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Astonished

Apr9

A poet is someone who is astonished by everything.–Anonymous

Free verse! You may as well call sleeping in a ditch, “free architecture!” —G.K. Chesterton

It had to come. Every writer, no matter how humble, tries to write some poetry, sometime, somewhere. I haven’t written any poetry in a long time. My life is mostly prose and story now. I’m not saying that’s bad at all, but every writer should attempt some poetry. Here’s an old attempt:

Judas’ Justification

I saw him as a dream
in starless night;
yet though his words seemed clear, crystalline droplets in the air,
he was elusive, hint of light without a form, out of reach.
I followed, hoping
to pull him down
to see him make in this world
Something real.
His death was real.

Stickiness and Copyright

Apr8

Stickiness, memorability is one sign of a good poem. You hear it and a day later some of it is still there in the brainpan.–Garrison Keillor

I checked Garrison Keillor’s anthology Good Poems out of the library, and it does indeed have some good poems. Unfortunately, I can’t post many of my favorites here because they’re copyright protected. If I understand correctly, I can read these modern day poems out loud to you. I can type one up and carry it around in my pocket. I can link to the poem if it’s posted somewhere else (legally) on the internet. However, I can’t share the poem with you by posting it on my blog unless I get permission to do so from the copyright holder (more trouble than most bloggers would want to take).
I understand the reason for this law. I understand that writers would like to be compensated for their work. I also understand that authors feel entitled to get credit for their writing and that they don’t want me making their poem into something else.
On the other hand, there’s something called “Fair Use,” which is more complicated than I can understand. It may mean you can use a poem if you don’t use too much of it or too many poems by the same author and if your purpose is to educate or comment. Maybe. It also seems to me that some poets would be happy to have a poem posted on someone’s blog and recommended by the blogger. Someone who is reading might actually go out and buy (pay real money for) the poet’s work.

So . . . I’m going to try to stay legal and ethical here by posting only poems that are no longer copyright-protected, but if I make a mistake, I apologize in advance. And without further ado, here’s your old, legal, sticky poem for today:

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Classify this one under LOVE–or DEPRESSION. Carpe diem.

April 7–William Wordsworth

Apr7

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge. –William Wordsworth, b. April 7, 1770.

I began calling him WordsWords back in high school because of his interminable poems, and I must admit that I have never enjoyed Wordsworth as much as just about any of the other Romantic poets. Lord Byron was so dashing and disreputable. Coleridge had an interesting (drug-induced?) imagination and was a great storyteller. Shelley and Keats lived large and died young and wrote shorter poems. Wordsworth just always seemed like the least interesting and most pedantic of all the Romantics. And I must also admit to loving Nature more from a distance than up close and personal.
Nevertheless, now that I have discouraged any interest anyone might have had in reading one of Wordsworth’s poems, I did rather like this one that I found in an old English literature textbook — although I probably won’t take the advice of the poet, nature-avoider that I am:

THE TABLES TURNED

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless–
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:–
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

God, Love, or Depression

Apr6

All poems are about God, love or depression.–Susan Wise Bauer

This pronouncement is another one of those statements that I’m not sure is true, but it does sound true–or at least useful for classification purposes.

Then, again, is Jabberwocky about God, love or depression? Birthday by Rossetti obviously falls into the love category. The psalms are about God, love, and depression. My favorite poem, Annabel Lee by Poe, is a love/depression poem that hints at an unjust God. But this one that I memorized in sixth grade doesn’t seem to fit any of those three categories:

THE RAGGEDY MAN by James Whitcomb Riley

O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;
An’ he opens the shed — an’ we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An’ nen — ef our hired girl says he can —
He milks the cow fer ‘Lizabuth Ann. —
Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W’y, The Raggedy Man — he’s ist so good,
He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;
An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,
An’ does most things ‘at boys can’t do. —
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me —
An’ ‘nother ‘n’, too, fer ‘Lizabuth Ann —
An’ ‘nother ‘n’, too, fer The Raggedy Man. —
Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,
An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ‘at swallers the’rselves:
An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole ‘at the Wunks is got,
‘At lives ‘way deep in the ground, an’ can
Turn into me, er ‘Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man — one time, when he
Wuz makin’ a little bow-‘n’-orry fer me,
Says “When you’re big like your Pa is,
Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his —
An’ be a rich merchunt — an’ wear fine clothes? —
An’ nen he laughed at ‘Lizabuth Ann,
An’ I says “‘M go’ to be a Raggedy Man! —
I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

On second thought, I guess it’s about love. Enjoy.
I wrote here last summer about memorizing poetry. I believe it’s a very useful exercise, but we haven’t done enough of it in our homeschool. Scripture, yes; poetry, no. What poetry have you memorized? Is memorization of poetry a good thing to require of elementary and secondary students? If so, what should they memorize?

