Plain talk

By Mursi Saad El-Din

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One of my favourite reads was Frieda Hughes poetry in the London newspaper The Times. I say was, because after almost two years the series has come to an end. In an article in the paper Frieda Hughes is bidding farewell to her readers. With the apt title "The end of a long and winding ode," she looks back over the past two years of presenting poetry and tries to judge her achievement.

I fell upon the series by chance and since I am a lover of poetry, I started following the series which was published every Monday. I have kept all the articles which together can make an anthology of the best poetry written in English.

What Frieda does is to select a poem every week from among hundreds of poems and starts by giving the background of the poet then analysing the verses. She does not confine herself to newly published works by up and coming writers but delves in the golden treasury of English poetry. One of her best choices is The Voice by the first world war poet Rupert Brooke. I wish I could give the whole of this beautiful poem. But suffice it to give a few lines and part of Frieda's analysis:

And I knew

That was the hour of knowing

And the nights and woods and you

Were one together, and I should find

Soon in the silence the hidden key

Of all that had hurt and puzzled me --

Why you were you, and the night was kind,

and the woods were part of the heart of me.

According to Frieda Hughes' analysis, the poet is waiting the object of his affection in a place that delights him and: "We are made to wonder if something had happened between the poet and his lady, something that puzzled and hurt him; he hopes to find 'the key' to what that was, 'this was the hour of knowing' he says, as if he expects the bewilderment to evaporate. He wants to know 'why you were you.' He goes on to tell us how this person is one of three things he loves most, the others being the night and the woods."

Through this series I came to know a number of poets I had never heard of before. Names that meant nothing to me but their poems meant a great deal: Paul Muldoon, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Gaia Holmes, and others having sampled some of their works, I shall certainly look for their works.

And now I come to the parting article of Frieda Hughes. It is not only a reminiscence of her two year work, but a lesson of how to enjoy a poem and an examination of what goes on in a poet's mind. She also explains what a good poem should be. She is also apologising for not criticising some of the poems she received. It is because she regards negative criticism of living poets (whether they are beginners or not) "as akin to shooting someone whose feet are nailed to the floor. No one intends to write a bad poem if they want to be a poet. Nor would I wish to crush a fledgling creative spark that may produce something much better later, when such a spark is often so difficult to keep alight," she says.

Frieda Hughes believes that we should read our poetry aloud to hear it in a more objective fashion than silently inside our heads. Otherwise, and here she is talking to poets: "our glaring errors are skated over by our self conscious psyches." She then goes on to give some very basic do's and don'ts when writing poetry.

Rhyme is nice, but it is entirely up to the poet -- in which case times must scan. Rhyme does however help to fix the poem in the memory. Rhythm, on the other hand, is vital and, in reading aloud, a skilled reader can give even free verse a rhythm and lyrical quality that reading silently often fails to do.

Poets usually write poems when something -- however small -- is meaningful or important to them, be it an object, an experience or a situation. Even bad poets are thus inspired, despite sometimes failing to convey this. Poems can be intellectual to the point that many would be alienated, or so simple and easily understood that some may consider them rather basic, because poetry is as varied as we are.