But one of the cool finds tonight was a trove of the old textbooks we used in high school, especially lit anthologies and one ("The Humanities") that taught me most of what I know about aesthetics. (If you're reading this, Mrs. B. aren't you proud of me? Well, you ought to be.) As I flipped through a few, I realized how much my poetic sensibilities were shaped early on by the authors and selections in these books and others like it.
And as much as I may look on some of those poems and authors as childish or passé, they were big formative steps to learning and appreciating poetry, both for my education and for my life. Here's one that had a very distinct effect on my tastes for a while, partially because of the (not very good) Simon & Garfunkel song.
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good Morning!" and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine -- we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.
It's not fantastic, but it does catch you off guard if you're not expecting it. (Which, if you're not a high school student, you probably were.) And that sudden shift into very dark territory and the bigger questions that are raised - that's still something I appreciate. See my very first post, the one on Rilke's "Archaic Torso of Apollo," to see what I mean.
I feel that just like with sex, epic film trilogies, or Steven King novels, the ending is the thing. If you can't stick the landing the rest of the routine doesn't seem as worthwhile. Sure, there were thrills and chills, twists and turns, double-crosses and car chases and metaphysics galore. But if that last act leaves an odd aftertaste, it seems to cheapen everything before it.
So it's no masterpiece of world literature, or even of American literature. It may not even make the Top 10 Poems from Maine category. But it stuck with me, gave me something to gnaw on for a year or two and led me in some good directions. (Those directions, incidentally, tended not to point towards more E.A. Robinson works.)
Here's another poem from those days, one that I didn't get then and probably still don't get now.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Kids, get your allowance money: the death truck is coming!
It amuses me now, but I had a pretty adverse reaction to Stevens back then, mostly because I didn't feel I could stomach what I saw as his I'm-better-than-you atheism where life is so much grander without God. I tend to appreciate his elegance and understatement, his combination of the bizarre and the ordinary. He refused to tie himself down to a single meaning on this one, which I applaud. Nothing ruins art (or an inside joke) more than having it explained to you: the Maltese Falcon was a sled!
Clownwater!
Richard Cory
Edwin Arlington Robinson
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean-favoured and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good Morning!" and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich, yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine -- we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked and waited for the light,
And went without the meat and cursed the bread,
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet in his head.
It's not fantastic, but it does catch you off guard if you're not expecting it. (Which, if you're not a high school student, you probably were.) And that sudden shift into very dark territory and the bigger questions that are raised - that's still something I appreciate. See my very first post, the one on Rilke's "Archaic Torso of Apollo," to see what I mean.
I feel that just like with sex, epic film trilogies, or Steven King novels, the ending is the thing. If you can't stick the landing the rest of the routine doesn't seem as worthwhile. Sure, there were thrills and chills, twists and turns, double-crosses and car chases and metaphysics galore. But if that last act leaves an odd aftertaste, it seems to cheapen everything before it.
So it's no masterpiece of world literature, or even of American literature. It may not even make the Top 10 Poems from Maine category. But it stuck with me, gave me something to gnaw on for a year or two and led me in some good directions. (Those directions, incidentally, tended not to point towards more E.A. Robinson works.)
Here's another poem from those days, one that I didn't get then and probably still don't get now.
The Emperor of Ice-Cream
Wallace Stevens
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Kids, get your allowance money: the death truck is coming!
It amuses me now, but I had a pretty adverse reaction to Stevens back then, mostly because I didn't feel I could stomach what I saw as his I'm-better-than-you atheism where life is so much grander without God. I tend to appreciate his elegance and understatement, his combination of the bizarre and the ordinary. He refused to tie himself down to a single meaning on this one, which I applaud. Nothing ruins art (or an inside joke) more than having it explained to you: the Maltese Falcon was a sled!
Clownwater!
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