Tag: poetry

  • Poe on Poetry: The Poetic Principle

    Edgar Allen Poe’s two essays on poetry (The Poetic Principle and The Rationale of Verse) are a couple of my favorite essays of all time. He explains poetry in simple terms and showcases its beauty. Below are my favorite parts of The Poetic Principle.

    On the Length of a Poem

    “I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, “a long poem,” is simply a flat contradiction in terms.”

    “I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags — fails — a revulsion ensues — and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.”

    “On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief…A very short poem, while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon the wax.”

    On the Object (Purpose/Goal) of Poetry

    Truth or Goodness as the Objects of Poetry

    “…we find [the bias toward epic-length poems] succeeded by a heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies combined. I allude to the heresy of The Didactic. It has been assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a moral; and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged.”

    “With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I would nevertheless, limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation…In enforcing a truth, we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple, precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical.”

    “Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense…Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with displaying the charms: — waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of her deformity — her disproportion — her animosity to the fitting, to the appropriate, to the harmonious — in a word, to Beauty.”

    Beauty as the Object of Poetry

    “An immortal instinct, deep within the spirit of man, is thus, plainly, a sense of the Beautiful…And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments, a duplicate source of delight. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing, with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and sentiments, which greet him in common with all mankind — he, I say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us — but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above…And thus when by Poetry, —or when by Music, the most entrancing of the Poetic moods — we find ourselves melted into tears — we weep then — not as the Abbaté Gravina supposes — through excess of pleasure, but through a certain, petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys, of which through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses.”

    The Poetic Principle: The Struggle to Apprehend God’s Love

    “The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness — this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted — has given to the world all that which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as poetic.”

    Music as a Special Form of Poetry

    “The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes — in Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance — very especially in Music — and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in the composition position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music, in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected — is so vitally important an adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music, perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles — the creation of supernal Beauty. It may be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and then, attained in fact. We are often made to feel, with a shivering delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which cannot have been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers had advantages which we do not possess — and Thomas Moore, singing his own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.”

    Poetry Defined

    “To recapitulate, then: — I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth.”

    Truth and Goodness as Components of a Poem

    “It by no means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve, incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work: — but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper subjection to that Beautywhich is the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.”

    On the Poetry of Thomas Moore (Catholic poet, but different person than Saint Thomas More)

    “Among the “Melodies” of Thomas Moore, is one whose distinguished character as a poem proper, seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude to his lines beginning — “Come, rest in this bosom.” The intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the all in all of the divine passion of Love — a sentiment which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:”

    Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

    Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

    Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o’ercast,

    And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

    Oh! what was love made for, if ‘tis not the same

    Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

    I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,

    I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

    Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

    And thy Angel I’ll be, ‘mid the horrors of this, —

    Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

    And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too!

    “It has been the fashion, of late days, to deny Moore Imagination, while granting him Fancy — a distinction originating with Coleridge — than whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very naturally, the idea that he is fanciful only. But never was there a greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet. In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more profoundly — more wierdly [[weirdly]] imaginative, in the best sense, than the lines commencing — “I would I were by that dim lake” — which are the composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.”

    Reiterating the Poetic Principle

    Definition of the Poetic Principle

    “Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is, strictly and simply, the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the Principle is always found in an elevating excitement of the Soul — quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart — or of that Truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For, in regard to Passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade, rather than to elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary — Love — the true, the divine Eros — the Uranian, as distinguished from the Dionæan Venus — is unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth — if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth, we are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we experience, at once, the true poetical effect — but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the harmony manifest.”

    Examples of the Poetic Principle

    “We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect He recognizes the ambrosia which nourishes his soul, in waving of the grain-fields — in the slanting of tall, Eastern trees — in the blue distance of mountains — in the grouping of clouds — in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks — in the gleaming of silver rivers — in the repose of sequestered lakes — in the star-mirroring depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds — in the harp of Æolus — in the sighing of the night-wind — in the repining voice of the forest — in the surf that complains to the shore — in the fresh breath of the woods — in the scent of the violet — in the voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth — in the suggestive odor that comes to him, at eventide, from far-distant, undiscovered islands, over dim oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts — in all unworldly motives — in all holy impulses — in all chivalrous, generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman — in the grace of her step — in the lustre of her eye — in the melody of her voice — in her soft laughter — in her sigh — in the harmony of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments — in her burning enthusiasms — in her gentle charities — in her meek and devotional endurances — but above all — ah, far above all — he kneels to it — he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the altogether divine majesty — of her love.”

  • I Published My New Poetry Collection!

    The collection is called Finding. You can buy it here.

    It’s a book of poems and a few reflections that are meant to feel like I am walking through the poems with you.

