On Poetry...

[concertigrossi]

I usually hate poetry.

Even traditional poetry, with its rhymes and wordplay, and I don't think I need to say that modern poetry is Right Out.

I don't know why. Nothing makes me squee harder than a really good song lyric, and lyrics are, well, poetry. Perhaps I need them to have a tune? I dunno. But I've been sufficiently allergic as to have totally avoided all forms of poetry since high school.

Until now, when, for reasons that will remain unstated :), I need to be a little more up on the literature that two mid-eighteenth-century, over-educated smartasses would be familiar with. So I picked up Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock. (Not what you think: "rape" can also mean "theft," and "lock" in this case means "a lock of hair." The plot of the poem revolves around a Baron stealing a lock of his lady's hair. But the double entendre is very good.)

And I like it. I really, really like it.



And now, unveil'd, the Toilet stands display'd,
Each silver Vase in mystic order laid.
First, rob'd in white, the Nymph intent adores,
With head uncover'd, the Cosmetic pow'rs.
A heav'nly image in the glass appears,
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
Th' inferior Priestess, at her altar's side,
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride.
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here
The various off'rings of the world appear;
From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the Goddess with the glitt'ring spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,
Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.
Now awful Beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care,
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown:
And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own.



Am I to take up reading poetry in my dotage? How distressing! :)

Comments

[pink-siamese.livejournal.com]

Poetry is weird. Doesn't stop me from writing it, though.

[concertigrossi.livejournal.com]

Weird how?

[pink-siamese.livejournal.com]

I prefer prose, reading it and writing it, and poetry seems disjointed to me at times. Of course, when I write it, that's the type: free-form prose poetry, the kind that looks like whole phrases have been chopped out and rearranged like those magnetized letters on the refrigerator. It's just the way my mind works, I suppose. Structured poetry seems too forced.