]

You weren't always so incurious. Thaw, CASCADE! Thaw your heart!