From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 11:08 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 1 Rilke // An Afternoon With Rilke and Its Impact On Me
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 11:04 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: An Afternoon With Rilke and Its Impact On Me
On Monday after class I went to lunch with some comrades I hadn't seen since December. It was very nice, but I couldn't quite enjoy it as much as I would've liked. There was a dark cloud hanging over my head, the cumulo nimbus of required reading. After my meal I went to the book store and cringed as the total appeared on the register. I headed back to my humble room, poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and began my journey into the mind of Rilke. Immediately I found myself intrigued with what he had to say, and before I knew it I was on letter seven. Rilke writes in a very straight forward, poetic and personable style that make his messages all the more easy to grasp and comprehend.
In his fourth letter Rilke writes to Mr. Kappus, "You are so young... have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers." (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, 35) For a split second I believed Rilke was talking directly to me. Being a freshman I am currently faced with many decisions that will affect me for the rest of my life. I just received a letter in the mail asking me to declare a major. I have stayed up many nights lying awake in bed asking myself, "What do I want to be when I grow up?" And that is but the tip of the proverbial iceberg. My approach has been to this point and will continue to be that I should take classes that interest me that things will work out. Rilke it seems would approve, however much the people in academic advising people do not. "Like locked rooms and books in a foreign language..." What great symbolism. The answers to my future are unknown. I can't see them yet, but with hard work and attained knowledge, I will someday.
Another passage that particularly struck me and spoke to my current situation was "Embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant, you say. That shows it is beginning to dawn around you; there is an expanse opening around you." (Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet, 41) The transition from high school is a very turbulent and frightening experience for many people, myself included. I am a bit of an introvert. This last summer was the first time in my life that I felt I had really good friends that I could pour my heart out to and trust beyond a doubt. And then I had to leave them and seemingly start over. I spent many nights wandering the SJU woods with only my thoughts to keep me company. Eventually I began to make acquaintances that have blossomed and will continue to grow. One thing that helped me to be open to new people was the realization that they were all I the same boat I am. Rilke tells Mr. Kappus that he should be good to the people that are far away, and confident in their continued support. He instructs that we should maintain communication with them, it is not necessary to forget them to move ahead in life. "The nights are still there and the winds that roam over many lands." (Rilke, Letters To A Young Poet, 57) In this great time of change in my life, somethings will always be constant, and I can always take solace in those.
And so, as I put my book down that afternoon, two cups of hot chocolate later, I felt enriched and a little more knowledgeable for having read it.
~Kevin Flynn
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, May 11, 2000 1:12 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 26. Ungaretti // A moment's peace
Why the hell is this poem titled "Christmas?"
When i read it i get the image of an old wrinkled man sitting in a faded recliner in a decrepit nursing home. It doesnt have to be a man either, thats just the image my mind conjured right away. The speaker is "weary" and "forgotten." The family doesnt come to visit very often anymore. Perhaps that is why this poem is called Christmas, that is the one time of the year the elderly person got visitors. Maybe they just wish those people would leave them be so they can continue being detached from the outside world. The "good warmth" could be any number of things in this interpretation. I was thinking it could be the medicine that people recieve in such places. It could also be the person's own memories. They have been shut off from the corporeal world by illness or people putting them there. Their memories are all they have left.
I have times where i feel just like the speaker in this poem. Times where i just want to grab a blanket and curl up in the fetal position and not move for hours. Just sit there with my thoughts and my aching muscles. Usually these times dont last long for me cause someone of something comes along and makes me get up, but i definately see the need to retreat like this. A meditation of sorts.
So why Christmas? I came up with several reasons. One might be because of all the bustle of the holiday season. Perhaps this person has been at the Mall of America all afternoon and now simply cant go on. He/she needs to sit down and not move after a day of shoving crowds and lines full of screaming babies. Another, which i discussed briefly above is that the person is a resident of a nursing home and they get visitors at this time of year. A third option is that the speaker is Mary. She is content to sit in the stable with her infant, not go out and partake in the Passover festivities. In this sense there is a bit of irony, because Mary is far from forgotten in Biblical texts.
Those are about the extent of my ideas.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, May 09, 2000 3:40 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: A good day to hand in stuff...
here also is my revised paper...
Kevin Flynn
Great Poets
World Poets Assign
Fr Mark
2nd draft
Sublime Images;
The Secret Identity of Angel Gonzalez
Angel Gonzalez was born in Spain in the year 1925. Much of his young life was filled with turmoil and death. He grew up during the years of the Spanish Civil War. One of his brothers was assassinated, another was exiled. (Astonishing World). His poems are filled with imagry and metaphor that reflect his tramatic and tumultuous experiences. The times in which he wrote forced him to use cryptic images; "Not in what the words say but what they imply, in the spaces of shadow, of silence, of anger, or of helplessness that they discover or cover. The existence of a censorship that was ruthless, and also frequently and fortunately inept, forced me at times to have recourse to an ironical and ambiguous language, and even to transfer to a distant objective correlate many of my more immediate and urgent concerns." (McClatchy, Vintage, 15) Many of Gonzalez's poems function on two levels. The first level contains surface images and phrases about everyday life and its happenings. The second level describes the effects of the conflict on himself and his country.
