Nine questions about poetry.
Hey, why not, right?
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was...
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd advertise - you know!
How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-Emily Dickinson
As a small, freakishly intelligent, non-athletic, and unsocially skilled kid, I was able to get an emotional response that I could empathize with.
Number two is anything by e.e. cummings. I remember reacting negatively to his lack of adherence to capitalizing proper nouns. But, I was also eleven at the time. It still irritates me, but I understand that he's being unconventional, and doing it on purpose now. Well not now, but then. I understand it now I mean to say. Stupid English.
2. I was forced to memorize Robert Frost in school and........
...I still remember it. Stupid mnemonic cues.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
3. I read/don't read poetry because....
...nine times out of ten I don't understand or feel it. I need auditory cues to express the emotional content to me. This is why I appreciate "music as poetry" as opposed to simply reading it quietly, partularly the works of Billy Joel, Amy Lee of Evanescence, and John Ondrasik of Five for Fighting. I'm more apt to understand or "get" a poem that has a rhythm to it that I can feel. Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells" is one of the earliest memories I have of "feeling" the rhythm of a poem.
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favourite poem is ...........something about that girl from Nantucket. That's a joke, son.
Actually, I found this in high school. We were studying poetry in lit class, and had to make a poetry journal full of 10 poems we found and liked. Kids looked at me funny, because the "minimum" was a poem of 10 lines, and I had found one that spoke to me that was substantially longer. Also, this was in the dark ages, so it all had to be written by hand with pen and paper, hence the insistence of most lazy kids to do the bare minimum.
Casey's Revenge
There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses- every fan in town was sore.
"Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that!"
All his past fame was forgotten- he was now a hopeless "shine."
They called him "Strike-Out Casey," from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye.
He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king,
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot
He "fanned" or "popped out" daily, like some minor league recruit.
He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame;
No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name;
The fans without exception gave the manager no peace,
For one and all kept clamoring for Casey's quick release.
The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air;
Their playing went from bad to worse - nobody seemed to care.
"Back to the woods with Casey!" was the cry from Rooters' Row.
"Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!"
The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown-
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled - ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled.
"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began.
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low- the rival team was leading "four to one."
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar;
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.
Three men on base - nobody out - three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night,
When the fourth one "fouled to catcher" and the fifth "flew out to right."
A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.
But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day;
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: "Strike him out!"
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose - across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee.
"Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.
No roasting for the umpire now - his was an easy lot;
But here the pitcher whirled again- was that a rifle shot?
A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew,
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on - the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit,
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.
O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun!
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall,
But Mudville hearts are happy now, for Casey hit the ball.
-Grantland Rice.
I had of course read the tragic tale of Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, but it offended the sense of heroism that lays deeply engrained withiin me. Though I don't even like baseball, this poem redeemed a fallen hero for me, and let me sleep better at night for a while.
4.5: There are some poets/poems that I don't like or don't understand...
um, True? See #3.
5. I don't write poetry, but...
...I try to, when appropriately inspred to do so. I tend to focus entirely too much on the rythm, rhyme, and cadence, making it more of a technical excercise than an emotional one. I think that's wrong somehow.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature.....
...because poetry when written properly (in my view) is a far more visceral and emotional insight into the author, rather than depiction of places or events they are scribing about.
7. I find poetry...
...in my email box from time to time, from a special person that is far, far better at expressing themselves than I am.
8. The last time I heard poetry...
....was on the phone with someone that was sharing something they had written. Goosebumps.
9. I think poetry is...
...great for those that understand it, better for those that love it, and like fine women and wine, your love and appreciation for it increases with age and exposure.
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was...
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us - don't tell!
They'd advertise - you know!
How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
-Emily Dickinson
As a small, freakishly intelligent, non-athletic, and unsocially skilled kid, I was able to get an emotional response that I could empathize with.
Number two is anything by e.e. cummings. I remember reacting negatively to his lack of adherence to capitalizing proper nouns. But, I was also eleven at the time. It still irritates me, but I understand that he's being unconventional, and doing it on purpose now. Well not now, but then. I understand it now I mean to say. Stupid English.
