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On the observation of poets
Feb. 2nd, 2025 10:04 amThe two chapters I read in Mary Oliver this morning were on Edgar Allen Poe and Robert Frost. The Poe chapter was fairly heartbreaking; I had no idea he had lost so many people so young in his life, and as Oliver points out, that does explain a lot of his sense that the universe has an "imperial indifference" towards individual people's fate.
This is what struck me from the chapter: "For are we not all, at times, exactly like Poe's narrators--beating upon the confining walls of circumstance, the limits of the universe? In spiritual work, with good luck (or grace), we come to accept life's brevity for ourselves. But the lover that is in each of us--the part of us that adores another person--ah! that is another matter. In the mystery and the energy of loving, we all view time's shadow upon the beloved as wretchedly as any of Poe's narrators. We do not think of it every day, but we never forget it: the beloved shall grow old, or ill, and be taken away finally. No matter how ferociously we fight, how tenderly we love, how bitterly we argue, how pervasively we berate the universe, how cunningly we hide, this is what shall happen."
This points to the existential terror I'm feeling about Mom and Dad, as they get sicker and more frail. There's nothing I can do but pray, which seems like nothing, really. Every time I hang up the phone with them I have an awareness that it could be the last time. She's right that in certain ways it's so much easier to accept our own mortality than that of those we love.
She talks less about Frost's life (perhaps it just wasn't as traumatic/interesting), but has this interesting observation about his poetry: "In the lyrical poems of Robert Frost there is almost always something wrong, a dissatisfaction or distress. The poet attempts an explanation and a correction. He is not successful. But he has, often in metaphoric language, named whatever it is that disquiets him. At the same time, in the same passages, the poem is so pleasant--so very pleasant--to read or to hear. In fact, we are hearing two different messages: everything is all right, say the meter and the rhyme; everything is not all right, say the words.
That's a really fascinating observation! It makes me want to experiment with poetry that rhymes or has a meter, but that is so much more work than free form poetry, so we'll see.
It's interesting to think of the poetry that sticks with a person. We've returned to the era (that probably was the main way people learned poetry prior to the 1800s) where the most powerful poetry is songs, but there are still bits from poets that do cling to me. Every time I'm walking in late afternoon I think of Dickinson: "There's a certain slant of light, winter afternoons, that oppresses like the heft of cathedral tunes." Frost tends to crop up whenever I'm walking in woods (or in Chico, in Bidwell park): "Whose woods these are I think I know, his house is in the village though; he will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow."
Ok, here's my attempt at poetry for today:
Preparing to Depart
I'm ironing a shirt for Sean,
as we make ready to depart
for Lizzie's wedding in an hour
assuming that the car will start.
The shoes are shined, the suitcoat pressed,
the fancy purses are brought out
I am of course already dressed,
But is there time? Of that I doubt
It's frigid cold outside today
And Mom wears boots so not to slip
We really should be on our way
I'm trying not to lose my grip.
Anxiety, my constant friend
when travelling with family
Of course we'll get there in the end
but maybe just not timely
I think of all the days like now
when we made ready to depart
the festive dressing, gatherings,
that I hold closely to my heart
How many more? If I but could
enjoy the chaos here somehow;
Life's fleeting and I know I should
Just stay here in the moment now.
Wow, that was hard. I know some of the rhymes are a little iffy, but I think with metrical poetry the meter has to trump rhyme, if necessary. It's interesting how the constraints of the meter affected the meaning I was going for, since I really wanted this to be more melancholy on reflecting on all the gatherings we've gotten ready for in that house, and that got compressed in less than a line, and instead we get the anxiety v. be here now theme. It's not bad, just not my initial goal. Maybe I'll come back and add a stanza someday.
This is what struck me from the chapter: "For are we not all, at times, exactly like Poe's narrators--beating upon the confining walls of circumstance, the limits of the universe? In spiritual work, with good luck (or grace), we come to accept life's brevity for ourselves. But the lover that is in each of us--the part of us that adores another person--ah! that is another matter. In the mystery and the energy of loving, we all view time's shadow upon the beloved as wretchedly as any of Poe's narrators. We do not think of it every day, but we never forget it: the beloved shall grow old, or ill, and be taken away finally. No matter how ferociously we fight, how tenderly we love, how bitterly we argue, how pervasively we berate the universe, how cunningly we hide, this is what shall happen."
This points to the existential terror I'm feeling about Mom and Dad, as they get sicker and more frail. There's nothing I can do but pray, which seems like nothing, really. Every time I hang up the phone with them I have an awareness that it could be the last time. She's right that in certain ways it's so much easier to accept our own mortality than that of those we love.
She talks less about Frost's life (perhaps it just wasn't as traumatic/interesting), but has this interesting observation about his poetry: "In the lyrical poems of Robert Frost there is almost always something wrong, a dissatisfaction or distress. The poet attempts an explanation and a correction. He is not successful. But he has, often in metaphoric language, named whatever it is that disquiets him. At the same time, in the same passages, the poem is so pleasant--so very pleasant--to read or to hear. In fact, we are hearing two different messages: everything is all right, say the meter and the rhyme; everything is not all right, say the words.
That's a really fascinating observation! It makes me want to experiment with poetry that rhymes or has a meter, but that is so much more work than free form poetry, so we'll see.
It's interesting to think of the poetry that sticks with a person. We've returned to the era (that probably was the main way people learned poetry prior to the 1800s) where the most powerful poetry is songs, but there are still bits from poets that do cling to me. Every time I'm walking in late afternoon I think of Dickinson: "There's a certain slant of light, winter afternoons, that oppresses like the heft of cathedral tunes." Frost tends to crop up whenever I'm walking in woods (or in Chico, in Bidwell park): "Whose woods these are I think I know, his house is in the village though; he will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow."
Ok, here's my attempt at poetry for today:
Preparing to Depart
I'm ironing a shirt for Sean,
as we make ready to depart
for Lizzie's wedding in an hour
assuming that the car will start.
The shoes are shined, the suitcoat pressed,
the fancy purses are brought out
I am of course already dressed,
But is there time? Of that I doubt
It's frigid cold outside today
And Mom wears boots so not to slip
We really should be on our way
I'm trying not to lose my grip.
Anxiety, my constant friend
when travelling with family
Of course we'll get there in the end
but maybe just not timely
I think of all the days like now
when we made ready to depart
the festive dressing, gatherings,
that I hold closely to my heart
How many more? If I but could
enjoy the chaos here somehow;
Life's fleeting and I know I should
Just stay here in the moment now.
Wow, that was hard. I know some of the rhymes are a little iffy, but I think with metrical poetry the meter has to trump rhyme, if necessary. It's interesting how the constraints of the meter affected the meaning I was going for, since I really wanted this to be more melancholy on reflecting on all the gatherings we've gotten ready for in that house, and that got compressed in less than a line, and instead we get the anxiety v. be here now theme. It's not bad, just not my initial goal. Maybe I'll come back and add a stanza someday.
