April Bernard had a sureness about her that I admired and another student

distrusted. I said that I didn't think I could ever talk about myself or my

past with the sureness that April had, and the student said that's why he

trusted me. It seems such an odd thing, so trust my un-sureness. April

reminded me in this way of a woman I worked for this summer, Elizabeth.

Elizabeth spent 10 years of her life after college living alone with a cat

and starting her own business. She reads proliferate numbers of books, and

recognizes things in me that I do not even see in myself. She has a way of

articulating her past in a bold and unapologetic way, very similar to April

Bernard.

I thought it was interesting how different April's advice to young poets was

than the poet who came to class. Her advice was to read. read read read,

and write. She said there's no glamour in being a poet, but I disagree. I

realize she was speaking of the poet's professional life. Of course being a

poet isn't like being a movie-star, it isn't a lucrative business. But in

some ways, being a poet IS like being a movie-star. maybe you don't have

followers, or groupies, or million dollar contracts, but you are famous.

Even if people don't know your name, the trees do. I often think that our

society doesn't respect poets; poets used to be the voice of the people. No,

poets still are the voice of the people, the voice of the voiceless. But

poets aren't commonly seen or referred to in this way anymore. Sometimes

when I talk about what classes I'm taking, I tell people I am every parents

nightmare: the student who goes to college and will take nothing but poetry

classes. I mean it as a joke, but in a sense, it is true; and that says

something about us. We see poetry as a romantic hobby, as passing obsession

or fancy. Maybe parents also see poetry as they see philosophy, music, or

peace studies... and they wonder, "what the hell will you do with THAT?"

but I know what I want to do with poetry: write it. read it. live it.

Okay, so maybe it is an obsession... is there anything wrong with that?

Perhaps all we've ever needed is a little more passion, and what is poetry

but passion breathed into ink? This is the glamour of poetry: the glamour

of passion. of mystery. of darkness and spells and magic and pagan

worship. The glamour is in the words, in the searching, in the vision. To

write and read poetry, and perhaps literature in general, is to see through

I am sorry that it is late (not my fault), and I can’t find the name of the poet/author that spoke at the TRC on Tuesday (my fault.) April is her first name…I think.

She was nervous. I hate to disagree, but she was just fine - solid as a rock. She looked young. She talked old. She was mouse like. She swallowed two lions on stage and we applauded diligently.

Her humor was accurate and she made me feel as uncomfortable with Plath as she was, although I know nothing about her. I loved her plan of attack: one. Plath is insane and evil. Two. Plath is a saint.

Unassuming Reality

When I attended April Bernard's poetry reading, I was struck by her ability to capture people's characteristics while also capturing their personalities. I think of #3 of her fourteen part poem called something like "They're real crazy." She described the "crazy" people in her neighborhood but showed how it boiled down to the fact that they were all humans and they didn't consider their strangeness dramatic anymore. In fact, nothing ever exciting happened there because it all had become "normal," or relatively normalized. I guess I really liked this part of her poem because it was rich in visual impact and it was a lot of fun besides.

At the reading, I was reminded again of the difference between being introduced to a poem first by reading it and being introduced to it by hearing it. As with the Bill Moyers tape, certain lines jumped out, ringing in my ears for a while, and propelled me to write them down. I think part of this is the way Bernard read them--her emotion and intonation. But i think it also has to do with the magical combinations the words take on and how they can strike a person when they are heard combined in a moment. Here are some I was propelled to capture . . .

"There are things you will not be able to say. You think them still until they become you"

I had a personal, emotional connection with this one . . . she seemed to put into words here something I experience. It was one of those times I heard the words and just understood.

"He rang like a telephone"

I like the unexpectedness of this, the unnatural use of words, but it is at the same time very vivid, I think. The unnatural, unexpectedness makes the words jump out, gives them their power, for me.

"oh, night is the permeable membrane, the terrible present tense"

i especially like the second half of this line. Again, Bernard seems to hit a powerful, familiar feeling on the head with four words, "the terrible present tense." I don't know how else to describe it, but, as above, they struck a deep chord with me.

"the boxes bleached in the sun"

a vivid image, in simple language. I love this.

