A Reminder To See And To Hear

There comes a point when the analysis of poetry falls apart. Certain details and techniques can be studied, but further mysteries are beyond solution. Why do poems haunt us? For many reasons, but only a few of the reasons can be taken apart and discussed.

With all of this in mind, some people have argued that the sounds and methods of poetry should never be analyzed, but I disagree. I say, Study whatever you can, as far as you can, but know that study is nothing more than a reminder to see and to hear as you read, a reminder to pay attention with everything you are.

Attention is the first and final thing we can give to certain poems that move beyond analysis, beyond the possibility of paraphrase. Consider this example: I believe I know -- up to a point -- what is going on, here (and the title certainly helps), but beyond that point I can only stare and listen.

THE SONG OF THE MAD PRINCE
by Walter de la Mare.

Who said, 'Peacock Pie'?
The old King to the sparrow:
Who said, 'Crops are ripe'?
Rust to the harrow:
Who said, 'Where sleeps she now?
Where rests she now her head,
Bathed in eve's loveliness'? --
That's what I said.

Who said, 'Ay, mum's the word';
Sexton to willow:
Who said, 'Green dusk for dreams,
Moss for a pillow'?
Who said, 'All Time's delight
Hath she for narrow bed;
Life's troubled bubble broken'? --
That's what I said.


[From PEACOCK PIE, by Walter de la Mare. Constable and Company Ltd. London, 1920 -- Sixth Impression; originally published in 1913.]

And consider these: utterly simple, utterly clear, yet somehow, they move beyond clarity into something more.

IN THE LION'S YELLOW EYES
by Mervyn Peake.

In the lion's yellow eyes
Floats the grief of dynasties
Floats the pain of Emperors
Dying under tragic stars.
In the lion's eyes I see
The yellow lake of prophecy;
While the fickle gods of war
Tell me what I'm needed for,
In the lion's eyes I read
Of what it is I am and need.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

AND I THOUGHT YOU BESIDE ME

 by Mervyn Peake.

And I thought you beside me
How rare and how desperate
And your eyes were wet
And your face as still
As the body of a leveret
On a tranced hill
But my thought belied me
And you were not there
But only the trees that shook,
Only a storm that broke
Through the dark air.


[From COLLECTED POEMS, by Mervyn Peake. FyfieldBooks Carcanet, Great Britain, 2008, ebook 2012.]