Archive | April 2005

The Poet’s Advantage

The poet may say or sing, not as things were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian must pen them, not as they ought to have been, but as they really were. — Cervantes

Since when did Cervantes stick to penning things “as they really were”? Or did he consider Don Quixote to be one very long poem?
Engineer Husband and I must get back to reading Don Quixote or else we’ll never get through it by the time we leave this reality to enter into things as they ought to have been. I hope you’ve enjoyed this month of poetry at Semicolon, and tomorrow we return to our regularly scheduled programming, with a poem or two thrown in at irregular intervals. Last call: what is your favorite poem or favorite poet? If you haven’t answered this question already, now is the time.

Arbor Day–April 29th

Plant a Tree by Lucy Larcom

He who plants a tree
Plants a hope.
Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope;
Leaves unfold into horizons free.
So man’s life must climb
From the clods of time
Unto heavens sublime.
Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,
What the glory of thy boughs shall be?

The poet goes on to say that you also plant joy, peace, youth, and love when you plant a tree. You can read the entire poem by clicking on the title above. Those seem like five good reasons to plant a tree on this Arbor Day. Unfortunately, my yard is full of trees, mostly pine trees, and I don’t think I have a place to plant a tree. Maybe I’ll plant a flower or two instead.
Arbor Day is celebrated in most states the first Friday in April.

Creating Silences

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.
–Stephen Mallarme

I’ve had fun this month quoting people who made fun of modern poetry and commending to you the virtues of plain, understandable rhyming, rymthmic verse. And I must admit that when I first encountered T. S. Eliot in college, I was totally baffled. I wanted The Wasteland to read like a story, a narrative. I wanted it to make sense, logical ordered sense, and when it didn’t, I was ready to abandon Eliot and go back to—well, anything that could be explained in English.
Then, a friend who loved Eliot’s poetry explained something to me. She said it wasn’t a story as much as a series of images strung together. She said to enjoy and appreciate the images that I could identify and leave the rest for another time. So that’s what I did–and what I still do with modern poetry much of the time. And I’ve found some great fragments of poetry that way–although I still couldn’t explain to you what some them mean or why they are meaningful to me.

From Eliot’s The Hollow Men:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper.

Now I call that creating silences around things!

Eragon by Christopher Paolini

First of all, I like fantasy. I’m a Tolkien fanatic, and I’ve read and enjoyed Anne McCaffrey, Lloyd Alexander, C.S. Lewis, Ursula LeGuin, Stephen Lawhead, Carol Kendall, and John Christopher, to name a few favorites. However, I don’t like fantasy that gets too New Age-y or heretical. It doesn’t have to have Christian themes, but I prefer that it not be blatantly anti-Christian. (I will admit that I’ve never read Harry Potter nor have I read the Dark Materials books by Pullman because I was afraid both series would be just “off” enough to annoy me. Please don’t beat me up (figuratively) for not reading these. I know I may be wrong about either or both series.) So when I heard about Eragon,, a very popular fantasy novel mostly about dragons, I adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Dragons can be used to glorify evil in the wrong author’s hands.

Well, I was pleasantly surprised by Eragon. I wouldn’t say that the novel was profound or made me think deep thoughts, but it was a really good story, as advertised. I can see Tolkien influences in it as well as some resemblance to Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonriders of Pern series, but Eragon is not a cheap copy of anyone else’s fantasy as far as I can tell. Christopher Paolini, a homeschooled teenager when he wrote the book, knows how to tell an absorbing story that kept me reading until after midnight last night just to see what would happen to Eragon and his dragon friend Saphira.

Maybe you already know the story of the writing and publication of Eragon: Christopher Paolini finished homeschool high school at age fifteen. He could have gone to college, but he decided to wait a while and write a book instead. He read books about writing, wrote his own book, and then showed it to his parents who owned a small publishing company. Christopher’s parents published the novel, and Christopher himself went on an author tour in the Northwest where his family lives to promote the book. Someone with connections in the publishing world read the book and liked it, and Knopf (Random House) re-published the book. It became a best-seller in 2003-4.

Eragon is the first book in a projected trilogy called the Inheritance trilogy. I will be getting the other two books in the series when they’re published in order to find out what happens next in the land of Alagaesia. I will also suggest that Computer Guru Son read this book. He’s been reading Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in anticipation of the release of the much-hyped movie version. He really should like Eragon. (By the way, Eragon is also supposed to be made into a movie to be released this year some time.)

Two Fools: The Poetry of Love

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so,
In whining Poetry. –John Donne

The Bait
by John Donne

Come live with me and be my love
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands and crystal brooks,
With silken lines and silver hooks.

There will the river- whispering run
Warmed by thy eyes more than the sun
And there th’ enamoured fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be’st loth,
By sun or moon, thou darken’st both
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare or windowy net.

Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;
Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wand’ring eyes.

For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait:
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.

Ah, yes, compare your beloved to superior fish bait. That’ll capture her heart.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

Reverend John Ames is seventy-six years old, and he’s been told that “his heart is failing.” So he begins to write down his memories for his seven year old son, the product of a late and very happy marriage to a much younger woman. Reverend Ames starts out writing about his father and his grandfather and about his love for this life, his memories and his regrets. However, before long, he finds that he must deal with the unfinished business of forgiveness and letting go of the past. The book has several themes:

Fathers and Sons
‘My father was a man who acted from principle, as he said himself. He acted from faithfulness to the truth as he saw it. But something in the way he went about it made him disappointing from time to time, and not just to me. I say this despite all the attention he gave to me bringing me up, for which I am profoundly in his debt, though he himself might dispute that. God rest his soul, I know for a fact I disappointed him. It is a remarkable thing to consider. We meant well by each other, too.”

