I've discovered over my years of reading poems that voice is incredibly important to me. Whether it's the voice of an omniscient narrator or a narrator who's telling the story in the first person, I need to be captivated by the tone and language in order to get into the work and keep reading.
I also most appreciate writers who use everyday language and straightforward diction, without any attempt to puzzle or frustrate the reader. But at the same time I want the poems to somehow say more than the words themselves do. I want the mystery and the glory of a poem to arise from the way the poet has put words together. I think that the poets I describe below all exemplify this kind of writing, which is why I like them so much.
April, of course, is National Poetry Month, but let's begin with a novel, although one about poetry. I found Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist a delight to read. The voice of narrator Paul Chowder immediately drew me in. He's a published (but not to such great acclaim) poet who has been hired to compile an anthology called Only Rhyme and to write its introduction as well.
Read Madeline DeFrees' "To Marilyn Monroe Whose Favorite Color Was White" and hear DeFrees read the poem at a celebration of her 87th birthday.
The introduction will give him a chance to expound on his belief that rhyme is necessary to poetry, that it, at one time, was a primary part of poetry now sadly lacking in the work of most modern poets. But Paul is totally blocked on writing this, an occurrence that has caused his longtime girlfriend to abandon him. (It seems to me that much of the book we're reading is the introduction Paul is unable to write.) It was fascinating to read Paul's explanations of meter and scansion, and especially his pet cause, the importance of rhyme in poetry. But what I really appreciate about Paul is that he loves two of the poets I adore. They're names you seldom if ever hear mentioned anymore, and you certainly don't find them anthologized in collections anymore: Sara Teasdale and Howard Moss.
Here are some of my favorite poets:
Whether Madeline DeFrees' subject is Ulysses S. Grant, Marilyn Monroe, Clare of Assisi or the sadness of a loved one leaving, her poems offer a myriad of pleasures. DeFrees joined a convent when she was 17, and remained in the order of the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary for the next 38 years, until she left in 1973. A good collection of her poetry can be found in Blue Dusk: New & Selected Poems, 1951-2001. She writes with a mixture of quiet humor, a deep awareness and appreciation of nature, love, loss and the blessings and pain of solitude. As with all good poetry, every word in every poem is important. One poem begins, "The day you were leaving," and each time I read it I am wonderstruck when I arrive at the last two lines, which play with the first in a way that makes you reconsider the whole of the poem.
The poems in Paul Guest's My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge are astounding and unforgettable. They all reflect — either obviously or more subtly — a central fact of the author's life: a bicycle accident at age 12 left him permanently paralyzed. The power of the poems comes from the accumulation of detail. As he explores his feelings at forever being set apart from those who are able to move their bodies at will, Guest's tone is colored by anger and bitterness, and frequently by a sadness so deep and pervasive that his poems are often literally painful to read.
Here's how the poem "Bad Mood" begins:
Bad mood and bad dog and bad luck like my broken neck or heart or head playing out so much bad weather like kinked yarn unraveled by a bad black cat, which summons luck again, that diffident lover half naked in the dark.
And here's the start of "My Life Among":
I'm beginning to dream of my life among the ornamental, the vaguely functional, the doorsteps and paperweights, my tenure in the legion of lawn gnomes, my brotherhood with novelty decanters, my solidarity with the generally useless, the inscrutably devised, the deformed idea, the Elvis clock, the flea market phantasm, the broken stapler clicking toothlessly, the pen caddy unpenned,
"Vaguely functional" — wow, what a thing to say about yourself. Start with the first of the remarkable poems in this powerful, remarkable book, titled "User's Guide to Physical Debilitation." I don't think you'll be able to resist reading on.
I have always loved the poetry of Donald Justice. The notebooks of favorite quotations, excerpts and poems that I've been keeping since my freshman year of college are filled with examples of his work. For me, reading through his Collected Poems is like meeting up with an old friend. Justice seemed to enjoy setting himself a challenge by writing a poem using a particularly difficult form, like a sestina or villanelle. One of the most difficult to do well is the pantoum. According to Wikipedia, the pantoum is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final."
Doesn't sound at all easy, does it? Take a look at Justice's "Pantoum of the Great Depression" to see a master at work.
