And the grass won't pay no mind!

Note to self: If you like the poetry, buy the book. Try not to fall in love with the poet.

You raise me up

I remember as a dreamy teenager on a summer afternoon after watching BBC's Pride & Prejudice, sitting with Piyu and Momo discussing what our respective Mr. Right would be like. You know, the prince on the white horse, the knight-in-shining-armour, the Mr. Darcy, the One, or whatever the latest romantic comedy told you to look for when looking for love.

All three of us had a list of things. Qualities, we hoped, the boy (it's a little silly to say man when you're fourteen and making lists) we fell for would possess.

I remember mine was something like this. "Can recite the dialogue to entire scenes from Friends episodes". "Likes Tennyson-y poetry". "Is good at math". "Doesn't think crying is for wusses but isn't too sensitive either". "Gets sarcasm". "Smells like fresh-cut grass". "Has a pet dog". "Plays a musical instrument or can convincingly whistle song tunes".

As you can see, it was a very exhaustive list. And it wasn't completely unrealistic. Or so I thought till my mum pointed out I wasn't likely to find a sitcom loving, poetry reciting mathematician and part-time gardener with a dog, in real life.

And growing up, what my mum said really started to sink in. I thought, okay, I could compromise on a couple of contentious items. Like, maybe we could get the dog later or maybe our kids could get my awesome math genes instead.

But Tennyson. Sigh. Tennyson can be so persuasive that he refuses to allow you to let go of your romantic ideals.

One of my favourite poems by him is a particularly recklessly romantic one I read from Piyu's mum's old, much-read, frequently-thumbed copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse.

It goes like this -

"O, were I loved as I desire to be!

What is there in the great sphere of the earth,

Or range of evil between death and birth,

That I should fear, - if I were loved by thee!

All the inner, all the outer world of pain,

Clear love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine."

Reading that again tonight, I remember once again what it was like to be in love with the idea of being in love. And I smile knowingly with the wisdom that only ten years of dissecting romantic films can bring. Yeah, maybe we could get the dog later.

A very poetic to and fro

Since this comes right on the heels of my previous post which had snatches of poetry, I wud have preferred to space it more. But I think it's particularly marvellous since the first poem I wanted to post here, is one I'd read about in The Garden of Rama by Arthur C. Clarke. The first stanza from this poem I'd scribbled onto my now-deceased scrapbook. It had the quite wistful idea of not having enuff time in this world to make love last long. It has a man admonishing his lover for being too 'coy'. Now that isn't a particularly appealing idea in itself but the poem that results is quite lovely.

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

- Andrew Marvell

But remarkably, this poem isn't the point of this post. I was listening to this poem read by SV, one of my favourite channels on youtube when I found that he'd posted a reply to this poem.

Now this reply was by another poet, A. D. Hope. I had never heard of him before. And I found he was this amazing satirical Australian poet who published a poem called "From His Mistress to Mr. Marvell" in a book charmingly called The Book of Answers. What I found most intriguing about this awesome poet I'd never heard of, was that, according to his wikipedia page, he was a polymath and largely self-taught.

This particular poem gives a sharp voice to Mr. Marvell's coy mistress, and its feminist slant is unmistakable. And since I loved the idea of a poetic repartee, especially one so cleverly written, I'm putting it here.

His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell

Since you have world enough and time

Sir, to admonish me in rhyme,

Pray Mr Marvell, can it be

You think to have persuaded me?

Then let me say: you want the art

To woo, much less to win my heart.

The verse was splendid, all admit,

And, sir, you have a pretty wit.

All that indeed your poem lacked

Was logic, modesty, and tact,

Slight faults and ones to which I own,

Your sex is generally prone;

But though you lose your labour, I

Shall not refuse you a reply:

First, for the language you employ:

A term I deprecate is "coy";

The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill,

May simper and be coy at will;

A lady, sir, as you will find,

Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind,

Means what she says and scorns to fence

And palter with feigned innocence.

The ambiguous "mistress" next you set

Beside this graceless epithet.

"Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave

To wear my heart upon your sleeve?

Or to imply, as sure you do,

I had no other choice than you

And must remain upon the shelf

Unless I should bestir myself?

Shall I be moved to love you, pray,

By hints that I must soon decay?

No woman's won by being told

How quickly she is growing old;

Nor will such ploys, when all is said,

Serve to stampede us into bed.

When from pure blackmail, next you move

To bribe or lure me into love,

No less inept, my rhyming friend,

Snared by the means, you miss your end.

"Times winged chariot", and the rest

As poetry may pass the test;

Readers will quote those lines, I trust,

Till you and I and they are dust;

But I, your destined prey, must look

Less at the bait than at the hook,

Nor, when I do, can fail to see

Just what it is you offer me:

Love on the run, a rough embrace

Snatched in the fury of the chase,

The grave before us and the wheels

Of Time's grim chariot at our heels,

While we, like "am'rous birds of prey",

Tear at each other by the way.

To say the least, the scene you paint

Is, what you call my honour, quaint!

And on this point what prompted you

So crudely, and in public too,

To canvass and , indeed, make free

With my entire anatomy?

Poets have licence, I confess,

To speak of ladies in undress;

Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough,

In verses this is common stuff;

But -- well I ask: to draw attention

To worms in -- what I blush to mention,

And prate of dust upon it too!

Sir, was this any way to woo?

Now therefore, while male self-regard

Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard,

May I suggest, before we part,

The best way to a woman's heart

Is to be modest, candid, true;

Tell her you love and show you do;

Neither cajole nor condescend

And base the lover on the friend;

Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch:

A suitor looking at his watch

Is not a posture that persuades

Willing, much less reluctant maids.

Remember that she will be stirred

More by the spirit than the word;

For truth and tenderness do more

Than coruscating metaphor.

Had you addressed me in such terms

And prattled less of graves and worms,

I might, who knows, have warmed to you;

But, as things stand, must bid adieu

(Though I am grateful for the rhyme)

And wish you better luck next time.

- A. D. Hope

 Mr. Hope comes up with an effective rejoinder to a great poem with an equally fantastic poem. Now one wishes more men in the world wud fight back with razor-sharp wit than blunt weapons, dont you? :D