In the society in which we live in today, the classical style of writing poetry seems to have been forgotten. We label it as old-fashioned – which basically means dull, unfresh, non-existent.
Instead of viewing both poetry with verse and poetry without verse as two equal components (seeing that there’s nothing wrong with each one of them), the popular opinion has now put modern poetry in the limelight and thrown classical poetry in the garbage can.
(For those of you who don’t know this, modern poetry is a poem without verse.)
The fact that rhyming has gone out of fashion is very sad. But some of us are still fighting to change it. Because whether you like to believe it or not …
VERSE IS NOT DEAD.
It just exists in a different form; Namely in music.
If you take a close look out there, some popular songs are just magnificently written. Put it on paper, and you have a classical poem.
Don’t believe me?
Take this song by Leonhard Cohen:
The Gypsy’s Wife
And where, where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight
I’ve heard all the wild reports, they can’t be right
But whose head is this she’s dancing with on the threshing floor
whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
I’ve heard all the wild reports, they can’t be right
But whose head is this she’s dancing with on the threshing floor
whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Ah the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, “My body is the light, my body is the way”
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride’s bouquet
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, “My body is the light, my body is the way”
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride’s bouquet
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
And there is no man or woman who can’t be touched
But you who come between them will be judged
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
And there is no man or woman who can’t be touched
But you who come between them will be judged
Or this song, by the famous rock-band; Pink Floyd:
Time
Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your hometown
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way.
Kicking around on a piece of ground in your hometown
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.
Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.
Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
And when I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells
Or this one, by Simon and Garfunkel:
The Sound of Silence
Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams, I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
Narrow streets of cobblestone
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light, I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
“Fools” said I, “You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
It isn’t exactly helping the resurrection of classical poetry – that only song-lyricist have the power to distribute their work these days. However, looking at their songs and noticing the depth and the value in their words is a start. Perhaps we could all begin to appreciate verse more, now that we’re seeing the positive effect it’s having on the people.
Think about it: Without the verse in pop-songs, no one would care to listen to them. It would sound horribly wrong. It wouldn’t have any rhythm.
Well, why not think the same way about poetry?
Poetry with verse and poetry without verse should have equal value, without one winning over the other. Personally, I prefer poetry with verse, but there’s beauty in both and we do appreciate both styles; You can see that by walking down the street in any city: They’re all listening to music (poetry) with their headphones.
Doesn’t this mean that we’re craving for something more? Doesn’t this mean that we’re craving for a resurrection of the classical style of writing poetry?
I would like to hear your opinions on this.
Do you think classical poetry is dead?
Do you agree with bringing it back in fashion?
DO tell me in the comments below or send me a message so that we all can get a chance to discuss this! I’m eager to hear your thoughts on this:)
Love,
Aftur S. Nerdrum