Wendy Cope's "From June to December - Summer Villanelle"

If this blog has illustrated anything, it is my ongoing love of Wendy Cope's poetry, particularly her villanelles. I hadn't given her a great deal of thought recently, but Wednesday's edition of The Writer's Almanac podcast reminded me just how much I enjoy her writing.

While some argue that Cope is mawkish, I've always found her poems to be somewhat biting under the supposed sentimentality ("The Orange" is the exception rather than the rule). On the surface, "From June to December" is the typical love poem, where the speaker's thoughts are preoccupied by his (or her) love. Indeed, anyone who has ever been in love (or in the first stages of a passionate affair grounded in lust) can relate to the line "I think of little else but you." However, several elements of the poem (such as the title and the final stanza) hint at a slightly darker sentiment.

The title is intriguing and puzzling, since it asks the reader to determine what the span of time is in reference to. Does it mean that the affair only lasts from June to December? Or does it refer to the time span that the feelings in the poem lasts?

Similarly, the questions that start the last stanza, "But is it love? And is it true?/ Who cares?", can be interpreted as an indication that the speaker is still in the giddy early part of the relationship and doesn't care what anyone calls it, but it might also indicate that the speaker is aware that this might not be true love but is okay with that realization. Additionally, this poem is more overtly sensual than "The Orange;" rather than pure giddiness, there's some decided carnality at play here that keeps the poem from becoming too sentimental.

Of course, I might be totally off-base here, so please feel free to share your thoughts below!

From June to December 
Summer Villanelle
by Wendy Cope

You know exactly what to do—
Your kiss, your fingers on my thigh—
I think of little else but you.

It’s bliss to have a lover who,
Touching one shoulder, makes me sigh—
You know exactly what to do.

You make me happy through and through,
The way the sun lights up the sky—
I think of little else but you.

I hardly sleep-an hour or two;
I can’t eat much and this is why—
You know exactly what to do.

The movie in my mind is blue—
As June runs into warm July
I think of little else but you.

But is it love? And is it true?
Who cares? This much I can’t deny:
You know exactly what to do;
I think of little else but you.

Poems for Independence Day

July 4th is upon us once again, and even though I am planning on hiding from the crowds and working on my never-ending research, this doesn't mean that I am a complete Independence Day Scrooge. If you, like me, prefer quiet and poetry to drunken crowds and tourists (Boston seems to be crawling with them right now, and it is exhausting), then here are some poem suggestions and resources for your 4th of July.

• Poets.org has an excellent selection of poems, ranging from a collection about the American Revolution to "Red, White, and Blue Poems" to poems about summer.
• The Poetry Foundation also has a great collection of America-themed poems.

Have a wonderful holiday (however you decide to spend it)!

"To the Little Polish Boy Standing with His Arms Up" by Peter Fischl: A Poem for Yom Hashoah

In honor of Yom Hashoah, which is observed today, here is an ekphrastic poem by Peter Fischl, a Holocaust survivor. It is a response to this picture:

"To the Little Polish Boy Standing with His Arms Up"
by Peter Fischl

You can see Fischl read his poem here:




I.
I would like to be an artist
So I could make a painting of you
Little Polish Boy

Standing with your little hat on your head
The Star of David on your coat
Standing in the ghetto with your arms up
As many Nazi machine guns point at you

I would make a monument of you and the world
Who said nothing

I would like to be a composer
So I could write a concerto of you
Little Polish Boy

Standing with your little hat on your head
The Star of David on your coat
Standing in the ghetto with your arms up
As many Nazi machine guns point at you

I would write a concerto of you and the world
Who said nothing

II.
I am not an artist
But my mind has painted a painting of you

Ten Million Miles High is the painting
So the whole universe can see you now
Little Polish Boy

Standing with your little hat on your head
The Star of David on your coat
Standing in the ghetto with your arms up
As many Nazi machine guns pointed at you

And the world
Who said nothing

I'll make this painting so bright
That it will blind the eyes of the world
Who saw nothing

Ten Billion Miles High will be the monument
So the whole universe can remember you
Little Polish Boy

Standing with your little hat on your head
The Star of David on your coat

III.
Standing in the ghetto with your arms up
As many Nazi machine guns pointed at you

And the monument will tremble so the blind world
Now will know

What fear is in the darkness

The world
Who said nothing

I am not a composer
But I will write a composition
For five trillion trumpets
So it will blast the ear drums
Of this world

The worlds
Who heard nothing

I
am
Sorry
that
it was you
and
not me

E. E. Cummings's "i carry your heart with me"

What's this I hear about a wedding? It seems like the world, in a desperate need for something happy, has latched on to the wedding of Kate Middleton and Prince William. That said, it is refreshing to see a young couple who are (for all appearances) in love and happy for the start of their new life together. This wedding also provides the perfect excuse to feature one of E. E. Cummings's best love poems.