The poem Yesterday is about a seemingly ordinary day that will never occur again. "Yesterday was Wednesday all morning. // By afternoon it changed: // it was almost Monday, // sadness invaded hearts" (McClatchy, Vintage, 17). These first four lines of the poem introduce the main theme of the poem. Everything seems normal, when in reality there is a sinister event occurring beneath the surface. The day started as Wednesday, as it should be. Things are normal. Soon everything changed and the day took the feel of Monday, the most dreaded day of the week. The swimmers are going to the river as usual, but there is a distinct panic about their actions. The next stanza contains a repetition of the word yesterday, three times to be precise. Each time it repeats, it serves to reinforce statements. "Yesterday, and always yesterday and even now, // strangers" (McClatchy, Vintage, 17). Gonzalez follows it up with an upbeat statement about how the poeple of the city are happy and eating ice cream, yet things are not as happy as they seem. The people are strangers not friends or neighbors. The dichotomy between normality and the unusual occurance no one seems to want to notice or discuss shows up again in the end of this stanza and the beginning of the next. "What joy!" then "Night fell suddenly" (McClatchy, Vintage, 17). The night brought an end to the previous day's mood, and became a day of its own, a transition period of sorts into the next day.
This poem is a thinly veiled reference to the times before and after the Spanish Civil War. Yesterday things were peaceful, yet not quite tranquil. Today everything is different, not better or worse, assuredly but different. The Civil War was inevitable. The differences were irreconcilable to Gonzalez. "And no one could // impede the final dawn // of today's day." (McClatchy, Vintage, 17). The monarchy had outlived its usefulness and was a dying institution. "So similar // and yet // so different in lights and aroma" (McClatchy, Vintage, 17). Gonzalez is alluding to the fact that nothing changed in Spain. The citizens went from a monarchy to a dictatorship. Either way you look at it the people had no say. For a very brief period Spain was a free republic. This poem is Gonzalez's attempt to keep that memory of the evening, that brief glimpse of freedom, alive in his poetry.
Like Yesterday, Gonzalez's poem, The Future functions on two different levels. It portrays our lives as being shaped by our actions and it is also a remembrance of the people who fought and died in the battle for Spanish independence. The first two lines deliver a powerful message and set up the rest of the poem: "But the future is different // from that destiny seen from afar," (McClatchy, Vintage, 18). Destiny is something that is traditionally thought to be beyond the control of humanity, whether people want it to happen or not it does. Gonzalez is saying that the future is something that humans have direct control over. Actions will have consequences that will affect the course of humanity's existence. "I think, the future is also another thing: // a verb tense in motion, in action, in combat // a searching movement towards life." (McClatchy, Vintage, 18). Each individual is in control of what happens to them and to their world.
At the same time, the poem serves as a requiem and a thank you to those who caused today to occur by the choies they made in the past. The third stanza ("I'm on this line...") is difficult to interpret, but it is full of powerful war images. The best interpretation is that Gonzalez is referring to his own agony and is puzzled about choices he had to make in the past. The decisions themselves caused a war within his thoughts and emotions. The next stanza brings the poem back to the present. "Future of mine...! Distant heart // that dictated it yesterday // don't be ashamed. // Today is the result of your blood," (McClatchy, Vintage, 18). The distant heart is the choice that Angel made in the past as well as all the individuals who died for the cause. He is telling all the soldiers and patriots in the hospital or in the cemeteries that they fought the good fight and that they need not worry they were fighting for the wrong side.
A line that does not fit this understanding is "Tomorrow will not be exactly as God wishes." (McClatchy, Vintage, 19). It is preceded by three statements of increasing force. Tomorrow the narrator will go forward, he will be content, he will love. Perhaps Gonzalez is being realistic. He realizes that tomorrow may not be the ideal day. In the next line he writes that tomorrow might be "gray or luminous, or cold" (McClatchy, Vintage, 19) certainly alludes to the fact that tomorrow is uncertain. It may not bring joy and prosperity, or it might. The future remains an artwork that is forever being drawn by our actions and choices.
Another Gonzalez poem that deals with the deceased is Diatribe Against the Dead. The poem looks at the frightening topic of death in a very sarcastic, almost satirical fashion. One of my favorite quotations from all the poetry we have read so far is found in Diatribe, "The bad thing about the dead // is that there is no way you can kill them." (McClatchy, Vintage, 21). As with all the Gonzalez poems discussed, this one can have a double meaning. On the surface it is a comical way of looking at the sorrowful legacy left behind when a person passes away. The second meaning is a message to those in authority, telling them that they may kill the freedom fighters, but they will never silence the ideals for which they stood. The dead become martyrs for the cause, their voices continue to be heard. The final line drives home this point: With their [the dead] insolence and their silence // they don't realize what they undo." (McClatchy, Vintage, 21). The dead undo our daily harmony. They also are a powerful rallying point for the people around them.
In Angel Gonzalez's childhood, he saw three different regimes come to power in Spain. Much of his poetry has been influenced by the violent nature of these upheavals and the subsequent oppression that resulted. His poems contain many beautiful and thinly veiled messages for those readers willing to look behind the curtain he wove to fool sensors and delve into the power of his art.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, May 09, 2000 1:20 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Levertov & Raab // Squirrels with a vengence
As i was paging through the Book of Luminous Things i was struck by the simple beauty and profound message of Denise Levertov's Witness. It is a short simple poem, only ten brief lines, but they hold a huge message and impact for me. the poem touches on humans connection with nature, and how the author needs to reaffirm it every couple days. there is also a deep sense of longing, an almost primal urge to do so. the speaker feels a huge presence in the mountain. she needs to see it every day or so. for me it is good ole minnesota woods, especially at night. there are many periods where i will get completely caught up in doing school work or social affairs. eventually, some night at one am, i will just get an unstoppable urge to hit the trails, so i do. i have found it helps me to manage all the other aspects of my life. i really enjoy this poem. it is very simple, just like ther nature it promotes.
