Poetry, for me, is a playing with words. Is playing with words. Word play.
“… the apprehension of a poem is a sensuous mental activity.”
- Molly Peacock, pg 3 of How to Read a Poem
I had big plans for today, heavy laden with tasks, with ‘must-dos’. But all along, I’ve been reminiscent* that I have a poetry post due. While I mowed the lawn, I toyed with a rhyming ditty. While writing my daily letter(s), I jotted little rhyming ditties. I even attempted weighty thoughts, hoping the words would align into something worthy of sharing. (I don’t think I quite got the spark, unfortunately.)
Here’s that dittying of which I mentioned:
Lilacs are purple, tulips are pink.
Poems are astounding, designed to make one think.
If tulips are pink, what flowers are teal?
Poems jolt emotions, to make one feel.
I have been aware that April is Poetry Month and I have seen its mention many places. Every time I encounter a poem, I gave a little high-five to the universe, “Yay, a poem for poetry month!”, and yet, here it is, THE day to post for Read More Blog More and I’m finally sitting down to write my post.
Confession Time. I borrowed Peacock’s Poetry book from the library about 4 weeks ago and today is the first time I’ve even opened it. For shame. It might even be due (overdue) and I owe late fees. I’m really not sure.
Molly opens her book by describing how much joy she found in the fact that the word joy has an O in the middle. And how astonishing it is that the word ‘circle’ does not have an O. I could be friends with this woman. I should probably just buy the darn book.
“if you have form’d a circle to go into,
Go into it yourself, and see how you would do.”
- William Blake from “Gnomic Verses ii: To God”
I’ve been reading a lot lately. I listened to Jon Krakauer’s Into the Wild (on CD, in my car**) and finished 1Q84 by Murakami. Just so you know, in case you don’t make it back for my reviews; I was most conflicted about Into the Wild and I thought 1Q84 was only OK. Yep, that means two stars. I don’t think I will go out of my way to read any thing else by this author. You know the ol’ argument “Too many books, too little time” and I can’t waste time trying to figure him out and whether or not I *should* like his stuff.
And READ-A-THON! I felt guilty not participating. And yet, I probably read more pages of books this past weekend than any other prior read-a-thon ever. That’s guilt for ya.
What else? I have book club this Thursday. I’m the CHOOSER or presentor-of-the-choices this month and here’s what I think I am proposing: Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh, Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell, and A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean. I keep toying with the idea of adding Fifty Shades of Grey*** to the list but I’m afraid that is what they will choose. And we will all read it anyway, I think. Thus, it shouldn’t be a book club choice. My opinion.
What does any of this have to do with poetry? Not a damn thing.
“Our sense inarticulacy in the face of the most articulate art, a helplessness in its presence – coupled with a sureness of our attachment to it even though we don’t know why – can bewitch us.”
- Molly Peacock, pg 4 of How to Read a Poem
Not a damn thing. How do we make poetry out of every day have-to-dos?
Can we conceive what humanity would be if it did not know the flowers? ~Maurice Maeterlinck
* Can I be ‘reminiscent’? or was the DAY reminiscent? All this thinking hurts my brain.
** My attempt to “Go Audio” and I completely screw it up. I was SUPPOSED TO download something to my iPhone. Sigh…
*** Everyone I know in “REAL LIFE” has asked me if I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey. I have not. Funny, I have yet to see a review of it here in my book-blogosphere. But that only proves that I never open my Google Reader.