The Art of Absence and other opinions

I don’t know about you, but I love sad poetry.

Triumphal poetry seems too showy, poems about requited love are dull, and poems about children frequently appear insipid to me.

I love the poetry of funerals.

This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well – I used an adaptation of Auden’s “Funeral Blues” as part of my wedding vows – but somehow it surprises me every time I pick up something dirge-like and walk away feeling enlivened.

I think my enjoyment of depressing poetry is mostly due to the fact that I’m continually astounded by the enormous well of sadness that humans are capable of experiencing; many people will know great joy in their lives, but suffering is really more of a universal emotion.

Funerals make people horny (this has been documented – a lot – just trust me). People get married in droves after national tragedies (and tell me, honestly, do you not know of a child who was born around June 11^th, 2002?) and during wars.

Why? Well, to quote W.B. Yeats, because “man is in love and loves what vanishes.” We are addicted to our own temporal instability – think about the traditional symbols of love; hearts that stop beating, red roses which wither when cut from the bush, arrows meant to rend flesh and end life – love is death and death is love, that which has died can only be remembered, and then only imperfectly, and usually as a more perfect version of that which existed in life.

The poetry of absence is, in my opinion, more complete and more tragically energetic than poetry about a living presence. Consider Ginsberg’s “Supermarket in California,” the poem is an ode and a eulogy to Walt Whitman; Ginsberg transforms the old poet into a clown and a god, powerful and pathetic because he is dead. It is harder to write poetry about the living because the living will contradict themselves (which is fine, they do after all contain multitudes) and pervert the poetry written for them or poets will pervert their own attitudes about their muse – think of Rosaline in Romeo and Juliet – Romeo falls for her, swoons over her, prates and prattles and poetry-s over her then ditches the whole concept of her because she less than Juliet. Poetry is like studying language – Latin is ideal because it is dead and no one is going to suddenly declare that “D’oh” is a word or that “less” is an acceptable (and inevitable) replacement for “fewer”; just like a dead lover won’t cheat, get fat, or suddenly declare undying allegiance to Justin Bieber.

I’m being ridiculous, of course. There’s wonderful poetry written about life and living and love and silliness and the now. But I just can’t bring myself to love it as much as the poetry about what was but isn’t any longer.

Maybe I’m just a downer, maybe I’m just an emo kid at heart, or maybe I simply love what vanishes. I cherish the perishable and I treasure the lost; the glass is empty but the memory of the sweetness of the drink is sweeter than the drink could’ve been.

So, how about you?