another poem found in Luminous Things that deals with getting in touch with nature in order to manage the "civilized" life is Lawrence Raab's Sudden Appearence of a Monster at a WIndow. It is about a person sitting at a desk writing a letter about a storm that just occured when they are struck by a vision at the window that rips them away, in fact frightens them a great deal, only to be dismissed. The character is torn away from his/her nice calm penmanship and into a glimpse, which is described as a horrible monster that scares the bejesus out of him/her for a split second only to be dismissed. what is this monster? good question kevin. i dont think that can be answered conclusively. it could be anything. it is also very interesting that while the monster is there the person is reaching for a pistol, but as soon as it leaves, the person wishes for it to return so that they can discover its motives. the monster cant survive with this person, who does it live with? children perhaps, perhaps the poet himself, whos to say.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, May 01, 2000 2:08 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Zolynas & Snyder // Two poems about zen
For my post this evening i found two very similar poems, both of which just happened to have the word Zen in the title. The first poem can be found on page 241 of Rag and Bone. It was written by Gary Snyder. For the most part the poem seemed a light remark on the the day to day events of a logger. The first nine lines are merely a recounting of what he or she is doing in the pre-dawn hours. The last line "There is no other life" (Snyder, R&B, 241) presents the real meassage of the poem. This is all this particular trucker knows, all they have ever done. The full title of the poem is why log truck drivers rise earlier than srudents of zen. Never again is eastern religion mentioned, but i can see the connection. Not only does it make for a catchy title, but it introduces a message. The driver is one with his/her environment, they are so in tune with things it sickens them. All they want to do is something different, but for whatever reason they dont, and perhaps they have even convinced themselves they dont want to. That is why the rest of the poem is happy and light. Rationalizing.
The second poem i looked at is Zen of Housework by Al Zolynas from Luminous Things on page 156. Right away i fell in love with this poem because my current employment is at the reef scrubbing pots for three hours every other afternoon. The poem takes a rather spiritual look at doing a sink full of dirty dishes. "My hands lift a wine glass, // holding it by the stem under the bowl. // It breaks the surface // like a chalice // rising from a medievel lake." (Zolynas, Luminous, 156) What is your quest? I seek the grail! And i have found it amongst last nights crusty lasagna? I dont think so. This grail isnt the benevolent cup of Monte Python or Indiana Jones fame. A drink from this vessal binds a person to a life of domesticity. The interplay between romantic images of ceremonies and nature combined with the reality of dirty dishes creates a cool tension.
Both of these poems touch on what happens when a person falls to heavily into a routine, in these cases of work. The spirit longs for variety and chage.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, April 13, 2000 2:19 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 23. Rachel // Capturing image, feelings, and my attention
This is great stuff. As were all of the poems i read this evening. I was initially drawn by the simplicity of this poem. Its one disjointed couplet and three short stanzas, yet each packs much meaning.
I was struck by the beauty and ambiguity of the first sentence. Part of me wanted to place it at the end of the poem, but in the end i think i decided i like it better where it is. Immetiately the reader is sucked into the poem. Is the poet talking to me? Asking me if he/she would come back if i stopped reading the poem? A very interesting question. Or is the poet talking to some unknown party that may leave someday. We all have people people that will be leaving soon. I know i do.
The second stanza conjures a very strong image in my mind. A setting sun. What lies beyond the horizon? I tried to go there once but ended up in Utah. This reminds me a little of Mallarme and the lace curtain. We have no idea what lies behind, out of reach of our existence. I like the tension this creates. We dont know what is the beyond the sun, and yet we are never ready for the sun to leave. We dont know what is out there, we do know that we miss people and things when they leave us.
The third stanze lets me know this is about the loss of a person or sacred object. The image of crying eyes out is very powerful. We cannot see, first because of tears, then because we have no eyes.
The final stanza continues the theme of blindness started in the third. my question... why the gap between again and under? i know for me as i read the pause caused me to think of a deceased family member, to sorta feel his moss again, remember who he was. perhaps this is what makes us whole. the memories. they can last for eternity and cant be taken away. I also identified with this part of the poem cause the woods is where i go to get my proverbial shit together. something about being immersed in nature really helps me to center myself when i need it most. the green certainly makes me whole.
thank you for sharing this great work with us rachel. i only hope my post does it some small justice.
~kevin
Poem about Loss:
and if you left now
would i ever come back?
who knows what is beyond this sun
we can never be ready for its setting
no matter how bright the colors as it slips
behind the hills
we cannot see past our tears
making spots on our jeans
dark and round
as if our eyes have fallen
blind until we feel the moss
again. under our feet
the green will make us whole
finding eternity grows
beneath us
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, April 04, 2000 12:34 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Gonzalez 1st draft
fr mark,
thank you very much for all your patience and understanding. here it is.
Kevin Flynn
Great Poets
World Poets Assign
Fr Mark
Sublime Images;
The Secret Identity of Angel Gonzalez
Angel Gonzalez was born in Spain in the year 1925. Much of his young life was filled with turmoil and death. He grew up during the years of the Spanish Civil War. One of his brothers was assassinated. Another was exiled. His poems are filled with imagery and metaphor. Due to the times in which he wrote he was forced to use cryptic images; "Not in what the words say but what they imply, in the spaces of shadow, of silence, of anger, or of helplessness that they discover or cover. The existence of a censorship that was ruthless, and also frequently and fortunately inept, forced me at times to have recourse to an ironical and ambiguous language, and even to transfer to a distant objective correlate many of my more immediate and urgent concerns." (McClatchy, Vintage, 15) Many of Angel's poems function on two levels; the surface images and phrases about everyday life and its happenings. The second level describes the effects of the conflict on himself and his country.
The poem Yesterday is about a seemingly ordinary day that will never occur again. "Yesterday was Wednesday all morning. // By afternoon it changed: // it was almost Monday, // sadness invaded hearts" These first four lines of the poem introduce the main theme of the poem. Everything seems normal, but in reality there is something sinister occurring beneath the surface. The day started as Wednesday, as it should be. Soon everything changed. The day took the feel of Monday, the most dreaded day of the week. The swimmers are going to the river like always, but there is a distinct panic about their actions. The next stanza contains a repetition of the word yesterday, three times to be precise. Each time it repeats, it serves to reinforce statements. "Yesterday, and always yesterday and even now, // strangers". Angel follows it up with an upbeat statement about how they are happy and eating ice cream, but yet things are not as happy as they seem. The people are strangers not friends or neighbors. The dichotomy of the poem shows up again in the end of this stanza and the beginning of the next. The last line of the first reads "What joy!" The next line reads "Night fell suddenly" Yesterday ended and today began.
