Discovering Poetry...Or Not

We're into Romanticism in my British Lit class, and it's right up my alley. I used to be a staunch anti-poetry kind of girl - like Jess from Gilmore Girls would complain, "just say it already!" I've always found poetry too fussy and convoluted for my taste. Of course, there were occasional snippets of poetry I found pleasing - Robert Frost's "Nothing Gold Can Stay", for example - unforgettable in its simplistic power. Proof? I can still recite it from heart, even though I haven't read it in about five years.

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Nature's first green is gold

Its hardest hue to hold

Its early leaf a flower

But only so an hour

So leaf subsides to leaf

So Eden sank to grief

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay.

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Again, powerful stuff, eh? (Alright, it's only eight lines, but considering that I don't remember what we did in one of my AP classes last week, it's pretty freaking remarkable. Also, not sure if the poem was in that format, but I like space between couplets. It just creates more dramatic tension in between). I did love Whitman in sophomore year though - exuberant and spontaneous, like he was half-choking in his eagerness to get all his feelings out. That's what I'm talking about. 

Then I saw Bright Star, and of course, it had me muttering the titular poem for a full week, and ever since seeing the movie and pondering/pontificating endlessly over it, I've gained a newfound interest and appreciation for poetry. Not any poetry, however, just Romanticism. So far. I sure ain't pickin' up any TS Elliot anytime soon. 

My new theory is that unlike books or plays, reading poetry cannot teach anything new to the reader. Reading a story can expose you to new perspectives and theories, disturbing ideals and rich trivia - but poetry can only internalize what you already know. You either get it or you don't. That's the basis of expressing the inexpressible - it boils down to the same moments as when you struggle to explain something to a friend, and can only end with "you - you know what I mean?" and the friend will know exactly what you mean, or shake their heads slowly. So why does Romanticism appeal to me? Oh, the whole nature-emotions shebang - pretty appropriate for a girl who spent half of her childhood reading books, and the other half staring at plants, dirt, and skies for hours on end. Literally. 

And really, to put it crudely, what is Romantic poetry but a bunch of guys dreaming and feeling as they stare at pretty scenery? So yeah. I'm pretty tight with these guys.

On Wordsworth right now, and I just adored "The World Is Too Much With Us" and "As I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud". The first one is extremely applicable to the modern world - it's Wordsworth's lament about how everyone is too caught up in the dirty business of living, and not pausing enough to take time and reflect, meditate, and smell the roses. I can only nod empathetically. This may be a betrayal of my generation, but sometimes I just want to rip the cell phones away from my peers - for fuck's sake, is "having dinner. u?" really conversation worthy? Reticence can be truly enjoyable, people. Really. I text rarely, but I've read the text-conversation of other people, and it's truly mind-boggling how useless and just fucking, fucking mundane they are. It's like, WHY BOTHER?

Anyhoo, "As I Wandered" is just so....delightful. It's just so sweet and wholly redeeming. If it doesn't make you smile, you should probably go help out a homeless shelter or jump off a cliff.

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.

Dancing daffodils in the breeze! It's just precious beyond words. And I mean that without a drop of cynicism.

Can't wait for Keats. I'm anticipating sharing Bright Star's audio-orchestral version at the end credits of Whishaw's recitation of "Ode to a Nightingale" with my teacher. The orchestral music alone is just devastating, but combined with Whishaw's voice (not sure how to describe it - it's velvety and haunting and tender all at once), it just sets up to be an epic win.