Those Who Hate Poetry, LOOK AWAY

Being the dedicated Lit major that I am, browsing my awesome Norton anthologies has become one of my favorite ways to kill time. I have discovered many new poets and authors by simply flipping through pages. Several names that I have never seen introduce themselves to me and I'll read a bit of their works, musing, "Well that's nice. Very anthologizable." But none has caught my eye quite like Stevie Smith. What's unique about her is that I can't get her poem out of my mind. I'm really not that into poetry. I have one poem that I'm obsessed with (Victor Hugo's "Elle avait pris ce pli") and a couple that I love (T.S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and "The Waste Land"). But I don't drool over poetry the way some people I know do. I just don't really get it, honestly. Except for those rare moments when everything aligns, the poem makes sense, and I know that those words were meant to be written for some specific purpose, that they have some sort of transcendental quality.

Stevie Smith's poem "Not Waving but Drowning" struck that chord in me recently. If you know all of the poems that I listed above, then when you read this one, you'll know that apparently I am only drawn to morbid poetry. So it goes...

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

From reading the introduction to Stevie Smith, I learn that she illustrated many of her poems with line drawings, which she called "doodles." This particular poem is accompanied by one such sketches. Since I cannot find it online, (one of the only times Google has failed me) it is lucky that I pride myself in my ability to explain visual objects through words. Imagine a flat-chested 13-year-old girl staring smugly with squiggly lines across her bellybutton area signifying water. Her hair is combed in front of her face looking a bit like the infamous young lady from the horror flick The Ring. I don't know what else to say about this poem, since I am really awful at analyzing poetry. But only, I like it. I wish you could see this sketch. It's a bit freaky.