Ok, so there are some objective factors in analyzing great literature. Even tho I don't particularly care for Dante, his stuff is, empirically, great. And it says more about me than him that I cant' really dig it.
On the other hand, there is a place where you just have to ask, "Do I like it?" and part of that question is, "Does it affect me? Does it touch me in some core, some place where it just feels right?"
On a miserable, snowy hunt in Robertson County, back in 97, I had trudged up a hill in a cold, blinding snow. Had a good spot picked out, heard the bad boys but never saw any of them. Just sat there cold, being unhappy that I had taken a day off on such a miserable day and no deer to show for it. As the sun came up, three crows jumped out of the cedar tree next to me, a crash of wings and raucous "caws" announcing the dawn. I like to think that I redeemed part of the day because I was able to get that close to them (last of the Mohicans, here) and because I really like crows.
Later on, I came across a short ditty by Robert Frost:
The way a crow shook down on me
A dust of snow from a hemlock tree
Has given my heart a change of mood
And saved a part of a day I'd rued
We can talk about iambic tetrameter, internal rhyme or how because all the words except two are native to English the sound is strong and direct... but in the end, it just captures a moment, for Frost and me.
He does it again in "They Were Welcome to Their Belief"
Grief may have thought it was grief.
Care may have thought it was care.
They were welcome to their belief,
The overimportant pair.
No, it took all the snows that clung
To the low roof over his bed,
Beginning when he was young,
To induce the one snow on his head.
But whenever the roof came white
The head in the dark below
Was a shade less the color of night,
A shade more the color of snow.
Grief may have thought it was grief.
Care may have thought it was care.
But neither one was the thief
Of his raven color of hair.
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2 comments:
I must admit, although I love poetry, and have read "The Inferno" and love Robert Frost ("He gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is some mistake..." along with the sadly melancholy E.A. Poe, I know little about the inner workings of poetry. I just know I like it, and at one time, thought to be one, although that notion faded as quickly as my youth. Thanks for bringing some neat stuff to my day, brother, even though I have, by now, completely demonstrated my gross lack of intellect to the entire world. :o)
Later, Gator.
Could good jokes be considered poetry? If so, I think I could actually enjoy this stuff. :o
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