I believe this poem is a thinly veiled reference to the times before and after the Spanish Civil War. Yesterday things were peaceful, but not quite tranquil. Today things are different, not better or worse but different. The War was inevitable. The differences were irreconcilable to Angel. "And no one could // impede the final dawn // of today's day." The monarchy had outlived its usefulness and was a dying institution. "So similar // and yet // so different in lights and aroma" Nothing has changed in Spain. They went from a monarch to a dictator. Either way you look at it the people have no say. For a very brief period Spain was a free republic. This poem is Angel's attempt to keep that memory, that brief glimpse of freedom alive through his poetry.
Like Yesterday, The Future functions on two different levels. It is a message that our lives are shaped by our actions and a remembrance of the people that fought and died in the battle for Independence. The first two lines deliver a powerful message and set up the rest of the poem. "But the future is different // from that destiny seen from afar," Destiny is something that is traditionally thought to be beyond our control, whether we want it to happen or not it does. Angel is saying that the future is something that we have direct control over. Our actions will all have consequences that will effect the course of our and humanity's existence. "I think, the future is also another thing: // a verb tense in motion, in action, in combat // a searching movement towards life." We are in control of what happens to us and to our world.
At the same time the poem serves as a requiem and a thank you to those that caused today out of yesterday's future. The third stanza ("I'm on this line...") remains a mystery to me as to its full meaning, but it is full of war images. The most likely interpretation that I see is that Angel is referring to his own agony and puzzling at choices he had to make in the past. The decisions themselves were very much a war of his thoughts and emotions. The next stanza brings the poem back to the present. "Future of mine...! Distant heart // that dictated it yesterday // don't be ashamed. // Today is the result of your blood," The distant heart is the choices that Angel made in the past as well as all the individuals that died for the cause. He is telling all the soldiers and patriots in the hospital or in the cemeteries that they fought the good fight and that they need not worry they were fighting for the wrong side.
The one line that I have absolutely how to take is, "Tomorrow will not be exactly as God wishes." found in the second to last stanza. It is preceded by three statements of increasing force. Tomorrow the narrator will go forward, he will be content, he will love you. Perhaps Angel is being realistic and realizing that tomorrow may not be ideal. The next lines where he writes that tomorrow might be "gray or luminous, or cold" certainly allude to the fact that tomorrow is uncertain. It may not bring joy and prosperity, and it just might. The future remains an artwork that is forever being drawn by our actions and choices.
Another Angel poem that deals with the deceased is the Diatribe Against the Dead. It reminded me of a Brecht poem I read recently War Has Been Given A Bad Name. Both poems look at horrific topics in very sarcastic, almost satirical fashions. Brecht discussed the Holocaust while Angel looked at death. One of my favorite quotations from all the poetry we have read so far is found in Diatribe, "The bad thing about the dead // is that there is no way you can kill them." As with all the Angel poems I have looked at, this poem can have a double meaning. On the surface it is a comical way of looking at the sorrowful legacy left behind when a person passes on. The second meaning is a message to those in authority, telling them that they may kill the freedom fighters, but they will never silence the ideals they stood for. The dead become martyrs for the cause, and their voices continue to be heard. The final line drives home this point, "With their (the dead) insolence and their silence // they don't realize what they undo." The dead undo our day to day harmony. They also can be a powerful rallying point for the people around them.
The childhood of Angel Gonzalez saw three different regimes come to power in Spain. Much of his poetry has been influenced by the violent nature of these upheavals and the subsequent oppression that resulted. His poems contain many beautiful and thinly veiled messages for those readers willing to look behind the curtain and delve into his art.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, March 30, 2000 1:34 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 19. Neruda// Enter Sandman
This poem by Neruda is filled with simply amazing images. I am choosing to talk about the last stanza because it is a very fitting ending to the poem.
Death is inside the folding cots
Immediately when i read this line my minds eye conjures images of soldiers in some field barracks sleeping in row upon row of drab military green folding cots. Death is sleeping amongst the ranks. No one knows who will be next to go and everyone tries not to think about it. Some pray for divine protection, some carry lucky charms, some drink to forget, but all the people in that room face death. Some of them are dead already, they just do not know it.
It spends its life sleeping on the slow mattress
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
Death is sudden. We all think it is asleep so we tread very lightly, lest we wake it. Just as we think we are in the clear and have crept past its bedchamber, it breathes (the black milk of the deathfugue). In most cases death is not at all expected and all the more tragic for that reason. One reason this poem speaks to me more than the others we read for today is that i spent an hour tonight listening to a friend who lost her twelve year old neighbor when a building collapsed on him. We can never be prepared for death, even when it is expected and for the better, it always catches us off guard.
It blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
A foghorn sounds. Here, as in much of the rest of the poem Neruda uses sea and ship images for death. Before the coffins of the dead travelled on the river. I think that in this case Neruda is referring more to the living than the dead. All of our rivers end in death. That much we cannot escape. Everytime someone dies in my life, it really makes me aware of my own mortaility and my impending demise. Death is a part of all of us, and there is no place to hide.
Suprisingly enough, Hirsch seems to agree with me. In second full paragraph on page 41 he discusses this same stanza. "We are mere residents on earth"
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000 10:37 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 18. Brecht // Dripping sarcasm...
