"There are lots and lots of people who are always asking things,
Like dates, and pounds-and-ounces, and the names of funny kings..."
I still hear my mom's voice reciting poems by A. A. Milne. I can see her tucking me into bed, singing Vespers in her soft, sweet way. My love of words was born from mom's vocabulary, which was ever-growing, ever changing, and ever challenging.
She introduced me to poems by Christina Rosetti, and Shel Silverstein. Bridges, Rainbows, Polar Bears - all came alive through beautiful words and powerful images. Poems create portraits from words.
I think that I shall
never see
A poem as lovely as
a tree.
A tree that may in
Summer wear
A nest of robins in
her hair.
Poems are made by
fools like me,
But only God can
make a tree.
~Joyce Kilmer
1886-1918
Poetry is better shared. Oh, you can read a poem and enjoy the images in your own mind, but there's nothing like reading a poem to a bunch of kids who giggle and laugh at the joke.
Consider this one by Alfred Noyes (the poet who wrote
The Highwayman, a much more somber subject.)
Everyone grumbled. The sky was gray.
We had nothing to do, and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And there seemed to be nothing beyond.
Michael Drayton (1563 - 1631) understood the joy of sharing words with friends:
My dearely loved
friend how oft have we,
In winter evenings
(meaning to be free,)
To some well chosen
place us'd to retire;
And there with
moderate meate, and wine, and fire,
Have past the howres
contentedly with chat,
Now talk'd of this,
and then discours'd of that,
Spoke our owne
verses 'twixt our selves, if not
Other mens lines,
which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces
famous long before,
Of which your happy
memory had store;
And I remember you
much pleased were,
Of those who lived
long agoe to heare,
As well as of those,
of these latter times,
Who have inricht our
language with their rimes,
And in succession,
how still up they grew,
Which is the
subject, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle
(you must know that) I,
Was still inclin'd
to noble Poesie.
Modernized, it reads:
My dearly loved
friend, how often have we,
In winter evenings
(meaning to be free,)
To some well chosen
place used to retire;
And there with
moderate meat, and wine, and fire,
Have passed the hours contentedly with chat,
Now talked of this,
and then discoursed of that,
Spoke our own verses between our selves, if not
Other men's lines,
which we by chance had got,
Or some Stage pieces
famous long before,
Of which your happy
memory had store;
And I remember you
much pleased were,
Of those who lived
long ago to hear,
As well as of those,
of these latter times,
Who have enriched our
language with their rhymes,
And in succession,
how still up they grew,
Which is the
subject, that I now pursue;
For from my cradle
(you must know that) I,
Was still inclined
to noble Poetry.
I'm not the only one who was inclined to poetry from the time I was in a cradle! I look a little sideways at people who just don't get it - they think that poetry is boring, and prefer a touchdown on TV.
Perhaps a poet thinks differently from the rest of men. Michael Drayton, again:
Neat Marlow bathed
in the Thespian springs
Had in him those
brave translunary things,
That the first Poets
had, his raptures were,
All ayre, and fire,
which made his verses cleere,
For that fine madnes
still he did retaine,
Which rightly should
possesse a Poets braine.
Modernized, again:
Neat Marlow bathed
in the Thespian springs (Marlow was a fellow that loved the stage and drama)
Had in him those
brave translunary things, (he had in him things that were beyond the moon or ethereal)
That the first Poets
had, his raptures were,
All air, and fire,
which made his verses clear,
For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should
possess a Poet's brain.
Yes. I think Poets have to have a sense of drama. They must be artists with imagination, painting their masterpieces with words on paper rather than oils on canvas. Brave they are, because they bleed with open wounds, visible to all. They are vulnerable, fragile, courageous and daring. They see the world through peculiar perspective, then courageously attempt to sketch it for others.
Poetry is what
Milton saw when he went blind.
~Donald Robert Perry
Marquis
Publishing a volume
of verse is like dropping a rose-petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for
the echo.
~Donald Robert Perry
Marquis
On the same website there is a
helpful chart explaining the many and varied types of poetry.
From the magic of Facebook, I recently learned that there's a difference between haiku and senyru. I always thought that haiku was simply a three lined, non-rhyming poem, with five syllables in the first line, seven in the second, and five in the third. The old adage is true: you learn something new every day.
Hideo Oshima posted the following:
Better ask the winds
Who in the whole world can tell
Which leaf is to fall?
David Dunham corrected him: And yet you have not written a haiku. You have written a senyru. : a 3-line unrhymed Japanese poem structurally similar to haiku but treating human nature usually in an ironic or satiric vein.
True haiku must not contain any human element and should mention one of the four seasons. Really true haiku should also have a double meaning.
babbling winter brook
Do you know that you destroy
that which gives you life?
~David Dunham
How about you? Did your mother read poems and nursery rhymes to you? (If she didn't, I'm sorry for your loss.) Did you develop a love for the English language, and a sense of simile and metaphor which helps you understand the deeper meaning of a rich and weighty poem? Do you bravely attempt to write a few lines of verse on your own? Are you willing to share?
Every Day Thanksgiving Day