"i carry your heart with me"

by E. E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                         i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

As my AP English teacher once mused, Cummings's is a wonderful love poet, and his writing peculiarities, such as unusual spacing, contribute to the meaning and reading of the poem. Here, the lack of spaces before the parenthetical phrases don't seem like mere affectations. Instead, they imply the giddiness of love as well as the melding of two people as one. The absence of most punctuation (there are no periods, and only a few semicolons and commas) also mimic the headiness of a new romance, where everything seems to run together and all thoughts and sentences focus on the object of your affection.

"Unpretty/I Feel Pretty" from Glee

With a few exceptions, I've been underwhelmed by Glee this season. Maybe it's the sophomore slump or perhaps it's because the show has been uneven (even by Glee standards), but I haven't had much to say about the show. However, last night's episode was better than most, and might even be up there with the first half of the first season.

The best number of the night (and one of the best, if not best, of the season), was Rachel and Quinn's rendition of "Unpretty/I Feel Pretty." Although the two actresses' voices don't seem like they would mesh together well, they were able to make the most of Quinn's voice, which is pretty but not particularly strong, while toning down Rachel's powerhouse voice. In addition to the beautifully balanced vocals, the direction and editing was excellent and added to the song's poignancy. Even though I had no love for "Unpretty" or "I Feel Pretty" as separate songs, I've listened to this song on repeat for the past hour.

I particularly appreciate that the understated arrangement really highlights the lyrics of the songs. Back when I worked in speech and drama at the high school level, I remember someone telling me that a student used "Unpretty" as part of her poetry piece. While I was skeptical back then, I totally see how the lyrics can stand on their own without the music.

William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

Although spring brings with it a host of annoyances (pollen and the allergies that come with it, the start of Red Sox season, the insanity of finals for both teachers and students), one of my all-time favorite spring-related events is the blooming of daffodils. Even when it is slightly chilly and incredibly windy (as it was in New England yesterday), seeing these flowers fools me into thinking that spring is here and it is time to put away the winter boots and coats. Inevitably, seeing the flowers immediately makes me think of Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," which is one of my favorite English Romantic poems.

"I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud"

by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

To me, this is the perfect example of Romantic poetry. Besides being by Wordsworth (a writer who arguably ushered in the period with his and Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads), this poem seems to embody the idea of feeling over reason, which is a key characteristic in Romantic poetry. Rather than viewing the world from a rational perspective, the speaker here allows his spirit to be lifted by the happy sight of daffodils.

There are many, many other Romantic characteristics in this poem, but for now, I'll leave you to enjoy the poem and ponder the daffodils as Good Friday/Earth Day comes to a close.

Tony Hoagland's "I Have News for You"

As an English major/teacher, I know I have a tendency toward over-thinking and over-analyzing. While this does make for interesting alone time and discussions with other aspiring English teachers, this does not necessarily make me a happy or well-adjusted person. Although I don't mind this part of my personality, I do sometimes wish I could be someone who could just get up in the morning and let the sweet breeze touch me all over my face.

"I Have News for You"
by Tony Hoagland

There are people who do not see a broken playground swing 
as a symbol of ruined childhood 

and there are people who don't interpret the behavior 
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process. 

There are people who don't walk past an empty swimming pool 
and think about past pleasures unrecoverable 

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians. 
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings 

do not send their sinuous feeder roots 
deep into the potting soil of others' emotional lives 

as if they were greedy six-year-olds 
sucking the last half-inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw; 

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without 
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality. 

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon? 
There are some people, unlike me and you, 

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as 
                   unattainable as that moon; 
thus, they do not later 
                          have to waste more time 
defaming the object of their former ardor. 

