On majestic, leaping mackerels and other (better) poetry

(Note from Julie on Tuesday the 17th: Visit me again at Romantically Inclined today!  I'm talking about the "ingredients" that go into making a romance author.)

A few years ago I went to a poetry reading event at a small but groovy nightclub in San Francisco. Now, poetry events are always a bit risky, because you never quite know what sort of poetry you'll be subjected to. To this day, in fact, the friend who accompanied me to this event remembers the poet who compared his phallus to a majestic, leaping mackerel. And though I remember this, too (sadly, it's a rather difficult image to shake), I remember another poet even more vividly: a very good-looking guy who read an admittedly sexually explicit but beautiful poem in a voice that could have melted a brick. (Reading poetry aloud well can be tricky, too.) I listened to him, caught up in the details of his poem, but because I can never help myself, I had to look around for reactions. And every woman in that place was riveted. I mean, heads were pointed quite fixedly at the stage, jaws were slack. Quite a few men were riveted, too. In fact, I think we all would have willingly followed that poet home. I remember thinking: this is a man who pays attention.

And that's the potential, mysterious power of poetry. In The Secret to Seduction (TSTS) the book after Ways to be Wicked and the final book in my trilogy, my hero, Rhys Gillray, the Earl of Rawden, is a scandalous poet known at The Libertine, and he's just that sort of poet—the kind women fling themselves at. Because he quite simply…knows.

Because of TSTS, and ever since it turns out Edgar Allen Poe is one of my Dead Celebrity Soulmates (and most of your guys's, too, it would seem—scroll down a few blogs if you don't know what I"m talking about), and because our frequent blog visitor Diana mentioned that one of her favorite poems was Poe's "Annabelle Lee," I've been thinking about poetry, and my favorite poems.

When I was in fourth grade, I won a softball for my skillful recitation of a Robert Louis Stevenson poem. (I have no idea why the prize was a softball. I was not an athlete then any more than I am now.) I still know that poem. And other poems have stuck in my memory over the years, too. Many years ago, the lead singer of my first band told me a limerick that begins, "There once was a buxom young lass" and contains the phrase "when she banged them together they played 'Stormy Weather,' " but I can't tell you the rest of that limerick, because it's absolutely filthy. Hilarious, mind you. But filthy. Of course, to this day I know it by heart.

But I do have more dignified favorite poems. I recently went trolling the web for them, and spent a little time pleasantly drugged by beautiful words. I thought I'd share a couple of those old favorites. Both of these poems are relatively short, deceptively simple, and devastating for different reasons. Both are essentially love poems, and manage, in different ways, to capture the dizzying enormity of love andthe everyday wonder of it, and how the world simply ends when you lose it.

The first, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's, still knocks me out when I read it, even though the opening lines are of course so well known they've become virtual cliché. But those first four lines just…blow me away. And then there's W.H. Auden's poem, often referred to as "Stop All the Clocks," which leaped into the contemporary limelight as a result of "Four Weddings and a Funeral" some years ago, because it was read aloud at the funeral mentioned in the movie's title. Both are worth reading if you haven't read them in a while.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (#43, from Sonnets from the Portuguese)

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

And here's W. H. Auden's:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

So those are your poems for this week. :)

How about you? Do you have a favorite poem or poet? Have you ever memorized a poem? Have you ever written poetry? Do you go out of your way to read poetry now? Know any good limericks? :)

P.S. Visit me at Romantically Inclined today, too.  I'm talking about money. :)

Comments

[Haven Rich]

Wow, loaded post here with tons of questions...here we go:

I have a favorite poem, but as I lost a great many of my poems during a move, I can't for the live of me recall who wrote it or the name of it. But the key phrase is: "I shall return to you". OH I loved it.

Favorite poet? Edna St. Vincent(sp) Milay. I did a research paper on her in high school and I fell in love.

Yes, I've not only written poetry, but I've had some (two) published. Granted it was only in local newspapers but to me, at age 15 and 17, it was the whole world. I still write poems, it's my way of letting off steam. Hence, some of my poems are a bit dark and murderous haha. I have brought tears to my mom and dads eyes..as I wrote them each a special poem and placed it on a painting I made (each their own of course).

I currently have a poem about writing on one of the framed arts on the Romantically Inclined Store. Althought I think it's hard to see.

And yayyy I'm so excited that your visiting RI today and tomorrow. And giving away a copy of BATS to boot...woohoo lucky winner. Of course I have a strange way of looking at guest authors...I think of them as favorite great aunts who you just LOVE to visit hehe. You listen (or in this case read) to every word and walk away with inspired.

[Kathy K]

I've never really been a fan of poetry, but I used to write it a lot when I was younger ~ say from age 8 or so up. The last poem I wrote was when my older children were all still in elementary school; they're all adults now.

I remember having to read The Jaberwocky by C.S. Lewis in school and then try to figure out the parts of speech; not so much fun and I've never been able to look at poems quite the same way since... probably was the teacher, but I don't know for sure.

Reading a lot of Historical Romances, there are often snippets of poems, mostly romantic of course, and some of them are quite beautiful. I don't think I've ever read Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poem all the way through ~ definitely my teachers didn't do much for the cause of Poetry ~ so I was glad to read it as well as W. H. Auden's. All I can say is WOW! ~ there really is something to the art of poetry.

Thanks for the insight Julie; gives me something else to look for.

As for the mackerel.. boy, does the imagination start to work! LoL And the limerick... what a tease you are!! *grin*

I'll be visiting on R.I. too, so see ya!