Radio

Apr5

A poem is like a radio that can broadcast continuously for thousands of years. –Allen Ginsburg

Thousands of years? Well, I’ve already gone back to the psalms, dated about 1000 B.C. Are there any modern poems that you think will still be read 3000 years from now? OK, so the psalms are also God’s Word, preserved, I believe, by His hand. So let’s make it a little easier. Are there any modern poems that you believe will still be quoted and read 100 years from now? Maybe this one is immune to changes in the English language, anyway:

JABBERWOCKY by Lewis Carroll

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son,
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch.
Beware the jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious bandersnatch.’
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought.
Then rested he by the tum-tum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One! two! one! two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snickersnack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calooh! Calay!’
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Poetry and Love

Apr4

Poetry is like love–easy to recognize when it hits you, a joy to experience, and very hard to pin down flat in a satisfying definition.–Marie Ponsot

The only poet I could find with a birthday today is Maya Angelou, Pulitzer prize winning author of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, b. 1928, and I couldn’t post a sample of her poetry if I wanted to because it’s too recent, copyright protected. That’s the trouble with modern poetry; you can’t post it or link to it because it’s generally still under copyright and the authors don’t want to give it out for free. I don’t blame them, but it does limit the audience for their poetry–which is already rather small it seems to me. Anyway, I’ll try to stick to the poems that can be legally posted on my blog, like this one which may be Eldest Daughter’s favorite:

A Birthday by Christina Rossetti

MY heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these,
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a daïs of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

The Favorite Poem Project:

“Robert Pinsky, the 39th Poet Laureate of the United States, founded the Favorite Poem Project shortly after the Library of Congress appointed him to the post in 1997. Since its launch, the Favorite Poem Project has been dedicated to celebrating, documenting and promoting poetry’s role in Americans’ lives.
During the one-year open call for submissions, 18,000 Americans wrote to the project volunteering to share their favorite poems — Americans from ages 5 to 97, from every state, of diverse occupations, kinds of education and backgrounds.”

You can still submit your favorite poem at the website linked above for possible inclusion in a future project. By the way, what is your favorite poem?

Poetry Is Not

Apr3

Poetry is like ice skating: you can turn quickly. Prose is like wading. It also has a lot of good. You can see your toes, for example.–Robert Pinsky
A poem is not a laundry list or a legal document. Nor is it a novel or a letter, although these latter may have “poetic” moments when they share some of the distinctive qualities of poetry.–Gerald H. WIlson

So poetry is not prose. Poetry uses language and linguistic devices to produce an effect. Poems use paralellism and alliteration and assonance and rhyme. Poems use meter and rhythm, images and similes and metaphors. Yet prose can use some or all of these things and still be rather, well, prosaic. And a grocery list, if not a laundry list, can be poetic if it’s written by someone with a poet’s ear for language. Prose often tells a story, narrates; so does a narrative poem. Some poems don’t rhyme and have hardly any rhythm. A poem is a poem because it feels like a poem and it looks like a poem (usually) on the page and it reads like a poem, preferably out loud. A poem turns quickly.

Poem for Today: A Wreath by George Herbert, Christian poet born on this day in 1593.

A WREATHED garland of deserv’d praise,
Of praise deserv’d, unto Thee I give,
I give to Thee, who knowest all my ways,
My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live ; for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee,
To Thee, who art more far above deceit,
Than deceit seems above simplicity.
Give me simplicity, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know Thy ways,
Know them and practise them : then shall I give
For this poor wreath, give Thee a crown of praise.

