a little lord tenny for ya
Trying a little something different today…
I want to talk about one of my favorite poems—specifically, one of my favorite lines within a poem—and how I keep coming back to it every time I am in doubt of why I have this longing to write when so often I feel that my words aren’t good enough for anyone to read (re: rhyming is hard). The important thing to remember, though, which is another reason why I love this poem—is that sometimes you’re not writing for an audience. Sometimes you’re just… putting words to a feeling. That’s pretty much what Alfred Lord Tennyson did when he spent seventeen years of his life writing this poem (from 1833-1850), In Memoriam A.H.H., or simply, In Memoriam. For a full decade, Tennyson refused to have any of his poetry published. He did keep writing though, and the collection of poems that came from this period would become one of his most famous and beloved works. The poem is an elegy for Tennyson’s best friend, Arthur Henry Hallam, who died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage at age 22. In addition to being close personal friends with Tennyson, Arthur was also engaged to Tennyson’s sister, Emily, and his death sent shock-waves throughout the Tennyson family and obviously affected Alfred very deeply. (If you want to read more about it, I highly recommend visiting the poetry foundation.)
One of the main criticisms of Lord Tennyson’s work is that it is overly-sentimental. I can’t say that I mind it much—I’m a pretty sensitive gal. I cry approximately 12 times a week. Despite my own personal preferences, however, it’s a valid critique. The entire poem is something like 2890 lines, of which I admit I’ve only read a handful. But this section in particular speaks to me… let’s see what you think.
V.
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
“But, for the unquiet heart and brain / A use in measured language lies”… I love that. To me, it is a perfect summation of why, why, why, for some crazy reason, words… stories can be as medicine to a restless, uncertain, or broken heart. It’s hard as hell to get the right words in the right order… but you can’t get there if you don’t keep trying. That’s where the Mastery lies. Even when you feel like your words or your art or your business or your craft isn’t good enough… if it means something to you? Keep trying.
PS. One of the most famous lines of poetry ever written comes from this poem (‘Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all). Go Tennyson. 🎉