Poetry

 I had forgotten how much I love to write and read poetry.  I had something I was working through.  I prayed and prayed and talked to God about it.  I developed some insights from all the work I did on the matter.  But, I could not come to a conclusion.

I decided that something creative would help me to move past the matter.  I thought about painting a picture.  I am not much of a painter, but sometimes painting opens up my feelings. I settled on writing a poem about the event.  I was happy with the first draft.  In the final stanza I had an epiphany.  I was able to find peace about the subject.  Poetry soothes my mind. I recommend it.

All's Right With the World

 One of the gifts of my youth was from the very old and out of date English teacher I had in high school.  Miss Reid was the same teacher who taught my own father.  She proudly never took another class after she graduated college.  I never learned to write or to critique or any of the more modern things one could learn in high school English. I can only imagine what those might be.

The gift that Miss Reid gave me was the requirement to memorize poetry.  It was terrible teaching and most kids didn't get anything out of spending nearly an entire semester of junior English memorizing and writing out poems from memory. I really didn't think I got anything from it.  I hated it. I felt cheated when I got to college and everybody else knew how to write an essay and I hadn't a clue how to do that.  I learned fast.

But, the reason I say that Miss Reid gave me a gift is this--often as I go about my life a line a poetry that I memorized in high school will come to me. Often times I can't remember the complete poem.  But, in this internet age I remember enough to find the poem on line.  The title of this post--"All's right with the world" comes from Robert Browning's Pippas Passes.

I don't suppose anyone really memorizes much poetry these days.  The call to stand up and recite a poem in unknown in this day and age with so many screens and diversions. I am not volunteering to perform one.  But, the little verses that pop into my mind from long ago days enrich my life. Miss Reid, a belated thanks for the memory.

Alone

I am very fortunate to have many poems committed to memory.  It used to be a teaching style, that students would memorize and then write the poem for a grade in high school.  My English teacher in high school had taught my dad and not attended college in the intervening years, so she practiced very old style teaching.  I used to feel angry and frustrated that this was the main thing we did in English class. I wanted to write.  I wanted to learn to critique, but, no, I memorized poetry. It has served me well, despite my frustration.

One poem in my memory is the following by Siegfried Sassoon.  I learned the title as "Alone," but I am seeing other titles when I look up online.  I will call it "Alone."

When I'm alone' -- the words tripped off his tongue
As though to be alone were nothing strange.
'When I was young,' he said; 'when I was young . . .'

I thought of age, and loneliness, and change.
I thought how strange we grow when we're alone,
And how unlike the selves that meet, and talk,
And blow the candles out, and say good-night.
Alone . . . The word is life endured and known.
It is the stillness where our spirits walk
And all but inmost faith is overthrown.

This poem comes to my mind these days as I spend most of my time alone.  I loved this poem when I was young, living in a rural area without the ability to see friends very often.  There was one phone in the house, in the kitchen, so there wasn't a lot of time to have lengthy phone conversations either.  I was alone within my family.  There were siblings and parents but I identified with this poem despite that fact.  And today, I am old and truly alone most of the time. It resonates with me in different ways.  Age and loneliness and change, that describes me these days. Faith keeps me going.

Just on a side note, the poet lived a wild, gay life and converted to Catholicism shortly before he died.  He won't be a canonized saint, but there is hope.  There is always hope that he is numbered among the saints in heaven. 

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

"Something there is that doesn't love a wall" is the beginning of a poem by Robert Frost.  I can probably recite most of it by memory.  I think it is called Mending Wall.  My dad loved Robert Frost and he passed that love along to me.  I stop by woods on snowy evenings and ponder the diverging roads in yellow woods regularly.  Go read some Frost poems, I will wait.

I recalled Mending Wall this weekend.  There was a lot of digging and pounding going on in my neighborhood, in fact, right on the edge of my yard, on two sides.  The next door neighbors replaced a rickety fence that was encroaching on my property by half a foot the length of our properties.  When I bought my house, I had it stipulated that if they replaced the fence they would give me back my inches.  It is just business.  Then the neighbors behind me also fenced their lot.  They have recently acquired 2 little white dogs and I think they want to be able to let them out.

The upshot is, there are 6 foot privacy fences on 2 sides of my property that hadn't been there before. The backyard looks different, darker.  I immediately didn't like it.  I felt mad that these people had blocked me off like that.  My rational mind didn't think there was anything wrong with the fences, I am speaking of feelings.  I felt cut off.  Perhaps I just didn't like change. Something there is that doesn't love a wall....

I have had a few days and have given myself a talking to about my feelings and I am over it.  I kind of like the privacy in my back yard.  When I am out picking up sticks, I don't have to consider whether my backside is giving an unflattering show to all and sundry.  If at some point I want to fence my yard, part is already done.  I have come to like the fences.  And as the Frost poem ends--Good fences make good neighbors. Good fences make good neighbors...