June 6, 2011 Poetry

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Dylan Thomas was a sickly child, a high school drop-out, an alcoholic, an adulterer. And yet, when we read his poetry, we find greatness. We may not understand his words, may not agree with them, but there is power there. He understood the power of words, and wielded that power with a beauty that transcended his frail and faulty humanity.

When I taught sixth grade at a small private school in Ft. Pierce, Florida, I assigned poems to the class for memorization. I don't know when memory work fell out of favor with the public school system, but it has, in my opinion, much merit. Memorizing a lengthy passage, whether the Bible or poetry or important speeches or a monologue to perform, adds auditory learning to visual learning. It trains brain cells made soggy from too much television and DVDs and video games.

One year, the class tackled Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. The school considered sixth graders upper elementary, and so at the end of the year they graduated along with the kindergarteners and seniors. It was fun, as the sole sixth grade teacher, to create a program that would show off the challenging curriculum used. I asked Ashley, a petite and very capable student, to recite Thomas' poem. Her flawless delivery (“Rage, RAGE, against the dying of the light.”) brought tears to the eyes of more than a few in the audience, I'm sure.

I've read much more fiction than non-fiction, and probably more non-fiction than poetry, but in the last few months, I have enjoyed poetry more than ever.. I read Garrison Keillor's Good Poems anthology cover to cover, dog-earring my favorites (and there were a lot of them). I have written poems, something I haven't done in years. I've corresponded with a friend who has written books and books of poetry, getting good feedback (i.e. both encouragement and suggestions for improvement). Last month, I attended a poetry reading at the local library and participated – the audience was invited to share some of their own work. What fun!

Poetry is important because of the emotion it conveys, emotion that remains fresh thousands of years after it was written (Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.)* That makes us laugh (I felt attached/To my old mouth/But it fell out //I wore it out)** or feel the stirrings of passion:

The Love Cook, by Ron Padgett

Let me cook you some dinner.
Sit down and take off your shoes
and socks and in fact the rest
of your clothes, have a daquiri,
turn on some music and dance
around the house, inside and out,
it’s night and the neighbors
are sleeping, those dolts, and
the stars are shining bright,
and I’ve got the burners lit
for you, you hungry thing.

* Psalm 23:4, attributed to King David of Judah
** from “My Mouth Fell Out” by Philip Parker, (c) 2007