From Canto V of Alfred, Lord Tennyson's In Memoriam, A. H. H.:
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
This poem overall (at least, what I've thus far read of it) has really resonated and was a well-timed assignment to receive, I feel. I've been struggling for awhile, trying to write a poem or poems about Sam's death that were actually inherently good, without somebody having to had been close to the experience to appreciate them. Harder than anctipated - and workshopping these poems is really tough; I had a poem about Journey and Sam and stuff that I thought actually came out well, but my peers kind of tore it apart. I've been wondering if I was wrong to try and write about this kind of thing so soon after it happened, but reading some of Tennyson's words, especially that second stanza above reassured me. These poems have been a kind of dope for me, but more than that too. Anyway, something I was thinking about in class tonight and had to get off my chest. I guess what I'm saying is go read In Memoriam if you can muster the dedication - http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/In_Memoriam_A._H._H.
1 comment:
this morning in the fourth grade classroom i intern in, the kids were talking about poetry, learning how to ask questions to reveal more of its meaning.
i think this poem really puts into words the nice things about poems. and why, once you do understand one, it can be really personal and meaningful for you.
one of the students said that the reason it's good to ask questions about poetry, and how it's different than with non-fiction or fictional prose, is that "it's about your heart and soul, so the questions are personal." (these kids are so smart.)
tennyson says the same thing, in a way:
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
and:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
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