The Bands Play On

Apologies in advance for the somewhat random nature of this essay. It's 3:00 AM and I'm flying by the seat of my pants.

I've noticed that there is a very strong duality in the way verse is judged these days.

Think of the best popular songs and songwriters of the last forty years or so. The ones that get the most acclaim are those that are the most poetic - that is, the ones that could best be described as good poetry set to music.

Consider:
Isn't that the way they say it goes?
Well, let's forget all that.
And give me the number if you can find it
So I can call just to tell her I'm fine,
And to show I've overcome the blow,
Learned to take it well.
Only wish my words could just convince myself
That it just wasn't real,
But that's not the way it feels.
- Jim Croce, "Operator"

Consider:
And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me.
Shine on 'till tomorrow,
Let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music;
Mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom:
Let it be.
- John Lennon and Paul McCartney, "Let it Be"

And just to show that it's still being done today, consider:
So take these photographs and still frames in your mind.
Hang them on a shelf of good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial;
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while.
It's something unpredictable, and in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.
- Billie Joe Armstrong, "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)"

All of these examples, and countless others, all show the classic signs of being Good Poetry. They have good scansion and meter, the rhymes are natural and unforced. They feature rhyme schemes more complex than a simple AABB or ABAB, and use assonance and internal rhymes creatively.

Now consider this one:
"Pass me a cigarette - I think there's one in my raincoat."
"We smoked the last one an hour ago."
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine,
And the moon rose over an open field.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike:
They've all come to look for America.
- Paul Simon, "America"

In this one, Paul Simon chose not to rhyme - but the meter is still strong, dictated by the music it's set to. This is poetry driven by rhythm, like a sonnet or a haiku.

Songwriters are keeping alive a great literary tradition that has all but died in today's literary world. The lyrical style - the ballad, the blues poem, the ode, others - has become unfashionable. The lyrical style - once made great by such as Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Blake and T.S. Eliot and Langston Hughes - has become "old-fashioned."

But the bands play on . . . .

One of the problems with postmodern poetry is that it is becoming less and less accesible to the common person. True, part of this could be attributed to a lack of education - but the dominant style of poetry is becoming so abstract that little of it is very memorable.

Consider:
This year they are exactly the size
of the pencil stub my grandfather kept
to mark off the days since rain,

and precisely the color of dust, of the roads
leading back across the dying fields
into the '30s. Walking the cracked lane

past the empty barn, the empty silo,
you hear them tinkering with irony,
slapping the grass like drops of rain.
- Ted Kooser, "Grasshoppers"

You've probably not heard of Ted Kooser, who is considered one of the best poets today and is, in fact, the Poet Laureate of the United States. It's a shame, really, because this really is a good poem. In just a few lines, Kooser paints a picture of an old family farm fallen into disuse. He gets his image across well.

So why is it so much more satisfying to read something like:
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore;
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here forevermore.
- Edgar Allan Poe, "The Raven"

Rhythm and meter give a poem personality. Assonance and alliteration give it flavor. And rhyme gives us something to sink our teeth into. All of these elements, taken together, make verse that much more memorable. Combined with a melody, it's why we can remember entire songs so easily, but stumble over something as simple as:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
- Carl Sandburg, "Fog"

I have no argument against free verse, blank verse, prose poetry, and the like. It can be rewarding to read, and fulfilling to understand. But to say it is somehow superior to lyrical poetry is foolish. Not only is it patently untrue, not only does it dismiss some of the greatest works of art in the history of literature, it also alienates the vast majority of people to whom lyrical verse is poetry.

A great song is a great poem set to music. We need to remember that some of the great poems are merely great songs without it.

I leave you with these words:

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be,
And from his dream forthright a picture grew,
A painting all the people thronged to see,
And joyed therein – till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: “’Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!
He painteth not according to the schools.”

The Dreamer probed Life’s mystery of woe,
And in a book he sought to give the clue;
The people read, and saw that it was so,
And read again, then came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: “Ye witless ones! this book is vile:
He hath not got the rudiments of style.”

Love smote the Dreamer’s lips, and silver clear
He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,
That all the market-place was thrilled to hear,
And listened rapt – till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: “His technique’s wrong; he singeth ill.
Waste not your time.” The singer’s voice was still.

And then the people roused as if from sleep,
Crying: “What care we if it be not Art!
Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?
Come, let us crown him where he sits apart.”
Then with his picture spurned, his book unread,
His song unsung, they found their Dreamer – dead.
- Robert Service, "The Man Who Knew"

. . . and the bands play on.