Poe in Poetry

It was a pleasant surprise to discover Edgar Allen Poe in the world of poetry. I have always been deeply affected by his writing...if prose can do so much damage…imagine poetry! Well..I started out with Alone.

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.

For someone belonging to too many different worlds, and feeling like an outsider in all of them, these words gave a strange sense of belonging. The first half of the poem certainly resonates with me. In the latter half, Poe refers to the “Dawn of a most stormy life” and says that the “demons” of his adult life can be connected back to his experiences during his childhood.

Having read the first half and connecting so well with it, I suddenly feel abandoned in the second half. Like for every verse that Poe wrote, he had one in his mind which he did not share with me…leaving me with words that promise meaning without delivering. This isn’t to question the merit or value of the poem to the poet, but I think the audience (by audience I refer to general public trying to read the poem rather than literature students, scholars and award winning writers) is justified if they feel slightly lost.

In my mind, the truly characteristic poem of Poe’s is The Raven. Poe’s capability of taking everyday things and making them spooky, whether in poetry or in prose, comes to the fore in this one. The incantation of “Nevermore!”, “Nevermore!” rings in your ears long after the words themselves have died down.

The poem has a rhythm about it…and somehow the rhythm builds up, along with quickening heartbeats, as the poem progresses. He has an uncanny way of building a sensation in the reader and slowly making it grow till it becomes unbearable. Not just while reading it…but long after. Reading this poem, as with much of Poe’s writing, I lost the boundary between me and the protagonist. And slowly it is I who is afraid…confused…in denial and finally frustrated and despairing. Of course, listening to the Christopher Walken recite the poem was absolutely gripping.

Over all, fantastic reading Poe in poetry form…just wish there were more along the lines of The Raven.

Longfellow

I chose my poet by leaving it to randomness. I simply went to a bookstore, grabbed several books of verses, randomly opened a page and read what was in it. The idea was to pick up the one I feel the most connection to, but what happened was, I simply picked the first one I could understand something of. Happened to be Selected Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Of the entire selection, (I read only around 15 of them) but "A Psalm of Life" is the one that touches me the most. This poem is a passionate call to awaken the soul to purpose and action. Even though my life’s purpose eludes me, and all my goals lie beyond a hazy glow, reading the poem is still inspiring. In an oddly bhagavadgita-like manner, the poem calls for action in the present, without looking at the past or the future. Elsewhere, there is also reference to doing without worrying about the result. While all these elements are inspiring, to me the following verses are the most “Goose-bumpy” ones:

Lives of great men all remind us
        We can make our lives sublime,
    And, departing, leave behind us
        Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
        Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
    A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
        Seeing, shall take heart again.

Although I have no intention (or even ability) to leave behind “Footprints in the sands of time”, I am always on the lookout for “Footprints” left behind by lofty souls. Footsteps, which awaken me from the stupor of the everyday life. Left behind by people, whose words, thoughts and work find a kinship in me, like they were all here, witnessing me and empathizing, in my moment of question and doubt.

The poem peaks in its call to purpose and a forward momentum in these two stanzas. In fact, till I actually read it out, I did not realize that there was more. These verses follow:

Let us, then, be up and doing,
        With a heart for any fate ;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
        Learn to labor and to wait.

Unfortunately there is nowhere to go from the peak but down. While the idea of doing without expecting result still finds a resonance, laboring and waiting is a decidedly “old-world” virtue that fails to find any sympathy. If you are brave enough for any fate, then why wait? Why not take up the next meandering path that echoes with your passion and continue down that road?

Other poems like the “Burial of the Minnisink”, “Hymn to the Night” and several others have beautiful imagery and message. “Mezzo Cammin” is about disappointment and disillusionment. Halfway through life, the protagonist realizes that the goals and aspirations that he had set out to achieve in his youth are incomplete and what is left is but the autumn of life. A wonderfully written poem, that is sure to touch a chord in the reader. If one is honest enough to acknowledge the lofty and idealistic goals one sets for oneself in the bright-eyed innocence of youth. And how little of it is achieved or even seems possible to achieve as one grows older.

Dibs on Neruda

I have a mental block against South American literature. It's my failed attempts at understanding and/or appreciating Paulo Coelho and GG Marquez. So Neruda might well have floated into my line of sight, at some point, but I'd most certainly have swatted him like an annoying housefly. It's my general discomfort when it comes to translations - how can they be even half as good?!

But a fortunate turn of events has led me to change my mind. And it helped that I chanced upon 'A dog has died', right at the beginning of this little affair..

and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom..

These lines took me back to an old James Herriot story, about dogs having souls and going to heaven. It's just one of those naive thoughts that make you feel less guilty, I suppose.. On the other hand, how can they(dogs, ie) not?!

His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations.

Thank god for none of that "Mary's little lamb" type bullshit! Dogs have pride too, you know!

Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit..

The closest that one can get to feeling such joy, is perhaps to witness it. And that is perhaps the most enduring feeling, one that outlasts the moment by a lifetime.

The next one I settled on was 'Tonight I can write the saddest lines'. I remember reading the first line on someone's facebook homepage, and found it interesting, I think. Of course, now, I took my time. And boy, was I let down! What a load of drivel! The whinings of an adolescent boy, stood up, on his second date. Yeeesh. "I loved her.. she loved me... I don't have her.. I have lost her.. " - boo-fucking-hoo!!
And somewhere, lost in this pile of steaming horseshit, killer lines like these..

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Still, sorry Pablo.. I'm hoping Mr. Nobel signed over the prize to you inspite of, and not because of a cliche of a poem like this! (On a side note, is it his fault that such sentiments are now cliches, when he probably wrote this some 50 years ago!?)

Thought I should give the old pendejo one more chance.. And God bless my stars, that I did. 'We are many' brought Neruda back up to the shrine atop my pedestal, and frankly, my own soul back to life.
It's such a waste to try and pin some lines down here. Spinning an ode to 'self doubt', making an art out of self-deprecation..

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

And then there is the envy. The pointless envy of unrealistic figures. And the god-awful irony that poetry (yes, including Neruda's) too idolizes the impossibly brave..

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

He concludes by offering up his own self-analysis, hoping that others are as messed up in the head as he is, and in a bit of an anti-climax..

When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

So the verdict on Neruda? Having spent less than a week on just 3 poems...
"Please sir, can I have some more?!"

And so it began..

The credit really goes to Liza, and that little crumb of Pablo Neruda that found its way to us.

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or
arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom
and carries hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body lives
the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

The best thing about words like this, is the silence that follows after the words have stopped. You could turn into a puddle at words like this, you could 'meh' at the unabashed romance, or you could honestly admit to the frustrating envy of it all - ".. oh! to be loved like that!". Whatever it is, if you've read these lines, even if only off-handedly, and if you have the slightest trace of blood in your veins, it's got to 'affect' you. I dare you to remain indifferent!

And that's all we're looking for, aren't we? Just a chance to shake off the indifference. That's what our little 'Poetry Club' is trying to do. And even if we don't manage to succeed, it's ok. After all, no one's complained after a little bit of conversation, a drink and a bite. Right?