Poems

Yesterday morning, I happened to be reading a book which included poems by Lewis Carroll, and I read one called "Poeta Fit, Non Nascitur."

As I read it, I started to laugh, in particular because of these stanzas:

"For first you write a sentence,

And then you chop it small;

Then mix the bits, and sort them out

Just as they chance to fall:

The order of the phrases makes

No difference at all.

'Then, if you'd be impressive,

Remember what I say,

That abstract qualities begin

With capitals alway:

The True, the Good, the Beautiful --

Those are the things that pay!

"Next, when we are describing

A shape, or sound, or tint;

Don't state the matter plainly,

But put it in a hint;

And learn to look at all things

With a sort of mental squint."

"For instance, if I wished, Sir,

Of mutton-pies to tell,

Should I say 'dreams of fleecy flocks

Pent in a wheaten cell'?"

"Why, yes," the old man said: "that phrase

Would answer very well.

Back in the day, I used to write a fair amount of poetry. Except, mercifully, I already sort of knew that I couldn't write "real" poetry, so they just ended up being silly rhymes.

And when I read these stanzas, they reminded me of one such poem that I wrote right at the beginning of a notebook that I've managed to hold onto for 10 years. I still feel the same way, but hopefully if I wrote it now I would make the lines scan better.

Passionless poem

Do poems have to rhyme?

That's not what I say,

But my poems are best

When I write them that way.

I lack the perception

Of artists that write.

I can't describe lightmore

than saying "that's light."

My friend* sees my dilemma:
I think poetry is fun.

With unmasked contempt,

she critiques what I've done.

"You think that rhyming

Is poetry's main feature."
No, not that at all.

But my friend believes she's teacher.

"It's much more important

To find words that sound

Intriguing, yet harmless,

Yet simple, yet profound."

"And," she remarks,

"Where is your soul?
The passion you've exerted

Just doesn't . . . seem . . . whole."

"Give them a kiss

Saturated with feeling

Break all their hearts,

Then offer them healing."

"Or, talk but of nature:

The crisp hues of autumn.

Add a death, a rebirth!

Then surely you've got 'em."

"But," I protest,

"I don't have that skill.

I can't talk of nature,

That's not how I feel."

"I write of carsickness,

of candy, of boys**.

These are my best, for

they share my joys."

"And, I do no symbolism;

No freelance*** for me.

I only can rhyme:

Whatcha get's whatcha see."

My friend disagrees.
"Poems can't just rhyme.

If that's all that made poetry,

people'd make it all the time."

To which I reply

"Perhaps that is true.

But just cuz we can do something

Doesn't mean we do."

*There is a friend who this may be loosely based on, but we never had such a conversation, and she was too nice to have ever said anything like this

**Looking through this notebook, the only evidence of poems about boys was a poem I wrote for a boy for his birthday. Writing poems about specific boys would have been too weird even for me.

***I meant free verse. Ha.

Anyway, not 100% sure why I'm sharing this, except to show that it's possible to write a good poem about bad poetry. And it's also possible to write a bad poem about bad poetry. (And this is why I studied engineering.)

Despite my disdain for "deep" poetry, that little yellow notebook is still full of poems. Some more deep than others. And I might end up sharing some of them over the next while. Interspersed with baby pictures, of course.