April is Poetry Month: Sara Henderson Hay
Mamacita says: I could not find a picture of Sara Henderson Hay; every time I thought I’d found one, it turned out to be a bogus site that threatened to shut down my computer. I like Hay’s poems, but apparently Google images doesn’t.
So, in keeping with her poem’s theme, I chose another picture.
The Builders
I told them a thousand times if I told them once:
Stop fooling around, I said, with straw and sticks.
They won’t hold up; you’re taking an awful chance.
Brick is the stuff to build with, solid bricks.
You want to be impractical, go ahead.
But just remember, I told them, wait and see.
You’re making a big mistake. Alright, I said,
But when the wolf comes, don’t come running to me.
The funny thing is, they didn’t; there they sat,
One in his crummy yellow shack, and one
Under his room of twigs, and the wolf ate
Them, hair and hide. Well, what is done is done.
But I’d been willing to help them, all along,
If only they’d once admitted they were wrong.
===
As usual, we could discuss rhyme scheme and symbolism, a little hyperbole, some alliteration, and first person narration, but isn’t this poem really about giving unasked-for advice that would have made a positive difference, and wishing we could say “I told you so” when someone disregards us, thus screwing up royally?
Not that any of us would gloat or anything. Other people, maybe, but not any of us.
Smirk.
April Is Poetry Month: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich – yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
and went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
====
Mamacita says: Oh, such rhyme scheme perfection – such pristine and perfect ABAB, CDCD, etc.
Pay attention to that part if you wish; I appreciate a good rhyme scheme myself, but the technical part isn’t the only part of a poem.
Poor Richard Cory. Filthy rich, expensive yet tasteful clothing, lovely manners, handsome, slim. . . . . Anybody would be happy with all that. He didn’t even have to work. He could do anything he wanted, any time he wanted. Compared to everybody else in town, Richard Cory had it made, and was the happiest man there.
Um, no.
Money isn’t everything, even if one has some, and Richard Cory, while he obviously had everything money could buy, apparently wanted something his money couldn’t buy, and that something money couldn’t buy was so much more important than wealth or looks or clothing or manners or education that Richard Cory, not having it, felt that life, even with everything else, wasn’t worth living so he stopped.
I first encountered this poem in junior high and it blew me away. I’m not back yet, in fact. It affected me greatly, and I’m still reeling from the effect.
Simon and Garfunkle liked this poem, too. They liked it enough to turn it into a song, in fact.
April is Poetry Month: W.H. Auden
W.H. Auden
Mamacita says: If you have seen the movie “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” you are already familiar with W.H. Auden. His haunting and heartbreaking “Funeral Blues” was recited by John Hannah in this film, and it was unforgettable.
Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks; cut off the telephone;
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin; let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbbling on the sky the message, “He Is Dead.”
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
===
Oh, sure, ABAB, CDCD, etc, but honestly. If that’s all you carry away from this poem, you’re deficient somehow, and I suspect the deficiency is in the heart, which, scientifically speaking, is actually in the brain. Draw whatever conclusions you wish.
When I try to say this poem aloud, I break down. I break down, not only because of the heartbreak, but because of the way Auden chose his words and word combinations carefully so we could link the heartbreak to our own experiences and feel them as strongly as if they were happening again, fresh.
The first person pronouns in this poem make it as personal as if this broken human were standing before us all, baring his broken heart to the world. Which is, of course, exactly what he is doing.
What good are stars if the one we love is no longer there to see them with us? Without our beloved, the moon is nothing but a snare and lure for madmen. Who cares about the sea or the forest if our lives are bereft of all that made them worth living? Stop the music. Muzzle the dogs. And why would we need to know the time of day if we’re all alone and can conceive of nothing else but solitude for the rest of our lives?
And why isn’t t everyone and everything else grieving, too? How dare the policemen go about their business? How dare a plane cross the sky? How dare a bird fly and chirp; how dare music play on, as if the world had not spun amuck beneath them?
“I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.”
That’s the line that pierces my very soul, as sharply as a spear.
Did I mention that I love this poem? Do I have to mention it? Can’t you tell? Because if you can’t tell if I love a poem or not, I’m not doing something right.
The fact is, hearts break like this daily. Hourly. Every second of every day, someone’s heart is broken. And in spite of the fact that nothing on this earth will ever be the same again for these people, this earth just keeps on spinning as though nothing had happened at all.
Because, of course, nothing has. Except for the one with the broken heart.