I just discovered this poet, a contemporary of John Donne and of Shakespeare. If you liked the poem for today, you might also enjoy these poems by George Herbert.
A Dialogue-Anthem (between the Christian and Death)
Grief
Jordan (1)
Love (III)
Mortification
I am thinking I could spend a whole month just blogging about the poems of George Herbert.

Of Psalms and Semicolons

Apr2

Poetry is above all a concentration of the power of language, which is the power of our ultimate relationship to everything in the universe.–Adrienne Rich
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. John 1:1

I must confess that my creativity is somewhat limited. When I started this blog, I called it “Sherry’s Blog.” Imaginative, huh?
Eldest Daughter gave me the name “Semicolon,” and I liked it. I like semicolons; I use them judiciously. However, I still didn’t have any idea that the title would actually say something about the purpose of this blog.
But it does. I blog to communicate. I also blog to connect with others and to connect other people with each other and with the information and ideas that will help them to ultimately connect with the God and Father of us all. Jesus is my Semicolon; He is the connection between me in all my sin and a Holy God. So in a way that could probably be expressed better in poetry were I gifted in that area, I want to use this blog as a semicolon to connect you to small things and big things, good and wise and wonderful.
Language really is quite powerful, and even punctuation has its place in holding the universe together.
The psalms, written as they were using the poetic device of parallelism, almost beg for the frequent use of semicolons in English translation. I don’t know what kind of punctuation they used in ancient Hebrew, if any.

Poem for Today: Psalm 93

The LORD reigns, he is robed in majesty;
the LORD is robed in majesty
and is armed with strength.

The world is firmly established;
it cannot be moved.
Your throne was established long ago;
you are from all eternity.

The seas have lifted up, O LORD ,
the seas have lifted up their voice;
the seas have lifted up their pounding waves.

Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
mightier than the breakers of the sea–
the LORD on high is mighty.

Your statutes stand firm;
holiness adorns your house
for endless days, O LORD .

Limericks for April Fool’s Day

Apr1

Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing.–W.S. Merwin

Amanda at Wittingshire posted this (broken) limerick a few weeks ago.I don’t know the author, but it sounds like my poetical attempts, only more clever.

There was an old man from Milan,
Whose limericks never would scan.
When told this was so,
He said, “Yes, I know.
But I always try to get as many syllables into the last line as I possibly can.

April is National Poetry Month, and I intend to give you a gift this month: a poem a day. If I miss a day, forgive me. If my poetical selections displease you, again forgive. If you enjoy deceptively simple poetry and light verse that’s not always so light and meaning cloaked in the language of poetry, you might have a good time celebrating Poetry Month with me.

March 31st Birthdays

Mar31

Rene Descartes, mathematician and philospher, b. 1596. Eldest Daughter read something by Descartes in one of her classes, and she’s added him to the list of historical characters for whom she has a strong antipathy. I’ll bet even she’d feel sorry for him after reading about his sad end:

In 1649 Queen Christina of Sweden persuaded Descartes to go to Stockholm. However the Queen wanted to draw tangents at 5 a.m. and Descartes broke the habit of his lifetime of getting up at 11 o’clock. After only a few months in the cold northern climate, walking to the palace at 5 o’clock every morning, he died of pneumonia. –

Franz Josef Haydn, musician and composer, b. 1732.

Edward Fitzgerald, translator and poet, b. 1809. It’s difficult to say how much of Edward Fitzgerald’s “translation” of the eleventh century poet, philosopher, and scientist Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat is Fitzgerald and how much is Khayyam. Although a rather free translation, his version or versions are said to be more true to the spirit of the original than any more literal translation. It was my old friend Dante Gabriel Rossetti who made Fitzgerald’s Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam famous when he commended it.

Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come.
Ah, take the Cash, and let the promise go,
Nor heed the music of a distant Drum!

Mary Boykin Miller Chesnut, author of A Diary from Dixie, b. 1823. This diary is often quoted in the Ken Burns series on the Civil War. You can read it online. Mrs. Chesnut’s husband was a U.S. senator from South Carolina and then an aide to Jefferson Davis during the War.

Andrew Lang, poet, novelist, editor, folklorist, historian, biographer, scholar, and essayist, b. 1844. Of course, we know Lang for his multi-colored fairy tales books.