Brecht's poem, War Has Been Given a Bad Name, is so sarcastic i missed it the first time through. My first reaction was that this guy is really disillusioned, but upon second reading i am convinced he is quite the opposite, and is in fact belittling those who are.
I am told that the best people have begun saying// How, from a moral point of view, the Second World War// Fell below the standard of the First.
The best people, not the normal folk, the elite. The creme de le creme. These are the people that opposed the nazis till they gained power, and then supported them wholeheartedly, but jumped ship as soon as it began to falter. They are the rats. The rich rats. The ones who sit around all day and talk and complain, but never actually do any work themselves. The talk and use big words. Of course the second world war is bad in moral standards! Why have they begun saying this? Cause the Nazis have lost and now its vogue to denounce them! Brecht is calling the upper class spineless worms basically.
The Wermarcht// Allegedly deplores the methods by which the SS effected// The extermination of certain peoples.
The army thinks that what the SS did is bad. But only allegeldy. They cant say that for sure because their hands are just as bloody.
The Ruhr industrialists// Are said to regret the bloody manhunts// Which filled their mines and factories with slave workers.
They are said to regret bloody manhunts. Again, Brecht is calling all of the German aristocrats jelly fish.
The intellectuals// so i heard, condemn industry's demand for slave workers// Likewise their unfair treatment.
So the intellectuals are now condemning industry too. And for unfair treatment. Why arent they condemning the fact that millions of jews were killed?
Even the bishops// dissociate themselves from this way of waging war; in short the feeling// prevails in every corner that the nazis did the fatherland a lamentably bad turn,
The bishops dont want to be involved with mass genocide? Since when? Brecht once again is shedding light on the fact that all these seemingly sane people became involved with the nazi war movement.
and that war// While in itself natural necessary, has, thanks to the// Unduly uninhibited and positively inhuman// Way in which it was conducted on this occasion, been// discredited for some time to come.
So war got a bad name from the nazis, huh. Now this poem has caused me to be sarcastic! War is a bloody and vile thing that ought to be condemned in all forms. Brecht is condemning everyone in Germany that sat idly by and let themselves be swallowed in Nazi propaganda.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000 8:51 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 18.5 Brecht Bio
Brecht, Bertolt
original name EUGEN BERTHOLD FRIEDRICH BRECHT
(b. Feb. 10, 1898, Augsburg, Ger.--d. Aug. 14, 1956, East Berlin),
German poet, playwright, and theatrical reformer whose epic theatre departed from the conventions of theatrical illusion and developed the drama as a social and ideological forum for leftist causes.
Until 1924 Brecht lived in Bavaria, where he was born, studied medicine (Munich, 1917-21), and served in an army hospital (1918). From this period date his first play, Baal (produced 1923); his first success, Trommeln in der Nacht (Kleist Preis, 1922; Drums in the Night); the poems and songs collected as Die Hauspostille (1927; A Manual of Piety, 1966), his first professional production (Edward II, 1924); and his admiration for Wedekind, Rimbaud, Villon, and Kipling.
During this period he also developed a violently antibourgeois attitude that reflected his generation's deep disappointment in the civilization that had come crashing down at the end of World War I. Among Brecht's friends were members of the Dadaist group, who aimed at destroying what they condemned as the false standards of bourgeois art through derision and iconoclastic satire. The man who taught him the elements of Marxism in the late 1920s was Karl Korsch, an eminent Marxist theoretician who had been a Communist member of the Reichstag but had been expelled from the German Communist Party in 1926.
In Berlin (1924-33) he worked briefly for the directors Max Reinhardt and Erwin Piscator, but mainly with his own group of associates. With the composer Kurt Weill (q.v.) he wrote the satirical, successful ballad opera Die Dreigroschenoper (1928; The Threepenny Opera) and the opera Aufstieg und Fall der Stadt Mahagonny (1930; Rise and Fall of the Town of Mahoganny). He also wrote what he called "Lehr-stucke" ("exemplary plays")--badly didactic works for performance outside the orthodox theatre--to music by Weill, Hindemith, and Hanns Eisler. In these years he developed his theory of "epic theatre" and an austere form of irregular verse. He also became a Marxist.
In 1933 he went into exile--in Scandinavia (1933-41), mainly in Denmark, and then in the United States (1941-47), where he did some film work in Hollywood. In Germany his books were burned and his citizenship was withdrawn. He was cut off from the German theatre; but between 1937 and 1941 he wrote most of his great plays, his major theoretical essays and dialogues, and many of the poems collected as Svendborger Gedichte (1939). The plays of these years became famous in the author's own and other productions: notable among them are Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder (1941; Mother Courage and Her Children), a chronicle play of the Thirty Years' War; Leben des Galilei (1943; The Life of Galileo); Der gute Mensch von Sezuan (1943; The Good Woman of Setzuan), a parable play set in prewar China; Der Aufhaltsame Aufstieg des Arturo Ui (1957; The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui), a parable play of Hitler's rise to power set in prewar Chicago; Herr Puntila und sein Knecht Matti (1948; Herr Puntila and His Man Matti), a Volksstuck (popular play) about a Finnish farmer who oscillates between churlish sobriety and drunken good humour; and The Caucasian Chalk Circle (first produced in English, 1948; Der kaukasische Kreidekreis, 1949), the story of a struggle for possession of a child between its highborn mother, who deserts it, and the servant girl who looks after it.
