Poetry May Not Be Overrated

Every so often, i come across a snippet of poetry that makes me stop and gasp and wonder how poets in general play their words into beautiful, twisted works of art. Sometimes the subject matter is so convoluted and hidden behind a torrent of descriptive adjectives that i have to stop and think it out. Today i'm in such a mood. I found a collection of poems on Valentines day (i know, a month ago) that i bookmarked, not sure if and how i should share it over in BUGS.

But i think i will.

IF YOU WERE COMING IN THE FALL - Emily Dickinson

If you were coming in the Fall,
I'd brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls—
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse—

If only Centuries, delayed,
I'd count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman's Land.

If certain, when this life was out—
That your's and mine, should be—
I'd toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity—

But now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee—
That will not state—its sting.

Now what does this poem talk about? You're not sure? Another one, perhaps, on the same subject matter:

HERO AND LEANDER - John Donne

Both robbed of air, we both lie in one ground,
Both whom one fire had burnt, one water drowned.

This is perhaps clearer, since it features the rhyme and the four-part couplet-and-comma structure ... shorter and more breathtaking. It features two mythological lovers, and they are spent.

That should be a hint on what both those poems share. No idea yet? Very well, a third example, this time from the grand master himself:

THE EXPENSE OF SPIRIT (129) - William Shakespeare

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted and no sooner had,
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
Laid on purpose to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
...All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
...To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

Now we know that our subject matter is dark, dangerous, as the line 'to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell' tells us. Still no idea? Watch the hedonism projected in the word 'heaven'.

Alright. I'll present one last poem, and then i'll tell you what all these poems are about.

THE VINE - Robert Herrick

I dream'd this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprize;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
By my soft Nerv'lits were embrac'd:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem'd to me
Young Bacchus ravisht by his tree.
My curles about her neck did craule,
And armes and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancie I awook;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock, than like a Vine.

Ahh. By now you must have guessed.

All these poems are about SEX.

The first by Emily Dickinson, talks about sexual obsession ("It goads me, like the Goblin bee"), and is probably the mildest of the four i've posted. The second is simple - short, well structured, and easy to understand.

The third is Shakespeare, where 'to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell' makes perfect sense, once we see it in this light.

And the last? Ahh. The last is about an erection and a wet dream. Herrick apparently took the image of a vine from Greek culture (Anakreon, whatever that is), and he chides himself as well as the object of his desire, a certain Lucia (whether or not she exists is interesting, though). And now, in closing, i'm going to put up a poem by Constantine Cavafy, whose love life was homosexual and covert. Read between the lines and try to understand the complex emotions he has while writing this poem:

BODY, REMEMBER

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds on which you lay,
but also those desires for you
that glowed plainly in the eyes,
and trembled in the voice—and some
chance obstacle made futile.
Now that all of them belong to the past,
it almost seems as if you had yielded
to those desires—how they glowed,
remember, in the eyes gazing at you;
how they trembled in the voice, for you, remember, body.

Disturbing? To read more, visit the original article.