31 Days - Day 9 - Poetry

"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.

Then, DADDY FELL INTO THE POND.  (Click to read the rest of this.  I guarantee you'll smile.)

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

Here are some quotes regarding poetry... click over and read, if you have poetry in your soul.

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?