Louise Bogan's work was at one time so esteemed that she was appointed the fourth poet laureate to the Library of Congress in 1945 and was, for a time, poetry editor of The New Yorker, but she has been virtually forgotten since. Bogan's poems are mostly short lyrics that deal with women's lives from various aspects — their strengths, their limitations, their desires, their dreams. My favorite is called "Last Hill in a Vista," from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968.
Many of the poems of two iconic Northwest poets are also well represented in my poetry notebooks: William Stafford's and Richard Hugo's works fill up many a page. If you're not familiar with these poets, or need a slight refresher in their writings, read on:
What I most appreciate about Stafford's The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems is the way the narrator's personality comes through in each poem. After finishing them, I feel as though I know the speaker intimately: his thoughts, his hopes, his fears. Stafford sometimes uses rhyme in his poems, although not always, and the poems themselves seem deceptively easy to get until you read them two or three times, when the meanings behind the meaning begins to grow on you. "Reaching Out to Turn on a Light" is such a poem; the last stanza will take your breath away.
Making Certain It Goes On: The Collected Poems of Richard Hugo is filled with memorable lines and poems that I read and reread, and each time find something new to appreciate. Like Stafford's poetry, Hugo's is conversational and totally approachable. He writes about what it's like to live in this world, one filled with friendship, love and loss, and especially the places he has lived and loved. My favorite poem of Hugo's is "Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg," which begins: "You might come here Sunday on a whim./Say your life broke down. The last good kiss/you had was years ago."
(Incidentally, novelist James Crumley used a quote from these lines to title his absolutely-not-to-be-missed thriller, The Last Good Kiss.)
If you're looking for a way to get someone, child or adult, interested in reading poetry, you can't do better than introducing him or her (and yourself) to "Visions in Poetry," a new series of books from Kids Can Press. So far, there are seven books: Ernest Thayer's Casey at the Bat, Edward Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat, Alfred Lord Tennyson's The Lady of Shalott, Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven, Alfred Noyes' The Highwayman, Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky, and My Letter to the World and Other Poems by Emily Dickinson. Each poem has been paired with illustrations from a contemporary artist: Stephane Jorisch's whimsical interpretation of Lear's poem; Genevieve Cote's colorfully delicate pictures accompanying Tennyson's poem; Joe Morse's thought-provoking rendition of Casey at the Bat, set against the background of an inner-city sandlot baseball game.
Morse's illustrations are certainly not how I had ever pictured Casey and the Mudville 9, and to be honest, I was initially a bit put off by them. Yet the more I studied them and reread the poem, I realized that Morse had taken what is essentially a great example of light verse and given it a depth and resonance I could never have imagined.
And, since I'm being so honest here, I was delighted to acquaint myself with Tennyson's well-known poem, The Lady of Shalott. Despite the fact that I was an English major (and was deep into the whole Camelot schtick — and Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur — all through college and beyond), and although I was familiar with several of the quotable lines of the poem (Agatha Christie used the first three words of the line "The mirror crack'd from side to side" as the title of one of her mysteries, for example), I had never actually read the poem itself.
Each of the books has a useful section of notes on the poet and poem as well as a brief discussion of the artist's interpretation of the work. All in all, it's a well-conceived, finely executed series, aimed at readers 10 and up. Bravo to Kids Can Press.
