The Love I have for Poetry

One of William Stafford's definitions, from his essay "Making a Poem/Starting a Car on Ice," where he says that "A poem is anything said in such a way or put on the page in such a way as to invite from the hearer or reader a certain kind of attention."  How else to explain why some are able to find poetry where others do not? I like the implication that there is a latency in poetry which only manifests itself when "a certain kind of attention" is turned upon it.
 
But if you don't like Stafford's definition, here are some others to add fuel to the fire.
 
I would define poetry as the rhythmical creation of beauty.
- Edgar Allen Poe


Prose: words in their best order; poetry: the best words in the best
order.
- S. T. Coleridge


... the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an
illusion of the imagaination...
- Macaulay


...the record of the best and happiest moments of the best and
happiest minds...
- Shelley


...speech framed...to be heard for its own sake and interest even over
and above its interest of meaning...
- Gerard Manley Hopkins


...the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from and overclothed
blindness to a naked vi- sion...
- Dylan Thomas

... a verbal artifact which must be as skillfully and solidly constructed
as a table or a motorcyle...
- W. H. Auden


Poetry amounts to arranging words with the greatest specific gravity in the
most effective and externally inevitable sequence.
- Joseph Brodsky
 
 

I sometimes begin a poetry unit by asking the students, since everyone
knows what poetry is, how they would define it. Then we compare our results
with some of the above definitions, noting, of course, that some are
themselves more "poetic" than others. Whatever that means.
I love the book and the look of words the weight of ideas that popped into my mind I love the tracks of new thinking in my mind. -Maya Angelou
 
 
Don't worry about not measuring up to other writers. No one has the same
genetic makeup, the same life experiences as you. No one else sees the
world quite the way you do, or can express it quite the same way. You're
already the worlds foremost expert on you. -Charles Webb


If you want to write poetry, you must have poems that deeply move you.
Poems you can't live without. I think of a poem as the blood in a blood
transfusion, given from the heart of the poet to the heart of the reader.
Seek after poems that live inside you, poems that move through your veins.
-Ralph Fletcher


One good way to start writing poetry is to read all kinds of poetry: not
just in order to imitate but to fill up your head with it, to absorb it,
to make poetry an essential part of how you view the world. -Valerie
Worth
Writing poems can be a way of pinning down a dream (almost); capturing a
moment, a memory, a happening; and, at the same time, it's a way of
sorting out your thoughts and feelings. Sometimes the words tell you what
you didn't know you knew. -Lillian Morrison


To me, poetry is a marriage of craft and imagination. The making of a
poem requires attention to form, sound, revision, and precision. But
imagination lifts you from a lawn chair to the clouds. And this is the
mystery of poetry. -Christine E. Hemp


A lot of people think they can write poetry, and many do, because they can
figure out how to line up the words or make certain sounds rhyme or just
imitate the other poets they've read. But this boy, he's the real poet,
because when he tries to put on paper what he's seen with his heart, he
will believe deep down that there are no good words for it, no words can
do it, and at that moment he will have begun to write poetry. -Cynthia Rylant
I write first drafts with only the good angel on my shoulder, the voice
that approves of everything I write. This voice does'nt ask ques- tions
like, Is this good? Is this a poem? Are you a poet? I keep this voice
at a distance, letting only the good angel whisper to me: Trust yourself.
You can't worry a poem into existence. -Georgia Heard


Valentine for Ernest Mann
You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, I'll take two
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, Here's my address,
write me a poem, deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are shad- ows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.
Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He could'nt understand why she was crying.
I thought they had such beautiful eyes.
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been
hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us,
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but
not quite.
And let me know.
-Naomi Shihab Nye
Things
Went to the corner
Walked in the store
Bought me some candy
Ain't got it no more
Ain't got it no more
Went to the beach
Played on the shore
Built me a sandhouse
Ain't got it no more
Ain't got it no more
Went to the kitchen
Lay down on the floor
Made me a poem
Still got it
Still got it
-Eloise Greenfield
-
After English Class
I used to like Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.
I liked the coming darkness,
The jingle of harness bells, breaking--and adding to
--the stillness,
The gentle drift of snow. . . .
But today, the teacher told us what everything stood for.
The woods, the horse, the miles to go, the sleep--
They all have hidden meanings.
It's grown so complicated now that,
Next time I drive by,
I don't think I'll bother to stop.
-Jean Little's _Hey World, Here I am_
Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
of night. Come whistling up the road
Stomp on the porch. Bang in the door
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon.
See that I see. Talk to me
'Till I'm half as wide awake
As you are. -Robert Francis
What's in My Journal
Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
things, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfusca- tion, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you cant find them. Someones terri- bly
inevitable life story, maybe mind. -William Stafford

Time for Our family

After 21 years of marriage, my wife wanted me to take another woman out to dinner and a movie. She said, “I love you, but I know this other woman loves you and would love to spend some time with you.”
The other woman that my wife wanted me to visit was my MOTHER, who has been a widow for 19 years, but the demands of my work and my three children had made it possible to visit her only occasionally. That night I called to invite her to go out for dinner and a movie. “What’s wrong, are you well?” she asked.

My mother is the type of woman who suspects that a late night call or a surprise invitation is a sign of bad news. “I thought that it would be pleasant to spend some time with you,” I responded. “Just the two of us.” She thought about it for a moment, and then said, “I would like that very much.”

That Friday after work, as I drove over to pick her up I was a bit nervous. When I arrived at her house, I noticed that she, too, seemed to be nervous about our date. She waited in the door with her coat on. She had curled her hair and was wearing the dress that she had worn to celebrate her last wedding anniversary. She smiled from a face that was as radiant as an angel’s. “I told my friends that I was going to go out with my son, and they were impressed, “she said, as she got into the car. “They can’t wait to hear about our meeting.”

We went to a restaurant that, although not elegant, was very nice and cozy. My mother took my arm as if she were the First Lady. After we sat down, I had to read the menu. Her eyes could only read large print. Half way through the entries, I lifted my eyes and saw Mom sitting there staring at me. A nostalgic smile was on her lips. “It was I who used to have to read the menu when you were small,” she said. “Then it’s time that you relax and let me return the favor,” I responded. During the dinner, we had an agreeable conversation – nothing extraordinary but catching up on recent events of each other’s life. We talked so much that we missed the movie. As we arrived at her house later, she said, “I’ll go out with you again, but only if you let me invite you.” I agreed.

“How was your dinner date?” asked my wife when I got home. “Very nice. Much more so than I could have imagined,” I answered.

A few days later, my mother died of a massive heart attack. It happened so suddenly that I didn’t have a chance to do anything for her. Some time later, I received an envelope with a copy of a restaurant receipt from the same place mother and I had dined. An attached note said: “I paid this bill in advance. I wasn’t sure that I could be there; but nevertheless, I paid for two plates – one for you and the other for your wife. You will never know what that night meant for me. I love you, son.”

At that moment, I understood the importance of saying in time: “I LOVE YOU” and to give our loved ones the time that they deserve. Nothing in life is more important than your family. Give them the time they deserve, because these things cannot be put off till “some other time.”