I came across one of my favorite poems the other day and I forgot to blog about it. First, a little background.
When I was in my last year of college, I was cast in a production of Our Country's Good. I felt intimidated not only by the prospect of the real world waiting mere months away, but by the sheer amount of work and pressure playing the lead in a show can bring. As I sometimes have in life, I preferred to the smaller (and, in my opinion, more interesting) roles that allow you to explore your capabilities and just have fun on stage. So, I was feeling even more nervous when our director decided to give us a bit of an unorthodox assignment.
I'm one of the rare--or perhaps not--actors who, despite craving attention onstage or in front of a camera, can't stand to be the center of attention in a room. I hate being put in front of people and being asked to just perform. Be funny, be memorable, be meaningful. Again, the pressure kills me. That, of course, is exactly what our director decided to have us do. We were asked to pick some form of art--music, dance, poetry, art--and perform or show it to the rest of the cast. You can guess the reason. It's meant to show what you believe the character is thinking. I decided, instead of risking embarrassment through dance or self-doubt through song, to showcase my love of words. I chose to read two poems; each one written by a favored poet.
The first was a lovely poem by Pablo Neruda about a mermaid. It's beautiful and apropos of who I feel my character is, but it hasn't quite stuck with me--not like my second choice.
For my second poem I read "The Skylight" by Seamus Heaney. I'll let you read the poem and then I'll tell you about the interesting discussion of the poem I read.
The Skylight
You were the one for skylights. I opposed
Cutting into the seasoned tongue-and-groove
Of pitch pine. I liked it low and closed,
Its claustrophobic, nest-up-in-the-roof
Effect. I liked the snuff-dry feeling,
The perfect, trunk-lid fit of the old ceiling.
Under there, it was all hutch and hatch.
The blue slates kept the heat like midnight thatch.But when the slates came off, extravagant
Sky entered and held surprise wide open.
For days I felt like an inhabitant
Of that house where the man sick of the palsy
Was lowered through the roof, had his sins forgiven,
Was healed, took up his bed and walked away.
When I finally found this poem on the internet, I noticed some strange comments in the notes section. Everyone was debating whether or not the reader was the owner of the house where the "man sick of the palsy" was laying or if the poet felt, himself, like the inflicted man. I know that understanding the point of view of any story is important. But most people were interpreting the poem as merely biblical. I guess I was mostly surprised by the more stark, historical interpretation. Obviously, it is a simple poem about a skylight. I also spent several years in a high school English program obsessed with analyzing poems down to the last syllable and percussive consonant, so I may be over analyzing, but what happened to reading something into a poem?
For me, the poem has always been something of a love poem. It is a piece about revelations, how we always choose to stick to our guns, be stubborn about those things we prefer and how the people we love can change our minds, and change our lives. We need people who call us on our own bs, who aren't afraid to tell us we're wrong and show us just how much. Sometimes we need those who know us better than we know ourselves, to give us a swift kick in the arse.
Well, that's it from me for now. Busy, busy today with lots of acting project stuff, but hopefully, I'll have time tomorrow to update/rant about a few things. All my love!
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