Brecht left the United States in 1947 after having had to give evidence before the House Un-American Activities Committee. He spent a year in Zurich, working mainly on Antigone-Modell 1948 (adapted from Hulderlin's translation of Sophocles; produced 1948) and on his most important theoretical work, the Kleines Organon fur das Theater (1949; "A Little Organum for the Theatre"). The essence of his theory of drama, as revealed in this work, is the idea that a truly Marxist drama must avoid the Aristotelian premise that the audience should be made to believe that what they are witnessing is happening here and now. For he saw that if the audience really felt that the emotions of heroes of the past--Oedipus, or Lear, or Hamlet--could equally have been their own reactions, then the Marxist idea that human nature is not constant but a result of changing historical conditions would automatically be invalidated. Brecht therefore argued that the theatre should not seek to make its audience believe in the presence of the characters on the stage--should not make it identify with them, but should rather follow the method of the epic poet's art, which is to make the audience realize that what it sees on the stage is merely an account of past events that it should watch with critical detachment. Hence, the "epic" (narrative, nondramatic) theatre is based on detachment, on the Verfremdungseffekt (alienation effect), achieved through a number of devices that remind the spectator that he is being presented with a demonstration of human behaviour in scientific spirit rather than with an illusion of reality, in short, that the theatre is only a theatre and not the world itself.
In 1949 Brecht went to Berlin to help stage Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder (with his wife, Helene Weigel, in the title part) at Reinhardt's old Deutsches Theater in the Soviet sector. This led to formation of the Brechts' own company, the Berliner Ensemble, and to permanent return to Berlin. Henceforward the Ensemble and the staging of his own plays had first claim on Brecht's time. Often suspect in eastern Europe because of his unorthodox aesthetic theories and denigrated or boycotted in the West for his Communist opinions, he yet had a great triumph at the Paris Theatre des Nations in 1955, and in the same year in Moscow he received a Stalin Peace Prize. He died of a heart attack in East Berlin the following year.
Brecht was, first, a superior poet, with a command of many styles and moods. As a playwright he was an intensive worker, a restless piecer-together of ideas not always his own (The Threepenny Opera is based on John Gay's Beggar's Opera, and Edward II on Marlowe), a sardonic humorist, and a man of rare musical and visual awareness; but he was often bad at creating living characters or at giving his plays tension and shape. As a producer he liked lightness, clarity, and firmly knotted narrative sequence; a perfectionist, he forced the German theatre, against its nature, to underplay. As a theoretician he made principles out of his preferences--and even out of his faults.
BIBLIOGRAPHY.
A complete bibliography of Brecht's writings published up to the time of his death by Walter Nubel may be found in the Second Special Brecht Number of the East German periodicial Sinn und Form (1957); a concise summary of Brecht literature is contained in Bertolt-Brecht-Bibliographie by Klaus-Dietrich Petersen (1968). Collected works in the original German are available in an edition in 8 thin-paper or 20 paperback volumes; Gesammelte Werke (1967). This edition, however, is far from complete and the principles according to which it was edited are open to doubt. A major collected edition of Brecht's work in English, under the joint editorship of John Willett and Ralph Manheim started publication with the first volume of Collected Plays (1970). Eric Bentley has edited Seven Plays by Bertolt Brecht (1961), a series of paperback volumes of Brecht's plays, and has translated the poetry collection, Hauspostille (1927; Manual of Piety, 1966). A good selection of Brecht's theoretical writings is Brecht on Theatre, trans. by John Willett (1964).
Critical and biographical works available in English include: John Willett, The Theatre of Bertolt Brecht (1959); Martin Esslin, Brecht: A Choice of Evils (1959; revised edition under the title, Brecht: The Man and His Work, 1971); and Frederic Ewen, Bertolt Brecht: His Life, His Art and His Times (1967, 1970). Max Spalter, Brecht's Tradition (1967), analyzes the chief influences on Brecht in German literature.
Copyright (c) 1995 Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc. All Rights Reserved
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Wednesday, March 15, 2000 2:13 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 16. Sachs// Repent, the ends is at hand!
This poem is really unlike any we have encountered thus far, save maybe the lace curtain. It is very abstract and very raw and sensory. I like it! I have no idea what many of the images are, but thats ok.
The Landscape of Screams
At night when dying seems to sever all seams
When is it more quiet than in the dead of night? Things are so still and so silent. No one is awake. Even the animals are sleeping. This is a great way to start off. It provides a sharp contrast to the choas and outburst of the screams that are to come in the poem. This also draws me back to ancient times, when people believed that evil spirits walked among us at night. Hence the expression, the dead of night, that hour where nothing seems to move and everything has an eery, frightening edge. Sever all seams, when does dying not sever seams? Why should dying at night be any different? Read on, perhaps i will figure it out.
The landscape of screams
a metaphor of painting and of art, and yet a paradox. What is more beautiful and moving than art, and what can be more horrifying than a scream in the darkness when you dont know what is out there? A line ago we were thinking of the calness and almost unnerving quiet of night, now this image of a land of screams is thrown at us.
Tears open the black bandage
Im sure all of us at one point or another have had a bandaid ripped off and yelled. This is such a powerful metaphor. The black bandage. It is made to stop the bleeding and protect the wound, but it is black. It is evil. It holds in all the dark and perverse elements found in the psyche.
I will now use some poetic license to skip to the last stanza
Oh you bleeding eye
We discussed the other day the power behind the simple word eye. It has so many intertextual relations that i could spend hours talking bout that one simple word. The fact that the eye is bleeding means that it has seen and been involved with the great violence mentioned in the rest of the poem, most specifically the eye of the visionary made blind the line before. If i didnt know better (SAchs is Jewish), i would say this ending is about jesus christ. He is the visionary eye made blind. He is the bleeding eye.
In the tattered eclipse of the sun
This conjures post apocalyptic images in my head. visions of the world collapsing and everything in choas.
Hung up to be dried by God// in the cosmos
Jesus was hung up to be dried. first he hung on the cross and then Jesus was granted a seat next to god side. could be, it could also be that God is besting fear and hanging it up.
For all the violent and dark imagry in this poem, i think it has an upbeat message. In many ways Sachs is like the author or Revalation, writing of the coming of God (a messiah?). When that happens fear and violence will be conquered and there will be no more screaming.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, March 07, 2000 12:23 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 14. Rumi// Spare the rod?