"I begged, i begged him not to leave me . . . as he did"

I attended April Bernard's reading, but neglected to bring a notebook, or a good memory, so I can't write about that. I will write on April Bernard's poem "Pierced" which Fr. Mark distributed in class and Ms. Bernard read.

and feeds me cigarettes.

I these first images are terrific. First Eros, then a cat, then cigarettes. These seem ridiculous out of the context, but I can see how each is connected to that time of initial infatuation, of smite. The time when you are attracted to a person, but you don't know what might happen with them. Back to the images. The cat is great, I can see the sleek, slippery, timid, coy figure. I can't tell what the motives or personality is exactly. The cigarettes are equally cool. The addictive nature and smoothness associated with cigarettes parallel that of a first attraction perfectly.

yet

This is great. The other party is not expected to swoon as the speaker does, but that will come in time. I can just see the speaker plotting to get the other's attention, it all seems so manipulative, but real at the same time. I like the clinical nature of this sentence. The statement is not personal, the speaker uses "is not to be expected" like this is the rule that is learned and known, that with an empirical approach, the speaker will make their move. I'm not assigning a gender to the speaker because I don't think it is necessary, that the poem works for either gender thusfar.

press against the tongue before

The cigarettes are a poor substitute, they are only surrogates. This goes against my earlier interpretation, but I think it is interesting the speaker is not focused on anything but the physical characteristics of the cigarettes. This is remarkable how Bernard continues to use these almost sterile words "surrogate cylinders" "press against the tongue". It's not my tongue or her tongue or his tongue. Also the last line leaves me hanging, like the speaker, waiting.

Charcoal's bitter.

Now I question my earlier interpretation further. Now I think the cigarettes might not be actual. The cigarettes may be the kisses of the shallow love. The speaker tastes the charcoal of the filter. Is it a real love if you taste only the filter, should there be a filter at all. Maybe the cigarettes are real and this taste is the speaker questioning how long they should wait. How much waiting and trying will occur before something, anything happens, this wait is undesirable.

carnival colors rise and fall in two four time.

I wonder why the night is thickened. Maybe tonight is a special night, there is something more in the air. Maybe it is mardi gras with its "carnival colors". I like the second line about the rising and falling. This reminds me of parties, or a night of fun spent with many different people. One moment you are having the time of your life, the next you are wonder why all of these have packed into such a small space to act ridiculously. I like the predicability of it "two four time", it sounds like a ballroom dance. This timed regularity reminds me again of the speaker, working to get the attention of the other. The calculated, precise moves toward achieving the goal, but I'm not exactly sure what the goal is.

to and fro, he owns the name

This is the first section in which the speaker is mentioned directly "I". It is also the first time a gender is applied; in this section "he" pops up. I don't really understand the second line, so I'll take a guess. The section "he owns the name", may be referring to the male-dominant (or so we think) nature of the attraction dance. By name she is referring to last name, traditionally carried forward by men. So she understands what she must do, she doesn't just understand, but she reads. She is reading the man. She is questioning this supposed male-dominance in the mating ritual, as she shows her control throughout, she is in control of the situation, the man is only to a limited extent, at least that's what we see.

He is forever innocent and does not remember me.

This section largely confirms what I wrote under the previous stanza. I like how she says "he is forever innocent", this reminds me of the Garden of Eden. This is an intriguing concept, begining every romantic relationship with this Garden scenario.

April Bernard is an unassuming woman with deep eyes that look straight to your soul as she connects with eye contact from across the room. Her rich voice is filled with expression and fabulous emphasis as she speaks in a relaxed manner before the class. At one point she even set her head in her arms and gazed at an inquiring student, obviously tired, but not uninterested.

She read her entire essay on Sylvia Plath, called "My Plath Problem" published in 1993, which took approximately fifty minutes. Her critical essay managed to keep my attention because of the thick language in between each citation, which makes the work less of a report and more of a creative achievement. The language of her essay was not the typical critical "high and mighty", but rather was written in a form sophisticated yet comprehendible without incredible stress. Her lines were poetic, for example at one point she spoke of the "terrors and deceptions of the human heart."

