杰夫·贝索斯说，没有押韵的诗歌很容易——但这并没有那么简单

When Jeff Bezos defended major layoffs at The Washington Post last week, he reached for poetry. Pressed on why he would not simply subsidise the paper, he argued payment was a “signal” of relevance: “If people won’t pay for our product, we’re not doing, it’s not a good enough product […] It would be like poetry without rhyming. It’s too easy.”

The analogy was mocked almost immediately. A former Washington Post literary critic imagined Poetry magazine rejecting T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land for insufficient rhyme. Others responded in the form the occasion seemed to invite:

Roses are red Violets are blue Bezos sucks And his takes do too.

But the mockery missed the more interesting point. Bezos was not really talking about rhyme. He was talking about constraint: the idea that without some external pressure – rhyme in poetry, profitability in journalism – the work becomes too easy, too loose, too self-satisfied.

Poetry was never identical with rhyme

Rhyme is one of the most recognisable features of English verse. It gives pleasure because it returns: a sound goes out and comes back altered. Because it is so easy to hear, rhyme can look like proof of effort. We hear the rule. We hear the poem obeying it. That is exactly why it becomes such a tempting stand-in for seriousness.

In Middle English, “rime” could mean not only rhyme, but metre or verse more generally; so the terms blurred early on. But poetry was never identical with rhyme.

Old English verse, including Beowulf, was organised by patterns of stressed syllables, pauses within the line (caesura) and alliteration, rather than rhyme. Rhyme became increasingly important in English later, especially under French influence after the Norman Conquest. Because it is memorable, teachable and easy to hear, it gradually came to stand in for poetry itself.

But rhyme is not poetry. Nor is end rhyme the only way poetry makes pattern or music. Some of the most important poetry in English does not rely on it at all.

Why rhyme isn’t necessary

John Milton wrote Paradise Lost without rhyme, and defended the decision explicitly, arguing rhyme was “no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse”.

What matters here is not mere hostility to rhyme, but the sense that rhyme can tempt a poet into polish before thought has finished its work. He goes further, dismissing rhyme as the “jingling sound of like endings” and even as the “troublesome and modern bondage of riming”.

Shakespeare’s drama offers the clearest proof: it is built largely in blank verse, where the line is shaped by rhythm and the movement of the sentence rather than rhyme, as when Romeo first sees Juliet:

But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.

But at its best, rhyme surprises

Much modern poetry also does without regular rhyme. Free verse is poetry that does not rely on regular rhyme or a fixed metre – a regular pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables – and it has always suffered from its name. “Free” makes it sound as though the poet has simply slipped the leash of form.

But, as T.S. Eliot wrote in Reflections on Vers Libre, there is “no freedom in art”: removing rhyme does not remove structure, but throws other patterns into relief. Rhythm, word order, line, repetition and the movement of thought become more exposed. Free verse is not failed rhymed verse. Its discipline is simply less immediately audible.

At its best, rhyme is a genuine source of pleasure and ingenuity. It does more than repeat: it surprises. Lord Byron’s Don Juan is full of rhymes that arrive not as dutiful closure, but as comic swerves or little flashes of intelligence.

Byron addresses the “lords of ladies intellectual” and snaps the stanza shut with “have they not hen-peck’d you all?”. Emily Dickinson, in another key, makes the point just as sharply: in “Because I could not stop for Death”, the poem’s slant rhymes show that rhyme does not have to mean tidy closure; it can work through near-match, disturbance and eerie precision instead.

Eminem’s famous answer to the claim that nothing rhymes with “orange” works by stretching sound across syllables and making the ear hear a likeness it did not expect: “four-inch” and “door hinge”.

That is one of rhyme’s oldest pleasures: not just recurrence, but discovery. Rhyme can be brilliant in exactly this way. It can also be merely mechanical. Bad rhyme is easy. Good rhyme is not. Its presence alone proves less than Bezos thinks.

Rhyme is audible. Profit is measurable. Both look objective, but neither proves very much. A poem can rhyme and still fail; a newspaper can make money and still be trivial. The mistake is to confuse what is easiest to hear or count with what matters most.

Bronwyn Lea does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.