Or consequently run and crucify themselves 
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha. 

I have news for you— 
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room 

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in 
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies

Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!

Today is Poem in Your Pocket Day, and it is the perfect way to share a poem with someone. NPR, the home of all things intellectual (and somewhat geeky), even had a post on Poem in Your Pocket day. Sadly, I had an early morning (the day started at 5:15), so I didn't get to geek out with my students by giving them poems from my pocket.

To make up for this grievous oversight, I'm doing an extra post today to share a virtual poem with all of you.

"On the Death of a Colleague"
by Stephen Dunn

She taught theater, so we gathered
in the theater.
We praised her voice, her knowledge,
how good she was
with Godot and just four months later
with Gigi.
She was fifty. The problem in the liver.
Each of us recalled
an incident in which she'd been kind
or witty.
I told about being unable to speak
from my diaphragm
and how she made me lie down, placed her hand
where the failure was
and showed me how to breathe.
But afterwards
I only could do it when I lay down
and that became a joke
between us, and I told it as my offering
to the audience.
I was on stage and I heard myself
wishing to be impressive.
Someone else spoke of her cats
and no one spoke
of her face or the last few parties.
The fact was
I had avoided her for months.

It was a student's turn to speak, a sophomore,
one of her actors.
She was a drunk, he said, often came to class
reeking.
Sometimes he couldn't look at her, the blotches,
the awful puffiness.
And yet she was a great teacher,
he loved her,
but thought someone should say
what everyone knew
because she didn't die by accident.

Everyone was crying. Everyone was crying and it
was almost over now.
The remaining speaker, an historian, said he'd cut
his speech short.
And the Chairman stood up as if by habit,
said something about loss
and thanked us for coming. None of us moved
except some students
to the student who'd spoken, and then others
moved to him, across dividers,
down aisles, to his side of the stage.

It isn't too late to share a poem with someone. Poets.org even has printable pdfs of poems that you can easily put into your pocket.

Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art"

Although I had a difficult time in my senior English class in high school (I wasn't much of a critical/analytical thinker back in the day), it was one of my favorite and most memorable classes. Besides loving the teacher (who became my boss and friend later on when I started working at the school), I also loved the different literary works we read. We read Madame Bovary (which relates to a very vivid memory of the aforementioned teacher comparing the beat of the horses' hooves on the ground to orgasm), Crime and Punishment (not nearly as sexy as Bovary but absolutely fascinating), and The Inferno.

However, my favorite unit was the poetry unit. I still have my old Sound and Sense book (what can I say - I'm an English geek), and to this day, one of my absolute favorite poems is "if everything happens that can't be done" by e. e. cummings. Another memorable poem we read was Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art." While I hadn't thought of the poem in a while, a student I was working with mentioned it today, and my memories of hearing my English teacher read it came back to me.


One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

For anyone who has lost anything significant, be it a loved one or an object or something else, this poem probably rings very true. On one hand, as my student noted, the speaker is trying to deal with loss through writing. Just as Rosenblatt has argued, writing is compulsion and is how we often deal with stress and heartbreak. Even though writing can make things seem final, it is also a way of acknowledging a loss and moving on from it.

However, I don't fully believe that argument because the speaker is protesting too much. While she or he might be trying to deal with the loss of many things, it is obvious that the words, on some level, ring false. The final line, with the emphatic direction (Write it!) only serves to show that the author is trying to convince herself that this loss isn't a major problem. The poem's form (it's a villanelle), with its emphasis on repetition, only highlight the fact that the speaker doesn't believe what she is saying. The more she says "the art of losing isn't hard to master" and variations on "it isn't a disaster," the less impact these lines have. It is almost like she is trying to convince us (and herself) that this is true.

Philip Appleman's "Cramming for Finals"

Although it hardly feels like it, finals are just around the corner (just over a month to go in the case of my students). As an English major and theatre history minor, preparing for finals meant rereading pages and pages of notes, annotating and highlighting text to try to memorize for in-class essays, and repeating ad nauseam notes on books and authors. I also recall long nights in the student union, sitting with my friends as we tried the divide and conquer method with the 20 Shakespearean plays we were going to be tested on for one final.

