When I think back
On all the crap I learned in high school
It's a wonder
I can think at all
-- Simon&Garfunkel, "Kodachrome"
Well, it's been a month since I started writing this, but I finally got around to finishing it off.
You know, after writing about poetry last entry, I started thinking about how it's a wonder that I like poetry at all.
As a kid, I really loved poetry. My parents had a couple of books of poetry hanging around the house and I would routinely pick them up and read them. Then I hit High School and I was almost lost forever (thank Heavens for CEGEP!).
I don't know how my High School English classes managed it, but they took all the life and beauty out of poetry. All we ever did was "analyse" poems in the most trite, pointless ways ever. For chrissake, who the hell wants to read a poem and pick out all the metaphors and similes? What the hell will that give you? Will it give you access to the subtle meanings of the poem? No. Will it help you understand why the poem makes you feel the way you do when you read it? No. Will it give you an appreciation for poetry as an art? No.
Will it make you pray for the bell to ring so you can go outside and complain to your friends that you have no idea why "shod in silk" is an oxymoron? Yes.
"Shod in silk". That line has haunted me for sixteen years (and I really do mean the line, because I've never been able to remember the name of the poem or the author). But today, I get my revenge.
The poem: Velvet Shoes by Elinor Wylie
The class: Secondary 4 English with Mrs. Gualtieri (Hi there if you managed to find this! Yes, I'm bitter. You can continue feeling sorry for me the way you did back in HS.)
The task: Find examples of metaphors, similes and oxymorons in this poem.
The result: I got a really shitty mark because I couldn't find an oxymoron in this crap-ass poem.
I told Mrs Gualtieri that there were no oxymorons in this poem. Try as I might, I couldn't find one. She patronizingly replied that "shod in silk" was an oxymoron. I was all, "Um, how the hell is that an oxymoron?" She became even more patronizing (she felt that I thought I was too smart for my own good) and was all, "because to be shod is to be badly dressed and you can't be badly dressed in silk."
I still don't get it. Especially since my Oxford English Dictionary defines "shod" as the past tense of "to shoe".
Did this stupid high school excercise help me appreciate the poem? No.
Did it make me resent poetry, English class and Mrs Gualtieri? Yes.
But after all these years, I tracked down the poem. I still think it blows. The measure seems to be all screwed up, like the stanzas are one line too long, giving it an akward cadence. It's also pretty vapid. It's Bad Teen Poetry quality, in my opinion (your opinion may differ).
So for your reading pleasure, I present the poem that almost made me hate poetry forever, "Velvet Shoes" by Elinor Wylie:
Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.
Saturday, June 24, 2006
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Winding Down After a Rough Week: Poetry That Heals My Soul
I'm slowly slowly going insane
I look at the signs and see your name
I'm slowly slowly going insane
How will life ever be the same
It's like a pain inside my head
It sits on my heart like a piece of lead
That, my friends, is as much as I can remember of a Bad Teen Poem I wrote when I was 16 for my quasi-punk/goth friend who was in love with a guy named Denis who prefered rocker chicks in bustiers. My friend kept seeing Denis's name everywhere and it was driving her nuts (there was a soda distribution company called "Les Boissons Denis" that parked its trucks near our High School, incidentally). So, one night when we were on the phone and she was telling me all about this guy, I wrote this poem. She absolutely loved it.
I was actually considered quite the poet at my HS and people would often remark that my poems could easily be turned into songs. It all ended, though, when I hit CEGEP. I was told by the snooty, Anglo, private school kids in the poetry club that (a) my poetry sucked and (b) only free verse poetry about Important Things (like The Environment or War or Alienation or Kurt Cobain) was cool. So I stopped writing poetry. Deep down inside, though, I still had a soft spot for the uncool lyrical, rhyming poetry.
Anyways, this week, I had a pretty crazy week at work, full of meetings and more meetings with some folks from New York (I used to think I'd like to live in NY, but now I think that all I'd get out of it would be high blood pressure) and my mind started to drift to "Lochinvar" by Sir Walter Scott. I had to memorize it in HS and it has stuck with me forever. It tends to play through my mind when I'm stressed. Have you ever had a poem stuck in your head during a heavy meeting? It's not fun.
To make matters worse, I had downloaded a CBC podcast discussing the different rhythms in poetry: iam, bacchus, "tripping girl wth her skirt up," etc. And that caused more poems to start popping into my head.
So, in the name of cathartic release, here are my top five favourite poems:
1. The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliott
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
I analysed this poem for an English class once. I can't remember what kind of bullshit I wrote, but I'm positive it was bullshit. It doesn't matter, really, because (in my opinion) what really matters is how I feel about the poem. This poem makes me sad and introspective. You know that Joe Jackson song, "Stepping Out?" This poem reminds me of that song. It reminds me of parties I've been to where I've known no one and pretended to be having fun. It reminds me that you feel the most lonely when you're surrounded by people. And it reminds me that you should just go out and eat that damn peach! Grab life by the horns and get to it!
