So recently I’ve come to discover a poet whom most have never heard of: Paul Laurence Dunbar. He was an African American poet (from my research, one of the very first to be achieve fame in the US) in the late 1800s. However, he is one of the most talented writers I have ever read, for two main reasons:
1) He has a brilliant way with words, and is able to make his writing (when he wants to) incredibly lyrical and meaningful - something all poets should strive for
2) He is just as capable of writing in a “dialect” style, where he composes poetry using the African-American dialect of the time. Being not only able to think, but write in two completely different languages is absolute talent.
As an example of his lyrical writing (though We Wear the Mask is as good a an example as any), here is Sympathy.
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
And just to contrast Sympathy, here is an excerpt of Dunbar’s dialectic style.
De axes has been ringin’ in de woods de blessid day,
An’ de chips has been a-fallin’ fa’ an’ thick;
Dey has cut de bigges’ hick’ry dat de mules kin tote away,
An’ dey’s laid hit down and soaked it in de crik.
Den dey tuk hit to de big house an’ dey piled de wood erroun’
In de fiah-place f’om ash-flo’ to de flue,
While ol’ Ezry sta’ts de hymn dat evah yeah has got to soun’
When de back-log fus’ commence a-bu’nin’ thoo.
etc.
From what I’ve read of Dunbar’s poetry (you can guess who I’m looking for from now on in all the book stores I go through), he writes with meaning and intent. Every line holds a weight, and builds up within internal structure. In Sympathy, Dunbar uses parallel structure with each stanza (the first and last lines) to maintain a sense of unity within the poem. However, one of the most brilliant aspects of Dunbar’s writing is the way he builds up to a resounding and eloquent finish.
Beyond his style, Dunbar writes about relevant themes he holds strongly to himself. Like I mentioned in previous posts, art is only truly powerful when passion is constrained by form and structure. And Dunbar’s passion for his themes shines through the form he writes in - whether he is writing about slavery, life lessons, parting ways with dear friends, or the lying faces we don in public, he writes with passion, and form.
I have found a new idol in poetry. For me, there have always been two pseudo “categories” of poetry - photographic (poetry that describes a moment in time, ex. “I stood tiptoe on a little hill” by John Keats), and conceptual (poetry that discusses an idea or belief). Obviously it is very muddled along the edges, with poetry that uses a situation or image to share an idea (ex. Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats).
I hope to one day be able to possess a compendium of my own writing, spanning my life - a compilation I can use to point out and recall significant events (and “phases”) I have gone through throughout my life. And to do that, I have to learn how to write about serious things, eloquently, and structurally.
After the Quarrel
SO we, who’ve supped the self-same cup,
To-night must lay our friendship by;
Your wrath has burned your judgment up,
Hot breath has blown the ashes high.
You say that you are wronged — ah, well,
I count that friendship poor, at best
A bauble, a mere bagatelle,
That cannot stand so slight a test.
I fain would still have been your friend,
And talked and laughed and loved with you
But since it must, why, let it end;
The false but dies, ‘t is not the true.
So we are favored, you and I,
Who only want the living truth.
It was not good to nurse the lie;
‘Tis well it died in harmless youth.
I go from you to-night to sleep.
Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve?
I have no fund of tears to weep
For happenings that undeceive.
The days shall come, the days shall go
Just as they came and went before.
The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow
Though you and I are friends no more.
And in the volume of my years,
Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,
The page whereon your name appears
Shall be forever sealed to me.
Not that I hate you over-much,
‘Tis less of hate than love defied;
Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch,
We’ll go our ways, the world is wide.
Paul L. Dunbar
(ahh! exams!)
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