  Poetry
This week: Breathe A Poem Edited by: Fyn  
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Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.~~Khalil Gibran
Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.~~Robert Frost
Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.~~Edgar Allan Poe
Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.~~T. S. Eliot
Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.~~Carl Sandburg
A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.~~W. H. Auden{/
To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee.~~Emily Dickinson |
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Many of us (Baby-boomers +) remember the days of memorizing poetry in school. I know my kids did as well, but the grandkids looked at me with blank "huh?" expressions when I asked them about it.
"You mean memorize a whole poem and then have to say it in front of the class?"
"Yes." (followed by the dreaded phrase,) " 'When I was a kid,' we did that all the time."
"And you still remember them?" asked one of the grands.
I grinned and launched into The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service. When they quit laughing, one of the older ones admitted that it was "kinda" cool to be able to do that and then meandered off to Google it and (gasp!) actually read the poem.
I remember my grandmother 'forcing' me to memorize poetry. I grumbled then, made faces and eventually memorized whatever she'd requested. Funny how much of that poetry remains til this day as those in my 'mental favorites' category!
Good ole Sam has been recorded and Youtube-d and, is still funny.
The link is to one of my favorite versions: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sax1JekPQMg
Other favorites include, well, almost anything by Robert Frost. But this one, in particular has guided and defined me for as long as I can remember.
The Road Not Taken
BY ROBERT FROST
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Then there's The Touch of the Master's Hand by Myra Brooks Welch. These days, it's been made into songs and films, used as inspiration in church sermons and is regularly used at AA meetings. I first read it in The Best Loved Poems of the American People, edited by Hazel Felleman, copyright 1936 by Doubleday & Company. The poem's on page 222 and that old book falls open to that page. Easily found online.
Another favorite, from the same well-thumbed and battered old book is The Vagabond House by Don Blanding. It has been the essence of every house I've ever lived in. It reads in part--
My house will stand on the side of a hill
By a slow, broad river, deep and still,
With a tall lone pine on guard nearby
Where the birds can sing and the storm winds cry.
A flagstone walk, with lazy curves,
Will lead to the door where a Pan's head serves
As a knocker there, like a vibrant drum,
To let me know that a friend has come,
And the door will squeak as I swing it wide
To welcome you to the cheer inside.
For I’ll have good friends who can sit and chat
Or simply sit, when it comes to that,
By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze
And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.
I’ll want a wood box, scarred and rough
For leaves and bark and odorous stuff,
Like resinous knots and cones and gums,
To toss on the flames when winter comes.
And I hope a cricket will stay around,
For I love it’s creaky lonesome sound.
There’ll be driftwood powder to burn on logs
And a shaggy rug for a couple of dogs,
Boreas, winner of prize and cup,
And Mickey, a lovable gutter-pup.
Thoroughbreds, both of them, right from the start,
One by breeding, the other by heart.
There are times when only a dog will do
For a friend . . . when you’re beaten, sick and blue
And the world’s all wrong, for he won’t care
If you break and cry, or grouch and swear,
For he’ll let you know as he licks your hands
That he’s downright sorry . . . and understands.
Okay. So why all the 'favored poems of Fyn' and what has this got to do with anything? As poets, we all have our styles and favored ways we write. This, of course, being above and beyond the trying new forms or whatnot. Remember the saying, "You are what you eat?" Well, it follows, you are what you read. What influences us as readers can help us in our writing. Memorized poetry is much like that first scent of mown grass or newcut hay. It brings to mind memories every bit as the that kitchen smell over the holidays or that long ago ex's aftershave. Poetry, to me, is a sense. It matters not if we write in a particular style or not, but it can flavor our writing, help to season it and inspire us to even greater heights. It allows us to study master wordsmiths and learn from how they work their craft, how they play with words, rhyme, meter, and more, our ear and our vision.
Another favorite, that flows along under the 'living by' theme that I seem to be developing here is from Henry David Thoreau's Walden, a musical that came out in the late 60s-early 70s and based upon Thoreau's work. The snatch of song that I remember is:
I look up and see a rainbow, you look up and see a cloud.
Solitude, to me, is heaven, but your heaven's in a crowd--
for everybody hears a different drummer.
