Poetry of the Day: Stephen Crane and Hearts

There's too much poetry in the world and I'm too impatient to stick with a once a week schedule, so instead let's try this: Every Wednesday will include a Poetry of the Week post like clockwork, but sporadically throughout the week I may drop in with a Poetry of the Day that feels particularly relevant at the time. For today, Stephen Crane and poems about hearts.

You may or may not know Stephen Crane as the author of the Red Badge of Courage. I'd honestly forgotten that particular tie, but it's relevant and certainly his most well known title. It turns out that in addition to prose, he wrote a great deal of fairly short, freeform poetry. Most of the poems I'm drawn to involve some amount of rhythm or rhyme, singing when you read them aloud, but Crane's poetry appeals to me for its stark discord and, shall we say, complete lack of chill. He's bitter and sarcastic and cutting and has no room for romanticism, particularly about death or war or humanity's higher virtues. His poem "War is Kind" feigns consolation for the women and children left behind by detailing the grisly circumstances of their loved ones' deaths. "Fast Rode the Knight" reads like a typical knightly rescue, until the end focuses on the poor horse the knight rode to death to get there. "Charity Thou Art a Lie" goes...about as you'd expect. If you'd like to read more of his works, I recommend looking up his poetry collection, The Black Riders and Other Lines, and for added interest, go look up comments both he and his critics made about it.

But for today a pair of poems a little closer to home:

In The Desert In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”

Many Red Devils Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page,
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.

I don't want to analyze the poetry I share with you, because I want it to be yours, but "In The Desert" and I have a strange relationship. It at once feels to me like a half-finished thought and a perfect summation. Self-acceptance and -degradation in one concise package. My flaws and bitterness are my own, and I love them for it. But that is simply me, and maybe you don't identify with the lone bestial creature. You should make of it what you will.

And now I'm off to continue channeling negative emotions and the dreadfulness of February into a much needed resurrection of my writing habits. Be warm and well.