Reading poetry can be edifying.

Edification – This word has always attracted me, because it sounds so much better than “self-improvement,”  a phrase associated with motivational clap-trap sold by hucksters. Self-improvement books are like diet books – their profusion attests to their lack of effectiveness. If they really work, why are new ones always coming out?

To edify, according to Merriam-Webster, is “to instruct and improve especially in moral and religious knowledge : uplift; also enlighten, inform.” Well, I could do without moralizing and religion, but the word still expresses an important goal in my life. I want to be edified, and to edify others. (Edify, which once meant “to build,” is also where we get the word “edifice.”)

When I channel surf, it often hits me how unhealthy entertainment has become. I’ve always liked applying the phrase “mental pollution” to what I see – what’s on television not only wastes your time, it harms you psychologically, albeit in a subtle manner. I seldom feel better after aimlessly watching television. Ask yourself, as you view the images  – is this improving me in any way? Chances are, it isn’t.

Granted, entertainment is an escape, and it’s fun to watch, even if it’s something trashy. Everyone is entitled to an occasional guilty pleasure.

And announcing that you don’t watch television at all is tantamount to a proclamation of snobbery, and I wouldn’t advise it. (And don’t use words like “tantamount,” either.) It’s also a rather dubious claim. We all watch television.

Oddly enough, even committed philistines tacitly acknowledge that television is bad, by consistently downplaying their addiction. No one says: “Television? Oh yeah, I watch a lot of TV! A LOT. Other than work, it’s what I do!’ Highbrow types will admit to viewing, but will excuse their weekend binge as an attempt catch up with a season of their favorite, usually critically acclaimed show (Mad Men, etc.).

I like what environmentalist Bill McKibben said about television. He described it as a “time out” – and everybody could use one now and then. The problem is when the time-outs last longer than the game. Author Ray Bradbury likens television to a Medusa that turns millions to stone every night (see his short story, The Murderer). And then there’s my favorite, most devastating critic of television, Neil Postman, who notes that “Television doesn’t ban books — it merely displaces them.” The fact that DVDs are divided into chapters confirms his observation.

Television has its place, but it’s like sugar. Mostly empty calories, and it makes you flabby after a while, both physically and mentally. You’re an adult, not a child, so seek out some nutrition, if not from my pretentious blog that wants to edify you, then somewhere else. Find something. Don’t just escape from life via entertainment, enrich it with something that speaks to you.

Poetry speaks to me. It is an antidote to all things modern and unhealthy.

It is a clear spring in a world of polluted digital streams.

Beautiful abandoned places!

“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

“That is no country for old men. ….”

The words sound familiar, of course, because they make you think of a movie featuring a memorable sociopath played by Javier Bardem.

Not sure how Yeats would react, since these are the opening words to his poem, “Sailing to Byzantium.”

Many titles of books and movies, and many well-known expressions and phrases, derive their origins from poetry, which, like an aquifer, provides life to culture, and yet remains hidden from view.  A lot of thirsty writers, parched of inspiration, draw from the well and don’t give credit.

My first encounter with Yeats began with those words, and I’ve since been moved by his mystic, spell-like power. Here are some favorite lines of mine:

The woods of Arcady are dead,

And over is their antique joy;

Of old the world on dreaming fed;

Grey Truth is now her painted toy;

Yet still she turns her restless head:

But O, sick children of the world,

Of all the many changing things

In dreary dancing past us whirled,

To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,

Words alone are certain good.

—- opening lines from The Song of the Happy Shepherd

That’s the type of verse I enjoy reading out loud and memorizing.

Footnotes: Arcady refers to Arcadia, a region in Greece;

“represented as a paradise in Greek and Roman bucolic poetry” – Encyclopedia Brittancia. It would be interesting to visit modern-day Arkadía to make a comparison.

Chronos refers to Time, personified.

Alexander Pope (21 May 1688 – 30 May 1744) is generally regarded as the greatest English poet of the eighteenth century, Painting by Michael Dahl. He couldn’t be reached for comment. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

CORRECTION:

Earlier, on MVP:

“Honestly, I don’t know much about Pope, but I will post more as I continue my research. Most of us, however, are familiar with his memorable line, “For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” Yes — he said that.”

Turns out I made a mistake! My second blog post is subject to my first correction! I extend my apologies to my two loyal readers!

While researching Pope’s An Essay on Criticism in the Encyclopaedia Brittanica Online (I got a free 7-day trial), I came across this:

“The work’s brilliantly polished epigrams (e.g., “A little learning is a dang’rous thing,” “To err is human; to forgive, divine,” and “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”)  while not original, have become part of the proverbial heritage of the English language.”

So Alexander Pope did not formulate these sayings – he just popularized them in An Essay on Criticism, published when he was 22 years old. I will attempt to improve my fact checking. Thank you for your patience.

Your humble and obedient servant,

MVP

“To err is human; to forgive divine.”

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread”

“A little learning is a dang’rous thing.”

Thomas Otway, a dramatist  whom Lord Rochester befriended in 1675, wrote “The Enjoyment.” I urge you to enjoy his sexy little poem, with its references to “dying” (a metaphor for orgasm).

         THE ENJOYMENT

                         I.

Claspt in the arms of her love,

In vain, alas! For life I strove;

My flutt’ring spirits, wrapt in fire,

     By love’s mysterious art,

Borne on the wings of fierce desire,

     Flew from my flaming heart.

                        II.

Thus lying in a trance for dead,

Her swelling breasts bore up my head;

When waking from a pleasing dream,

     I saw her killing eyes,

Which did in fiery glances seem

     To say, Now Coelia dies!

                        III.

Fainting, she press’d me in her arms,

And trembling lay, dissolv’d in charms;

When, with a shiv’ring voice, she cried,

     Must I alone, then, die?

No, no, I languishing replied,

     I’ll bear thee company.

                        IV.

Melting our souls thus into one,

Swift joys our wishes did out-run:

Then launch’d in rolling seas of bliss,

     We bid the world adieu;

Swearing, by ev’ry charming kiss,

     To be for ever true.