Her information on Plath was equally fascinating, though confusing. Her attempt to dissect the life of a woman who seems to have had multiple personalities in both her private and public life, without being allowed to use any of Plath’s poetry as an insight within the essay itself, is an incredible undertaking. If one combines that with the fact that Bernard wasn’t paid a cent for doing the essay, but rather did it for her own personal growth and education, one results in a miracle of effort, combined with a solid result. Bernard said that there was no way to capture genius in a book, meaning Plath’s poetical genius, but Bernard made a wonderful attempt with her essay by capturing the confusion surrounding Plath’s life and death.

Bernard also addressed the useful nature of critical essays. She gave the audience the impression that though the author of the essay being critiqued may or may not find the criticism helpful, readers can find critical material extraordinarily beneficial. Bernard seems to recognize a connection that results between the author of the critical piece and the author of the piece itself, not affection exactly, but a relationship surely. By searching into a piece and writing about it, combining previous criticisms and one’s one personal impressions and thoughts, one develops an intimate knowledge with the author one is critiquing. This is part of the reason Bernard spent one and a half years working on her Plath essay at the side of her other work. She saw Plath as someone she had to try to confront or face, as a wonderful author with a confusing and fascinating life.

Bernard seemed convinced that critical conversation, though not directly affecting a writers own work, inevitably changes that writer. By becoming familiar with other authors and their personal styles through experience of both their work and their lives, writer begins to incorporate or avoid certain aspects of his or her genre. It was fairly obvious that Bernard was proud of her attempt to put Plath together, no matter her ultimate success.

Bernard, April, Psalm: It Must be the Medication, in Psalms pg. 31

So the hip rises, oh so slightly, in its golden socket/and music continues despite the dawn-

Interesting imagery. The hip in this line may be the sun rising in the morning sky. Why is the sun a hip? Hip is such a funny word- hip hip hip like staccato notes from an instrument. Hip doesn't seem to fit in this line. All the other words (slightly, socket, music, despite, dawn) all have soft qualities and long vowels. Hip stands out. The second part of this line is quite cryptic. Music continuing despite the dawn conjures great joy, a party that has conquered the night and continues in defiance of day. By opening the poem this way, Bernard seems to be casting a mood of defiance.

The lion threw his head back and sang two notes like a veery-

A veery is a bird, a type of Thrush actually. Why would a fierce lion open its enormous, threatening mouth and peep like a bird? This may be interpreted two ways; either the lion is being diminished and forced to make the sounds of a small bird, or the king of the animals finally gets a stately voice. Either way, Bernard is changing nature. It seems the speaker or voice in the poem is transformed and does not have a voice fitting to its nature. Many of Bernards poems speak of the stature of women, and it seems this is an excellent metaphor for a woman's power belied by the meek voice allowed to her by society. Is the speaker the lion? The poet? Women?

Everywhere doubling, like two acid drops on sugar,/two boiling drops on ice, close your eyes-

Things are not as they should be. Two acid drops on sugar and boiling drops on ice are destructive to their medium. The acid in this line suggests the medication in the title of the poem. Is the medication affecting the changes in nature, or are the changes being blamed on drugs? The last three words of this line are a command. CLOSE YOUR EYES. The reader feels compelled to close their eyes. I like the way this line is broken up, it leaves the reader with a feeling of wondering what is to follow. What am I closing my eyes for?

And memory sound as a wooden bucket, more sound-

This line plays on two meanings of the word sound. The first meaning implies sturdy or OK and the second is audio sound. Is Bernard making a joke by comparing memory to a wooden bucket? Again, like the first line, a word in this line doesn't seem to fit. Bucket is a harsh word, staccato surrounded by silky syllables of the other words. Why is Bernard playing a beautiful singsong poem to be filled with words that jar the reader out of the rhythm?

Why fuss with innuendo, when/ gold and russet fruit lie across the forest floor?

Why should people use metaphors when what is needed is right in front of you? Well then, what would the use of poetry be? "Gold and russet fruit lying on a forest floor" is such a vivid and appealing image that works well. This image is probably the only straight forward image in the poem.

Here, the loon's vocal cascade, absolute,/ for the moment without remove, write, "I can't stop laughing"