April is National Poetry Month, and to pay tribute now that we're about halfway through, I thought I'd share some of my favorite ones. When I started writing in earnest, I naturally started with poetry - I feel like we all did didn't we? And of course I had my angsty emo phase, as one does; as I grew up I even coined a phrase - "Sixth Grade Poetry" - whenever anything struck me as overly dramatic and maudlin and "dark". A piece of writing, an angsty monologue, drama queen behavior - I have been known to roll my eyes and spit out the phrase like acid. I'd like to credit the following works for helping me grow up in my writing, and play with words in a more interesting way than talking about how my soul is black or some such nonsense! I ended up doing my thesis in college in poetry, and there for a while, was really very serious about it. Lately, though, I've felt like poetry is looked down upon, or not taken as seriously; you mention the word and it's as if people immediately conjure up the super pretentious readings where everyone snaps, and they immediately grimace and shrink away. I get it. Pretentiousness has always been one of the biggest hurdles in any writing circle. Even I've shied away from it, instead focusing on fiction. So in an effort to remember what I've always loved about poetry, here are some I hope you might love!
"Le Dormeur du Val" Arthur Rimbaud
... What's a matter can't you read French?! I've never found an English translation that has the same power and impact as the French, but this one isn't bad. I first read "Le Dormeur du Val" - or "The Sleeper in the Valley" - in French class my freshman year (having been in the gifted program in school, I had started taking French in 7th grade, so this was actually my third year), and it blew my mind wide open. The poem begins by describing a lush setting - a babbling brook, warm sunlight, a proud mountain; a young soldier sleeping in a rich green landscape. He makes a noise - he is cold; the poem implores Nature herself to warm him. Then, at the very end - the very last line: Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit. Translated exactly: He has two red holes in his right side. Suddenly the entire tone of the poem changes. You're reading along, lush greenery, tra la la, young soldier sleeping, how sweet, warm sun la di da - hmm, what's this? He has two red what - OH MY GOD HE'S DEAD. You suddenly realize, this isn't some sweet lush setting. This is WAR. This is soldiers lying in a jungle, breathing out their last. The fact that you could do this as a writer - write an entire sonnet leading a reader along one path and then suddenly veer down a completely different path using only eight words - was a total game changer. It still, to this day, amazes me.
Excerpt of "Meditation XVII" John Dunne
Oh John Dunne. I love him so much. His imagery is INSANE - in one poem he describes eyeballs being strung on twine - and he had a definite influence on how I write. This piece is particularly timely despite being written in 1624, as various powers around the world try to isolate themselves and their people. When he wrote this, he was ill in bed and feeling very sorry for himself and self-absorbed. While lying there, he kept hearing the church bells toll, signifying a death, and he would ask for whom it tolled. He then had an epiphany - it didn't matter. It didn't matter who, or how prominent or not prominent they were. We are all connected, and every death is a reason to mourn; the bell tolls for us all. If only all world leaders took this to heart.
"Because I could not stop for Death-" Emily Dickinson
An achingly lovely example of how you can intelligently write about death without devolving into "Sixth Grade Poetry". In this piece, she is speaking from beyond the grave, recanting how she was too busy for Death, who took the reigns, so to speak, himself. Because he is so civil, she decides to give up the things that made her busy ("And I had put away/My labor and my leisure too"), and simply enjoy the carriage ride. Death in this instance is neither frightening nor violent - he is kind, gentle, yet unwavering and immovable. One of the few certainties in life, personified.
"Figs from Thistles: First Fig" Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay was a strong, feminist presence in a time when that wasn't exactly celebrated. She wrote of love and sex in a thoroughly modern, cheeky, playfully naughty way - see "What my lips have kissed" or this one or this one. She masterfully combined these modern attitudes with the ancient form of the sonnet, giving traditional structure to new ideas, which made them feel fresh. Harriet Monroe, a critic for Poetry magazine said of her, “How neatly she upsets the carefully built walls of convention which men have set up around their Ideal Woman...!” She is still a fine example of a woman with very few fucks to give, and is one of my personal heroes.
"Harlem" by Langston Hughes
I can't ever pretend to know what it's like to be in a minority (although, as a woman, I've got a pretty good guess), but this imagery transcends labels. Everyone has had a "dream deferred" - a hope, a longing, to do or be something greater than yourself - that has to be placed on a shelf for some reason. Or perhaps you choose to shelve it, for the time being, resolving to come back to it. What does time do to your dream? Is it the same, or has it changed? Is it even viable now? Is it worth it? Can you live without it, or will you regret it? I've loved this poem since high school for its wordplay, but now at 36, the theme sits in the pit of my stomach with much more weight.
There are a thousand more I could post - "Lady Lazarus" by Sylvia Plath, "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost (only one of two Frost poems I can stand - but that's a story for another time), "The Operation" by Anne Sexton, "Muse" by Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen - but this is a good cross section. Which poems do you carry with you?