Nancy Pearl's picks for National Poetry Month
1. The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker; hardcover, 256 pages; Simon & Schuster; list price: $25 2. Blue Dusk: New & Selected Poems, 1951-2001 by Madeline DeFrees; paperback, 240 pages; Copper Canyon Press; list price: $16 3. My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge by Paul Guest; paperback, 96 pages; Ecco; list price: $13.99 4. Collected Poems by Donald Justice; paperback, 304 pages; Knopf; list price: $16.95 5. The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968 by Louise Bogan; paperback, 136 pages; Farrar, Straus and Giroux; list price: $15 6. The Way It Is: New & Selected Poems by William Stafford; paperback, 268 pages; Graywolf Press; list price: $16 7. Making Certain It Goes On: The Collected Poems of Richard Hugo by Richard Hugo; paperback, 496 pages; W. W. Norton & Co.; list price: $19.95 8. "Visions in Poetry" series by various poets; hardcover; Kids Can Press
To Marilyn Monroe Whose Favorite Color Was White
Madeline DeFrees reads 'To Marilyn Monroe Whose Favorite Color Was White'
When you wriggled onto the silver screen, Marilyn — honey blonde or platinum — I was a nun. I found you too late in your satin sleep. Now, three decades past, I grieve from that ancient cloister, the alabaster body, my beautiful buried sister. Convent movies had to be clean as bleach. Even your titles
went wrong: All About Eve. The Seven Year Itch. The Asphalt Jungle. Some Like It hot. How to Marry a Millionaire. Sex was a bullet I dodged, that shot on the subway grate! Skirts lifted to seventh heaven, you scared me all right, as you scared your jealous husband.
Yet Joe was your friend in the end as I hope to be. Bride at sixteen like you, given another name, I was cast with the world's invisible millionaire. We didn't know who we were, Norma Jean, too young to care. Even now I imagine you posed — a pin-up everywhere woman who did it for 50 dollars. I resent
the photographer smirking away with the loot: the generous milky breasts and bottom, pout of a wounded child. Too bad the badlife fate guaranteed you: dashing absent father, unmarried mother who had to be locked away. Say cheese, Marilyn. Open those pearly gates,
come back with me to my former marmoreal splendor: the lily-pad I escaped that was never my passion. Ivory walls, skulls in our heads all day. Snowy sheets and colorless towels. Chaste linens framing the parchment faces. It was color I missed most of all, white sister. I hated the pallor. I want you to play
this part over. I want to barge in as your crazy mother stealing the scene: capsules washed down the drain in a lethal river. The beauty startled awake in the last act from that white sleep history promised.
From Blue Dusk: New & Selected Poems, 1951-2001 by Madeline DeFrees. Copyright 2001 by Madeline DeFrees. Reprinted by permission, Copper Canyon Press. All Rights Reserved.
Should the painful condition of irreversible paralysis last longer than forever or at least until your death by bowling ball or illegal lawn dart or the culture of death, which really has it out for whoever has seen better days but still enjoys bruising marathons of bird watching, you, or your beleaguered caregiver stirring dark witch's brews of resentment inside what had been her happy life, should turn to page seven where you can learn, assuming higher cognitive functions were not pureed by your selfish misfortune, how to leave the house for the first time in two years. An important first step, with apologies for the thoughtlessly thoughtless metaphor. When not an outright impossibility or form of neurological science fiction, sexual congress will either be with tourists in the kingdom of your tragedy, performing an act of sadistic charity; with the curious, for whom you will be beguilingly blank canvas; or with someone blindly feeling their way through an extended power outage caused by summer storms you once thought romantic. Page twelve instructs you how best to be inspiring to Magnus next door as he throws old Volkswagens into orbit above Alberta. And to Betty in her dark charm confiding a misery, whatever it is, that to her seems equivalent to yours. The curl of her hair that her finger knows better and beyond what you will, even in the hypothesis of heaven when you sleep. This guide is intended to prepare you for falling down and declaring detente with gravity, else you reach the inevitable end of scaring small children by your presence alone. Someone once said of crushing helplessness: it is a good idea to avoid that. We agree with that wisdom but gleaming motorcycles are hard to turn down or safely stop at speeds which melt aluminum. Of special note are sections regarding faith healing, self-loathing, abstract hobbies like theoretical spelunking and extreme atrophy, and what to say to loved ones who won't stop shrieking at Christmas dinner. New to this edition is an index of important terms such as catheter, pain, blackout, pathological deltoid obsession, escort service, magnetic resonance imaging, loss of friends due to superstitious fear, and, of course, amputation above the knee due to pernicious gangrene. It is our hope that this guide will be a valuable resource during this long stretch of boredom and dread and that it may be of some help, however small, to cope with your new life and the gradual, bittersweet loss of every God damned thing you ever loved.
From My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge: Poems by Paul Guest. Copyright 2008 by Paul Guest. Reprinted by permission, Ecco, a division of HarperCollins. All Rights Reserved.