An Infinite Summer

“this gaudy, mother-scented, mud-bedaubed language of ours”

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is a snippet of the inside jacket of my current favorite book, Good Poems. I have always had a small soft spot in my soul for poetry, but lately it has erupted.
Poetry speaks to the romantic in each of us. It can take a subject as ordinary as socks and make it sound beautiful. Poetry allows us to describe the world as we see it, not the way that it really is.

Or maybe its the other way around.
The best song lyrics are poetry set to music, and it has been said that dance is poetry in motion.

I couldn’t agree more.

One poem may have an infinite number of meanings. It may convey one message one day, and a completely different one the next.
Poems are coy, complex. They are not meant to be read in one sitting and never thought of again. They are meant to be inhaled. Read out loud. The words are meant to dance around on your tongue and slink their way up to your brain. They are meant to be peeled apart, examined, and lovingly put back together. One poem may never divulge all of its secrets to you. Certainly not in one sitting.

Poetry is art in written form. A good poem makes my whole body tingle, and I read it over and over and over again. Poetry is life, the way we see it, the way we want it to be. The way it is. Poetry is eternal.

The Yellow Slicker
Stuart Dischell

On this fourth day in a row of rain
There is a sameness to the streets broken only by the odd
Brightly painted house–the way those who pass by
In tan or black trench coats look back at the girl
Wearing a yellow slicker. The yellow slicker,
A gift from her aunt who knew London would be wet,
Having lived there herself just after The War,
The Europe she had known transformed to a state
Of the mind, no longer Central but Eastern, far away,
Bombed-out, depopulated, at least of her kind.

But for a girl of nineteen with American thoughts,
Traveler’s cheques, a boy at home, a university
Address, the decline of the West compels less
Than each step she takes through the London rain.
Even these British so accustomed to their weather
Admire the girl in the yellow slicker, as if she
With her uncovered streaming blond hair might shine
As the only sun they will see all week. Now,
That’s the kind of history she likes to hear.

See, this is my current favorite poem and I’ve already learned something new in typing it out.
It’s delicious.