Wilcox - Protest - which is part of our "POEM OF THE DAY" series of posts and Twitter broadcasts. In our quest to produce a thorough list to support our latest "Top 100 or so Poems" series, we reached out to our friends, followers and fellow poets for some reccommendations. The response was overwhelming, as you will soon see in the coming weeks.
We have to agree with our fellow poet/friend and fan of poetry, John Anstie (Twitter - @poetjanstie) who reccommended this to us, and so we publish this poem here for you to enjoy and consider. We also enjoyed John's introduction to the poem, and include it here with his permission (reprinted from his blog - My Poetry Library)
And so here it is -- enjoy!
"Ella Wheeler Wilcox was born in 1850 and died shortly after the
first world war. She was considered not to be one of America’s greatest
poets, but possibly the most read (she was good at self publication
through alliance with the news media; some sources, in fact, describe
her as a journalist).
I am inclined to disagree with the ‘not one of America’s greatest’
tag, which comes from some commentators, which description seems to be a
bit of a ‘put-down’. She was a prolific writer and revolutionary in her
own way. Whilst her poetry may have seemed rather traditional in its
bouncy-bouncy style of metre and rhyme, given that it was written in a
different age – over one hundred years ago – she was able to write poems
in a very ordinary language; a language that was, nay is, at
the same time, able both to communicate with and appeal to ordinary
people – people who have not necessarily benefitted from a particularly
literary education – and I love her for it. An example of this is
demonstrated by the first lines of a poem, for which she is perhaps best
known, “Solitude”, which begins: “Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone”, which have passed into common usage, simply
because she makes herself so easily understood. This poem was apparently
inspired by her experience on a train journey, for the duration of
which she found herself comforting an inconsolable, grieving widow.
I’m sure this has been written and reiterated many times in the past,
including one hundred and fifty years ago, but it most likely bears
repetition, simply because some of those who become absorbed in their
art, are capable of developing not only short memories but also short
sightedness! It strikes me that parts of the poetry world, as do
sections of the art world, appear to be rather too inclined to look
inwards on itself; become over absorbed with its own sophistication; and
get lost in its own intellectual complexity. It thereby, in my view,
loses the interest of too many people. There seems to be a ‘post modern’
tendency to over elaborate and sophisticate the language used in poetry
and some lyrics, perhaps because modern aspiring poets feel a need to
differentiate themselves from the ordinary? Perhaps because, when they
set out as poets, they are somehow made to feel that they have to write
in an abstruse way? For it to be validated that any of these motives
should determine what is acceptable in poetry, not to say fashionable,
would be a misguided notion. By that very attitude to its own art, the
poetry world is in danger of alienating itself from a potentially much
larger and more appreciative audience.
Yes, there are subjects within the complexities of human experience,
which do require a different set of understandings; a more esoteric
language to describe them lyrically; a requirement to use the English
language to its fullest and most glorious extent and, above all, that
challenges us to think at a greater depth. Of course, there exists some
powerful poetry written by masters of the art to exemplify this, but
please let’s not overdo it; let’s not exclude people, who may not yet
have been properly introduced to this art form, from being able not only
to enjoy reading poetry, but also to appreciate the fulfilling
experience of writing it.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox appealed to a very wide audience, I think for
that very reason. But, whatever you think, do read her. You will be
surprised to find so much beautiful, passionate lyricism and wisdom.
This is poetry that can be read easily, from a woman, who, on the face
of it, did not have a ‘tortured soul’; was not poor and did not, it
seems, have to strive to survive. She appears to have lived a long,
loving and happy (albeit childless) life, married as she was for thirty
years to one man. I commend her to you without reservation.
Above all, she is a bastion of optimism and, as a final note, I offer
you here her poem “I Told You”, which encapsulates that optimism and
amply illustrates her style.
I Told You
By Ella Wheeler-Wilcox
I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he’d flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.
You said the blustering fellow
Would never yield to a breeze,
That his cold, icy breath had frozen to death
The flowers, the birds, and trees.
And I told you the snow would melt, love,
In the passionate glance o’ the sun;
And the leaves o’ the trees, and the flowers and bees,
Would come back again, one by one.
That the great, gray clouds would vanish,
And the sky turn tender and blue;
And the sweet birds would sing, and talk of the spring
And, love, it has all come true.
I told you that sorrow would fade, love,
And you would forget half your pain;
That the sweet bird of song would waken ere long,
And sing in your bosom again;
That hope would creep out of the shadows,
And back to its nest in your heart,
And gladness would come, and find its old home,
And that sorrow at length would depart.
I told you that grief seldom killed, love,
Though the heart might seem dead for awhile.
But the world is so bright, and full of warm light
That ‘twould waken at length, in its smile.
Ah, love! was I not a true prophet?
There’s a sweet happy smile on your face;
Your sadness has flown – the snow-drift is gone,
And the buttercups bloom in its place.