A Rose By Any Other Name.....Would Still Stink

You know, I’ve always hated poetry. That may sound like a harsh judgment to make on such a revered form of creativity and self expression to most, but if I were to be totally and completely honest with myself, I would realize that I just could never bring myself to enjoy the genre. The pieces I’ve read have been nothing more than nonsensical babble with little traces of plot nor purpose, and quite frankly, I’m sick of authors sprouting poetry and creative licenses as an excuse to show off their thesaurus-enhanced vocabulary and clichéd ideals. Pretty words and ’striking’ imagery often times conceal the author’s blatant disregard for logic or originality, these attractive layers making topics like bowel movements sound charming and eloquent. Bad experiences have led me to the conclusion that poetry is an utterly useless genre, second only to science fiction in terms of tediousness and irrelevancy .

That said, I found myself pleasantly surprised and a tad bit sheepish after reading Longfellow’s The Slave's Dream. The structure of the poem seemed relaxed, the format more closely following that of a freestyle poem at times than that of the tradition ABAB or ABCB styling. There was no over-the-top vocabulary, no mediocre attempts at imagery, not even a single unimaginative metaphor; indeed, it seems as though this poem goes against every single predisposition and bias I’ve built against this cursed genre in the entirety of my academic career. Longfellow has manage to captivate me with his vivid descriptions and rapt attention to detail, taking me beyond my comfort zone and into the emotions and pains of another. I could almost see the shrunken slave in his last moments on earth, utterly defeated in life but hopeful and anticipative of what lie ahead. It seems as though the ‘tinkling caravans’ can be heard if I just listened for them with enough concentration, that the gentle spray of the ocean that lay just beyond those Caffre huts can be felt through the words on the page. He no doubt succeeds in his effort to bring a story-like feel and movie-like imagery to his audience, impressing even a stone-face cynic such as myself.

Another area this poem exceeds in is it’s audience appeal, or more specifically, it’s powerful pull on sympathetic and empathetic responses of the readers. It draws the reader emotionally into their self, urging them to replace this poem’s protagonist’s anguish and sorrows with their own past experiences. While there really isn’t anyone alive today who has experienced the horrors of mid-Atlantic slavery, there isn’t a soul on the face of this earth who hasn’t experienced disappointments and pain, who can’t relate to having their dreams crushed or their hopes dashed. Hope for a better tomorrow is universally understood, as well as nearly always reciprocated.