Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by.

—lines (from “Under Ben Bulben”) on W. B. Yeats’s gravestone

On November 3, 1992, while America was spreading its votes among three presidential candidates, Jeanne and I were standing in a brooding cemetery in Sligo, Ireland. Our thoughts were far from the noisy battle between George H. W. Bush, Ross Perot, and Bill Clinton, an election that would change American politics for years to come (and is still affecting it today). But we were thinking more serious thoughts: We were reading the words cut in stone at the grave of the 20th century’s greatest poet: William Butler Yeats. A cold wind was blowing; it was getting dark and no one else was in the churchyard. I half-whispered his poem “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” (the lake just west of us, in Sligo County, where Yeats spent his childhood), thinking of his shaky old voice reciting it, on the only recording I have of him. Then Jeanne took this photo and we hiked up the highway toward the lights of a lone pub, and waited for the bus back to town.

A question I often get asked is, “Who’s your favorite poet?”, and I tend to give different answers, which is truthful enough, as my mind changes from age to age, and even season to season. But a good test for this question might be, “Which poems do you commit to memory?” Memorizing poetry takes time and dedication; in short, a long-term relationship. I thought of this when I turned the calendar and saw that June 13th was Yeats’s birthday; we’ll lift a Smithwick’s Irish Ale to him next Monday, but no candles: Yeats (1865-1939) will be 151.

Over the years I’ve memorized hundreds of poems. These days there are fewer of them remaining (I’m talking about whole poems, not bits and snatches), but as I lie in bed rolling them through my head and waiting for sleep, I see that there are more poems by Yeats than anyone else, including Shakespeare (in second place). Besides “The Lake Isle,” I love to say, or think, “The Second Coming,” “Who Goes with Fergus?,” “The Song of Wandering Aengus,” “Down By the Salley Gardens,” and a few others whose titles I’ve forgotten; the poems I love are falling from me like the leaves over our garden.

My students were generally displeased when I made them memorize poems, though a fair number have written back to say how much they enjoy the ones they’ve kept in their noggins. Many of my writing students memorized poems they wrote themselves; and I said that was fine, and could help you at readings — but memorizing other writers’ poems is much better for you as a writer, adding the rhythms and thought processes from the poets you love and admire. This can only help your own poems, giving your voice a richness and complexity it would otherwise lack.

The stanza that precedes the words on Yeats’s tombstone begins “Under bare Ben Bulben’s head/In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.” In the epitaph I wrote for a contemporary poet (no gravestone, just ashes), you can hear the tetrameter (4 beats) rhythm of Yeats, on whose broad shoulders stand most of the poets of our time. I couldn’t have written this if I hadn’t memorized his poems.

Epitaph

Below these live oak branches lie

a poet’s ashes pale and dry

He loved the feel of books in hand

but saw his words

as driven sand

Still he dreams as you pass by

although you may be far from home

that if you pause to read this poem

the leaves might nod

and understand

—from Lucky Bones, by Peter Meinke, U. of Pittsburgh Press, 2014