Genre: Poetry
Today, the definition of poetry offered up by Google’s search engine, while lacking poetry itself, proves adequate:
poetry, ˈpōətrē/The political events of this past week have been extraordinary. To not recognize the literal elephant in the room, would require ostrich-like determination. It has been a week of feeling and ideas. It has been a week of vomit and tears, spray painted swastikas and middle schoolers pounding, “build that wall” towards minority students. It has been a week of rage and the mocking of people who quake before the rise of a demagogue. Words sound differently today. Unfortunately, great poetry will likely follow. For now, the voice of Leonard Cohen echoes:(noun) literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
In the previous, antebellum week, I had selected Joel Stewart’s 2003 illustrated adaptation of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky. To my mind, the poem made an interesting contribution to the discussion of our graduate class about Kenneth Goodman’s book, Reading - The Grand Illusion: How and Why People Make Sense of Print: How our reading apparatus improbably looks past the literal building blocks of language, the letters, the words, to uncover the intentions of communication. On the surface, The Jabberwocky is a game. In a familiar cadence, with a comforting structure, it describes a world, creatures, and a villain, using almost entirely made up words. For this poem, meaning gets made, when an adult—whose ability to improvise on the instrument of pure sound has nearly been shut down by the calcification of experience—is forced to project these syllables, with intention, to a child, whose meaning receptors are as spongy and flexible as they will ever be. Somehow, a story emerges out of near nonsense.
Joel Stewart's illustrations are beautiful and strange; violent, yet bloodless. When the Jabberwock is sliced, his innards are revealed to be gears and springs. The young knight slays him effortlessly and carries his severed head, comfortably and haughtily. One could accuse Stewart of robbing the audience of the agency of their own fantasy. Real monsters, unfortunately, are not so easily slain. Twill not be brillig, and the slithy toves will not gyre and gimble in the wabe for many a moon. In our dimension, the Jabberwock will indefinitely prevail.
Until the dust settles, I would recommend leaving this book on the shelf, and finding poems that speak more directly to feelings and perspectives relevant to this moment.
Here are a few alternatives:
Still I Rise by Maya AngelouHere is my own blind stab - a poem for my daughter.
Plot by Elizabeth Willis
Sermon at Temple Israel of Hollywood, by Martin Luther King, Jr., February 26, 1965
I still don’t know what to say
You put yourself to sleep because you wanted to stop the freefall.
It made me feel sick.
I stood above you, shaking
And could not produce a comforting word.
I respect you too much to lie to you
Everything is not going to be alright
Things might get dangerous
People will die
The rest of your childhood will be cast in a darker light
I am sorry
I love you
This is reality
I look forward to going to Washington
And marching side by side
And reading your signs
And knowing what is important to you.
Be brave
Be happy
Sing loudly
Be healthy and strong
Be kind and selfless
Love yourself confidently
Love others fiercely
Open your heart to fight for justice in small and big ways
Tell people what you think and how you feel
Together,
We will lower our shoulders to the boulder
And push
Someday,
Love will prevail
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