Christina Leary - The Purpose of Poetry

November 23, 2017

Christina Leary - The Purpose of Poetry

Over thanksgiving break my family and I watched a movie together, it was called Almost Famous. After the movie my mother was trying to figure out the “themes” of the movie. My cousin asserted that there did not have to be a theme, that a good movie has two components: one, a fun plot and two, character development. For my mom there had to be a theme. After lots of discussion my mom said the movie reminded her of a poem and she kept repeating the only part she remembered, which was “though nothing can bring back the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.” I was interested in the rest of the poem so I looked it up and that section of it continues on with:

“We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.”

Immediately it brought back memories for me and I began writing a sort of poem, it is hardly as beautiful but I think it is worth sharing for purposes of reflection.

The Glorious Hour (A reaction to the line “of the glory in the flower”)

Oh, the glorious hour!

The tills and the tower

Through the hills memories so sweet and in the valley memories a bit sour

But oh the glorious hour!

One of twenty-four, the morning time galore

I would do anything for us four

But that can be no more

I can’t send for you anymore

But still my memory of the spatter that did pour

from the northern shores,

our sacred time restored

is nothing but glasses painted with a rose, still it was a glorious hour!

The running waters hurdling logs and the moss covering everything but the flowers

in the glorious hour.

The rotting wood, the mildew smell was everything to us but repulsive

sitting still twiddling our newfound treasures,

the mysterious letters,

the familiar entrance to the ever-increasing abyss,

I will always miss, about that glorious hour.

The unknown is that kiss, from the sweet little miss that you’ve been growing with,

but the unknown is what you miss about that little miss who you no longer kiss

because she doesn't do the trick that originally made her tick,

now she's your watch wrecked, and the time you cannot tell,

And there was no way for you to know, oh!

That was the glorious hour.

The pedal hit the floor, it was like we were on tour

I couldn't sing but you swore that you weren't keeping score,

So I sang for us four.

But now I am sore

Annoyed, left alone on the dancefloor

Can we have an encore?

For the glorious hour

Digging a hole in high tide

By the seaside

We took so many strides

Misguided as we cried

Mourning the glorious hour

Our artificial flower

The movie and my mother's repetition of the line from the poem that she liked brought about this reaction in me. My “poem” came to me in moments I did not plan a specific plot, it came to me as the memories did. For my mother I don’t know if this would be enough, she needs a theme. For my cousin there is no real plot to my story but maybe a little character development. For me it is important that art causes us to act! It moves us in a way. Which makes me want to ask does art need to be planned or does true art give rise to more art? Or to some change in state?