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In Gilbert & Sullivan’s “The Pirates of Penzance,” the pirate king interrupts the action by suddenly declaring “What, we ask, is life without a touch of poetry in it?” At which, the entire cast kneels and sings a richly harmonized hymn, “Hail Poetry!” In like manner, I’m breaking away from the serio-comic, piratical actions in Washington this week to take note of Poetry Month. April was not officially dedicated to poetry until 1996 by the Academy of American Poets, with Canada joining in two years later. The Academy itself was only established in 1934.
It took official form in the Quad Cities many years earlier, when Quint City Poets was organized beyond the memory of its present members. Whatever the time or occasion, poetry’s association with this month seems most appropriate; and poets across the ages agree: "April hath put a spirit of youth in everything." — William Shakespeare "The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. — Robert Frost "April comes like an idiot, babbling and stewing flowers.
" — Edna St. Vincent Millay "April is the cruelest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain." — T.
S. Eliot "April, a tapestry of rain and bloom, Where nature shakes off winter's gloom." — Vinaya Joseph "Praise the spells and bless the charms, I found April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy, Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy; Ever changing, ever true -- I love April, I love you." — Ogden Nash Poetry is not merely a seasonal thing. While many writers wax lyrical about the month, it has persisted across all time, from Homer to the latest issue of Poetry magazine.
There has never been an age or civilization in which poetry did not have a presence. What is there about measured speech that makes it so compelling? Especially when rhyme is added? One of the great voices of modern time, the poet Meena Alexander, gave a lecture on the subject, after which she took questions from the audience. Her reaction to a particularly challenging one she recounted in a poem: “Her question, a woman in a sweatshirt, Hand raised in a crowded room — What use is poetry? Standing apart I looked at her and said — We have poetry So we do not die of history.
I had no idea what I meant.” In truth, there is no math-solid answer. Of what use is a song? Or prayer? There are things we resort to when the grind of fact isn’t enough.
Our bodies make plain what they need; but what feeds the spirit? The sheer persistence of poetry may hint at our need for it. Some basic elements of poetry are put to practical use every day. What would advertising be without simile and metaphor? They are to the real thing as jingles are to lieder.
Reading one of Alexander’s lectures led me to Shelley’s “Defense of Poetry.” He may make outsized claims for his art (“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world”) but there are lines in his essay that speak the truth aslant: “All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially. Veil after veil may be undrawn, and the inmost naked beauty of the meaning never exposed.
” Or as I would tell my students at Alleman, a poem is like a hand grenade. Pull the pin and meaning explodes. A prime example: we once spent an entire class period on these lines from “God’s Grandeur,” a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins: “Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
” Clearly, this references our separation from nature and students came up with dozens of examples. It was fascinating to hear how the poem fired their thoughts. Poetry can be informative, inspiring, and fun.
I am especially devoted to the works of three women poets: the wry humorist Dorothy Parker, the sublime Edna St. Vincent Millay (read “Ballade of the Harp Weaver;” it’ll break your heart); and almost anything by the only light poet to win a Pulitzer Prize, Phyllis McGinley. Do yourself a favor.
Pick up a collection of poems, light verse, perhaps, from the library and riffle through it. You’ll find something to make you think or stir your emotions. Then, read it aloud to enhance both pleasure and understanding.
You have ample time; Poetry Month has just started. Don Wooten Don Wooten is a former Illinois state senator and a regular columnist. Email him at: donwooten4115@gmail.
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