    BUY IT HERE

  • Five Reasons Why Robert Frost is a Poetic Genius (with Poems)

    Five Reasons Why Robert Frost is a Poetic Genius (with Poems)

    Robert Frost is one of the most known and loved American poets. Almost everyone has heard at least one of his poems, maybe even three or four. Did Robert Frost just get lucky, or is there something truly brilliant about his poetry?

    Of course there is some level of luck in any success, but Frost also wrote some of the greatest poems in the English language. Here are five reasons why Robert Frost is my favorite poet.

    1. Frost balances the fine line between poetic rhythm and conversational rhythm.

    A poem written with a regular form of poetic meter (a recurring pattern of rhythm in each line of a poem) sounds great, but does not always sound like our normal conversation. Robert Frost wrote with excellent poetic rhythm, but at the same time made his poems sound like ordinary conversation. Frost’s poem titled A Patch of Old Snow is a good example of this. Notice how the poem is presented as if Frost is our neighbor or friend, and we are just having a chat. Yet this is not free verse. He writes with standard rhyme and meter.

    A Patch of Old Snow

    There’s a patch of old snow in a corner
        That I should have guessed
    Was a blow-away paper the rain
        Had brought to rest.

    It is speckled with grime as if
        Small print overspread it,
    The news of a day I’ve forgotten —
        If I ever read it.

    2. He has fun!

    Robert Frost is not afraid to add humor as an ingredient in his poetry. It’s the main ingredient in a few of his poems. Of course, he always keeps his form which can make him seem a bit stiff next to modern free verse poets like Charles Bukowski or even William Carlos Williams. The truth is, Frost covers many aspects of being human, including fun. He even makes himself the butt of the joke at times, like in his poem Dust of Snow.

    Dust of Snow

    The way a crow
    Shook down on me
    The dust of snow
    From a hemlock tree

    Has given my heart
    A change of mood
    And saved some part
    Of a day I had rued.

    3. He shows us beauty.

    Experiencing beauty is something that makes us human. It’s an important part of human nature. It makes life better! Robert Frost is great at sharing the beauty of the world around him with us through his poetry. Birches is a popular Frost poem that really shows us the beauty that he sees in Birch trees. Even just the first few lines of the poem present us with awe-inspiring imagery.

    Birches

    When I see birches bend to left and right
    Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
    I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
    But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
    As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
    Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
    After a rain. They click upon themselves
    As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
    As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.


    4. He is full of wisdom.

    Knowing how to navigate life, being able to accept mystery, understanding the ways of the world—Robert Frost is like an old sage sharing his wisdom in a fun, beautiful, and conversational way. In his poem A Time to Talk, he stresses the importance of taking a break from the day’s work to have a conversation with a friend.

    A Time to Talk

    When a friend calls to me from the road
    And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
    I don’t stand still and look around
    On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
    And shout from where I am, “What is it?”
    No, not as there is a time to talk.
    I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
    Blade-end up and five feet tall,
    And plod: I go up to the stone wall
    For a friendly visit.

    5. He’s existential yet he’s so accessible.

    Robert Frost is easy to understand and his poems can be read through quickly, but the reader can also read the same poem again and again and continue to find depth and meaning. See what meaning and enjoyment you can find in his poem House Fear.

    House Fear

    Always–I tell you this they learned–
    Always at night when they returned
    To the lonely house from far away
    To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
    They learned to rattle the lock and key
    To give whatever might chance to be
    Warning and time to be off in flight:
    And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
    They learned to leave the house-door wide
    Until they had lit the lamp inside.

    It doesn’t take an English teacher or a poetry professor to see why Robert Frost’s poems are great. Anybody can enjoy them. That is why Robert Frost is one of the English-speaking-world’s most beloved poets.

  • The Art of Wonder: Curiosity, Awe, and the Story of Job

    The Art of Wonder: Curiosity, Awe, and the Story of Job

    I’ve been wondering about wonder. It seems there are two parts to wonder. There’s the curiosity part: “I wonder how?” And then there’s the awe part: “How wonderful!”

    It’s possible that curiosity and awe are two distinct definitions of the word wonder, but I suspect they go hand in hand. If we aren’t curious, we’ll never look to see what’s around the corner. And we’ll never be awestruck by something we can’t see.

    You might suggest that, at times, we can experience wonder without looking for it, without curiosity. Sometimes it surprises us. That may be true. But I wonder if, by being curious, we might find it far more often. We might even find it in the most ordinary things, like steam rising from a mug or the pair of eyes we see every day in the mirror.

    The Old Testament story of Job gets into this matter. At the beginning of the story, his life is great. But then all sorts of terrible things happen to him. His children die, his wife curses him, his health plummets. It is then that he becomes curious. “Why is this happening to me?”

    However, Job takes his questioning too far. Instead of remaining curious about things, he demands answers.

    In contrast to his demand for answers, Job’s friends don’t ask questions at all. Instead, they tell him why these terrible things must have happened to him. They don’t wonder, they assume. They cling to simplistic explanations, ignoring the mystery and complexity of life.

