[Come summer heat, much of my blogging momentum melts away. Hence an experiment until Labor Day: fifty minimalist posts about whatever.]
In grade school, we memorized poems. Memorization was hard for me (it still is), but I did my best to remember the assigned passages at least long enough to recite them out loud, palms sweating, if called on. I think this practice was supposed to saturate us with uplifting and ennobling literature that would provide comfort in the tough times ahead when we became adults.
I’ve been an adult for many years now, some of them quite tough. All I could ever recall of those elementary school efforts were two lines: “By the shores of Gitchee-Goomee” (Longfellow) and “Into the valley of death rode the four hundred…” (Tennyson). Neither was particularly sustaining when encountering life’s challenges.
What did stick with me was the idea that memorizing was an approved endeavor for classy young ladies. When at the age of twelve and a half I fell in love with Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822), I therefore had to memorize some of his verse – if only to show his spirit (surely hovering over my bedroom in Queens, New York) that I cared. For some reason I chose “Ozymandias.” Because it was only fourteen lines? I have no idea. But I memorized with such diligence I remembered it long after I’d traded in Shelley for Leonard Bernstein as my love object.
Did “Ozymandias” help in getting through life? Not really. Not until recently, when I took another look with adult eyes:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
Think of the many hot shits in the world you can’t stand. For all their self-importance, nothing of them will remain. They’ll be nada. Buried in bare, boundless sand.
6 thoughts on “WRITING SHORT: 39/50”
He said it well. thanks for the reminder.
You’re very welcome. 🙂
I love this poem, and I was not familiar until it was used in a pivotal episode of the series Breaking Bad. It was a brilliant companion to the story line. Thanks for the reminder, and of so much more than just a tv show. 💕
I hope not just a reminder of the TV show, Van — which, incidentally I’ve never watched.
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Also love this poem! Thanks Nina for bringing it back again!
Just when we think our existence is SO important, this is a
great reminder that we are “dust and to dust we will return” How’s that for a “picker upper!”
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Interesting, Rita, that you read it as applying to oneself, whereas I always thought it was intended to take down all the other proud peacocks who’re strutting around. Talk about picker-uppers, though — there are a couple more pieces coming down the pike (although not tomorrow) that make this one seem downright cheery! Brace yourself!