I use humor to squash pain. You just get to a point where you have no other recourse; however, poets find another way, don't they? They seem to linger and wallow in the emotions of life so that they are totally consumed. That's probably why so many of the poets I've studied were drunks, drug addicts, had poor relationships with others, and died at their own hands. Because of their ability to allow life to pour out of them, because it has reached the brim of their souls, I get to appreciate them. Funny thing is, that appreciation is probably something they looked for all their lives and never really received.
In art there is much rejection and a never ending desire to do better, because what you do is never good enough. Seems like a double-edged sword to me. You put yourself on the line, allow people to see a side of you that you'd rather keep locked up, and they tell you, "Thank you, but no thanks. Your effort is good, but the quality is not. Sorry, but we know better than you; we are better judges of all that is expressed, and you are not good enough for us." Sad, really. We're always told, throughout life, to not take things personally, that what other people feel and believe about us is their problem, not ours. To a degree, that is true. No one knows what is truly going on inside, but us. No one can truly judge us unless they really take the time to get to know us; yet they judge.
Well, today, I've decided to share a poem that I read that touched my heart for many reasons. I judged it worthy to share because the poet chose words to express how I feel, when I couldn't. I wonder if anyone ever told him they appreciated this poem while he was alive?
"Tact"
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Edwin Arlington Robinson
OBSERVANT of the way she told
So much of what was true,
No vanity could long withhold
Regard that was her due:
She spared him the familiar guile,
So easily achieved,
That only made a man to smile
And left him undeceived.
Aware that all imagining
Of more than what she meant
Would urge an end of everything,
He stayed; and when he went,
They parted with a merry word
That was to him as light
As any that was ever heard
Upon a starry night.
She smiled a little, knowing well
That he would not remark
The ruins of a day that fell
Around her in the dark:
He saw no ruins anywhere,
Nor fancied there were scars
On anyone who lingered there,
Alone below the stars.
So much of what was true,
No vanity could long withhold
Regard that was her due:
She spared him the familiar guile,
So easily achieved,
That only made a man to smile
And left him undeceived.
Aware that all imagining
Of more than what she meant
Would urge an end of everything,
He stayed; and when he went,
They parted with a merry word
That was to him as light
As any that was ever heard
Upon a starry night.
She smiled a little, knowing well
That he would not remark
The ruins of a day that fell
Around her in the dark:
He saw no ruins anywhere,
Nor fancied there were scars
On anyone who lingered there,
Alone below the stars.
2 comments:
That was beautiful, and not simply the poets words but your own. I always majored in technical subjects and the English or lit courses were simply the minimal required for the degree program. I remember one assignment where we were to go down in the hall and observe a sculpture and then write as little or as much as came to us.
My submission:
Milton's Bust
Gathers Dust.
I won't tell you my grade :-)
He went blind from reading, ya know.
Sometimes I feel like my use of humor causes people to think I don't care, that nothing bothers me. When in reality, I feel things quite deeply. I guess it is a form of protection that requires some knowledge of my formative years to truly understand. But...at least I do have a good sense of humor. It's not fake, I just use it as a shield.
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