MR. GEIB'S FAVORITE POEMS

• We human beings are so driven and exacting of ourselves.  We fail to measure up to our ideals, and then we castigate ourselves as unworthy and unacceptable - as "failures."  We need to give ourselves a break now and again.  Henry David Thoreau writes, "The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly."  How true!  And how sad!

• Blindly and recklessly the 19th century burst into the 20th century - a time of modernity, world wars, slaughters of millions, wholesale destruction of entire nations, the loss of faith and ethical moorings, men lost and confused - of artists enraged, hostile, full of self-loathing - at war with themselves and their neighbors.  Arnold's hauntingly beautiful poem encapsulates, for me, this unique moment in Western history when the sureties and glory of the past found themselves drowned in the roar of worldwide warfare, mass society, the movie screen, modern ideology, embittered invective and "culture wars," and all the impassioned, tawdry brutality of the 20th century - "where ignorant armies clash by night."
  

• In a country where death and dying are uncomfortable inconveniences, Berry takes a different view of his mortality.  Let others "rage against the dying of the light" - Berry, taking a perhaps more wise and mature point of view, will take it in stride when it comes - as it will for all of us.

• Intimately associated with "Dover Beach," Wordsworth's short sonnet in the form of an epitaph encapsulates the idea that this world is one failing in hope, where death provides a release.

• The best poetry - and, in particular, sonnets - should be a perfect blend of balance, rhythm, meaning, and form.  Listen to the meter of this poem and watch the cadence!

• I wrote this poem for a friend, worried not so much for his physical safety as for the health of his soul.
  

• This allegorical poem turns the biblical story, quite unexpectedly and powerfully, on its head.  Wow.

• The mass media tells us that to be a celebrity and to have one's name and face on the television set and in the tabloids is to be loved, admired, and respected.  It is a fool's belief, believed by many - the dream of becoming famous, packaged in a glitzy hollowness, consumed by the needy and the credulous, towards the end of making a profit.  Don't believe it.  See through the glitz.  Know the lie for what it is.  Win the only victory possible.
  

• The incredibly intrusive nature of the modern press is such that - in the name of ratings or "getting the story" - a reporter feels justified in probing into every corner of a person's life or beliefs.  There is literally no such thing as "off limits" or "private" any more; and nothing sells newspapers better than a scandal that titillates and appeals to the Peeping Tom in everyone.  In such a culture, the only way to survive and thrive is to disengage and refuse to play the game according to the rules others developed.  Look inward rather than outward for truth, and be that rare creature nowadays - a person of integrity, honesty, originality, with neither excuses nor apologies to offer anyone.

• More language that sparkles with energy and enthusiasm; a world of feeling and sentiment in a few packed verses.

• So much of the Third World languishes, suffers, and groans under the weight of petty dictators, bitter poverty, and casual, daily brutality.  People have no hope for the future, and the one who would play the hero and attempt to make a change for the better is the first to be hung by the neck until dead - as occurred to Ken Saro-Wiwa in 1995.  Yes, let there come a "cleansing shower" to wash the earth clean of corrupt tyrants in the stagnant backwaters of the world.

• How ironic that John Milton, a devout Puritan, created a poem to "explain and justify the ways of God to man" and then wrote the character of Satan as more interesting than God?  The lines follow one after towards the thundering conclusion, the touchstones for all rebels. 

• I I have always thought that, if I ever were to get married, I would want to honeymoon on a deserted stretch of beach in the tropics with no other human beings for miles around.  Just my wife, myself, and the ocean, sand, and jungle.  We would swim about and lay in the sun all day like walruses, wearing about as much clothing as they do.  This beautiful poem by Ortiz captures this sentiment.

• A short idealistic poem about friendship.  Music set to words.  Speak the words, hear the meter, and enjoy the artistry.

• To be entirely honest, I first memorized this charmingly brief but lyrical poem to impress women I had just met at a bar, party, or some other place and to -- ahem! -- gain their favor.  But when at the party honoring my sister's engagement to be married a toast was proposed to the happy couple, many voices rose asking for a famous quote or poem.  "Where are the words of the younger generation?  Do they not appreciate bon mots?"  one asked.  "Where is the English teacher?" another finally queried.  All faces turned to me, with everybody's glass of champagne held high waiting for a few apropos words.  The blood drained from my face and panic set in, but I managed to recite this poem flawlessly to the guests.

• Short and sweet - beauty, pain, desire, and love.  From an anonymous Spanish author.

