Three Poems Down, 97 to Go

All around the web, industrious people are making lists of the 100 best poems of all time. Can you imagine? I couldn’t do one hundred of anything, except maybe peanut M&Ms on a very bad day. But I like thinking about poetry, so I thought I’d try ten at a time, starting with Chaucer and, proceeding in groups of ten until I ended with Seamus Heaney. Sadly, I managed to write down three poems and why I love them before I had to quit and reach for the M&Ms. At this rate, it’ll take me until the dawn of the next millenium to get to Wordsworth. Which is fine. I’ve got a stash of M&Ms and all the time and poetry books in the world.

Canterbury WindowThe Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. Chaucer seems like the best place to start. When I was in college, every English major had to take a really hard class called English 125. One reason it was thought to be difficult is because you were required to memorize the first eighteen lines of the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales. People didn’t like memorizing Middle English. And so this requirement regularly drove English majors into Economics. Coming from my small, crappy public high school, I was so scared of it I waited until I was a junior to sign up for it.

Funny thing is, it wasn’t that difficult. All you had to do was go to the language lab. Once there, the recorded voice of a woman who sounded exactly like Ingrid Berman murmured the lines into my headphones, over and over, for an hour or two until I got it just right. I still remember walking out of the language lab into the twilight, the bells from the churches on the little New England green sounding the hour. There were a lot of cobblestoned paths, and I picked my way along, reciting to myself, feeling vaguely foreign and very far away from Tacoma, Washington. Every once in a while, I’d run across somebody else, doing exactly the same thing. You didn’t say anything, you just nodded at one other, fellow pilgrims, setting out on a wonderful journey.

Figuring out what the prologue meant, line by line, phrase by phrase, sometimes word by word, was a heartening exercise in slow, deep reading. By the time I had memorized the first piece of it and looked it all over closely, I knew it down to my bones. In the prologue, Chaucer sets a wonderful scene: It’s April. Spring is arriving — the sweet showers have come and there’s new life springing up everywhere. People are beginning to feel restless. When that happens, they go on pilgrimages, particularly to Canterbury, which apparently was a good place to go on a pilgrimage. When you’re through with the prologue, you’re ready for the pilgrims to take a long rest at an inn to introduce themselves, which is what they seem to spend the rest of the Canterbury Tales doing.

If you’d like to read the prologue, in Middle English, it’s here.

Ariel’s Song from The Tempest. It’s silly to think you could make just one choice from all of Shakespeare, and that from a play, but Ariel’s song, from the Tempest, is quite wonderful. In many of the comedies, you see people going into the forest, or being shipwrecked, or putting on a disguise or even some combination of these things. What matters is that they lose themselves somehow. And then, by the end of the play, they emerge, transformed. Ariel’s Song is about that, in a way. In her hands, of course, the sea change makes a sort of precious fossil out of a man. But it gestures toward the living transformations that are happening on the island as she sings. You could memorize this song, and walk around, singing it, feeling very sprite-like:

Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
Ding-dong Hark! now I hear them—Ding-dong, bell.

It’s this: the sea change/Into something rich and strange, that I love about Shakespeare.

The Relic. Donne is incredibly sexy. I was shocked when I found that out. I’d never expected poetry by someone dead to be sexy. When I was 18, I had a huge, fateful, hopeless thing for a guy who happened to like Donne. This poem reminds me of how I felt about him when I was 18. Actually, to tell the truth, it reminds me of how I wished he would feel about ME when we were 18.  The amount of desire that’s encapsulated in this poem is astonishing.  And although Donne suggests this love was never consummated physically, it’s the denial and holding back that’s truly erotic.  I love the “bracelet of bright hair about the bone” and how completely Donne loved this woman, this miracle.

The Relic
WHEN my grave is broke up again
Some second guest to entertain,
—For graves have learn’d that woman-head,
To be to more than one a bed—
And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls at the last busy day
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?

If this fall in a time, or land,
Where mass-devotion doth command,
Then he that digs us up will bring
Us to the bishop or the king,
To make us relics ; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
A something else thereby ;
All women shall adore us, and some men.
And, since at such time miracles are sought,
I would have that age by this paper taught
What miracles we harmless lovers wrought.