Kathy

[Diana]

I don't necessarily go out of my way to read poetry or know any good limericks. I don't think I have a favorite poet, but I do have poems that I really enjoy. "Annabel Lee" by Poe is one, of course, and I memorized it in seventh grade. I don't have it memorized anymore, but it's a poem I enjoy reading out loud now and again. I like how the words sound. When I was in college, I took a poetry class and really enjoyed it. I wrote poems for the class, but haven't really done so since then. Another poem that I really like is W.B. Yeats's "He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven." A college professor in one of my education classes read it on the last day of class, and I thought it was so beautiful, especially the last three lines. Here's the poem:

"He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven"
by W.B. Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

I came across another beautiful poem last night. I was reading about Audrey Hepburn and discovered that her favorite poem was "Unending Love" by Rabindranath Tagore, which her friend Gregory Peck read after her death. Here's the link to the poem:

http://www.cs.ndsu.nodak.edu/~mistry/unendinglove.html

[Diana]

Forgot to add that I also like this one poem by Sylvia Plath, but I have no idea what it's called. I wrote it down in college, but can't seem to recall the name of it. :(

[Julie Anne Long]

One of the things I've noticed is that we've (those of us on the blog here) have all tried our hand at writing poetry—I think my first poems were about my dog, Shadow (a malamute), followed by an ode to Pegasus. Naturally. LOL. I was...eight years old, maybe? But what do you think it is? I think we get enchanted by language, and by our ability to make it sing. Or we *try* to make it sing, anyhow, in the form of poetry. And every time I read an exquisite poem...there's almost a delayed reaction. The words have their effect on you, somehow—the rhythm and music of them—before you even take in their meaning. And when you're lulled by their music, somehow the meaning can sink in more deeply.

Except for maybe limericks. LOL.

When I spend a little time reading (poetry, though, I'm always happy I did. Good poetry, that is. And "good" is very subjective. Perhaps poetry should be taken like a rare liqueur. As a rich treat in small doses regularly. LOL.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was a pip, Haven!! I love her, too. Her story is pretty fascinating. And right on for you for getting poetry published!! And as for dark poetry...ah, welcome to adolescence. LOL. Poetry was *made* for teenagers, it seems.

It's funny, how a mediocre teacher can wreck a subject for you, isn't it, Kathy K.? In High school I had some wonderful teachers, but I had some really weak psychology and history teachers, who were clearly pretty indifferent to their subjects, which didn't do much to stimulate my interest in the subjects, either. Of course, I now live and love both psychology and history. LOL.

And that poem is beautiful Diana. I love Yeats!! Thanks so much for sharing it. That's what I mean...there's built-in magic in a poem like that, for some reason. The genius of a good poem is that you feel the words before you full comprehend them, I think. And Audrey Hepburn's favorite poem is just beautiful, too.

Why is poetry the language of love? Because love is so huge we need to address it obliquely? Now there's big topic!! LOL.

See, now I'm kind of in the mood to write a poem, when I have all kinds of other writing to do. LOL.

[Haven Rich]

Hmm, then I suppose I shouldn't mention that the darkest poems I've written were when I was in my mid-twenties huh haha.

So here is my latest, then I'll post you my greatest (IMO)

We write the words
That fit neatly into a puzzle
We call romance
We nurture each piece
Until it becomes a whole
We worry and wonder
As we create a world
Of magical endings
We work until it’s perfect
Pouring our heart
Into every moment
Until finally it’s the end
We say goodbye and pray
That others just might
Enjoy our Happy Endings

We are Inclined

Now my best:

To My Dad

This is for you, I want you to know
You, the person who watched me grow
I know you weren’t there the day of my birth
But my mom had to find you first
Since she found you, I’ve been complete
Besides to me, no one else could compete
I know through the years I’ve made you mad
Which makes me really happy that you’re my dad
To me you’re the best in all the land
There is no one better, I think your grand
I just wanted to let you know
And I wrote this to tell you so

My dad cried when I gave this to him. And he don't cry.

[Jennifer Y.]

I remember memorizing a Shel Silverstein poem in elementary school...I believe it was called "One Sister for Sale"

Oh, and as a sidenote, I received my Warner books newsletter in e-mail today and there was a Ways to Be Wicked ecard in it. I was urged to send it to all my friends. I wasn't sure if you had seen it, but it is really pretty.

[Julie Anne Long]

Haven, I have to tell you, both poems are lovely, but the poem for your dad choked *me* up, too!! LOL. What a tribute! He's a lucky guy, your dad (and sounds like you're a lucky girl to have him.)

Jennifer—Oh yeah!! Shel Silverstein!! I absolutely adore Shel Silverstein. I went to a poetry reading party, once (which was actually more fun that it sounds, honest), and someone read Shel Silverstein's "The MIssing Piece." He was an interesting guy, too.

And I just saw the Warner newsletter, too! I did know about the postcard—glad you think it's pretty! I planned to send it out to readers next month as part of my newsletter...but by all means, spread that baby around, if the urge takes you! LOL.

[Haven Rich]

Thank you! If I could find the one to my mom, I'd show that one to you as well. My mom couldn't get past line three before she broke down in sobs and had to have my dad read it.

And they both loved the fact that I put it on an orginal painting (umm my fumblings lol). Nothing more relaxing than writing poetry and painting. The artist might be a starving sort, but they are relaxed about it haha.

[Ranurgis]

Okay, the comment is gone. I'm clearly not thinking clearly. I'm kind of fuzzy. I've been trying to keep more normal hours in the sleep/wake cycle. So I accidentally just downloaded a different page on top of this. Maybe I really do need my naps after all.

I was writing about poetry too. I'll try to finish that tomorrow. I think I should still have left the blog-hopping for tomorrow. Now I still haven't finished the report that was due on Oct. 10. Someone besides me will be very upset.