And now I will. My friend Amelia gave me a book of poems by Billy Collins, and I read it...it's really good. I like him, even though he doesn't rhyme. On Mother's Day, Donald Miller posted a poem by Collins that I liked a lot...that was my first exposure to him, in a poem called the Lanyard. I'd recommend reading it...I almost posted it here, but I decided against it in favor of posting The Trouble With Poetry. It's a good poem, and it's a good representation of how Collins writes. Without further typing:
The Trouble With Poetry
The trouble with poetry, I realized as I walked along a beach one night -- cold Florida sand under my bare feet, a show of stars in the sky --
the trouble with poetry is that it encourages the writing of more poetry, more guppies crowding the fish tank, more baby rabbits hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end? unless the day finally arrives when we have compared everything in the world to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do but quietly close our notebooks and sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy and I rise like a feather in the wind. Poetry fills me with sorrow and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills me with the urge to write poetry, to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame to appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal, to break into the poems of others with a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are, cut-purses, common shoplifters, I thought to myself as a cold wave swirled around my feet and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea, which is an image I stole directly from Lawrence Ferlinghetti -- to be perfectly honest for a moment --
the bicycling poet of San Francisco whose little amusement park of a book I carried in a side pocket of my uniform up and down the treacherous halls of high school.
Do you think this is an accurate poem? Does it speak truth?
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?
The way most people react when they see people acting depressed or purposely secluding themselves is to let them be. I know, because I've been on both sides of that picture. I've watched as other people shut everybody else out, and I've done the same thing myself. So I can say from experience that when I looked like I shut people out, I wanted people to talk to me. When I was in that mindset, I was in a period of testing people. I was trying to find out: Who actually cares? Who notices? Who will take the first step towards me? Because people tend to be too respectful of the way things look, depressed people get left to themselves. I don't think that should be the way things happen. At the very least, we should make an attempt to see if people in a state of being down want to talk about it with us. In my life, I've chosen to risk being rebuffed for the chance that the people I see being sad need somebody to talk to. Does that make sense? It would be better to be rejected while trying than to never try and have wasted a chance.
Here's a poem that kind of addresses that topic:
Nobody knows who I am within;
What kinds of doubt and fear reside
Beneath my actions, or their origin.
Inside, so many dreams and wishes died.
If opportunity does come,
What will happen?
Will I go numb?
Or will I take it? What then?
Uncertainties rule
In my life, and I’m a fool.
Why can’t I turn this around?
Will I always be lost, and never found?
I can’t count the cost of happiness;
Conquer the darkness that leaves me with less.
People look, but never address the real problems
Or the aloneness that condemns
Me to live this life.
Inside, there’s a knife
Cutting deeper and deeper, And a road, getting steep and still steeper.
So. Here's a poem by Richard Wilbur that I found somewhere last year and wrote out in my poetry book. Because I like it a lot. He takes one image, and turns it into a picture that we can clearly see, which conveys a feeling. Pretty sweet writing. I wish I could write like that. Let me know what you think of it.
Okay, I promise I'll stop posting so much Frost soon, but his poems are great, and the whole point of poetry (usually) is to identify with it. And I can identify with this one. People can look at this poem and only see the words, but there's a meaning that can be wrested from it: the woods could be death, or solitary life. And those things are appetizing sometimes. Frost is attracted to the woods, but he's held back by the people and promises he's made, as well as the "miles to go" before he's allowed to "sleep." Always, I think, we should be looking for the deeper meanings in poems. Because they are there.
Stopping By Woods
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know, His house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here, To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer, To stop without a farmhouse near, Between the woods and frozen lake, The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake, To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep, Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Well, all, I'm sorry for the longer-than-usual space between posts. I can tell from the absence of any kind of comments that you missed it terribly. Anyway. I wrote a poem. And it's brilliant. Hehe. Just try and tear it apart, and you'll realize the brilliancy of it. Because if it's a good poem, then good. And if it's a bad poem, then it makes its point. So, without further ado, here it is:
Good poetry is hard to write; It’s hard to make it bite. Good poetry is always right, It never sounds too trite. Good poetry is always real; Whether it’s hard as steel Or smooth as satin, If it’s right, the reader wins, And the poem sings.
So, I was reading the 100 Best Poems of All Time, compiled by Leslie Pockell, which I checked out from Lackman Library last week. And I ran across a poem in it which I had thought was only a song. It's called Richard Cory, and there's a wonderful song by Simon and Garfunkel of the same title. I was unaware of the poem, though, so I was surprised when I came across it. I'm partial to Simon and Garfunkel's song, because I believe them to be one of the best bands of their era, and Paul Simon to be the best song-writer I've ever heard as far as lyrics go, but the poem is good even if only because it inspired the song. So, this post may be the only of its kind ever, but we'll see. If you're aware of any other poems that inspired songs, let me know. What I'll do in this post is first post the poem, then the song (which you can only hear through my blog, and not through feedblitz, if you're subscribed), and then Simon and Garfunkel's song lyrics. The song and poem are about how somebody who looked like he had everything he could ever need or want still wasn't content...I think Simon and Garfunkel convey it better than the poem does. But I'll let you draw your own conclusions, and you can comment with your thoughts if you're disposed to do so. Alright. Here's the poem, by Edwin Arlington Robinson:
Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich — yes, richer than a king — And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Now the song, hosted by Grooveshark, an amazing website:
And finally, the song lyrics:
Richard Cory
(P. Simon)
They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town, With political connections to spread his wealth around. Born into society, a banker's only child, He had everything a man could want: power, grace, and style.
But I work in his factory And I curse the life I'm living And I curse my poverty And I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be Richard Cory.
The papers print his picture almost everywhere he goes: Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show. And the rumor of his parties and the orgies on his yacht! Oh, he surely must be happy with everything he's got.
But I work in his factory And I curse the life I'm living And I curse my poverty And I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be Richard Cory.
He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch, And they were grateful for his patronage and thanked him very much, So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read: "Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head."
But I work in his factory And I curse the life I'm living And I curse my poverty And I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be, Oh, I wish that I could be Richard Cory.
So I'm starting this blog as a way (hopefully) to make it easier for me to transition off of facebook. One of the main reasons it's hard for me to get off of facebook is because I tend to want to let people know what's going on in my life, and in my head. Lately it's been poetry and music that has been really meaningful to me, and that's what this blog will be about. My poetry, other people's poetry, and a lot of great music that applies to me especially, and to you if you like. If you want to follow along, I'd advise you subscribing to my blog via RSS feed or through another way. There's a sidebar where you can enter your email address and anytime I post it will be sent to your email address. This is the beginning of the end of my facebook. If you still want to communicate through the internet, which basically isn't that great of an idea, you can comment on this blog or email me. If you need my email address, let me know on here. And if you care to join me in my anti-facebookness, feel free. Think of all the time and emotional stress I'll be saving from not being on facebook!
For now, later. Actually...here's a poem I wrote the other day...my inaugural poem.
I don't even try To hear the sound Of its engines roaring. I just watch it go soaring; Jealous that it, and not I, Can leave such trails And fly so high. I stand on the ground, Doomed to be earth-bound.
