[Milton-L] Poetry

jonnyangel junkopardner at comcast.net
Mon Dec 8 04:27:24 EST 2008


First of all, I would like to wish every student and professor on this list
a good finals week and a collective exhale into a much needed break.

Secondly, I will celebrate Milton¹s 400th birthday with a fine bottle of
Scotch and reading as much poetry as I can get my hands on. It is important
to remember, after all is said and done, that Milton was a poet and an
artist. And I think that Milton would be happy to know that poetry is very
much alive today. Like language, it has changed, which is (as I¹ve said
before) a testament to it¹s life and power.

In closing, I want to leave you with a poem by former two term U.S. Poet
Laureate Billy Collins. I was going to write a couple of paragraphs tying
this poem to Milton, but I decided against it ­ but trust me, it¹s in there
(or maybe it¹s just that¹s the way I read it). :)

The ³joke² is in the title, of course. As we all know, it¹s always been ³The
Great American Novel², but it is the Œtongue in cheek¹ title that opens the
poetic door and paves the way for this wonderful poem.

I hope you all enjoy it (even if you don¹t see a Milton connection).

Shalom. 

Jonny Angel 



The Great American Poem
By Billy Collins
 
If this were a novel,
it would begin with a character,
a man alone on a southbound train
or a young girl on a swing by a farmhouse.
 
And as the pages turned, you would be told
that it was morning or the dead of night,
and I, the narrator, would describe
for you the miscellaneous clouds over the farmhouse
 
and what the man was wearing on the train
right down to his red tartan scarf,
and the hat he tossed onto the rack above his head,
as well as the cows sliding past his window.
 
Eventually - one can only read so fast -
you would learn either that the train was bearing
the man back to the place of his birth
or that he was headed into the vast unknown,
 
and you might just tolerate all of this
as you waited patiently for shots to ring out
in a ravine where the man was hiding
or for a tall, raven-haired woman to appear in a doorway.
 
But this is a poem, not a novel,
and the only characters here are you and I,
alone in an imaginary room
which will disappear after a few more lines,
 
leaving us no time to point guns at one another
or toss all our clothes into a roaring fireplace.
I ask you: who needs the man on the train
and who cares what his black valise contains?
 
We have something better than all this turbulence
lurching toward some ruinous conclusion.
I mean the sound that we will hear
as soon as I stop writing and put down this pen.
 
I once heard someone compare it
to the sound of crickets in a field of wheat
or, more faintly, just the wind
over that field stirring things that we will never see.


 
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