Sentimentality vs. sentiment in writing Thread poster: Kim Metzger
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The Hundred Yard Dash Man
I carried him lightly,
eighty pounds, my height,
half my weight
with enough body sense -
the old track star -
to work in my arms with the balance
of his remaining mass
as easy live weight.
It became his last voyage,
from living room to bed –
this carrying was comfort to both.
Morphine had ended months
of pain – he was genial now,
euphoric, enjoying himself,
with his daug... See more The Hundred Yard Dash Man
I carried him lightly,
eighty pounds, my height,
half my weight
with enough body sense -
the old track star -
to work in my arms with the balance
of his remaining mass
as easy live weight.
It became his last voyage,
from living room to bed –
this carrying was comfort to both.
Morphine had ended months
of pain – he was genial now,
euphoric, enjoying himself,
with his daughter, and me, his son.
"You must have gotten stronger,"
he said, dismissing the loss
of body with a joke.
He knew he was on his way
out the door, and knowing was easy
though less clear for me
as I laid him down in bed
and laid myself in the twin
cold, rumpled, sour.
When hushed voices woke me
saying "He died last night,"
I couldn't open my eyes
and lay there frozen
among the murmuring women.
He had slipped silently
through the door that now
he left open for me.
- Barry Goldensohn
Great writing can move us to tears. Sometimes it's the sheer artistry of the language that evokes this response and sometimes it's a combination of the artistry and the subject matter. Whenever I read a poem about death that moves me deeply, I wonder how the poet has done it, and I think the answer is almost always because it is honest, sincere. I think of all the poems that have been written on death that fail this test and the culprit is usually sentimentality.
Some statements on the subject:
"Sentimentality is indulgence in emotion of its own sake, or expression of more emotion than an occasion warrants.... Sentimental literature is "tear-jerking" literature. It aims primarily at stimulating the emotions directly rather than at communicating experience truly and freshly; it depends on trite and well-tried formulas for exciting emotion; it revels in old oaken buckets, rocking chairs, mother love, and the pitter-patter of little feet; it oversimplifies; it is unfaithful to the full complexity of human experience."
Sound and Sense, Laurence Perrine
Sentimentality is a superstructure covering brutality.
Author: C J Jung
Sentimentality is the only sentiment that rubs you the wrong way.
Author: W. Somerset Maugham
A sentimentalist is simply one who desires to have the luxury of an emotion without paying for it.
Author: Oscar Wilde
I should also preface this with a word about sentimentality. When I read poetry reviews, I get the feeling that one of the worst sins a poet can be accused of is sentimentality. More, I get the feeling that poets go far out of their way to avoid that charge. I think this is a serious mistake. In my opinion, you get the biggest bang for your buck by skating right on the thin ice of honest sentiment, as close to the edge of sentimentality as you can get—without falling in.
http://www.thewordsmithpress.com/content/article.php?article=23
Tips For Writing Poetry
Tip #3 Avoid Sentimentality.
Sentimentality is "dominated by a blunt appeal to the emotions of pity and love …. Popular subjects are puppies, grandparents, and young lovers" (Minot 416). "When readers have the feeling that emotions like rage or indignation have been pushed artificially for their own sake, they will not take the poem seriously" (132).
Minot says that the problem with sentimentality is that it detracts from the literary quality of your work (416). If your poetry is mushy or teary-eyed, your readers may openly rebel against your effort to invoke emotional response in them. If that happens, they will stop thinking about the issues you want to raise, and will instead spend their energy trying to control their own gag reflex.
http://www.chat-avenue.com/forums/showthread.php?t=11396
[Edited at 2005-04-05 19:58] ▲ Collapse
| | | | Gerard de Noord 
France
Local time: 13:57
Member (2003)
English to Dutch
+ ...
Kim Metzger wrote:
The Hundred Yard Dash Man
I carried him lightly,
eighty pounds, my height,
half my weight
My personal view is that poems that start out well make us more forgiving about the other strophes. I'm not sure the rest of this poem isn't sentimental, but I'm Dutch.
