Distributing good-byes

When I was given the assignment to memorize and recite a poem for a modern poetry class I took in college, I chose this one because it was one of the few that rhymed and I thought it would be easier to memorize because of that. But I actually really like this poem. I can't believe how perfectly calculated everything is, from the precise rhymes to the exact and lolling iambic tetrameter. Yet beyond its calculated structure, it is actually chock-full of relatable and tender emotion. He is anxious sad to say good-bye to his daughter. I think of this poem often when I am at the airport and witness to people distributing good-byes and hugs, containing tears and worries. And yeah, I'm also a sucker for father-daughter/daughter-father poems. I included a little bit of what I call my "poem decoding" below.

At the San Francisco Airport

BY YVOR WINTERS

To my daughter, 1954

This is the terminal: the light                             A

Gives perfect vision, false and hard;                  B

The metal glitters, deep and bright.                  A

Great planes are waiting in the yard—              B

They are already in the night.                             A

And you are here beside me, small,                   8 syllables

Contained and fragile, and intent                      da DUM | da DUM | da DUM | da DUM

On things that I but half recall—                        4 sets of iambs = iambic tetrameter

Yet going whither you are bent.                         but a case could be made for something else

I am the past, and that is all.                             

But you and I in part are one:

The frightened brain, the nervous will,

The knowledge of what must be done,

The passion to acquire the skill

To face that which you dare not shun.

The rain of matter upon sense

Destroys me momently. The score:

There comes what will come. The expense

Is what one thought, and something more—

One’s being and intelligence.

This is the terminal, the break.

Beyond this point, on lines of air,

You take the way that you must take;

And I remain in light and stare—

In light, and nothing else, awake.

A poem that comes to mind

Sometimes my inner "modernist poet" feels weird about still loving this poem so completely, but it has been yet to be surpassed by any poem written before of since that so completely expresses feelings and ideas I have about life. I find so much wisdom and subtle profound truths in the lines of this poem. My favorite lines by far are "In the bivouac of Life/ Be not like dumb, driven cattle." Mostly because of the word "bivouac," but also because it seems so easy to get caught up following the crowds and the need to keep up with what is popular or trendy. I memorized this poem back in high school and I often see its lines quoted by speakers and current media today, as well as being put to song, so I don't think I am the only who feels this way. Enjoy:

A Psalm of Life
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
   Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
   And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
   And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
   Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
   Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
   Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
   And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
   Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world’s broad field of battle,
   In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
   Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
   Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
   We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
   Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
   With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
   Learn to labor and to wait.

Blog Christening

I named this poetry website after a line from Mark Strand's poem, Eating Poetry. I am going to include the whole poem here, since it is one of my favorite poems:

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Strand is often considered a surrealist poet. This poem is a great example of that, as evidenced in the very first stanza. I love the creepy and passionate image of ink literally dripping from the poet's mouth as he absorbs and soaks up all the poetry he can get his hands on. I can imagine the feeling that the image represents, when I remember how I felt when I first discovered Emily Dickinson back in high school. I couldn't get enough of her unexpected and rhythmic poetry (good thing she wrote hundreds of poems so that I was never at a loss for new material!). Or when I read the Harry Potter books. I romped with joy, soaking up Harry's adventures, in the dark of my bedroom, with a flashlight under my covers (so Dad wouldn't discover my late-night awakeness).

So that is why I chose the first line of this poem as the namesake for this new poetry pursuit website. Because, albeit digital, this is the place where I can let the ink run from the corners of my mouth.