"Then I'd lie in my bed once again"

It is no secret, at least not to we few, we proud, we band of readers, those of us who regularly read those words written here (Hello, Denmark!), that poetry has become significantly more present in my life now than some times previous.

In part, this lies in the rediscovery of poetry read aloud, preferably to me by someone else (and pretty girls seem to work best), but, in a pinch, by me to me. I suppose I always, somehow, knew this to be the best means of receiving verse, but, as with all things, time occasionally robs us of knowledge and memory. I forgot, Gentle Reader, as I grew older, that one aught to read poems aloud, forgot that one should read them at all.

God! What a horror show. I am so glad that I have come back to my senses. A poem:

Danse Russe


If when my wife is sleeping


and the baby and Kathleen


are sleeping


and the sun is a flame-white disc


in silken mists


above shining trees,--


if I in my north room


dance naked, grotesquely


before my mirror


waving my shirt round my head


and singing softly to myself:


"I am lonely, lonely.


I was born to be lonely,


I am best so!"


If I admire my arms, my face,


my shoulders, flanks, buttocks


against the yellow drawn shades,--



Who shall say I am not


the happy genius of my household?



William Carlos Williams


This poem, read to me not once, but twice this weekend, sparked a discussion (and rumination) on the nature or rebellion (mostly of the youthful kind), and also as to the nature of Kathleen. Over all, it reminded me of a story I once heard (and have since told) about a boy who enjoyed sneaking out of his house at night, and running naked in the woods of the back lot. Would that boy grow up to be the happy genius? If he did, Gentle Reader, I hope in my heart that he would not forget the beauty of poetry, the childish wonder of the meter and the rhyme (sometimes the rhyme, anyway). Too many people see poems as elitist stuff, complicated or esoteric. Not so, not so. Think of songs, for instance. It was an revelation to remember the beauty of verse, as an adult, to rediscover the simple joys of poetry, and to remember the story of the boy running naked through the woods, night wind and moon light on pale skin. Don't forget, boy. Don't forget those feelings, don't forget the childish pleasure, or the ease of joy.