First off, i would like to say i really enjoyed reading everyone else's posts. I chose to talk about this poem cause noone else had yet, and it really aggravated me. I am gonna look at the lines that i believe to be at the heart.
Your bodily soul wants comforting.
Rumi here is using a double meaning. The youth has been punished. Bodily he/she needs might need treatment or ice for bruises. The soul needs comfort, someone to tell them its ok, and that things will be allright. It really sounds like they need a good hug.
The severe father wants spiritual clarity
How many of you out there have heard the expression, "this is gonna hurt me more than it will hurt you?" The father is unsure whether or not he is doing the right thing. He wishes he could just see years into the future and see how his child turns out. He is plagued by uncertainty.
He scolds, but eventually// leads you into the open
At some point the father stops being the harsh disciplinarian. He will, at some point, step back and let you live, he will even become your friend. That is the ultimate goal.
Pray for a tough instructor// to hear and act and stay within you
We should all wish that our parents are strict, so that we may grow up and "know the right way" to live.
We have been busy accumulating solace
Websters defines solace as "1. comfort in sorrow or distress. 2.a source of comfort." The child wants someone to care for them. Since it was absent from their father, they try and get it wherever they can.
Make us afraid of how we were
This line completely throws me. I dont get it at all! Are we to be afraid of how we were when we were unruly children? If so, this is a far cry from Rilke and his message that we need to be like uncultured, unkempt children. Also, it seems contradictory to the Rumi poem we read earlier, "Has Anyone Seen the Boy" in which Rumi seems to be longing for his lost childhood. I dont get it. Do any of you out there in great poet land?
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Friday, March 03, 2000 2:05 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 13 Olds// Learnin a trade...
The Guild
right away, even after just hearing the title my mind conjures images of old fashioned unions. Where young people would enlist in order to learn their trade of choice and hone thier skills.
Every night, as my grandfather sat
Right away we are told this happens very frequently. This is something that occurs with unerring certainty.
in the darkened room in front of the fire,
Picture and older man, face wrinkled from years of labor and sweat, sitting in a recliner next to a fire. i see a walleye, or perhaps a deer head, mounted above the mantle. The lights are out. He doesnt want to be alert to whats going on in the room. He wants to sit there and just be by himself.
the liquor like fire in his hand, his eye
Hes fixed himself a drink. He sits in the dark, sipping. Most likely he has the bottle next to the chair, so that he doesnt ahve to get up in order to refresh his glass. i find it interesting Old's places the eye at the end of this line, as opposed to the beggining of the next. Almost to say that the fire is in the mans eye as well. The liquor is fire. It consumes the man, melting his problems and at the same time destroying his very soul.
glittering meaninglessly in the light
the man has no meaning. He is trying to hide from all his troubles. He is simply trying to forget. The light plays off his eyes, but they are dead and lifeless, there is no vitality there, only sorrow. He feels his life is meaningless. A powerful destructive feeling if ever there was one.
from the flames, his glass eye baleful and stony
does this mean he actually has a glass eye? Olds is playing with us here. The eye is every bit real, but it is glassed over, filled with flaming liquor. Baleful, what a good word. Full of fire. There is a duality at work here. The eye is in the previous line is described as meaningless, but here it is described as baleful, and then two words later stony.
a young man sat with him
this ones pretty self explanatory.
in silence and darkness, a college boy with
the boy too it seems has things he wants to forget. He desires the silence and the darkness as much as the old man. Olds emphasises the boy is still young with words like boy and college. He has no business sitting in the dark, nor any great reason to other than to be like the old man, and yet he does.
White skin, unlined, a narrow
again, Olds is alluding to the youth and innocence of the boy.
beautiful face, a broad domed head
here Olds again puts words in the above lines to give us a stronger impression. instead of it saying a narrow beautiful... it simply says beautiful.
forehead, and eyes amber as the resin from
The young man has brown eyes, and they are still full of life. The old man has stony eyes, yet the young man has eyes of amber. They glow.
trees too young to be cut yet.
the boy is the tree! he shouldnt be cut yet either! the tree metaphor casts a vitality and wildness on the boy. He is growing and has not yet reached his peak.
This was his son, who sat, an apprentice
It is an unending cycle. Father trains son, who trains his son, and so on. We learn so much from our parents, both the good and the destructive.
night after night, his glass of coals
Again, this happens every night with great regularity. Again the liqour is given a fiery metaphor. It seethes a person if left unchecked.
Next to the old mans glass of coals,
like father, like son.
and he drank the old man's drink, and he learned
the boy is now completing his apprenticeship. He is on par with the man, he can take hold down the elders fire.
the craft of oblivion-- that young man
My earlier assumption seems to be coming true. The old man sits in the darkened room and drinks to forget his troubles and become unaware of what is going on in his life. Things are coming half circle, the boy is no longer an apprentice, he has mastered his trade.
not yet cruel, his hair dark as
but the boy cannot match the old man in meanness or indifference yet.
soil that feeds the tree's roots
Here again we have quite the duality. Olds is using a powerful life giving, vital, metaphor here to represent the boy. But, just as the minerals are sucked from the soil by the tree, so to is the boys spirit and very soul being sucked into the bottle. His hair is still dark, very soon he will begin to lose it all together.
that son who would come to be in his turn
things are reaching full circle. As the old mans reign is ending, the boy is right there to take his place.
better at this than his teacher, the apprentice
Not only is the boy in the old man's place, he has surpassed him. Better from the beginning lets us know that the boy now is in control, there is no place for doubt at all.
who would pass his master in cruelty and oblivion
Darth Vader anyone? sorry, all this talk of apprentices and otherwise have made me think of Star Wars. Oblivion; There is that word again, it really sticks out for me. It is located here and five lines up. Not only is the boy/man cruel, but he doesnt care, he is oblivious, and sometimes that is the worst kind of cruelty. He has shut himself inside his bottle. He has become the old man, he has passed him.
drinking steadily by the flames in the blackness
Olds brings the poem full circle just like the characters. She opened with the image of the old man sitting by the fireplace in his darkened den, and now she ends with the apprentice having assumed the exact same pose.
that young man my father
this little twist at the end serves to drive home the poem to the reader and make them more involved before sending them away. When we know this is Olds' father, we feel sorry for her and gain a further personal involvement in the poem. She sits in the darkness and has to watch her father sink into oblivion. Perhaps he is repeating the process on her brothers...
