Trying To Lose That Stubborn Streak

In pursuit of my English degree and the poetry module which I have just embarked upon, I have taken my lecturer's advice and gone in search of a poet that I might actually like. For me poetry has always been rather dull; a mathematical, scientific form of literature, too strongly based in rhyme and rythm and the measuring of beats. I loathed the dissection of phrases, words and the structure of the poem, searching for the intention or the schematic thoughts of the poet as they put pen to paper. Frankly, I am sure they did not care so much about the inner workings of their poem. It seems to me that feeling and the magic of literature is lost in poetry; words become dry and lifeless in a way that is paradoxical to my usual excitement around language in novels or other literary forms.

Despite this, I went to the university library today (an absolutely stunning building of dazzling gothic architecture and white and gold stone), and borrowed some books. One by default- T.S. Eliot, the other by randomly shoving my hand into the bookcase- Muriel Rukeyser. And lo and behold, I have found something that thrills me. Perhaps I wasn't looking, or caring, hard enough before...

This Place In The Ways- Muriel Rukeyser

Having come to this place
I set out once again
On the dark and marvelous way
From where I began:
Belief in the love of the world,
Woman, spirit, and man.

Having failed in all things
I enter a new age
Seeing the old ways as toys,
The houses of a stage
Painted and long forgot;
And I find love and rage.

Rage for the world as it is
But for what it may be
More love now than last year.
And always less self-pity
Since I know in a clearer light
The strength of the mystery.

And at this place in the ways
I wait for song,
My poem-hand still, on the paper,
All night long.
Poems in throat and hand, asleep,
And my storm beating strong!

From... A Certain Music- Muriel Rukeyser

Naked you walked through my body and I turned
to you with this far music you now withold.
O my destroyed hope! Though I never again
hear developing heaven, the growing grave-bearing earth,
my poem, my promise, my love, my sleep after love;
my hours, listening, along that music move,
and have been saved and hardly know the cold.

Music- The poems in my head.

xxx