THE SPOKEN WORD

If memory serves me biographers of William Shakespeare, at least one English professor and several movie characters all conceded that poetry was written to be heard not read. When first introduced to poetry, many like Robin William’s students in “Dead Poet’s Society,” groan when they see a thick anthology on their teacher's desk, dreading the analysis of iambic pentameter and couplets. But in an inspired English class. students, such as those in the movie, needn’t worry.

I was raised in a more oral tradition. We had often heard readings by poets from many cultures, seen Shakespeare’s plays and film adaptations long before I began studying poetry in school. You see, my mother and father didn’t go to college and had haphazard schooling. Dad did go to the American Academy for Dramatic Arts in New York City for one year, then taught English and Drama at a secondary school in upstate New York, where he would he meet and marry Mom.

Mother, the always humble intellect, wrote a Greek play in free verse when she was eleven years old (she couldn't repeat the feat and sadly the work was lost in storage after the Great Depression hit). My Mom also spoke conversational French and Italian from living in Europe before the Depression. She attended a variety of schools until thrust in the working world because of my grandmother's debts. Then Mother would often read on her own the great writers and poets, as well as attend multiple lectures in New York when she could. Years later, Mom would sing French songs and read French stories to me. Both parents were eloquent public speakers; hearing my father read bedtime stories aloud never got boring. Mom loved poetry. Dad was more reluctant. However, their enthusiasm for the spoken word never wavered.

Conversely, my early English teachers tried, unsuccessfully, to go by the book, parsing every line of Shakespeare’s works, T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Songs from the Portuguese, etc. When we got to Emily Dickinson, I threw in the towel, and barely passed English that term (1/6 in Junior High, a momentary blemish). What saved me from becoming a “versa-raptor”?(My term for one who dislikes poetry.) An English teacher in high school who believed in playing records, yes the vinyl ones, having his students read aloud or watching movies to give us visual and aural reinforcement of the written verse. Mr. Ingraham also wrote his semester reports adding a quote from Shakespeare particularly suited to his comments, no doubt from his head as he would recite Shakespeare's verse in class. He restored my admiration for poetry and laid the foundation for my writing. 

Later, two events reinforced that love of the spoken word. One summer day walking by St. Bartholemew’s Episcopal Church in New York, I happened to notice a sign: FREE. Jeremy Irons Reads His Favorites, at 12:00 pm. I looked at my watch, 11:45 am, and sprinted inside. Most of the pews had already been filled. I didn’t care. I took my place off-center and couldn’t believe my luck. The English actor had chosen several morsels, including lines from Pinter’s plays, Shakespeare soliloquies and D.H. Lawrence’s poetry, including “The Elephant Is Slow to Mate,” a favorite of mine. Spurred on by an adored professor from college, I had read everything D.H. Lawrence wrote. I listened to Irons' every nuance, each word as if new. In my mind, I can still hear his inflection, cadence, crisp articulation and pure joy.

I wavered from regularly reading or listening to verse for a few years until the inauguration of President Bill Clinton. Along with my mother, we watched the introductions until writer and poet, Maya Angelou, approached the podium. Not surprising, Mom knew of Angelou’s work. Angelou had achieved renown through her memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.  Mom and I sat entranced: Angelou's cadence, inflection, performance, all came together. She mixed serious, societal commentary, using metaphor, and jubilant resolution. When she finished, I shook my head and watched my mother. She continued to watch the screen as Angelou was escorted back to her seat and Clinton stood up to hug the majestic lady. “Mom, wasn’t she magnificent?” I bellowed. My mother said simply: “Exquisite.” Maya Angelou had left my mother speechless, a major victory.

How fitting that an actor from a rich oral tradition and an actress, singer, poet from an equally rich oral history would have shared formative moments in my life. I’ll never forget Jeremy Irons’ lustrous voice and Maya Angelou’s proud resonance. And, where the British, historical precedent of English Literature, particularly in poetry, has waned, the American voice continues, even with the passing of one of our finest songbirds.