Heaven, Hell and Eternity
“If you want to inform yourselves as to the nature of hell, don’t hold your hand in a candle flame, just ponder the meanest, most desolate place in your soul.”

“I can’t believe that, when we have all been changed and put on incorruptibility, we will forget our fantastic condition of mortality and impermanence,the great bright dream of procreating and perishing that meant the whole world to us. In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets.”

On Predestination and the Possibility that People Can Change
” . . . there are certain attributes our faith assigns to God: omniscience, omnipotence, justice and grace. We human beings have such a slight acquaintance with power and knowledge, so little conception of justice, and so slight a capacity for grace, that the workings of these great attributes together is a mystery we cannot hope to penetrate.”

“Your mother said, ‘A person can change. Everything can change.’ ”

Faith and Doubt
“I’m not saying never doubt or question. The Lord gave you a mind so that you would make honest use of it. I’m saying you must be sure that the doubts and questions are your own, not, so to speak, the mustache and walking stick that happen to be the fashion of any particular moment.”

I liked the quotes. Rev. Ames has a voice that reminds me of my father-in-law, a Southern Baptist country preacher who lived in our home before he died several years ago. (Interesting aside: I never figured out what denomination Rev. Ames belonged to, just that he was not Baptist, not Presbyterian, not Lutheran, not Quaker, and not Methodist. He believed in baptizing babies, though.)

However, the story itself was what kept me turning the pages of this memoir/novel. I wanted to know the “back story.” How did Rev. Ames come to marry a woman more than thirty years younger than he was? What happened to his grandfather, an abolitionist who knew John Brown and who lost one eye in the Civil War? Why did his brother Edward go to Europe to study and come back an atheist? Can the characters in the book forgive those who disappoint them, especially can Rev. Ames forgive and extend grace to an old friend who may or may not be a repentant sinner? And how did John Ames retain his faith in God and in life itself?

Gilead has lots and lots of questions and even a few answers. I’m planning to read Ms. Robinson’s first novel, Housekeeping, published back in 1981, as soon as I can find it, and I’ll read anything else she writes. This book was one of the best I’ve read in a very long time.

So Cold No Fire Can Ever Warm Me

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know about it. Is there any other way?–Emily Dickinson

Miss Dickinson deserves her reputation as one of America’s greatest poets. Her somewhat eccentric life makes her poetry even more interesting, but it could stand alone without the added controversies of her mysterious reclusiveness and her perhaps non-existent love life. So here’s Emily’s blog entry for the day:

The only news I know
Is bulletins all day
From Immortality.

The only shows I see,
Tomorrow and Today,
Perchance Eternity.

The only One I meet
Is God, -the only street,
Existance; this traversed

If other news there be,
Or admirabler show –
I’ll tell it you.

Better to Have Loved and Lost

The Great Minimum by G.K. Chesterton

It is something to have wept as we have wept,
It is something to have done as we have done,
It is something to have watched when all men slept,
And seen the stars which never see the sun.

It is something to have smelt the mystic rose,
Although it break and leave the thorny rods,
It is something to have hungered once as those
Must hunger who have ate the bread of gods.

To have seen you and your unforgotten face,
Brave as a blast of trumpets for the fray,
Pure as white lilies in a watery space,
It were something, though you went from me today.

To have known the things that from the weak are furled,
Perilous ancient passions, strange and high;
It is something to be wiser than the world,
It is something to be older than the sky.

In a time of sceptic moths and cynic rusts,
And fatted lives that of their sweetness tire,
In a world of flying loves and fading lusts,
It is something to be sure of a desire.

Lo, blessed are our ears for they have heard;
Yea, blessed are our eyes for they have seen:
Let thunder break on man and beast and bird
And the lightning. It is something to have been.

Shakespeare + Poetry = Sonnets

Happy Birthday, William Shakspeare or Shakesper or Shakespeare !

Sonnet: poem of 14 lines, usually in iambic pentameter, restricted to a definite rhyme scheme. There are two prominent types: the Italian, or Petrarchan, sonnet, composed of an octave and a sestet (rhyming abbaabba cdecde), and the Elizabethan, or Shakespearean, sonnet, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet (rhyming abab cdcd efef gg). Variations of these schemes occur, notably the Spenserian sonnet, after Edmund Spenser (rhyming abab bcbc cdcd ee).

My favorite Shakespearean sonnet (because I have an odd sense of humor):

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

My favorite set of lines memorized from a Shakespeare play (for membership in the 600 Club):

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Lee Bennett Hopkins and Poetry for Children

Don’t dissect poetry, enjoy it every day! There shouldn’t be a day without poetry – it fits into every area of the curriculum, every area of life. It’s very important. –Lee Bennett Hopkins


Lee Bennett Hopkins, collector of poems, teacher, anthologist, poetry promoter, has written and published over 50 books, mostly books of poetry for children. He’s collected books of Christmas poems, Thanksgiving poems, Halloween poems, and Valentine poems. He’s published short anthologies of baseball poems, animal poems, weather poems, school poems, space poems, and poems about famous Americans. And I missed his birthday on April 13th.

And these are my favorite classic poetry books for children:

I Can’t Said the Ant by Polly Cameron
Hailstones and Halibut Bones by Mary O’Neill
If Wishes Were Horses and Other Rhymes illustrated by Susan Jeffers (out of print)
Lavender’s Blue: A Book of Nursery Rhymes compiled by Kathleen Lines
The Important Book by Margaret Wise Brown
Over in the Meadow illustrated by John Langstaff

I also recommend Mr. Hopkins’ subject anthologies. Find a subject that interests you or your children, and Lee Bennett Hopkins has probably edited a book of poems on that subject.