"Sex and death," B. and I were joking a few nights back, "love and loss." So goes the theory about poetry's only two
real subjects. The great epithalamion-vs.-elegy-showdown; in other words, lines written for weddings and funerals.
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Wordworth famously defined poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings..." Although W.'s theory is more complicated, I suspect the good majority thinks of poetry as
entirely spontaneous. Cue
muse. Cue
inspiration.
Can't remember for the life of me who nicknamed poets "cockroaches of society" (lowly misunderstood things, often detested, surviving at all costs on little to nothing), but it's true that we often lurk exactly where people like us -- on the fringes and in shadows. We toil quietly, until rare occasions when someone deems us useful, i.e. weddings and funerals. (See
epithalamion. See
elegy.)
It goes down like this:
1. "My friend's Great Great Aunt Sophie died. Could you adapt one of your poems for the funeral? It's tomorrow."
2. Request from second cousin once removed: "We'd love to have you participate in our wedding. Could you write a poem, using the words pineapple and sherbet -- the color of our bridesmaids' dresses -- oh, and make sure it rhymes. Thanks in advance. XOXOXO"
Or, maybe like this:
3. (via text) "WTF Z dmpd me poem 911!!!"
Ok, so I've never had anyone solicit a sonnet by text, but the first two examples hit pretty close to home. B. and I decided we're going to refashion ourselves as old-school court bards living in the century of
Top Chef. In other words, pre-calculate a set of recipes whose ingredients can be manipulated on the spot to give the impression of both spontaneity and genius! (Insert "dead aunt's name" here; shift line break there, for example.)
Kidding aside, I'll do just about anything to turn people on to poetry. Rather than compose the "occasional" poem (
one commissioned for a specific event) for friends and loved ones, I usually send three or so selections appropriate for the circumstance. Matching a person with the perfect poem is a rewarding exercise in itself.
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A word of advice for those seeking poems for funerals -- often at the height of grief, the elegy isn't the most comforting form. Here's what I read when my grandfather passed:
THE TREES
by Philip Larkin
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
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Both the
Poetry Foundation and the
Academy of American Poets offer poetry archived by form, theme, season, author, etc. Great resources for any occasion.
Porch swept? Check.
