BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER V. (Razar Back).- Of this whale little is known but his name. I have seen him at a distance off Cape Horn. Of a retiring nature, he eludes both hunters and philosophers. Though no coward, he has never yet shown any part of him but his back, which rises in a long sharp ridge. Let him go. I know little more of him, nor does anybody else.
BOOK I. (Folio), CHAPTER VI. (Sulphur Bottom).- Another retiring gentleman, with a brimstone belly, doubtless got by scraping along the Tartarian tiles in some of his profounder divings. He is seldom seen; at least I have never seen him except in the remoter southern seas, and then always at too great a distance to study his countenance. He is never chased; he would run away with rope-walks of line. Prodigies are told of him. Adieu, Sulphur Bottom! I can say nothing more that is true of ye, nor can the oldest Nantucketer.
Thus ends BOOK I. (Folio), and now begins BOOK II. (Octavo).
OCTAVOES.* These embrace the whales of middling magnitude, among which present may be numbered:- I., the Grampus; II., the Black Fish; III., the Narwhale; IV., the Thrasher; V., the Killer.
*Why this book of whales is not denominated the Quarto is very plain. Because, while the whales of this order, though smaller than those of the former order, nevertheless retain a proportionate likeness to them in figure, yet the bookbinder's Quarto volume in its dimensioned form does not preserve the shape of the Folio volume, but the Octavo volume does.
In these few paragraphs, we see nineteenth-century science giving way to a kind of mythology. Not much is known of the Razar Back and Sulphur Bottom whales, as these creatures are solitary and have only been observed at a distance. As Melville writes, "I know little more of him, nor does anybody else." Best to let them retain their mystery as they seemingly dive to the very top of Tartarus, the Greek version of Hell where the Titans were imprisoned.
While I didn't work this Monday, I find myself--on this mid-week day--to be anxious for the weekend already. Of course, it being April, and National Poetry Month, I find my calendar very full. I am not complaining. Poets and poetry rarely get the spotlight. We are like the Sulphur Bottoms and Razar Backs of the art world--seen and admired from a distance, but rarely understood in any deep, meaningful way. No, most people prefer to keep their distances.
I have found, as Poet Laureate, one of my jobs has been to fight this prevailing attitude toward poetry. Readings by poets tend to attract a much smaller audience than readings by novelists or essayists or short story writers. The reason for that probably stems back to high school and middle school. As a young student, I can recall being told on many occasions that my understanding of a poem was faulty. That "The Raven" clearly referred to Poe's dead wife and was NOT a depiction of a mind deranged and broken. Nevermore. I suppose you can only be told you're wrong so many times before you really start to believe that poetry is some Rubik's Cube that you will never solve.
I will be the first to admit that there are some poets that still puzzle me. T. S. Eliot tends to make me feel really stupid at times. But I have learned to embrace that unknowingness. I don't HAVE to understand a poem to appreciate it. There's still language and music, image and metaphor that appeal to me even in the most dense and challenging verse.
So, in this last year, I've been trying to breach that wall people construct around poetry. I am against walls anywhere. Walls are simply ways to separate and isolate yourself from the world, and that is never a healthy idea. Extended isolation can drive a mind toward mental illness. Poetry is a way to connect with other people, to understand and build relationships.
Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for the opportunities that poetry has given him to connect.
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