While I was in the middle of writing this column, an eyelash fell into my right eye, causing me great distress and thus adding to my (embarrassingly) long list of first-world problems. To remedy this issue, I had to promptly walk over to the Richmond Hill Pharmacy from my office in order to purchase some eyedrops to help me remove the offending eyelash from my cornea. After purchasing said eye drops--as well as some candy for my troubles--I proceeded to crack my knuckles, put some drops in my right eye, and blinked repeatedly until the eyelash fell on my cheek in an almost cinematic fashion.
With the problem resolved, I then opened my laptop and continued to search the World Wide Web for more top-quality poems to share in this column, as I always do.
But while I was walking to the Richmond Hill Pharmacy, I was struck by how nice the weather was outside: not too hot, not too cold, with lots of sun and breeze. It all reminded me of my not-so-distant salad days (I’m only 23; perhaps I should say “salad dressing” days instead…) where I would study for upcoming midterms and finals outdoors in one of the many green spaces at UGA. My personal favorite spot was Herty Field, a large greenspace and former football field now famous for its fountain where eager freshmen jump in and get their oversized T-Shirts and Chacos wet in order to celebrate their first steps into college life.
Herty Field is also adjacent to Gilbert Hall, home of the Romance Languages Department at Georgia. Fun fact, readers: I minored in Portuguese in college! Yes indeed, I chose to minor in Portuguese, namely because (a) my major required me to pick a minor of some sort and (b) I didn’t want to pick a language that would be either too easy for me, like Spanish, or mind-numbingly difficult, like Arabic or Swahili. (In retrospect, with all the Hyundai hustle and bustle in the area, a part of me wished I could have taken Korean instead).
Anyways, I had a really cool Portuguese professor named Luiz who was from Pernambuco, Brazil. I remember him for his love of bass guitar, which he occasionally played for us in class and alongside Bichos Vivos, an Athens-based band dedicated to forró, a popular type of folk music from Northeastern Brazil.
So in honor of Luiz, I picked some poems featuring music and rhythm motifs and such for this week’s column. Do-re-mi!
Suspend, Singer Swan, Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz
Suspend, singer swan, the sweet strain: see how the lord that Delphi sees exchanges for you the gentle lyre for pipe and to Admetus makes a pastoral sound.
As gentle song, though strong, moved stones and tamed the wrath of hell, so it retreats, abashed, when you are heard: your instrument blames the church itself.
For though the works of ancient builders cannot match its columns, nothing’s greater than your song when your clear voice strikes its stones, and your sweet tones surpass it, dwarf it, while making it grow the more.
The Trumpet, Edward Thomas
Rise up, rise up, And, as the trumpet blowing Chases the dreams of men, As the dawn glowing The stars that left unlit The land and water, Rise up and scatter The dew that covers The print of last night’s lovers— Scatter it, scatter it!
While you are listening To the clear horn, Forget, men, everything On this earth new-born, Except that it is lovelier Than any mysteries.
Open your eyes to the air That has washed the eyes of the stars Through all the dewy night: Up with the light, To the old wars: Arise, arise.
The Music that Learns Us, Rodney Terich Leonard
Facing the blackboard, the teacher whistles a melody of marbled tenderness. Entanglement, intrigue or spook?
Perhaps, in retrospect, Monday thoughts of cared-for cashmere or the end bite of Sunday’s sweet potato.
It simmers & simmers, the music that learns us; The Mamas & the Papas Queen Latifah singing “California Dreamin’.”
The ear is nobody’s fool.
With music, Helen Hay Whitney
Dear, did we meet in some dim yesterday?
I half remember how the birds were mute Among green leaves and tulip-tinted fruit, And on the grass, beside a stream, we lay In early twilight; faintly, far away, Came lovely sounds adrift from silver lute, With answered echoes of an airy flute, While Twilight waited tiptoe, fain to stay.
Her violet eyes were sweet with mystery.
You looked in mine, the music rose and fell Like little, lisping laughter of the sea; Our souls were barks, wind-wafted from the shore— Gold cup, a rose, a ruby, who can tell?
Soft—music ceases—I recall no more.
Ghost Music, Robert Greaves
Gloomy and bare the organ-loft, Bent-backed and blind the organist. From rafters looming shadowy, From the pipes’ tuneful company, Drifted together drowsily, Innumerable, formless, dim, The ghosts of long-dead melodies, Of anthems, stately, thunderous, Of Kyries shrill and tremulous: In melancholy drowsy-sweet They huddled there in harmony.
Like bats at noontide rafter-hung.
Andrea Gutierrez is the managing editor of the Bryan County News.