I wrote this out on a sheet of notebook paper so I can take it with me on my afternoon walk and give it some thought over a beer at Cherry Street Tavern, where I usually end up after my walk. So often, I read something and then move on--after all, so many of us take in our "reality" primarily through reading--but this piece compels me to linger, and linger I will, not so much with the goal of "understanding" it but with the much less elusive goal of memorizing it.
Once again, you do me too great an honor, but to your point—I often wonder if memorization is in some sense essential to (though not exhaustive of) understanding. The many hours I've spent repeating Ode on a Nightingale, Hamlet's Soliloquy, Dover Beach etc. as I stare at my feet in a warm shower have lent more insight than most of my class discussions.
Sometimes after I memorize a piece (or a line or lines from a piece) that leaves me a bit mystified, I will later have a Eureka! moment where I say, so that's the "meaning," but that's not always the case. In many cases I am enchanted by the lines but they continue to mystify me. You mention Dover Beach. That's a touchstone with me, too. The "Ah, love, let us be true . . ." section has gone running through my brain at many times of crisis in the past. The poet whose work most often works its way into my psyche is Robert Lowell, and often I couldn't begin to explain the "meaning."
Fair point. It is good to remember Billy Collin's "Introduction to Poetry"—or as heard David Rothman once say, it is more important to ask what a poem does than what it means. I haven't spent much time with Lowell. Point me toward a couple of your top picks.
His book “The Dolphin,” all of it, but particularly the sections “Fishnet,” “Redcliffe Square,” “Hospital,” “Hospital II,” “Mermaid,” “Doubt.” I’m not smart enough or well versed enough in theology for his early book, “Lord Weary’s Castle,” but I have a feeling you would find much of interest there. Ultimately, he is a religious (Catholic) poet. To me, he can seem at times pathologically allusive. There is much you will understand in him that I miss out of ignorance.
I wrote this out on a sheet of notebook paper so I can take it with me on my afternoon walk and give it some thought over a beer at Cherry Street Tavern, where I usually end up after my walk. So often, I read something and then move on--after all, so many of us take in our "reality" primarily through reading--but this piece compels me to linger, and linger I will, not so much with the goal of "understanding" it but with the much less elusive goal of memorizing it.
Once again, you do me too great an honor, but to your point—I often wonder if memorization is in some sense essential to (though not exhaustive of) understanding. The many hours I've spent repeating Ode on a Nightingale, Hamlet's Soliloquy, Dover Beach etc. as I stare at my feet in a warm shower have lent more insight than most of my class discussions.
Sometimes after I memorize a piece (or a line or lines from a piece) that leaves me a bit mystified, I will later have a Eureka! moment where I say, so that's the "meaning," but that's not always the case. In many cases I am enchanted by the lines but they continue to mystify me. You mention Dover Beach. That's a touchstone with me, too. The "Ah, love, let us be true . . ." section has gone running through my brain at many times of crisis in the past. The poet whose work most often works its way into my psyche is Robert Lowell, and often I couldn't begin to explain the "meaning."
Fair point. It is good to remember Billy Collin's "Introduction to Poetry"—or as heard David Rothman once say, it is more important to ask what a poem does than what it means. I haven't spent much time with Lowell. Point me toward a couple of your top picks.
His book “The Dolphin,” all of it, but particularly the sections “Fishnet,” “Redcliffe Square,” “Hospital,” “Hospital II,” “Mermaid,” “Doubt.” I’m not smart enough or well versed enough in theology for his early book, “Lord Weary’s Castle,” but I have a feeling you would find much of interest there. Ultimately, he is a religious (Catholic) poet. To me, he can seem at times pathologically allusive. There is much you will understand in him that I miss out of ignorance.
"their cars will take in everyone
before they leave."
Oof. That's a killer final phrase. Way to bring it home, Jey.
Thanks Mark—struggled to get there, but I'm happy with it.