2001-06-18 - 19:58 MDT

THE WONDERING JEW

Dillettante

Compared to John Bailey, The Old Grey Poet - - dilettante is what I are. But just a damn minute ! Is that so bad ? I don't think so, it merely defines my level of expertise and knowledge to my way of looking at things.

I guess my real introduction to the world of poetry came after my childish enchantment with Robert Louis Stevenson's A Childs Garden Of Verses. Which by the way has returned full force to me, only to be appreciated at an adult level enabling me to see and marvel at the way his verses were written to draw a child's interest and imagination into so many different things.

In the world of elementary school wheelin' 'n' dealin' I was fortunate enough to latch onto a bunch of those little books, green leatherette bound, cheap paper, maybe 2 1/2 inches by 3 1/2 inches. Geez, I got a slew of them. Among them were the poems of Edgar Allen Poe.

At that stage of my life I had read a story or two of his and of course the one about the loudmouth raven and his damnable, "Nevermore." But, even that poem had a majesty, using simple words in the correct rhythm and combination to weave a melancholy tale of deep interest.

So, into his poems I went and came to think that maybe his poetry was better than the movies. The pictures he brought to life in my mind were far better than anything on the silver screen.

Also in those books was the "Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner," which was not a cheerful composition, but which did show a command of the language and its possibilities of forming pictures in the mind.

Fiction drew me in to the point that I lived the main character and came back to reality with a startled realization that I was coming back into the real world. It still does that even now.

But poetry, ah, I sit and watch on the pages an impassioned description of the events which tend to stir me more than a fiction story.

True history or not, "Listen my children and you shall hear, of the midnight ride of Paul Revere," sets the stage for the excitement to follow.

Someone reading Bill Bryson's, Made In America would tend to look at the story of Paul with a jaundiced eye. But the poem is still a good one.

Dad used to read poems of Longfellow's to Mom and I as audience. He could read poetry with expression and rhythm that showed what verse is telling one.

Along the way I ran into poetry here and there, until I got into Junior High School. We had a book of poetry in our class, an antholoy of poems that I loved to the max. Ever since then I have read a bit here and a bit there of good poetry.

So, no, I am not an expert devoted to writing or researching poetry. But like some kings, etc. "I know what is good, it is something I like." When my blood begins to seethe in my veins, my eyes turn dreamy or the tears begin to drizzle, dammit, that is poetry to me.

Into my life comes the man from Somerset, a poet who not only spins a beautiful verse but continues my education in the land of Poesy. My homage to John Bailey, The Old Grey Poet he fills a spot in my life that has been long empty. But still, alas, I remain a Dilettante . . . . .

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