Let him step to the music which he hears; however measured or far away.
It ended up being the quote I used with my senior picture when I graduated high school in 1972. I still march to the beat of a drum that only I can hear as I meander my way down the road less traveled! *grin*
I can still remember Walt Whitman's O Captain, My Captain and it stretches back to fifth grade ... long before 'Dead Poet's Society' brought it back to the forefront. And speaking of which, I've loved hearing Robin William's voice in a quote from that movie that's been used in a commercial recently. It is another excellent handful of words.
John Keating: We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
Hmmmm. I wonder. Think about it.
I remember writing those words down when I first heard them. I scrambled to find paper and pen so I shouldn't lose them. I did not want to lose those words. This, was when Googol was only a 1 with a hundred zeros following it, not a fractured spelling of the word we know today. There simply wasn't fast access to things like words from a movie. You had to remember them. You learned to memorize. Then you had it forever!
It couldn't be done. Moon landings and flying machines, open heart surgeries and double amputees running faster than I ever shall with my two perfectly good feet. Edgar A. Guest didn't believe those words. In ~1917 he wrote:
It Couldn’t Be Done
Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But, he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn’t," but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.
Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "couldn’t be done," and you’ll do it.
Goes along with another favorite: Triumph is just UMPH! added to try.
Edgar Guest had another in my favored list. It is called Myself. That (got to love stream of consciousness thought) reminds of a similar one:
The Face In The Glass by Dale Wimbrow
When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what that face has to say
For it isn’t your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass,
The person whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.
Some people might think you’re a straight-shootin’ chum
And call you a great gal or guy,
But the face in the glass says you’re only a bum
If you can’t look it straight in the eye.
That’s the one you must please, never mind all the rest,
That’s the one with you clear to the end,
And you know you have passed your most dangerous test
If the face in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you’ve cheated the face in the glass.
I think my grandmother and my teachers were determined we'd all stay on the straight and narrow path, even if we did choose to think for ourselves!
Kind of funny, in a way, I suppose, looking back over these--most of them rhyme, and yet, most of my poetry doesn't. And yet several of the few that do, are my favorites. I expect the rhymed verses were far easier to memorize, although we also memorized speeches like The Gettysburg Address.
Another one...(yes, and it is difficult to narrow it down this much!)
House by the Side of the Road
by Sam Walter Foss
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.
I even have a line from this poem lettered on parchment that's been decoupaged onto a piece of slate and hangs outside. I think our favored poems define us in some ways. There are reasons we love the ones we do and they are, in some way, a reflection.
What are your favorite poems? Why? Do they strike some internal chord? Have they resonated down through the years? Do you have a book of poetry that falls open to the page of a treasured favorite? Or, are you more like the grands who can recite words to favorite songs? Not so different, I suppose. I've got one of them too! Garth Brooks: The River. The words, "Choose to chance the rapids, dare to dance the tide," define me these days. |
Not much choice here, going with my all time favorite WDC poems!
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Before I get to the kind comments received for my first Poetry Newsletter, I want to let folks know that due to a whole bunch of folks writing to say that they 'wished' there was more time before the deadline to the WdC Anthology... we are extending it until May 30th, 2014. Due to time constraints, it cannot go beyond that date. But now, all the time excuses fly out the window and you've all got lots of time to get your entries in!
drjim writes: Hello FYN! Great Newsletter, some hardcore basics for everyone to pay attention to here, and as always, thank you for including my work for others to see and read. Made my month!!!! Thanks once again, Dr J
Glad to hear it...now go submit something/s for the Anthology! :)
(812) 874-3150  asks:could you submit a poem currently on your Writing.com website to the Anthology?
ABSOLUTELY!!!! *big smile*
LinnAnn -Book writer  says: Very nicely written. Very poetically done. Thanks for the time and effort you put into writing the newsletter for us.
love, LinnAnn
Thanks!
warriormom comments: This newsletter is the most amazing one I've ever read. I want to read it every day, and especially on the days I write or review poetry. It summarizes beautifully what we are to look for in poetry—the heart of poetry. Thanks so much for this informative article.
wow! Thank YOU! Made my month!
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Poetry: April 23, 2014 Issue [#6284]
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