Poetry

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Therapeutic Value Of Poetry

Therapeutic Value Of Poetry  

It isn’t a coincidence that I feel enriched and moved—often to the point of exhilaration—by poetry and my overall ‘feel good’ level is heightened. This is true whether I am writing or reading.

This is because poetry, with its unique ability to distill complex emotions, ideas, and experiences into concise yet impactful language, holds immense value in human life. It certainly does in my experience. Reading and writing poetry not only deepens our language skills but also expands our understanding of the human condition, fostering empathy, creativity, and introspection.

 

Classic Examples: Wordsworth And Dickinson

Early in my life, I believe it was when I entered the 5th Grade English class, I was introduced to the poet William Wordsworth. For me, he is a classic example of the power of poetry and his “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” is often referred to as “Daffodils”. It was written in 1804. In it, Wordsworth captures a moment of transcendental beauty as he recounts encountering a field of daffodils. Through vivid imagery and rhythmic language, Wordsworth conveys the joy and inspiration nature can bring to the human soul. I believe by reading and studying this poem, readers can learn to appreciate the beauty in everyday moments and find solace in nature’s embrace.

“I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

 

If you’re not into flowers and nature’s embrace, how about the poetry of death? Yes, I know, the subject seems too morbid for some but face it, death pays us all a visit eventually. In “Because I could not stop for death” by Emily Dickinson, written around 1863, we find a timeless example of poetry concerning death. Here she personifies death as a courteous gentleman who kindly escorts the speaker on a carriage ride through the stages of life toward eternity. Through her masterful use of metaphor and symbolism, Dickinson explores the complex themes of mortality, time, and the afterlife. By engaging with Dickinson’s poetry, readers are encouraged to contemplate their own mortality and find meaning in the cycle of life and death.

“Because I could not stop for Death”

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring –

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed Us –

The Dews drew quivering and Chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity –

 

Poetry’s Enduring Power

These are but two classic examples that demonstrate the enduring power of poetry to capture the beauty, complexity, and depth of human experience. By reading and writing poetry, we engage with language in a way that transcends ordinary communication, allowing us to connect with others on a profound emotional and intellectual level. Whether it’s through the sublime beauty of Wordsworth’s nature poetry or the existential exploration of Dickinson’s introspective verse, the value of poetry lies in its ability to inspire, provoke, and enrich our lives in countless ways.

 

 

 

 

 

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Limericks

A limerick is a form of humorous verse characterized by its specific rhyming pattern and often whimsical or bawdy content. It typically consists of five lines, with a rhyme scheme of AABBA, where the first, second, and fifth-lines rhyme with each other and have three stresses, while the third and fourth lines also rhyme with each other but have two stresses.

Here’s a classic example of a limerick with the rhyme scheme annotated:

There once was a man from Nantucket (A)

Who kept all his cash in a bucket (A)

But his daughter, named Nan (B)

Ran away with a man (B)

And as for the bucket, Nantucket (A)

 

Limericks are believed to have originated in the Irish city of Limerick in the early 18th century, although their exact origins are uncertain. They gained popularity in the 19th century as a form of humorous entertainment, often exchanged among friends or in social gatherings. Limericks are known for their playful language, absurd scenarios, and sometimes ribald humor. Over time, they have become a widely recognized form of verse, enjoyed by people of all ages for their wit and charm.

If you have any favorite Limericks, please post them for us to enjoy with you.

 

 

 

 

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A Poem For A Valentine

“Twin Hills”, a poem by Vidyapati (15th Century) translated by Deben Bhattacharya

 

Her hair dense as darkness,

Her face rich as the full moon:

Unbelievable contrasts

Couched in a seat of love.

Her eyes rival lotuses.

Seeing that girl today,

My eager heart

Is driven by desire.

 

Innocence and beauty

Adore her fair skin.

Her gold necklace

Is lightning

On the twin hills,

Her breasts…

 

 

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On The Way To Valentine’s Day

   Warning! The following may be too sugary for casual consumption:

 

“Love’s Euphemistic Garden Of Hearts”

In the garden of hearts, a tender bloom,

Where butterflies dance in sweet perfume.

A puzzle of souls, intertwined and entwined

In the language of stars, their secrets confined:

The first embrace.

 

It’s the fire that ignites, a passionate embrace,

A journey of souls in a timeless chase.

A whisper of dreams in the moonlit night

Where hearts find solace in love’s soft light:

Consummated pleasure.

 

A symphony of feelings, a dance of the heart,

A canvas of emotions, a work of art.

It’s the magic that binds with an unseen tether,

A euphoria of souls in this world and forever:

Intimate promise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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December 10th, 1830: The Birth of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was a prolific American poet known for her distinctive and unconventional style. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, she lived most of her life in relative seclusion, and only a few of her nearly 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime. Emily’s work is characterized by its brevity, unique punctuation, and exploration of themes such as death, nature, love, and the human psyche.