2. I was forced to memorize Robert Frost in school and........
...I still remember it. Stupid mnemonic cues.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
3. I read/don't read poetry because....
...nine times out of ten I don't understand or feel it. I need auditory cues to express the emotional content to me. This is why I appreciate "music as poetry" as opposed to simply reading it quietly, partularly the works of Billy Joel, Amy Lee of Evanescence, and John Ondrasik of Five for Fighting. I'm more apt to understand or "get" a poem that has a rhythm to it that I can feel. Edgar Allan Poe's "The Bells" is one of the earliest memories I have of "feeling" the rhythm of a poem.
4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favourite poem is ...........something about that girl from Nantucket. That's a joke, son.
Actually, I found this in high school. We were studying poetry in lit class, and had to make a poetry journal full of 10 poems we found and liked. Kids looked at me funny, because the "minimum" was a poem of 10 lines, and I had found one that spoke to me that was substantially longer. Also, this was in the dark ages, so it all had to be written by hand with pen and paper, hence the insistence of most lazy kids to do the bare minimum.
Casey's Revenge
There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses- every fan in town was sore.
"Just think," said one, "how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And then to think he'd go and spring a bush league trick like that!"
All his past fame was forgotten- he was now a hopeless "shine."
They called him "Strike-Out Casey," from the mayor down the line;
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey's eye.
He pondered in the days gone by that he had been their king,
That when he strolled up to the plate they made the welkin ring;
But now his nerve had vanished, for when he heard them hoot
He "fanned" or "popped out" daily, like some minor league recruit.
He soon began to sulk and loaf, his batting eye went lame;
No home runs on the score card now were chalked against his name;
The fans without exception gave the manager no peace,
For one and all kept clamoring for Casey's quick release.
The Mudville squad began to slump, the team was in the air;
Their playing went from bad to worse - nobody seemed to care.
"Back to the woods with Casey!" was the cry from Rooters' Row.
"Get some one who can hit the ball, and let that big dub go!"
The lane is long, some one has said, that never turns again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men;
And Casey smiled; his rugged face no longer wore a frown-
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled - ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box, the multitude went wild;
He doffed his cap in proud disdain, but Casey only smiled.
"Play ball!" the umpire's voice rang out, and then the game began.
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance, and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low- the rival team was leading "four to one."
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe, the crowd began to roar;
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave "four balls" to the third.
Three men on base - nobody out - three runs to tie the game!
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville's hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night,
When the fourth one "fouled to catcher" and the fifth "flew out to right."
A dismal groan in chorus came; a scowl was on each face
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed, his teeth were clenched in hate;
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.
But fame is fleeting as the wind and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day;
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored: "Strike him out!"
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose - across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
Zip! Like a shot the second curve broke just below the knee.
"Strike two!" the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.
No roasting for the umpire now - his was an easy lot;
But here the pitcher whirled again- was that a rifle shot?
A whack, a crack, and out through the space the leather pellet flew,
A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.
Above the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight
The sphere sailed on - the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.
Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, ten thousand threw a fit,
But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.
O, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,
And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun!
And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall,
But Mudville hearts are happy now, for Casey hit the ball.
-Grantland Rice.
I had of course read the tragic tale of Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, but it offended the sense of heroism that lays deeply engrained withiin me. Though I don't even like baseball, this poem redeemed a fallen hero for me, and let me sleep better at night for a while.
4.5: There are some poets/poems that I don't like or don't understand...
um, True? See #3.
5. I don't write poetry, but...
...I try to, when appropriately inspred to do so. I tend to focus entirely too much on the rythm, rhyme, and cadence, making it more of a technical excercise than an emotional one. I think that's wrong somehow.
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature.....
...because poetry when written properly (in my view) is a far more visceral and emotional insight into the author, rather than depiction of places or events they are scribing about.
7. I find poetry...
...in my email box from time to time, from a special person that is far, far better at expressing themselves than I am.
8. The last time I heard poetry...
....was on the phone with someone that was sharing something they had written. Goosebumps.
9. I think poetry is...
...great for those that understand it, better for those that love it, and like fine women and wine, your love and appreciation for it increases with age and exposure.
posted by The Lion Sleeps Tonight at 1:05 PM
1 Comments:
Really excellent post! Wow. Both the Dickinson and Frost poems are old friends of mine, and I share your emotions vis a vis e.e.cummings. This was my first encounter with "Casey's Revenge" and I love encountering new poetry! Wonderful job! Also, I think your #10 was hilarious - on the nose, and hilarious :)
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