2. Rhyming, Responsibility and Annabell Lee. Which one doesn't belong?

How do we choose our favorite poem? If it goes against everything we think about poetry, how can it be my favorite?

I want to point something out early in my blogging because it's something I strongly believe about writing and think it really applies to poetry, too, so I'd love to get everyone's opinion on it.

First and foremost: What is a writer/poets goal? What, even, is their duty, or... responsibility? Is our allegiance to ourselves, our work, or our audience?

I said, in my opening entry, something along the lines of: Writers write for themselves first, and then edit for other people later. That is basically the core of my beliefs when it comes to writing--that a writer should sit down with no one else in mind, should only write for enjoyment and, more particularly, to understand; to understand themselves (*ignore the cliche*), to understand their opinions on a subject, to...understand.

After that initial connection with a work, though, how does our responsibility change? Is it our "job"to make it relate to the reader, or does that fall in to their own hands? Should we just hand over our work and say "Here, world. Something happened to me, and I wrote this...make of it what you will, but if I change it at all, it won't be the same, so I won't. Deal with it."?

I started asking those questions tonight because I was thinking about my favorite poem. Every time I'm asked what my favorite poem is, I easily answer with the same one. "Annabell Lee" by Edgar Allen Poe.

Annabell Lee
Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me -
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

This poem, essentially, goes against all of the things I believe about writing. Honestly, what do I know about the love of my life dying? About tuberculous? There is absolutely nothing in this piece that I can attach to, understand, relate to. Still, I love it. In general, I do not like poetry that rhymes at the end. Still, I love it.

Even more than that, I know the reason I love it is the rhythm of it, which of course is very much because of the end rhyming I usually hate so much. Everything I feel about poetry is negated in this favorite of mine.

Usually, I like to pick poems apart, decide word by word what it means, why it was chosen, what ulterior meanings I can give it that even the writer knew nothing of. I've never done that with Annabell Lee. I take it as a very surface level poem, a man mourning the loss of a love, something Poe could of course relate to. Maybe I love the poem because of that, or because I feel for the speaker despite not understanding his pain. Did Poe accomplish something, then? By making someone with no experience in this area, with absolutely no way of relating to the subject or the characters, sympathize with the narrator...did he do his "job," do justice to his responsibility? Am I justified in liking this poem because of that?

I guess, more than anything, I want to know if a writer has a responsibility. And if so, to whom? Again, I usually say that once you've reached the stage where you accept that your writing is more than personal (accept that you'll allow others to read it), you should accept that it is your job to make your reader understand, to take part in that self-knowledge you should have set out for. Am I right? Or do we have a responsibility only to ourselves? Or to someone else? Why do I love this poem that goes against what I thought I believed?

Thoughts, opinions, objections?