First we loved well and faithfully,
Yet knew not what we loved, nor why ;
Difference of sex we never knew,
No more than guardian angels do ;
Coming and going we
Perchance might kiss, but not between those meals ;
Our hands ne’er touch’d the seals,
Which nature, injured by late law, sets free.
These miracles we did ; but now alas !
All measure, and all language, I should pass,
Should I tell what a miracle she was.

There you have it: three wonderful poems. 97 to go.

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10 thoughts on “Three Poems Down, 97 to Go

  1. What fun. I’ll have to ponder this, but you’ve already put down one of my favorites, The Prologue. I thought I went to a small, crappy high school, but we had to memorize that senior year. Thus, I went off to college with one thing many of my fellow students didn’t have (good thing, because I was lacking in so many, many other areas). Luckily, it hadn’t had the negative build-up you describe, and I so enjoyed chanting those lines.

  2. The exercise of memorizing poetry is a fine one — particularly, when it’s good poetry. It occurred to me while I was doing this that it wasn’t really the 100 best poems, it was the 100 best remembered poems. And Dorothy, thanks! You could do this in your sleep, I’m sure! xxoo, BL

  3. Those are all wonderful choices so far, great start.

    Perhaps my favorite Shakespeare is Puck’s final speech, but there is so much that I love of his work… You’re right, “best remembered” is correct, at least with that piece for me. It sticks out so much in my head.

    Several authors I would add to the list (as if you were looking for suggestions at all) are Carroll (“Jabberwocky” changed the face of poetry), Dante and Rimbaud (“A Season in Hell”). Or course, my tastes lean in the rather obtuse direction when favorite poetry is considered…

    Thanks for the good Sunday morning reads. It’s always good to remind those of us who write what greatness looks like so we can strive, not to emulate, but to be worthy of it ourselves.

  4. Thanks for the good Sunday morning reads. It’s always good to remind those of us who write what greatness looks like so we can strive, not to emulate, but to be worthy of it ourselves. – how beautifully put, Mick! And an excellent reminder to someone like me, who has sacrifced a sunny Sunday in order to write – I am striving for something, and sometimes I need to be reminded that it matters!
    Great post, bloglily!

  5. Bloglily, this could turn out to be a lifelong project! 100 poems? It barely seems like enough. I’m looking forward to hearing about the next 97 that come to mind…

  6. Hi LIly,
    I’m hoping it is not too late to submit poems for BlogLily’s 100 best poems. This may not be exactly what you are looking for to include with Chaucer, Shakespeare and Donne (and several from Wallace Stevens, I’m sure, once you build up some pleasurable steam), but the poem below, called Haiku Defined, was on my mind today. In any case, you should include at least one Haiku in your hundred from my favorite Haiku master, Louise, at http://slice.wordpress.com/ , as you know. . My suggestion from Slice would be “Rally,” from June 9, 2006 about TV protest. Good luck on this project. Also, how about another questionnaire? Favorite books was great.

    HAIKU DEFINED

    Japanese poet
    untangles wisteria
    in my frontal lobe.

  7. hey you should post a list of the 97 you plan to review here.

    my god, memorizing poems. i really hate that. i have a terrible memory and i find it incredibly difficult to memorize even super short poems– for example Tang Dynasty poems that only have five words in each line and only four lines in each poem.

  8. Hello NoShowerFamily — Short poems might be harder simply because you don’t have any rhythm to get your teeth into. And whether this is any fun might have to do with whether the poem’s any fun! The awful truth? I have no idea what the next 97 are going to be. As Nova says, it’s a lifelong project! I’m thinking maybe I’ll do a little more Shakespeare (Mick has inspired me), and then some of Donne’s fellow metaphysical poets.

    Everythinginbetween, I hope your day of writing went well yesterday. And Smokey, thank you for the poem and the haiku suggestion. I miss Slice’s haikus and wish she’d come back.

  9. Pingback: The One Hundred Poem Project « BlogLily

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