Mr. Van Doren

I have recently made a delightful discovery.

By way of background, I am an avid reader, from a long line of avid readers. Lately though, not so much. I still read a lot, but I have been disappointed or bored by the books I have chosen to read. There seems to be a trend recently of completely entering a character's head and dissecting his/her inner thoughts for page after page ad nauseum. I don't have the patience to withstand such an assault. Books that have come to me highly recommended have been tossed aside partly read, simply because I couldn't stand the inner angst of protagonist A.

I do like poetry, but there is so much bad poetry out there that I tend to stick to Shakespeare, Yeats or Eliot--pretty hefty stuff. For me, poetry has been a mental exercise, wrapping my head around an idea, stretching my mind to figure out what the writer is trying to say, wrestling with the language or meter. Just the idea of good poetry exhausts me.

Enter Mark Van Doren.

Who?

I knew the name only from the movie Quiz Show. The movie is about the rigged game show 21. Charles Van Doren basically became the face of the scandal. He is the son of Mark Van Doren--a Columbia professor and Pulitzer Prize winner. Anyways, I picked up a book of his poems at a yard sale earlier this year, only because I recognized the name and because the price was right (50 cents, I believe). The book sat in my "yard sale bag" for several weeks, untouched. I picked it up a few nights ago when I needed to unwind after a long day.

The very act of reading--especially an old book--can be a pleasure. The feel of the book (preferably hard cover), the smell and color of the pages, the sound the book makes as you touch the pages. Sometimes you come across some old memento that a previous owner used as a book mark. Well, all of these things were coming together to work their magic. The first few poems went by barely noticed. Then the spell began working. The fourth poem in, I stopped . . . something had caught my attention, my imagination. I had to slow down and reread. The ninth poem in--a beauty called Immortal--I was completely bewitched.

I don't presume to know anything about Mr. Van Doren. And it has been too many years since my college Literature classes for me to dissect what about this book is so enchanting. All of the poems in this book involve rural life, something of Nature. He also gives some human traits to nature and vice versa. So a spring (water) can experience fear, or an old woman turns into a stone when resting. But they all have an intangible quality, a yearning, a sadness, a joy. I read through all 66 poems that night and have since reread several of them. I even read a few to my husband--always a risky affair. He enjoyed them as well.

So thank you to Mr. Van Doren for the surprise and delight!

Immortal

The last thin acre of stalks that stood
Was never the end of the wheat.
Always something fled to the wood,
As if the field had feet.

In front of the sickle something rose--
Mouse, or weasel, or hare;
We struck and struck, but our worst blows
Dangled in the air.

Nothing could touch the little soul
Of the grain. It ran to cover,
And nobody knew in what warm hole
It slept till the winter was over,

And early seeds lay cold in the ground.
Then--but nobody saw--
It burrowed back with never a sound,
And awoke the thaw.


From Spring Thunder
by Mark Van Doren

Peace
C