Poetry and the Art of Melancholy
In the past, I have sporadically tried my hand at writing poetry. I figure that since my eye for the visual arts isn’t the keenest and since I’m usually fairly effective in conveying my thoughts through words, poetry would be the one art form in which I have an opportunity to excel. As I look back at some of the poems I’ve composed in the past year, however, I’m struck with two distinct observations. 1) My poetry stinks. 2) It’s all annoyingly depressing.

Seriously, if someone were to break into my “secret poetry stash” (which is located in a safe behind a wall in my bedroom and is only accessible by removing a framed painting of J. Edgar Hoover), they would most likely give up reading somewhere around the third page, begin wearing black shrouds, and pour wine and dead roses all over the manuscripts.

It is surprising to me that most of my poetic endeavors depict a strong tone of sadness. I think that I’m generally an optimistic person. I love laughing. Even my harsh critiques of certain circumstances are mostly enveloped in humorous sarcasm, so it’s a scary thought that my private moments, my personal soul-searching, would yield heavy, hopeless emotion. I wonder if my optimistic outlook is a ploy and my humorous nature a false pretence. If these words illustrate my “true self,” I wonder if I’m one of those folks that will just “snap” one day, that people will look at on the news or in the paper and say, “That boy was always so nice. You never would have thought that he was a…” (You can complete that sentence as you will.)

As I’ve considered these possibilities, I’ve been comforted by a few thoughts that may indicate I’m not a lunatic. First, I’ve perceived that at the times in my life when I have been driven to compose poetry, I have been driven by very strong emotion. It’s this restless stirring that if I do not compose, I’ll certainly drive myself to insanity. If poetry is to Wordsworth an overflow of powerful emotion recollected in tranquility, it is to me the release of that powerful emotion…tranquility comes afterwards. In that sense, I’m glad I’ve composed lines of sadness because it has allowed me to vent my emotions without becoming the nut that you would see on television. Simultaneously, it affirms that I am a human being who is prone to the far-ranging effects of human emotion. Though I would consider myself predominantly an optimistic individual, I am composed of a much fuller range of perspectives than simply happiness.

Additionally, I’ve recalled some of the thoughts from Edgar Allan Poe’s “Philosophy of Composition.” Yes, I realize Poe would be an unlikely source from which to derive comfort, but this is where I am. According to Poe, Beauty is the particular aim of poetry, and Beauty is most strongly felt through tones of sadness: “Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.”

The reasoning may seem convoluted, but I think the process can be recognized when it is put into action. Personal reflection during times of turmoil affords us a rare opportunity to look analytically upon emotions. Any deep feeling that can be effectively translated into words has the potential to strike a kindred chord within the reader. Because the commonality of all human society is a tension between what is and what could be, a feeling of discontentment, of longing, sadness is an appropriate response to reflection in times of emotional turmoil.

What must be remembered is that while sadness may certainly represent my “true self,” it does not define me any more than the other emotions to which I am prone. Try to follow this one. The beauty of being human, like the beauty of poetry, is that Beauty can be achieved through diverse avenues. Perhaps tones of sadness capture our condition most fully because it is in these times that we are forced to look at that condition the most intently. So I take heart in this realization and can now look at my poetry with a new sense of confidence, knowing that even if it stinks, it is somehow tied to the soul of who I am.