'Do not go gentle in that good night' by Dylan Thomas http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Dylan_Thomas/1103 has a similar compelling beginning but is never sentimental in the ear of Dutchman.
Kind regards,
Gerard
| | | | Kim Metzger
Mexico
Local time: 05:57
German to English
TOPIC STARTER | Sentiment vs. sentimentality | Apr 6, 2005 |
Gerard de Noord wrote: My personal view is that poems that start out well make us more forgiving about the other strophes. I'm not sure the rest of this poem isn't sentimental, but I'm Dutch. 'Do not go gentle in that good night' by Dylan Thomas http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Dylan_Thomas/1103 has a similar compelling beginning but is never sentimental in the ear of Dutchman.
Thanks for your opinion, Gerard. The distinction isn't always clear cut. Maybe the poet is on "the thin ice of honest sentiment" and doesn't quite fall in the pond of sentimentality.
| | | | juvera
Local time: 12:57
English to Hungarian
+ ...
| More sentiment | Apr 9, 2005 |
It would be his 100th birthday on the 11. April, but he committed suicide at the age of 32. His father abandonned them when he was an infant, his mother, a washerwomen died when he was 14. But sentimentality wasn't his trade.
His name was ATTILA JÓZSEF, one of the greats of early 20th century Hungarian poetry, and here are two translations of a poem he wrote (in 1934) about his mother:
Mother
For over a weeek now, again and again,
thoughts of my mo... See more It would be his 100th birthday on the 11. April, but he committed suicide at the age of 32. His father abandonned them when he was an infant, his mother, a washerwomen died when he was 14. But sentimentality wasn't his trade.
His name was ATTILA JÓZSEF, one of the greats of early 20th century Hungarian poetry, and here are two translations of a poem he wrote (in 1934) about his mother:
Mother
For over a weeek now, again and again,
thoughts of my mother have wrecked my brain.
Gripping a basket of washing, fast,
on, and up to the attic she passed.
And I was still frank and released my feeling
in stamps and yells to bring down the ceiling --
Let someone else push those baskets of laundry
and let her take me with her up to the pantry.
But she just went on, gave me no look or thrashing,
went on, and in silence spread out all the washing,
and the kneaded clothes, rustling blithely,
kept twisting and billowing up brightly.
I shouldn't have cried, but it's too late for this.
Now I can see what a giant she is.
Across the sky her grey hair flickers blooming,
it's in the sky's seas she dissolves her blueing.
Translated by Vernon Watkins [& Adam Makkai]
Mama
On Mama now my thoughts have dawdled
All of a week. Clothes-basket cradled
Creak on her hip; she’d climb the stairway
Up to the drying-attic’s airway.
Then, for I was an honest fellow,
How I would shriek and stamp and bellow!
That swollen laundry needs no mother.
Take me, and leave it to another.
But still she drudged so quietly,
Nor scolded me, nor looked at me,
And the hung clothes would glow and billow
High up above, with swoop and wallow.
It’s too late now to still my bother;
What a giant was my mother—
Over the sky her grey hair flutters,
Her bluing tints the heaven’s waters.
Tr. Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner
The poem is simpler. It starts like this: "For a week now, I keep stopping, always thinking about mama."
Neither of these translations can give back the simplicity, the natural flow of the tumbling words, nor the imagery it creates, but they are honest efforts.
Here is the original to remind those, who can read it.
Mama
Már egy hete csak a mamára
gondolok mindig, meg-megállva.
Nyikorgó kosárral ölében,
ment a padlásra, ment serényen.
Én még õszinte ember voltam,
ordítottam, toporzékoltam.
Hagyja a dagadt ruhát másra.
Engem vigyen fel a padlásra.
Csak ment és teregetett némán,
nem szidott, nem is nézett énrám
s a ruhák fényesen, suhogva,
keringtek, szálltak a magosba.
Nem nyafognék, de most már késõ,
most látom, milyen óriás õ-
szürke haja lebben az égen,
kékítõt old az ég vizében.
[Edited at 2005-08-19 08:38] ▲ Collapse
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