For Miriam, who plants the flowers in the garden of my life, and for the members of our Family for so enriching our life together. PAB
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Poet or not, no one seems to have defined to another's satisfaction what constitutes a poem. Archibald MacLeish has suggested that a poem should be "wordless, as a flight of birds," and should "not mean, but be." Others have said that poetry is metrical writing, or it is verse, or it is anything you want to call it. Certainly, anyone can make poetry and during a course of a lifetime most people do. The line between poetry, however defined, and prose is not a sharp one.
I like to think of a poem as a memorable way of conveying thought or emotion, a half-way house between prose and music. If the poem is to memorable, it should be economical in its use of words. The words used should by their arrangement or meaning strike a responsive chord in the reader, though not always or necessarily what the writer had in mind.
My strivings with this esoteric genre have been very limited and almost entirely of recent origin. Not entirely recent, because I have run across a few attempts from the days of my youth, when extremes of mood, sad or glad, were mistakenly believed to be expressible only in verse. These I have included, as the dates indicate. There are indications here of some concern with the equation of life: the past, change, memory. Are the words gone when the blackboard has been erased?
Some thirty-six years later I renewed this flirtation. Incentive came, when it did, quite by chance.
I was asked to make some remarks at the retirement ceremony of a colleague. Having attended such rites and aware of the long-winded speeches made by all too many participants, I wondered how I might honor my friend, say something appropriate, keep it mercifully short, and have what I said possibly remembered, at least by the one honored.
It seemed to work. Indeed, the first thing that happened at the close of the festivities was a rush by my friend lest I leave the premises without his having obtained a copy of my effort.
So you see, I was encouraged. And since then, probably more times than my family wishes to remember, the occasional verse has played some role at special affairs. This much can be said for certain: however well done the Hallmark card or well chosen the gift, neither can take the place of the personalized effort of letting someone know you care.
Beyond that, I have come to enjoy reading the poems of others and to probe the meanings of language common to poets: cadence, accentual meter, syllabic meter, alliteration, sound echoes, strophes, and forms. In a crude sense, writing verse is like solving a crossword puzzle. Everything should fit in the designed form, and it shouldn't take forever to get the job done. Indeed, part of the fun is to see how few well chosen words you can use to say what you want to say.
May these fragments, assembled for family, serve to remind some of its members of our great times together.
Paul Borel
Great Falls, Virginia
1985
Updates:
July 2006 -- Note: Paul and Miriam Borel, ages 94 and 91 respectively, presently live in Southern Pines, North Carolina. JJB
March 2007 -- Update: Paul turned 95 this month. JJB
April 2007 -- Update: Miriam turned 92 this month. JJB
July 7, 2007 -- Paul passed away in his home in Southern Pines, North Carolina, at age 95. JJB
I like to think of a poem as a memorable way of conveying thought or emotion, a half-way house between prose and music. If the poem is to memorable, it should be economical in its use of words. The words used should by their arrangement or meaning strike a responsive chord in the reader, though not always or necessarily what the writer had in mind.
My strivings with this esoteric genre have been very limited and almost entirely of recent origin. Not entirely recent, because I have run across a few attempts from the days of my youth, when extremes of mood, sad or glad, were mistakenly believed to be expressible only in verse. These I have included, as the dates indicate. There are indications here of some concern with the equation of life: the past, change, memory. Are the words gone when the blackboard has been erased?
Some thirty-six years later I renewed this flirtation. Incentive came, when it did, quite by chance.
I was asked to make some remarks at the retirement ceremony of a colleague. Having attended such rites and aware of the long-winded speeches made by all too many participants, I wondered how I might honor my friend, say something appropriate, keep it mercifully short, and have what I said possibly remembered, at least by the one honored.
It seemed to work. Indeed, the first thing that happened at the close of the festivities was a rush by my friend lest I leave the premises without his having obtained a copy of my effort.
So you see, I was encouraged. And since then, probably more times than my family wishes to remember, the occasional verse has played some role at special affairs. This much can be said for certain: however well done the Hallmark card or well chosen the gift, neither can take the place of the personalized effort of letting someone know you care.
Beyond that, I have come to enjoy reading the poems of others and to probe the meanings of language common to poets: cadence, accentual meter, syllabic meter, alliteration, sound echoes, strophes, and forms. In a crude sense, writing verse is like solving a crossword puzzle. Everything should fit in the designed form, and it shouldn't take forever to get the job done. Indeed, part of the fun is to see how few well chosen words you can use to say what you want to say.
May these fragments, assembled for family, serve to remind some of its members of our great times together.
Paul Borel
Great Falls, Virginia
1985
Updates:
July 2006 -- Note: Paul and Miriam Borel, ages 94 and 91 respectively, presently live in Southern Pines, North Carolina. JJB
March 2007 -- Update: Paul turned 95 this month. JJB
April 2007 -- Update: Miriam turned 92 this month. JJB
July 7, 2007 -- Paul passed away in his home in Southern Pines, North Carolina, at age 95. JJB
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