The Rhymers, the Metaphor people, and the Expressionists extraordinaire, were there at the beginning. They established verse and stanza instead of paragraphs, to build and maintain the flow of the story. Every emotion, feeling, and deeply held conviction, has already been expressed by these talented wordmeisters, leaving us to shuffle through the Hallmark card selection for a mediocre message.
Is there a gene for eloquence? Is there just a scintilla of poetic license scattered randomly throughout the XY chromosome system? Perhaps that’s why I didn’t get one, and now must rely on those that did, to be my intermediaries. That missing gene would be the reason I blurted and babbled, instead of waxing poetically to a girl I wanted to date back in high school. I had showered, worn fresh clothing, and on a scale of 1 to 10, I was a 6.75. The missing 3.25 was the oral delivery; it was fresh and alive when it left my lips, but was DOA when it reached the target of my affection.
It isn’t fair, dammit! I may be forced to hire a silver tongued spokesman to get my message across. Maybe I’ll check Angie’s list to find a personal John Alden, or Cyrano de Bergerac to do a PowerPoint presentation of my mission statement, while I hide behind a bush. Their spoken words, so warm and eloquent, would be welcomed by the object of my affection, and I’m in the door!
Ask your neighbor to describe a tree. He’ll say “Well, they’re tall, and they have leaves, and they give shade in the summertime.” That’s it, that’s his answer; that’s all he’s got. Tell that neighbor to look up in the Joyce Kilmer version.
Check with the guy across the street about what does it means to be a guy, a real man. He’ll ask, “Do you mean like Tom Cruise or Derek Jeter?” He missed the point completely; so, up at the risk of repeating myself, what’s the highest level a man can achieve, and what are the steps he must take to reach that level? Tell that guy to read “If” by Rudyard Kipling, and get back to you.
Somewhere out there, someone you know, or know of, has recently lost a loved one. That loss has created an inner emptiness that is beyond description, a loss so deep, so profound, that mere words cannot do it justice. Wrong! Comfort that someone by suggesting that they read “Funeral Blues”, by W. H. Auden. The poem describes that emptiness with such eloquence, that it demands a second reading.
I propose a toast to the poets! They help us feel; they touch us deeply, and profoundly. These wordsmiths take us to the heights, and lower us to the depths of our humanity; they speak for us all. Without them it would be, “hey man, what’s happenin’?”
Shortest poem: (Fleas. Adam had’em.) By Ogden Nash