My Little Poem: howl

'What the Young Rhymer Said' by Vachel Lindsay

Hello, Poetry Friend

When I did my library book talk, I knew some folks would be there just to support me (thank you!!) and not because they actually like poetry.

Like a friend I know from the gym. I had literally never seen her with makeup until the afternoon of my event. The next time we saw each other, bedecked in lycra, she confessed she was one of those people who’s never understood poetry. But afterward she said this:

“I rearranged my bookcase so I could find the poetry easier.”

First, kudos to you, Friend, for owning poetry books! Even if they are leftovers from an English class, well done, you! And second, congrats on moving them to a place where they are more accessible. Where perhaps, one evening soon, instead of scrolling, you might just pull down a volume and read a poem. And if you like it, learn it by heart.

I memorized Vachel Lindsay’s “The Dandelion” in 2020 because Tweetspeak Poetry has a great coloring page for it. Then The Daily Poem did this one, and I immediately pegged it for Halloween month. The Young Rhymer, aka the poet, is “spent with visions.” He hums “a wilder tune.” And most importantly, “he beholds the moon!

So it should come as no surprise that Lindsay’s young rhymer rhymes differently. No ABAB or ABBA for this dude. How ‘bout a little ABCBCDAD?

Lindsay’s topsy-turvy rhymes move the poem forward — we’re waiting and waiting for that first A-line to come back around, and we have to wait all the way until the penultimate line.

The fourth rhyme, the D, surprises us when it arrives, but it doesn’t stay away long; it comes back in the final line. Crazy like a fox, that poet. Like a werewolf.

What the Young Rhymer Said

No poet spent with visions,
Bit by the City’s teeth,
Laughing at fortune, seeking
Fame and the singer’s wreath,
But must grow brave this evening, 
Humming a wilder tune,
Armed against men and nations.
Why?   He beholds the moon!

–Vachel Lindsay

I can only assume that when he beholds it, he howls.

Poets are weird because poets behold the moon. For me, this is literal. I walk by moonlight every morning, and I can tell you exactly what the moon looks like today and how it’s changed since yesterday. Tomorrow, I’ll be be able to describe how it’s changed again … perhaps become a flower.

Moonflower

“Are you dumb because you know me not,
Or dumb because you know?
	from “Flower-gathering” by Robert Frost

Perhaps, then, you are not so dumb
to stay away when I say, come.
Not a gardener with green thumb,
but a moonflower you have become.
Not a showy autumn mum,
but the flesh of a sweet, white plum.

Without you here I often hum
to soothe my lonely heart, now numb.
I smile. I work. Then I succumb.
I don’t know where these thoughts come from.
I add them up. They do not sum.
Their depths I try but cannot plumb.
Now I am made the quiet one –
unheard, unhearing, yet not dumb.

–Megan Willome

Happy poeming!

Megan