 

Her poetry often reflects her fascination with the mysteries of existence and her profound introspection. Emily’s use of dashes and capitalization set her apart from her contemporaries, and her poems frequently challenge traditional poetic forms and conventions. The following poem “Hope is the thing with feathers” explores Emily’s theme of hope and its enduring presence in the human spirit, even in difficult times:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

 

After Emily’s death, her work gained recognition for its innovation and depth, making her one of the most celebrated and studied American poets. Her poems continue to resonate with readers for their profound and enigmatic exploration of the human experience and the mysteries of life and death. Emily Dickinson’s legacy endures as a testament to the power of poetry to capture the complexities of the human soul.

 

 

 

 

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“Do The Dead Call?”

Do the dead call?

If they did, could we hear?

Would the voice be from afar?

Or would it seem quite near?

Would we listen with our minds?

Or would we run in fear?

Would we open to the chance?

Or would we jump and swoon?

Would we think it summer breeze?

Or howling at the Moon?

Do the dead call?

You tell me.

I wonder if you know.

Do they call on summer days?

Or whisper in the snow?

You tell me.

I’d really like to know.

 

I was honored to have this poem selected for inclusion during NPR’s National Poetry Month.

The poem opens Chapter 31 in the 5th Century Celtic novel, “Mystery Of The Death Hearth”, as the intrepid protagonist–a young Celt magistrate–must work with those whose ways are alien to his Elder Faith beliefs. Along the way, he must find an elusive young Celt girl and her missing grandfather, unravel the mystery of an Elder’s runevision, and avoid death at the hands of an assassin as he faces the greatest challenge of his life.

 

 

 

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A Modern Reader’s Lament

Japanese Choka Poetry Room

A Modern Reader’s Lament

In tales of old, we find a timeless theme,

Of stories bogged down in backstory’s stream,

The pandemic’s weight, a heavy narrative load,

Drowning the plot where the mysteries flowed.

 

In pages filled with words, the past unveiled,

Characters’ histories, endlessly detailed,

But where’s the heart of the story’s core?

Lost in the depths of exposition galore.

 

Oh, for the days of MacDonald and Hammett’s pen,

When plots were crisp, and prose was lean,

Elmore and Chandler, masters of their craft,

Knew when to let character depth take a backdraft.

 

Hillerman’s landscapes painted vivid and grand,

Yet never did he lose the reader’s hand,

Parker’s Spenser, sharp as a knife’s keen blade,

Intrigue and action, the focus never swayed.

 

So let us return to the art of the tale,

Where words and plots set our hearts to sail,

For character development, a spice, not the stew,

During a pandemic, the story must break through.

 

No more septic tank woes and rose gardens fair,

Let the plot’s heartbeat lead us from despair,

In the realm of storytelling, let’s find our way,

And leave the irrelevant backstory’s dismay.

 

In the echoes of these literary greats, we’ll thrive,

With stories that captivate, and narrative alive,

No more drowning in a sea of character past,

In the heart of the plot, our adventure will last.

 

 

 

 

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Try, Try Again

Good advice for children and adults from T. H. Palmer.

From his “Teacher’s Manual” (1840), page 223. Thomas Haig Palmer was born on 27 December 1782 in Kelso, Scottish Borders, Scotland. In 1804, he immigrated to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States of America, where he became a printer, a publisher, and an author of school textbooks and historical records. Thomas Haig Palmer passed on at 78 years of age on 20 July 1861 in Pittsford, Rutland County, Vermont, United States of America. Quick Biography of H. H. Palmer. 

 

A bit dated but, none-the-less, Here it is, verbatim:

Try, Try Again by T. H. Palmer

‘Tis a lesson you should head,

If at first you don’t succeed,

Try, try again;

Then your courage should appear,

For if you will persevere,

You will conquer, never fear

Try, try again;

Once or twice, though you should fail,

If you would at last prevail,

Try, try again;

If we strive ‘tis no disgrace

Though we do not win the race

What should you do in the case?

Try, try again

If you find your task is hard,

Time will bring you your reward,

Try, try again

All that other folks can do

Why, with patience, you not do?

Only keep this rule in view:

Try, try again.

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Goodbye My Love, Goodbye

 

Attribution: J. R. Cotner

Goodbye My Love, Goodbye by Jack R. Cotner Copyright 2015

Retreating inward from the pain,

I smell the sweetness of her hair

As we move along the path. I strain

Uphill, dragging muddied weight to where

Headstones squat like sacred peaks between

Mowed grass where walked mourning crones.

Stoic statues weathered, weeping, still serene,

Guarding lengthy rows of buried bones.

We halt. Crows pass, loud caws abating.

A portal beyond the pale awaits, silent.

The gaping hole lies open, waiting, waiting

For my dearest here quiet, broken, spent.

Farewell, sweet beauty, unfaithful miss.

I weep. Red lipstick on blue, icy lips

Beckons. Entranced, I take one final kiss

Before tossing splendor into the dark abyss.

Goodbye my love, goodbye.