While these memories probably don't sound very fun, they weren't that bad. Just as "there are no atheists in a foxhole," the people involved in a cramming session become, at least for the moment, incredibly good friends. About three hours in, we would all get loopy, and all of the authors and their works started running together.

"Cramming for Finals" perfectly captures this giddy mix of euphoria, desperation, and confusion that often comes with an end of the semester study session.

"Cramming for Finals"
by Philip Appleman

End of term, will a six-pack do us
while we speed-read Upton Sinclair Lewis?
So far behind, can we possibly ever
catch up on E. A. Robinson Jeffers?
Who said it was going to be multiple choice
on the later work of O. Henry James Joyce?
What's the plot of The Rise of Silas Marner? Who
remembers the Swiss Family Robinson Cru-
soe? Midnight—late. One A.M.—tardy.
Was Laurence Sterne? Was Thomas Hardy?
And hey—was John Gay?
Oh, let's take a break and all get mellow,
take our chances on Henry Wordsworth Longfellow,
and maybe later give a lick and a promise
to the earlier lyrics of Bob Dylan Thomas.

As a self-professed English nerd (or maybe I'm a geek), I love the puns and the mixed-up author names. Yes, this is the sort of thing that makes me happy.

National Poetry Month 2011 & "The Iceberg Theory" by Gerald Locklin

Even though we're dealing with a bad April fool's joke from Mother Nature in the Northeast, there is cause to celebrate. Today marks the beginning of National Poetry Month, and I will be blogging about poetry throughout April (and I will try my best to post about a poem at least once a week).

To kick off National Poetry Month (and fit in a Foodie Friday post), today's poem is

"The Iceberg Theory"
by Gerald Locklin

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
orpheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
veriaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

I guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
It doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
It just isn't different enough and
it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize;
a critic has to have something to say
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an Italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
to pretend that I'm enjoying.

This poem is the perfect love letter for anyone who has read a piece of contemporary poetry and wondered, "What on earth do the critics see in this?" The central metaphor that compares the type of poetry that the speaker likes to the humble (and often maligned) iceberg lettuce is very fitting.

I also enjoy this poem because of an embarrassing teacher faux pas I made when teaching high school. Having first encountered this poem in an anthology compiled by Garrison Keillor, I read through the poem and typed up what I thought was a clean copy minus the curse words. While they might not be a big deal in some schools, I was teaching at a small, private, religious school in the south. When I had a student volunteer read the poem, she read it, with great gusto, taking care to emphasize certain words in the second and third stanzas. While I still shake my head at my oversight, I also have to laugh every time I read this poem.

Two Poems for this Time of Year

Just in case you managed to be blissfully unaware of yesterday's anniversary (and the controversy surrounding it), the media was doing everything in its power to bring it to your attention. While I managed to avoid network news and even my favorite news websites, I was pleasantly surprised by the two poems selected (purposefully or not) by the Poets.org Poem-a-Day subscription I get via email and iPhone everyday. While the poem yesterday is about acknowledging and dealing with grief, today's poem had a decidedly more hopeful tone and reminds us about the great ideals America can and should stand for. It is a lesson that, sadly, many people still need to learn.

Yesterday's Poem: "I measure every Grief I meet"

by Emily Dickinson

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes –
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long –
Or did it just begin –
I could not tell the Date of Mine –
It feels so old a pain –

I wonder if it hurts to live –
And if They have to try –
And whether – could They choose between –
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –
At length, renew their smile –
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –
Some Thousands – on the Harm –
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve –
Enlightened to a larger Pain –
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –
There is the various Cause –
Death – is but one – and comes but once –
And only nails the eyes –

There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –
A sort they call "Despair" –
There's Banishment from native Eyes –
In sight of Native Air –

And though I may not guess the kind –
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –

To note the fashions – of the Cross –
And how they're mostly worn –
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like my own –

Today's Poem: "The New Collusus"

by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

R. S. Gwynn's "Shakespearean Sonnet "

In honor of Shakespeare's birthday (which is traditionally celebrated on April 23), here is R. S. Gwynn's awesome "Shakespearean Sonnet," which encapsulates the plots of 14 of Shakespeare's plays. It is pure, unadulterated, literary fun, and reading it makes me wish that I was still teaching British literature (how much fun would it be to have students go through the sonnet and try to name the different plays?).