    Between Job and his friends, we see two forces that destroy curiosity, and therefore wonder. Job’s experience of wonder is inhibited by his demand for answers. His friends’ experiences of wonder are inhibited by their assumptions.

    Curiosity, by contrast, is neither a demand for answers nor an assumption of the answers. It’s asking questions while remaining open to mystery. And it’s the mysterious things that leave us in awe. It’s the unknown that makes us wonder and leaves us with a feeling of wonder. Neither Job nor his friends seem to understand this.

    No matter. God replies to Job’s demands. But He doesn’t give him answers. He doesn’t tell him why terrible things have happened to him. Instead, He asks Job questions that Job cannot answer, questions he can only wonder at. Through some of the most beautiful poetry, God opens Job’s heart to the awesomeness of wonder.

    He asks, “Where were you when I founded the earth?”

    If Job wasn’t struck with wonder in that very moment, no problem. God had plenty more questions for Job to ponder. These are some of my favorites:

    “Or who shut in the sea with doors, when it burst forth from the womb; when I made clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling band, and prescribed bounds for it, and set bars and doors, and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stayed’?”

    Chapter 38, Verses 8-11

    “Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place?”

    Chapter 38, Verse 12

    “Who has cleft a channel for the torrents of rain, and a way for the thunderbolt?”

    Chapter 38, Verse 25

    God’s answer is one big, beautiful poem that essentially says, “Wonder.” It says, you were not the one who gave everything in the universe its form, its boundaries, its place, its beauty. You are the one who has been given it as a gift. You cannot know all the answers. You can demand to know, you can pretend to know, or you can wonder. The path that opens your heart to the experience of beauty, reality, and goodness is wonder.

    So perhaps, by cultivating curiosity, we can open ourselves to awe. By asking questions without demanding answers, by being present to mystery, we might find wonder, even in the ordinary. We might find it in the similarity between the words pain and rain, or we might find it in a sprinkled donut. We might, like Job, be invited into a deeper understanding of life’s mysteries, not through explanations, but through the gift of wonder itself.

  • The Tower Cafe

    When the trees were small –
    The trees that grow all through
    The patio at the Tower Cafe,
    Where we had breakfast Sunday,
    Where you had the most delightful French toast –

    The trees, now tall, when they were small,
    The cafe’s keeper gave them faith.

    “Whichever way you grow,”
    The keeper said, “it will be okay.”

    Faith, that is why they were allowed to stay.
    Faith is why they were allowed to become
    The beautiful cafe patio protectors they became.

  • Fourteen Stories

    Something caught my mind
    – A buzz like a bee, no, a buzz like bourbon.
    A thought broke free.

    I wondered what the ants
    On the ground would think
    If they saw us way up here,
    Fourteen stories high, clinking drinks,

    Dressed in red hue mood lighting,
    Shifting, laughing, drifting,
    Among our own tribes, uniting,
    Wondering about the other tribes and their princesses,

    And what the ants below must think
    Of the ways we shift and the ways we sync
    And the ways we dance and the ways we drink.

  • Steam

    Maybe the steam is a small tax,
    The cost of this drink’s warmth.

    Maybe the steam is a prayer.
    Maybe it is His share.

    Maybe it is the drink’s quest,
    Venturing out of the cup,
    Heaven bound, pouring up.

  • Night Walker

    At night, the woods come alive.
    They shape shift. They dance.
    It’s a glorious ball with painted eyes
    And noble gowns around a buzzing hive.

    They get bigger too, the woods.
    I think I hear them say, “you’re small.”
    They don’t say nothing, and it’s not banal.
    They seem to say, “this is not all.”

    A breeze blows. Something scurries.
    And though I don’t know what it is,
    I am sure now. I am certain
    There is more behind the curtain.

    There is more than what I sense.
    There’s something that I cannot grasp.
    I pause to listen by a fence,
    But hearing nothing I commence.

  • ‘It Is So No More

    Look at the pictures, young one.
    Oh, the way Orion danced across the sky.
    He danced as slow as icebox honey flows
    – In perfect rhythm, though.
    We watched him every winter night.

    He danced and glowed. Each lustrous node
    Was notched with reverie and delight.
    Oh, the way he danced so free (and leisurely),
    Unbound, at liberty, untied!

    Look at the pictures, young one.
    Oh, the sight, Orion danced away the night.

    It is so no more.

    His light has been obscured.
    Man and Mammon waged their war.

    They hid him in the sky
    Behind thirty thousand satellites.
    Stars that could be bought and sold
    Were slung like nets upon his home.

    Oh, he used to dance, child.
    We watched him move so gracefully.
    But now the night time sky is glowing
    Bright with forgeries.

    Orion’s hands and feet are bound,
    His dance no longer seen.
    He’s been uncrowned,
    His radiance drowned,
    Lost behind a spellbound screen.

  • Suicide

    This fall feels like miles.
    The city’s lights are pretty.
    I wish I had a pair of wings
    So I could save myself.