I was never a big fan of poetry, or at least I thought so until Robert Pinsky came along.
Pinsky is the former Poet Laurite of the United States. At first I was amazed to learn we even had one. The concept of a Poet Laurite conjures up visions of a bard composing purple prose celebrating the coronation a pale, inbred hemophiliac making him sound like the reincarnation of Charlemagne. According to the Library of Congress: “The Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress serves as the nation’s official lightning rod for the poetic impulse of Americans.”
Damn that Pinsky! He used the office as a bully pulpit to drag Americans kicking and screaming out of their comfortable mundane shells and to actually make them think about poetry. As co-founded of a cabal known as the Favorite Poem Project, “ Pinsky had a hunch that poetry already had a vigorous presence in American life. The project has sought to document that presence, giving voice to the American audience for poetry.” When will the do-gooders of this world loose their unrelenting stranglehold on our lives!?
I hold this project personally responsible for forcing upon me a significant revelation. When I actually started thinking about it, I began to see the ways poetry had helped me to define myself at critical stages of my life. The worst part of it was, I began to see poetical touchstones everywhere--not only heightening my awareness of the present moment but actually defining my various stages of life. Bastards!
When I was in my late teens the poetry of my soul was easy to find. All you had to do was read the lyrics off the sleeve of John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band album; that pretty much provided my lyrical references for any situation. “God is a concept by which we measure our pain.” “They tortured and scared you for twenty-odd years, and then expect you to pick a career.” Love is real, real is love, Love is feeling, feeling love, Love is wanting to be loved.”
In college I discovered…well, I discovered a lot of things, not least of which was the poetry of TS Eliot. For a long time I wandered “through certain half-deserted streets…that follow like a tedious argument” of my undiagnosed clinical depression and anxiety. I read myself into The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock consumed by “The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes.”
Since then there have been many poems and lyrics I’ve identified with, but few have had the grip and the staying power in my imagination of Lennon and Eliot. Yet poetry remains a steadfast companion. The other day I came across a poem that encapsulates my feelings as I grow toward a more contemplative stage in life and learn to appreciate the smaller things. It’s called Beer.
If you have a poem or a link to one you wish to share with your fellow travelers in the blogsphere please post it in the comments section.
Mr. Fallon,
I read this today at OpinionJournal.com:
"Yesterday, President Bush announced his intention to nominate the poet Dana Gioia for chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts."
Do you have a comment?
P.S. I, like you, view some popular music as true poetry. Furthermore, I view some movies as true literature.
On the Dunes, by Sara Teasdale:
If there is any life when death is over,
These tawny beaches will know much of me,
I shall come back, as constant and as changeful
As the unchanging, many-colored sea.
If life was small, if it has made me scornful,
Forgive me; I shall straighten like a flame
In the great calm of death, and if you want me
Stand on the sea-ward dunes and call my name.
Ticking away the moments that make up the dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine
Staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long
And there is time to kill today
And then one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun
And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older
Shorter of breath, and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter,
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught,
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time has gone, the song is over,
Thought I'd something more to say...
Home, home again.
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away, across the field, the tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees, to hear the softly spoken magic spell....
(Time, and Home, by Roger Waters & Pink Floyd)
By the way, I looked up "laurite" in the dictionary and it's defined as "a rare sulphide of osmium and ruthenium found with platinum in Borneo and Oregon." Did you mean to say "laureate" or was that a pun of some sort? :-)
Doh!
Amnesia (David Byrne)
Peace on Earth
Soon we will be
Where nothing worries us
Lazy days
Cool is the breeze
Across the universe
Armies of soldiers are sleeping tonight
And the moonlight is kissing their eyes
When you awake
You will be free
I’ll be your lullaby
Alcohol
No need to fear
Rest in these fuzzy arms
Ease on down
Amnesia
Baby’s on Valium
Keep us from danger and safe from all harm
From the wind, and the rain, and the fire
When you awake
You will be free
And I’ll be you’re lullaby
When you awake
You will be free
And I’ll be your lullaby.
Lennon? Lennon!? Sheesh, why not include Ringo and Cher, too?
I think the best comment on Lennon's alleged talent is that Eminem is now being compared to him...
At least Dean has already mentioned Floyd. Maybe not "classic", but they've come up with a couple of decent lyrics. Also Kipling (speaking of current events, anyone re-read "White Man's Burden" lately?), Stephen Vincent Benet, and Tolkien. Oh, almost forgot: Paul Simon.
SHELTER FROM THE STORM
by Bob Dylan
'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Tim