• Ask any man how long he has to live and, no matter how old he might be, he always says he has a few more years left.  But nobody knows how long is left, and everybody passes, without knowing it, the anniversary of their death.  Does it matter?  Would you like to know the date of your death?  A "death day" to balance out your "birth day"?  Your death, after all, is as sure a thing as your birth - and as important.  But how many look at is this way?  Most people ignore their death until it stares them in the face - and then are terrified, like children of the dark.  Merlin does otherwise.

• One of the joys of learning another language is to be able to read its masterpieces in the original.  A student in German can one day hope to read Goethe in the original; a learner of Russian can aspire to read Pushkin's beautiful sonnets; a person studying French can finally read Flaubert, Montaigne, and Proust in French; and one who can appreciate Spanish can luxuriate in the Golden Age of Spanish literature.  To study such literature in translation is insufficient.  Here I present two somber austere poems from the Golden Age of Spanish literature by that master, Francisco de Quevedo.  To be able to read Quevedo or Cervantes in the original, for a native English speaker, is akin to discovering whole new works by Shakespeare.  That in of as itself is worth the long years of study it took me to learn Spanish.
  

• Death comes to us one and all, sooner or later - so goes the platitudinous comment on our universal mortality.  This poem recognizes this fact, but I admire the spunk and spirit of a lady who remains angry about it.  "I am not resigned," indeed!

• We are a modern people, so rich in technology and electronic distraction, so relatively impoverished in our appreciation and facility with language.  Whenever I read some Renaissance master - such as Shakespeare or Lope de Vega - weave beauty into words and music into verse, than I feel transported to a time in history where perhaps I would feel more comfortable and "at home."

• I do not always understand the female sex and neither, in the end, do many men.  But someone once said woman are not meant to be understood but rather should be loved.  When a man or a woman stops wishing the opposite sex could be more like their own sex, and when one learns to appreciate and respect those differences, then life becomes easier and more hospitable - as do relations with the opposite sex.  How sad that so many people carry with them through life resentments and hatred towards the opposite sex - with such a consequently negative impact on their lives!

• Whatever one can say about its navy, the power of Spain in the 17th century centered around its powerful army and peerless soldiers.  The majesty, dignity, and single-minded competence and cruelty of Spain as a world power comes through in this poem dedicated to the Duke of Osuna, Don Pedro Girón.

• Every now and again I sit down and read out loud Gustavo Bequer's "Rhymes" all the way from the first to the last one.  It takes me about 45 minutes, but at the end my cheeks are flushed and I feel transported by the power of romanticism, idealism, and the power of the imagination.

• Our society prizes winners, and it extols the virtues of competition and achievement that produces victors.  But often it is harder to lose than to win, and learning to lose is as important as knowing how to win - especially for those accustomed to hard work who expect to win.  
  
  I gave a copy of this poem to my father when he failed to get an expected promotion in his work and was crestfallen. He had worked laboriously and patiently for years in his company and felt he deserved the promotion.  It went to someone else.  Yeats's poem says about all one could say in such a moment. 

• When I was a child, I wanted to be a soldier when I grew up; I came from a family with a strong military background (among others, my father served in the U.S. Army in Vietnam), and my childhood took place during the Cold War-era with its wars and rumors of war.  Then with my own eyes while in college I watched gunshot victims (murder most foul, with malice aforethought!) breathe their last breaths into my face.  I was profoundly affected.  In my youthful idealism, I wanted to be of service and feel I was living not as a burden to the earth (as many do live); and so instead of a soldier I decided to become a cop.  I wanted to serve.  To make a difference.  To do good.
  
  But after much experience - both in real life terms and through book study and research - I realized little real or lasting good would be done by carrying a gun and pointing it at other human beings (although I understand the necessity of it and am no pacifist).  There are better ways, I came to believe, to serve the cause of mankind and civilization.
  
  In this, of course, serves centrally the figure of my father.  He served his country and killed its enemies in Vietnam, but it was later as a father and husband that his masculinity shone most brilliantly and potently.  My father was more than capable of some daring action in battle to kill the enemy and win a medal.  But more heroic still he was in spending decades loving his wife and raising his children to young adulthood and beyond with patience, dedication, and non-stop care and attention. He was a pillar of strength and integrity, both in times good and bad, to his family.  This, he taught me by his example, is what it truly means to be a man.  And Shirley's poem goes straight to the heart of the matter.

"Poetry is the universal language which the heart holds with nature and itself. He who has a contempt for poetry, cannot have much respect for himself, or for anything else."
William Hazlitt