2. To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvel
Andrew Marvel says, "Yo, fuck, sleep with me," but in a funny, clever way that will guarantee that the girl will sleep with him. You can't not like that kind of poem (unless you have something against sex, but then you have other problems and you're probably not reading this blog anyways).
3. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
Don't you just want to go back in time, find Edgar Allen Poe and give him a big, giant hug? This is the most melancholy poem I have ever heard (OK, I have a limited knowledge of poetry, I admit). I know it's morbid and gothic and my mother yelled at me for liking this poem ("Why would you like something about a dead person?"), but the sentiment is so strong and pure that you can't help be moved. And when you've spent your day listening to business speak, it really does the soul good to feel some strong emotions.
4. Shakespere's Sonnet #130: My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun
Brutal freaking honesty. It's so refreshing. And who can't love a poem that says, "My girlfriend may not be perfect, but she's better than any chick who has flowery superlatives applied to her." This sonnet is a love poem for every couple who's been together more than five years.
5. Poem #260 (I'm Nobody! Who are You?) by Emily Dickinson
Apparently almost all of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." I can't remember how that goes (something like "Oh Susanna" I think), but I'm pretty sure this poem is one of them.
I realize the irony of posting that I understand the feeling of wanting to be nobody on a blog (which is, by its nature, exhibitionist), but sometimes, you really feel like being nobody. You just want to blend into scenery and let someone else be asked the tough questions or be put on the spot. Or even, sometimes, you don't want to be popular. But the world hates a wallflower: it's all about being outgoing and happy. Of course, Emily Dickinson was a recluse, so I think there was more than just introvertness or a need to unwind going on.
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
I look at the signs and see your name
I'm slowly slowly going insane
How will life ever be the same
It's like a pain inside my head
It sits on my heart like a piece of lead
That, my friends, is as much as I can remember of a Bad Teen Poem I wrote when I was 16 for my quasi-punk/goth friend who was in love with a guy named Denis who prefered rocker chicks in bustiers. My friend kept seeing Denis's name everywhere and it was driving her nuts (there was a soda distribution company called "Les Boissons Denis" that parked its trucks near our High School, incidentally). So, one night when we were on the phone and she was telling me all about this guy, I wrote this poem. She absolutely loved it.
I was actually considered quite the poet at my HS and people would often remark that my poems could easily be turned into songs. It all ended, though, when I hit CEGEP. I was told by the snooty, Anglo, private school kids in the poetry club that (a) my poetry sucked and (b) only free verse poetry about Important Things (like The Environment or War or Alienation or Kurt Cobain) was cool. So I stopped writing poetry. Deep down inside, though, I still had a soft spot for the uncool lyrical, rhyming poetry.
Anyways, this week, I had a pretty crazy week at work, full of meetings and more meetings with some folks from New York (I used to think I'd like to live in NY, but now I think that all I'd get out of it would be high blood pressure) and my mind started to drift to "Lochinvar" by Sir Walter Scott. I had to memorize it in HS and it has stuck with me forever. It tends to play through my mind when I'm stressed. Have you ever had a poem stuck in your head during a heavy meeting? It's not fun.
To make matters worse, I had downloaded a CBC podcast discussing the different rhythms in poetry: iam, bacchus, "tripping girl wth her skirt up," etc. And that caused more poems to start popping into my head.
So, in the name of cathartic release, here are my top five favourite poems:
1. The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by TS Eliott
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
I analysed this poem for an English class once. I can't remember what kind of bullshit I wrote, but I'm positive it was bullshit. It doesn't matter, really, because (in my opinion) what really matters is how I feel about the poem. This poem makes me sad and introspective. You know that Joe Jackson song, "Stepping Out?" This poem reminds me of that song. It reminds me of parties I've been to where I've known no one and pretended to be having fun. It reminds me that you feel the most lonely when you're surrounded by people. And it reminds me that you should just go out and eat that damn peach! Grab life by the horns and get to it!
2. To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvel
Andrew Marvel says, "Yo, fuck, sleep with me," but in a funny, clever way that will guarantee that the girl will sleep with him. You can't not like that kind of poem (unless you have something against sex, but then you have other problems and you're probably not reading this blog anyways).
3. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea--
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
Don't you just want to go back in time, find Edgar Allen Poe and give him a big, giant hug? This is the most melancholy poem I have ever heard (OK, I have a limited knowledge of poetry, I admit). I know it's morbid and gothic and my mother yelled at me for liking this poem ("Why would you like something about a dead person?"), but the sentiment is so strong and pure that you can't help be moved. And when you've spent your day listening to business speak, it really does the soul good to feel some strong emotions.
4. Shakespere's Sonnet #130: My Mistress's Eyes Are Nothing Like The Sun
Brutal freaking honesty. It's so refreshing. And who can't love a poem that says, "My girlfriend may not be perfect, but she's better than any chick who has flowery superlatives applied to her." This sonnet is a love poem for every couple who's been together more than five years.
