Jul 3, 2012

Yeats: In Rings and Rhyme

I consistently love Irish transplant Macha Jewelry's edgy-chic collections, but their latest Yeats ring collection, available in an array of tropical colors, makes me want to muck up Brooklyn's highways and byways in the hopes of a pothole-induced delivery. I'm loving the Yeats ring in white and tomato shades, but the sea mist ring has inspired a longing and infatuation of Maud Gonne proportions. I'll be devastated if it won't be mine.

Speaking of Yeats ... The other day, I tried to recite The Lake Isle of Innisfree in a fit of poetic summer longing/an attempt to dress up Coney Island beach, and I was horrified to find that moths had eaten holes in a few lines. It was a low moment. I really thought I could rely on my Yeats, but it seems he can only stand so much neglect. So I have been relearning my Easter 1916, my Sailing to Byzantium, and my Lake Isle of Innisfree, this time with the freedom to listen and feel (without having to consider what I'm supposed to hear and feel, as dictated by teachers and tests). I'd forgotten how much I loved to say "bee loud glade"... and how the class sniggered that time at my enunciation.  

—Pause here to say "Bee loud glade" —

Instead of getting out of bed in the morning, I arise and go now. Instead of patching together bits of lines, I feel it in the deep heart's core. Instead of lighting up with mortification, I'm just lighting up. Snigger away.

Reviving "old school" faves from Mr. W.B. has inspired a thorough watering and weeding of all the poetry planted in my brambles; so far I've found Patrick Kavanagh, Maire Mhac an tSaoi, and Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill, and I'm pretty sure verses of Keats, Donne, Thomas, and Kinsella are rooted in the depths somewhere, too, awaiting a little sunshine. 

My next task is to decide on a new poem to take to heart. It's kind of shocking to realize that all the poetry I know was beaten into me with rulers and red faces in school ... that I have never taken the time as an adult to learn a poem by heart. 

—Pause here for emphasis—

I'm randomly pulling poetry (from the likes of Seamus Heaney, Dermot Bolger, Ogden Nash, and Margaret Atwood) off the shelf for a visit and I'm excited to possibly pick something to stay. Perhaps I should mark this new passion with ... I don't know ... a little sea-mist on my finger?  Yes, a little physical poetry to suggest lake water lapping while I stand on the roadway  ... digging potholes. (Phew, isn't rationalizing a potential new purchase exhausting?!)

1 comment:

Jenji said...

Applause, applause for your poetic inclinations! And I'm very impressed at your Yeats memorization. (I could barely get through a limerick I think) as well as your moth turn of phrase...

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