The traditional Chinese character for LOVE
Ugh. I hate the sappy “How do I love thee, Let me count the ways” style of poetry. If you love sonnets, you’ll most likely want to jump out of this post at this very moment. I am definitely not a fan, unless you can enjoy the poem, not even realizing it’s a sonnet.
Most sonnets say to me, “Look! Look! I’m so precious, I followed all the rules, and I called my lover cruel, too. I die for that love, while I stand on my head, do the splits in the air, and rhyme.”
I also dislike concrete amatory poems. So jump out now, if I have offended.
I do like poems about love, though, and especially those that are quirky or subtle or take you on a wild ride with breathtaking description. My all time favorite love poem is Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Shampoo. It’s about the intimate act of washing another’s hair.
The very idea of a shampoo can make the world a beautiful place. There’s no problem so horrible that you can’t make it better by washing your own hair or, better yet, having someone else wash it.
The language in the poem is silvery, mostly passive, and so filled with tenderness I just want to crawl right into the scene that Bishop evokes. She starts:
The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.
There’s the lichen, spreading grey concentric shocks, mention of the moon, and memories, which have not changed.
The poem continues, carefully, softly, sweetly, comparing the changes in her lover’s hair with the explosions on the rocks. Every word feels affectionate and endearing. The lichen, in time, sends concentric shocks throughout the rocks. Time changes, as well, her lover’s black hair, with “shooting stars in bright formation.” (Fortunately for us, this is a time before everyone decided they must dye their hair and hide the grey. Heaven forbid that Lady Clairol should keep us from this delicious description.)
The rhymes in the poem flow easily and gracefully. Lichens grow upon the rocks, then concentric shocks, grow and although. The syntax is smooth and flowing. Nothing feels forced; nothing feels artificial.
How different this poem is, in tone, language, and imagery, from Shakespeare’s famous “Sonnet 130,” which beings:
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head
Nothing subtle or soft in Shakespeare’s lines, sentiments, and rhymes.
The best part of Bishop’s poem is the last stanza. At the very end, Bishop moves from passive to an imperative voice.
–Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin,
battered and shiny like the moon.
Here, finally, is action. Come. And along with that simple command, a return to the moon, battered and shiny, and timeless. Sigh.
I love this poem.