5. Poem #260 (I'm Nobody! Who are You?) by Emily Dickinson
Apparently almost all of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas." I can't remember how that goes (something like "Oh Susanna" I think), but I'm pretty sure this poem is one of them.
I realize the irony of posting that I understand the feeling of wanting to be nobody on a blog (which is, by its nature, exhibitionist), but sometimes, you really feel like being nobody. You just want to blend into scenery and let someone else be asked the tough questions or be put on the spot. Or even, sometimes, you don't want to be popular. But the world hates a wallflower: it's all about being outgoing and happy. Of course, Emily Dickinson was a recluse, so I think there was more than just introvertness or a need to unwind going on.
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us—don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
"I'd know you better if you told me what you reread": Tales of the City
"Dis-moi ce que tu lis, je te dirai qui tu es, il est vrai, mais je te connaîtrai mieux si tu me dis ce que tu relis."
François Mauriac
Sigh.
I'm having a bit of a stressful time at work. I've been put on a really crazy project with a really demanding client and I've been going to non-stop meetings and generally feeling anxious. I must have looked pretty harried after one of the meetings because my boss came up to me and said, "Look, it's OK to be stressed out, but don't lose sleep over this." So I went home, put aside Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell and took out Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin.
Tales of the City is one of my favourite books to read when I need to unwind. It's written in a flowy, breezy style that offhandedly says "laid back." The book's chapters are really short because it was originally written as a serial in a newspaper (can't remember which right now), so it takes about 5 minutes to read each chapter and it's not hard to find your place in the event that you're so tired that you pass out mid-read with the book on your face.
Tales of the City is about twenty- and thirtysomethings living in San Francisco in the late 70s: their work, their friends, their loves and their seemingly random interconnectedness. I went through this kick in the 90s where I really dug the whole 6-degrees-of-separation thing and sought out books and movies where several seemingly disparate storylines would eventually come together at the end. Unfortunately, the genre caught on in a big way in the late 90s and it was taken to such levels of crappiness and pretention (I'm looking at you, "Thirteen Conversations About One Thing") that I swore off the genre for good. But I still loveLoveLOVE Tales of the City.
TotC is so charming and funny and full of real life that it's just fun to read. It's easy to get transported into the world of these characters and I really care about the shitty time they're having at work and the bastards they date and the self they need to find. I also probably love this book because of the memories that I have of the first time I read it. I was in grad school in Montreal, it was summer and I would sit in Carré St-Louis and read TotC while watching the denizens of the park (squeegees and punks; business men and women; the homeless; kids playing hacky sack; students) do their thing while the wind blew through the trees and sprayed the water from the fountain. It was a really nice summer, the park smelled really sweet and I felt really good. I felt like the folks in the book: young, generally happy, but on a quest for True Love and Meaning.
So when I read TotC now, I'm not just reading an amusing, relaxing book; I'm remembering a time when my Universe was full of hope and happiness and carefreeness. And that is why I love Tales of the City.
François Mauriac
Sigh.
I'm having a bit of a stressful time at work. I've been put on a really crazy project with a really demanding client and I've been going to non-stop meetings and generally feeling anxious. I must have looked pretty harried after one of the meetings because my boss came up to me and said, "Look, it's OK to be stressed out, but don't lose sleep over this." So I went home, put aside Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell and took out Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin.
Tales of the City is one of my favourite books to read when I need to unwind. It's written in a flowy, breezy style that offhandedly says "laid back." The book's chapters are really short because it was originally written as a serial in a newspaper (can't remember which right now), so it takes about 5 minutes to read each chapter and it's not hard to find your place in the event that you're so tired that you pass out mid-read with the book on your face.
Tales of the City is about twenty- and thirtysomethings living in San Francisco in the late 70s: their work, their friends, their loves and their seemingly random interconnectedness. I went through this kick in the 90s where I really dug the whole 6-degrees-of-separation thing and sought out books and movies where several seemingly disparate storylines would eventually come together at the end. Unfortunately, the genre caught on in a big way in the late 90s and it was taken to such levels of crappiness and pretention (I'm looking at you, "Thirteen Conversations About One Thing") that I swore off the genre for good. But I still loveLoveLOVE Tales of the City.
TotC is so charming and funny and full of real life that it's just fun to read. It's easy to get transported into the world of these characters and I really care about the shitty time they're having at work and the bastards they date and the self they need to find. I also probably love this book because of the memories that I have of the first time I read it. I was in grad school in Montreal, it was summer and I would sit in Carré St-Louis and read TotC while watching the denizens of the park (squeegees and punks; business men and women; the homeless; kids playing hacky sack; students) do their thing while the wind blew through the trees and sprayed the water from the fountain. It was a really nice summer, the park smelled really sweet and I felt really good. I felt like the folks in the book: young, generally happy, but on a quest for True Love and Meaning.
So when I read TotC now, I'm not just reading an amusing, relaxing book; I'm remembering a time when my Universe was full of hope and happiness and carefreeness. And that is why I love Tales of the City.
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