“Shakespearean Sonnet”
R. S. Gwynn

(With a first line taken from the tv listings)

A man is haunted by his father's ghost.
A boy and girl love while their families fight.
A Scottish king is murdered by his host.
Two couples get lost on a summer night.
A hunchback murders all who block his way.
A ruler's rivals plot against his life.
A fat man and a prince make rebels pay.
A noble Moor has doubts about his wife.
An English king decides to conquer France.
A duke learns that his best friend is a she.
A forest sets the scene for this romance.
An old man and his daughters disagree.
A Roman leader makes a big mistake.
A sexy queen is bitten by a snake.

Dorothy Parker's "The Passionate Freudian to His Love"

Once upon a time, I taught British literature to a group of lovely high school students. While I thought that Brit lit was okay (I would take American literature any day of the week), I did enjoy some of the carpe diem poetry (main theme: life is short, so let's live it up!). Among the carpe diem poems in our incredibly heavy textbook was Christopher Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love."

Marlowe's poem inspired a number of responses, with the most famous being Sir Walter Raleigh's "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd." However, I wasn't aware that the wonderfully acidic Dorothy Parker had written a witty parody of the poem until I received it as part of the "Poem-a-Day" email from Poets.org.

"The Passionate Freudian to His Love"
by Dorothy Parker

Only name the day, and we'll fly away
In the face of old traditions,
To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot,
Where we'll park our inhibitions.
Come and gaze in eyes where the lovelight lies
As it psychoanalyzes,
And when once you glean what your fantasies mean
Life will hold no more surprises.
When you've told your love what you're thinking of
Things will be much more informal;
Through a sunlit land we'll go hand-in-hand,
Drifting gently back to normal.

While the pale moon gleams, we will dream sweet dreams,
And I'll win your admiration,
For it's only fair to admit I'm there
With a mean interpretation.
In the sunrise glow we will whisper low
Of the scenes our dreams have painted,
And when you're advised what they symbolized
We'll begin to feel acquainted.
So we'll gaily float in a slumber boat
Where subconscious waves dash wildly;
In the stars' soft light, we will say good-night—
And "good-night!" will put it mildly.

Our desires shall be from repressions free—
As it's only right to treat them.
To your ego's whims I will sing sweet hymns,
And ad libido repeat them.
With your hand in mine, idly we'll recline
Amid bowers of neuroses,
While the sun seeks rest in the great red west
We will sit and match psychoses.
So come dwell a while on that distant isle
In the brilliant tropic weather;
Where a Freud in need is a Freud indeed,
We'll always be Jung together.

Foodie Fridays: Two Food-Related Poems

Even though I like spring in New England, these two poems have me ready for summer and fresh, local produce that doesn't taste like tennis balls...

"Watermelons"
by Charles Simic

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.


"This is Just to Say"
by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

from "Ani Maamin" by Elie Wiesel: A Poem for Yom Hashoah

from Ani Maamin: A Song Lost and Found Again
by Elie Wiesel

I believe, Abraham,
Despite Treblinka.
I believe, Isacc,
Because of Belsen.
I believe, Jacob,
Because and in spite of Majdanek.
Dead in vain,
Dead for naught,
I believe.
Pray men.
Pray to God,
Against God,
For God.
I believe.
Whether the Messiah comes,
I believe.
Or is late in coming,
I believe.
Whether God is silent
Or weeps,
I believe.
I believe for him,
In spite of him.
I believe in you,
Even against your will.
Even if you punish me
For believing in you.
Blessed are the fools
Who shout their faith.
Blessed are the fools
Who go on laughing.
Who mock the man who mocks the Jew,
Who help their brothers
Singing, over and over and over:
I believe.
I believe in the coming of the Messiah,
And though he tarries,
I wait daily for his coming.
I believe.

Hans Ostrom's "Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven"

I really wanted to do a food-related poem today (because I need to get better about this Foodie Friday thing), but my love for this poem won out. There's something wonderfully loopy and touching about the idea that Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley striking up a friendship in heaven. Although it seems incongruous at first, this poem does a nice job convincing you that this couple makes a great deal of sense...

“Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven”
Hans Ostrom

They call each other E. Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.

In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers

and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.

Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.

Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing "I Taste a Liquor
Never Brewed" to the tune of "Love Me Tender."

Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst

or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It's because America
was their hometown. It's because

God is a thing
without feathers. It's because
God wears blue suede shoes.

There is so much to like about this poem. In addition to its playfulness (Emily only wants to be friends with Elvis) and its allusions to the works of both Emily and Elvis, I love how Ostrom skillfully makes the connection between Emily and Elvis seem not just plausible but natural. Although it might seem like a leap from the Belle of Amherst to the King of Rock and Roll, this poem shows that, besides being skilled artists and icons, they are both undeniably American in their own way. Consequently, God has made these two roommates, and they have forged a true friendship (and perhaps have found the companionship that eluded them on earth).

Besides reading this poem to yourself, be certain to check out the dramatization of it on YouTube, with the author reading the poem. It is beautifully done (sorry for not embedding it in the post - it was a tad too wide to fit).

Wendy Cope's "The Ted Williams Villanelle"

Tomorrow, Boston gets to celebrate two religious events. Not only is it Easter, but it is also opening day for the Red Sox. While comparing the two might seem sacrilegious, if you know any Red Sox fans, then you are also aware that baseball is like a religion to those people. To add to the general insanity of opening day, the Sox are playing the Yankees, so things are bound to get a little crazy in Fenway tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I don't really like sports; I can tolerate most of them, but baseball and football leave me completely perplexed. When you add in the increased traffic and noise, baseball season is enough to make me wish for the silent chill of winter.

On a brighter note, the start of baseball season did remind me of Wendy Cope's brilliant "The Ted Williams Villanelle." Besides being in one of my favorite poetry styles, the poem offers a wonderful example of extended metaphor (or conceit, for you English majors) that is understandable and relatable.

Although it is about baseball, its ideas apply to most facets of life. In many ways, this poem is a strange but wondrous mix of "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" and Rudyard Kipling's "If-". Even as it urges us to ignore the negative influences around us, it also encourages us to enjoy life while we can.

Enjoy, and "don't let anybody mess with your swing"!

The Ted Williams Villanelle
"Don't let anybody mess with your swing."
- Ted Williams, baseball player

Watch the ball and do your thing.
This is the moment. Here's your chance.
Don't let anybody mess with your swing.

Its time to shine. You're in the ring.
Step forward, adopt a winning stance,
Watch the ball and do your thing,

And while the ball is taking wing,
Run without a backward glance.
Don't let anybody mess with your swing.

Don't let envious bastards bring
You down. Ignore the sneers, the can'ts.
watch the ball and do your thing.

Sing out, if you want to sing.
Jump up, when you long to dance.
Don't let anybody mess with your swing.

Enjoy your talents. Have your fling.
The seasons change. The years advance.
Watch the ball and do your thing,
And don't let anybody mess with your swing.

(C)Wendy Cope (1945-)
(for Ari Badaines)

Tom Wayman's "Did I Miss Anything?"

As a teacher, there are several inevitable questions that you come to dread. While these questions usually include "Why are you failing my child?" and "Will this be on the test?" and even "Do we need to write this down?", perhaps the most dreaded question is "Did I miss anything?"

This last question is upsetting on a number of levels. One of the main reasons it annoys me is that it has an obvious answer. If you missed class, of course you missed something. What's more, since most teachers carefully plan their lessons and don't sit around during a given class period reading the newspaper or twiddling their thumbs, chances are you missed something important.

Tom Wayman's poem "Did I Miss Anything?" addresses the responses that some teachers might like to give when students ask that dreaded question. While some might find it overly sarcastic and off-putting, if handled with humor, it is also very fun. I had a teacher who would hand out this poem on the first day of class before discussing his policy for tardiness and absences. Be certain to also check out the FAQ about the poem, where Wayman discusses the rationale behind writing the poem and the poem's meaning.

National Poetry Month Starts Tomorrow

April is National Poetry Month, and in keeping with that, I plan on dedicating a post each week to poetry. I'm looking forward to it, but I must admit that I'm not 100% certain which poems I will be writing about. If you have a particular poem or poet that you would like to recommend, please feel free to leave me a comment!

If you are looking for poetry resources for April, here are a few of my favorites:

• Poets.org
• Poem Flow
• Poetry 180
• Favorite Poem Project
• Poetry Out Loud