April is Poetry Month: Elizabeth Bishop
Elizabeth Bishop
Sonnet
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow !
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
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Mamacita says: I remember the day I discovered this poem. The first thought that crossed my mind was “How in the world has this poem escaped my notice all these years?” I was actually angry!
Then again, I might not have fully appreciated this poem if I had found it earlier. It takes more than a love of music and a playlist of thousands of songs to understand music.
I am assuming that you all do realize that a good poem is simply a good song, minus the melody. . . .
Those of you out there who claim to dislike poetry? To be consistent, you will have to claim to dislike music, too; otherwise, your ignorance will be exposed to the universe at large, and the universe at large has great big hands and long scary fingers, and important inconsistencies are pointed and laughed at by a far larger, mightier, and more important audience that inconsistent people will ever know. And even if they DID know, they probably wouldn’t understand.
You know, like the people who fear Harry Potter yet adore Disney. In other words, stupid people.
Oh, dear, is that politically incorrect? The truth often is.
Now let us all point and laugh at such. We won’t hurt their sensitive fragile delicate feelings, as inconsistent people have been avoiding this blog for years. Nobody misses them. Except for, you know, entertainment purposes.
This poem is about a song, about a melody. This poem is itself a song. This poem also makes us long for more songs, and remember beloved songs. Dumbledore says it thus: “Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic far beyond all we do here!
Take the melody away (if you can!) from any song and what have you got? The lyrics. And what are lyrics? Poems.
Standardization, Administration, & Other Bollocky Things
Mamacita says: Beethoven and Rodin would never make it in an American public school these days. Neither would Lincoln, or Clara Barton, or Thomas Jefferson. Nor Einstein. Or Edison.
Administrators have forgotten that ultimately, our culture will be judged on the arts; that’s how we learn about ancient cultures. We did not find any remnants of standardized test scores or sports stats in Pompeii; we found art and day-to-day ordinary living; loaves of bread, and graffiti, and clay pots for sale, and poems. Yes, the ancients liked sports; part of the Coliseum is still standing, but it wasn’t the hub and whole of their existence. They valued music, and sculpture, and dance, and poetry, and creativity of all kinds. Astronomy was considered an art by the ancient Greeks, and, indeed, who can properly study the stars without also studying the fabulous stories that gave the night sky’s formations their names? It is not possible to do so. If your child’s teacher is “teaching” astronomy and not mentioning the myths, your child has a poor teacher.
Cultures that valued the arts live on, even when they and their structures are gone.
What do Americans value? Gossip and scandal and immoral politicians? Drug-addicted sports figures and out-of-wedlock pregnancies? Prostitutes Athletes with bloated egos and high-priced pimps managers? Lindsay and Britney and Brangelina and TomKat and celeb sightings and scores, all kinds of scores: sexual and standardized and steroid-filled scores. Adultery made to look golden. Talentless hacks and wealthy nobodies with good agents. CoughcoughcoughKardashianscoughcough. I hate thinking what we’ve come down to as a culture.
There was a time when a high school principal would hire a professional musician to fill an empty seat in the school orchestra; it was that important. Now, if there is an empty seat, the class is canceled and the music teacher is either “downsized” or given a lot of before-school and after-school and cafeteria duty, and a couple of study halls for the non-participatory segment of our younger society which is growing larger every day. I mean, why do a lot of unnecessary work when you get the same rewards for not doing it?
What will archaeologists find a thousand years from now when they dig up what remains of America? A lot of crumbling gymnasiums and enough rock-hard fossilized breast and lip-shaped collagen to sink a ship?
We should be nurturing our young artists and musicians and scientists, not relegating them to the back of the room so we can look good on paper in the subjects that are easy to measure for a bunch of withered humorless twits with no balls and no guts and no gumption. I believe in testing, yes, definitely. But not to the exclusion of the arts, and I will say this again: Cramming a lot of facts in our kids’ heads and then asking them to bubble them right back is not the same thing as educating them.
I’ll say this again, too: The most important things our children should be learning can’t be tested.
One more thing: Why can’t we let our children be children? Almost every minute of their adult lives will be regulated and scheduled and over-scheduled; why can’t they have their summers and their weekends and their after-school time, to be kids? Because you know as well as I do, that the moment a bunch of anal boring adults steps in to “take charge” of the ball game or the bicycle ride or the hike or the impromptu soccer match in the back lot, all of the fun is going to be drained completely out, everybody will have to buy a uniform and a helmet, and adults will start showing up to keep score and yell at the little kid who stooped to look at the cool anthill and let the ball fly right over his head.
Remember when high school kids could participate in several sports, because the year was divided into “seasons?” Now, most kids are required to choose one sport and only one, because what was once a “season” has grown into a year-long practice session. We don’t want a losing team, now do we?
I once had a student who was a starter on the varsity football team AND a member of the marching band. At half-time, he didn’t go take a pee and grab a soda with the rest of the team; he grabbed his trumpet and joined the formation and marched in his helmet and uniform. It was mind-blowingly inspiring. This kid is now a professional musician and a successful one, I might add. I’m proud of you, Jeremy!
He wouldn’t be allowed to do that, now. Oh, heavens, no.
Now, a kid has to choose between music and sports, because the coaches just won’t allow any of the team members to do something weird like that. Absolutely forbidden.
I hate this.
Oh, and that chick in Georgia who maintains that science and social studies are not important? NOT IMPORTANT? She had to have fallen down the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.*
Yes, it’s very late. Yes, I definitely need a sandwich. But if I make one, it might make me even more surly. Are you sure you want to risk that?
*Yes, I know it’s really the “ugly tree,”** but I changed it to fit the context. So bite me.
** Politically incorrect? Like I care.
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Parts of this post were published in August of 2009. My opinions haven’t changed, and may have become even more surly.
April is Poetry Month: Sara Henderson Hay
Mamacita says: I could not find a picture of Sara Henderson Hay; every time I thought I’d found one, it turned out to be a bogus site that threatened to shut down my computer. I like Hay’s poems, but apparently Google images doesn’t.
So, in keeping with her poem’s theme, I chose another picture.
The Builders
I told them a thousand times if I told them once:
Stop fooling around, I said, with straw and sticks.
They won’t hold up; you’re taking an awful chance.
Brick is the stuff to build with, solid bricks.
You want to be impractical, go ahead.
But just remember, I told them, wait and see.
You’re making a big mistake. Alright, I said,
But when the wolf comes, don’t come running to me.
The funny thing is, they didn’t; there they sat,
One in his crummy yellow shack, and one
Under his room of twigs, and the wolf ate
Them, hair and hide. Well, what is done is done.
But I’d been willing to help them, all along,
If only they’d once admitted they were wrong.
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As usual, we could discuss rhyme scheme and symbolism, a little hyperbole, some alliteration, and first person narration, but isn’t this poem really about giving unasked-for advice that would have made a positive difference, and wishing we could say “I told you so” when someone disregards us, thus screwing up royally?
Not that any of us would gloat or anything. Other people, maybe, but not any of us.
Smirk.
