Inspiration

Here's what Wislawa Szymborska, the Polish poet who won the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature, had to say about inspiration in one's work. It's taken from her Nobel Prize lecture on Dec. 7, 1996.

I've mentioned inspiration. Contemporary poets answer evasively when asked what it is, and if it actually exists. It's not that they've never known the blessing of this inner impulse. It's just not easy to explain something to someone else that you don't understand yourself.

When I'm asked about this on occasion, I hedge the question too. But my answer is this: inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists generally. There is, has been, and will always be a certain group of people whom inspiration visits. It's made up of all those who've consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors, teachers, gardeners - and I could list a hundred more professions. Their work becomes one continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A swarm of new questions emerges from every problem they solve. Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know."

There aren't many such people. Most of the earth's inhabitants work to get by. They work because they have to. They didn't pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their lives did the choosing for them. Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries. And there's no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes.

And so, though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.

Rancid Rhymes

Here's something I snagged off a departmental newsletter recently. It's supposedly the winners in a Washington Post competition, asking readers to write a two-line rhyme with the most romantic first line, followed by the least romantic second line.

1. My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:

Marrying you has screwed up my life.

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2. I see your face when I am dreaming.

That's why I always wake up screaming.

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3. I thought that I could love no other

-- that is until I met your brother.

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4. Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you.

But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead, the sugar bowl's
empty and so is your head.

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5. I want to feel your sweet embrace;

But don't take that paper bag off your face.

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6. I love your smile, your face, and your eyes

Darn, I'm good at telling lies!

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7. My love, you take my breath away.

What have you stepped in to smell this way?

Midweek Poem

While Doubters Ask
by Andrew Young

While doubters ask "Is God asleep?"
And "Why does He not help us now?"
His presence is in men who keep
Strong hearts, clear eyes, and a calm brow.

Midweek Poem

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children
by Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.
I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.
Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle though fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.

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I don't know about other fathers of young girls, but I look forward to their dating and engagement years with a bit of both excitement and dread. This poem by my favorite poet, Ogden Nash, pretty well gets the dread part down.

Midweek Poem

Anticipation
by Amy Lowell

I have been temperate always,
But I am like to be very drunk
With your coming.
There have been times
I feared to walk down the street
Lest I should reel with the wine of you,
And jerk against my neighbors
As they go by.
I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,
But my brain is noisy
With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

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After pondering a comment from Stacy that she usually doesn't "get" poetry, I realize that I can say the same thing, especially when it comes to modern poetry. The few poems I think I do "get" somewhat I have begun posting here. Thanks to Stacy's comment, I've decided that if I'm going to keep posting these "Midweek Poems" (and I am), I should add a short tag at the end to explain what about the poem attracted me, and/or what I think it means.

Regarding "Anticipation," I get the idea that the author is so in love (or in lust) with her beloved that it's as though she's actually drunk in his presence. She's normally a very reserved person, but her beloved causes her to lose all inhibitions. And it ends by her saying that although at the moment she's parched (lonely and reserved again), in her mind she's busy "anticipating" the next time see can see him and get "drunk" with his presence again.

If that's what she is saying, then I know that feeling. It's powerful, and indeed intoxicating, don't you think?

By the way, Carly Simon would later go on to make a great ketchup commercial with this same theme.

Midweek Poem

The Summer I Was Sixteen
by Geraldine Connolly

The turquoise pool rose up to meet us,
its slide a silver afterthought down which
we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles.
We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy.

Shaking water off our limbs, we lifted
up from ladder rungs across the fern-cool
lip of rim. Afternoon. Oiled and sated,
we sunbathed, rose and paraded the concrete,

danced to the low beat of "Duke of Earl."
Past cherry colas, hot-dogs, Dreamsicles,
we came to the counter where bees staggered
into root beer cups and drowned. We gobbled

cotton candy torches, sweet as furtive kisses,
shared on benches beneath summer shadows.
Cherry. Elm. Sycamore. We spread our chenille
blankets across grass, pressed radios to our ears,

mouthing the old words, then loosened
thin bikini straps and rubbed baby oil with iodine
across sunburned shoulders, tossing a glance
through the chain link at an improbable world.

Midweek Poem

The Termite
by Ogden Nash

Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good,
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.