Poetry

I've never been big on poetry. We were fed some in high school; Wordsworth and his golden daffodils, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The sailing ship becalmed in the doldrums, provisions and fresh water running out, "so many men so beautiful" (we snickered at that) dying of thirst. "Water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink." It told a story in language we could understand, so it was fine.

While in junior high school, by daughter brought home an assignment for which she asked my help. She had been asked to figure out the meaning of a poem. I read it. I read it again. Once again I read it. It was gobbledygook. I couldn't make out what the poet was trying to say; was it a heart yearning for love? was it a comment on the human condition? was it a spiritual aspiration of some kind? I was baffled and I wondered what sort of teacher would inflict this sort of ordeal on a junior grader. No wonder they turned to drugs.

I've never read Edna St. Vincent Millay or Emily Dickinson or Maya Angelou; I've seen a few lines of Walt Whitman and I wasn't inclined to go further. I have read some of Robert Service;
The Dangerous Dan McGrew, the lady that's known as Lou and The Cremation of Sam McGee.
Critics have referred to his verses as doggerel, and indeed they are not as sophisticated as the aesthetes would prefer. The working man's poet. His "doggerel", however, earned him a chateau in France, from where he could smirk at his critics. He never returned to the Yukon.

So there you have it; my take on poetry. But having said that, I recently came across a poem called Wandering Angus by Yeats. Here it is:

I went out to the hazelwood
Because a fire was in my head
Cut and peeled a hazel wand
And hooked a berry to a thread

And when white moths were on the wing
And moth-like stars were flickering out
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
And gone to blow the fire aflame
Something rustled on the floor
And someone called me by my name.

It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossoms in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And vanished in the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands
I will find out where she has gone
And kiss her lips and take her hand

And walk through long green dappled grass
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon
The golden apples of the sun.

That's rather pretty, don't you think. Judy Collins sang it.