The Ghost In The Poem: Poetry of Remembrance

Let's talk about remembrance through poetry. Here's what my plan is: chat a little bit about the art of remembering a person, place, or object through the art of poetry. No how-tos, no layouts or road maps, no nuts and bolts---just some ideas about poetry of remembrance. Later, we'll check out some great poems of remembrance you can read in one sitting to inspire you.

The Ghost In The Poem

Poetry of remembrance is unique because it looks forwards into its own grief, and backwards into memory. They're tricky. Why? Because grief is all about making this shift in thinking about a person...one day they're here, living, breathing, and eating dinner next to you, talking to you on the phone, smiling. The next day, they're a memory. This idea of disappearing, but still occupying those spaces has inspired many a poet. 

Everyone has lost. You're working with a theme and an emotion that everyone will understand. But, it has to be said----turning a person's memory into a work of art? Not easy. (Although you could argue---is writing a good poem every easy?) For starters, a person will always, always be bigger and more complex than any poem you can write to encompass their memory. You have to accept this outright. What you're looking to do is to capture some essence of what this person meant to you. It's the equivalent of scratching your name into a big rock---you don't ever want the world to forget that they were real, that they were here. Then, there's the fact that you're very close to the energy of the poem, so it's going to be hard to edit. 

Basically, it's complicated. What makes a good poem of remembrance is one that focuses on imagery that remembers the individual through a lens. So you're not just writing a stereotypical portrait: "she had blond hair/and blue eyes/and her lips were red as cherries." That's not the soul of a person---though all those things are important. You're looking for "the sun lived in her hair, /seeped into the waves of her eyes, / the cherries in her smile". While that's not a stellar poem, you'll notice how in the second example those physical features you love about a person so much become more telling---you've learned that this woman has blonde hair, blue eyes, and red lips. But you also know that she had a calming, happy spirit around her. That she was as constant as the sun, and that constancy was comforting---something you can read in her eyes and her smile.

What I'm saying (perhaps in spite of my poor example), is that when you're remembering someone in a poem, you're working with limited space. Even the elegies that run on forever find their final stanza. You could fill pages and pages with words and imagery, but still never bring that person back to life. Pick your favorite physical characteristics and think about why they are your favorites---what they have to say about this person, as they live in your memory.

Working with your memories is another tough aspect. Your memories will always have meaning for you, but a poem is meant to be read, sometimes by many different people. So how do you strike a deal between your memory and your audience? How do you balance honesty and detail with relevance and resonance? Big questions. 

My take on it is this: write out these memories in all their detail---be tedious. Then, pare it down. All you need is the essence, the most important pieces of the memory, presenting in such a way that they surprise and resonate with the reader. (Yeah, that's all. I know, easier said than done.) Let's take a look at another one of my poor examples, yeah? 

I have an Italian Nonna, who thankfully, is still with us. She's a beautiful lady. Whenever I smell basil, I instantly am transported (mentally) to her house, to being a child and watching or helping her cook. That's my anchor memory I will work with. So instead of describing the general memory alone---"The sweet smell of Basil / Makes me think of my Nonna's hands."---I'd probably want to use that memory so that you're looking through my lens at my Nonna: "Nonna's sweet basil hands / Were like pillows for my cheeks.". (Again, not a very good line, but you get the gist of what I'm saying here.) So, instead of telling you, I'm showing you that a) Basil reminds me of my Nonna, and b) I found the smell comforting---indicating that it's a positive and cherished memory. 

Now that we've chatted a little bit about the essence of the poem itself, let's look at some examples.

Poetry of Remembrance

1. Those Winter Sundays 

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

-Robert Hayden

2. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas

3. A light exists in spring 

A light exists in Spring
Not present on the year
At any other period—
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary fields
That science cannot overtake
But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn,
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.

-Emily Dickinson

4. To Emily Dickinson

You who desired so much—in vain to ask—

Yet fed your hunger like an endless task,
Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest—
Achieved that stillness ultimately best,

Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear!
O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear
When singing that Eternity possessed
And plundered momently in every breast;

—Truly no flower yet withers in your hand,
The harvest you descried and understand
Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.
Some reconcilement of remotest mind—

Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill.

-Hart Crane

5. One Art 

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-Elizabeth Bishop

6. What Lips My Lips Have Kissed 

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Wrap-Up & The Prompt

I hope you found some inspiration in those various takes on remembrance and loss. You'll notice that some remember loss within themselves, loss of time, loss of people, loss of places---you can lose anything. Don't be afraid to branch out from remembering people. That emotion and energy of loss can be applied to bigger concepts. 

Your prompt today?

Remember something, someone, some time, or some place---and write about it. Put it into a poem. Don't worry about using the typical forms, that can come later if you wish. Just worry about laying down the raw materials to keep a memory alive.