~kev
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Wednesday, March 01, 2000 1:42 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 12. McPherson// Invertabrate Enjoyment
One Way She Spoke To Me
I would say whisper,
And she could never figure out
How to do it.
I would say,
Speak louder into the phone.
Nor could she
Raise her voice
But then I found
Such a whisper.
The trail, as she began
To write me in snails,
In silver memos
On the front door,
In witnesses to her sense of touch.
Home late,
I found them slurred and searching,
Erasing the welcome
She'd arranged them in.
H; twelve snails.
I; seven or six.
They were misspelling it,
Digressing in wayward caravans
And pile ups.
Mobile and rolling,
But with little perspective.
Their eye stalks smooth
as nylons on tiny legs.
I raised her in isolation,
But it is these snails
Who keep climbing the walls.
For them,
Maybe every verticle
Makes an unending tree
And every ascension is lovely.
Why else
Dont they wend homeward
To ground?
But what do we do?
We are only a part
Of a letter in a word.
And we are on our bellies
With speech.
Wondering, wondering, slowly
How to move toward one another.
My thoughts...
I really liked this poem when i heard it. I believe this is mostly because i was in a (for lack of a better word) silly mood this afternoon and it spoke to me more than some of the other darker poems. I really enjoyed hearing all of the poems spoken by the author. One thing i found to be interesting was that after i had copied the poem roughly onto paper, i read it pretty differently than did McPherson. i think this poem is very heart-warming, and at the same time speaks to a larger problem in our culture that has been presented in several other poems we have covered, the communication gap between parent and child, between kid and adult. I was reminded of a story my grandma likes to tell about my dad. When he was in the first grade he picked a bunch of dandelions at recess for his teacher, who was a nun. In order to preserve them he put them in an old can he found and stopped by the bathroom on his way to class and filled the can with water. When he got to class and presented them to the nun, she was apalled and promptly asked him to present his knuckles for a good ruler lashing; he had used an old beer can. All to often in life we miss the intended meaning and jump to conclusions. If we could only see the overt humor in it all, the fact that there are snails all over the front of the house, we would be alot better off.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, February 28, 2000 12:44 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 11. Roethke // More than a tongue lashing...
Roethke uses the imagery of a dance to describe the beatings that a small boy, most likely the author receives at the hands of his drunken father. When I read the poem I pictured a greasy, balding man wearing a stained white T shirt tucked into denim pants thrashing a young boy around the kitchen while the mother watches helpless from the next room, unable to do anything lest she be beat herself.
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy
But I hung on like death
Such waltzing was not easy
Right away we learn just what state the father is in. He is quite drunk. As he is beaten, the boy hangs on to his father, hoping to avoid wild swings. He hangs on like death. I'm not quite sure what this line means, but it does give a very dark and deadly tone to the readers. We know that to make a wrong move could spell death for the boy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf
My mothers countenance
Could not unfrown itself
The fights were quite brutal and out of control. The rooms themselves were destroyed. We can see these are more one sided bar room brawls than normal father to son punishments. The mother is there, where the boy can see, but she is helpless.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle
The father was not completely accurate, he misses in many of his swings. This accounts for the battered knuckle. Perhaps he hit a chair or wall of something else. The buckle may have been a belt buckle, attached to the belt that was being used to lash the boy.
You beat the time on my head
With a palm caked by dirt
The waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt
I think that the shirt means that in the course of the beating the boy tore his fathers shirt, or the boy is now unconscious or unwilling to let go of the shirt.
This poem is very chilling. It makes me very thankful that I have the parents that I do.
~kevin
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, February 24, 2000 2:23 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 10. peacock's chapter ten // dissecting the family
well folks, Peacock is at it again, dissecting poems to find all the hidden meanings. I enjoyed what she did with Komunyakaa's poem. I thought it was pretty well done and insightful. I especially enjoyed the mentions she made about the circular nature of the poem. Having a circular rhythm is such a good technique and it is something that I never really notice unless someone tells me it is there. Every Friday a fresh wound is opened again... the ritual grinds at the participants... the ritual you cant get out of ( Peacock, How to Read a Poem, 138) She brings to light the fact that the people in the poem are trapped in a circle themselves. Every Friday they do the same awful thing. For the father it is his penance, his attempt at redemption. For the child, it is a way of growing up, of assertion, and of caring for their father. The stuff Peacock (and some of my classmates-way to go) said about the cactus also makes good sense. I hadn't really thought about the fact that the postcards were of cacti. There is nothing forgiving or cuddly about cacti. They are solitary and brutal to the touch. What better image for the estranged mother to send. She wants nothing to do with the family, and has her spines up to prove it.
overall, I liked what peacock has done, but there is certainly something to be said for leaving a poem intact and not deciding what every last line means. This poem, although not at all what the author was shooting for, made me think of the days when I was a young lad and I would help my father, who is a carpenter by trade. All the tool images are happy and warm for me, cause they remind me of happy times with my, Peacock's interpretations of them certainly are not. They are cruel implements of torture and bad feelings.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 10:10 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 9. Komunyakaa// Hammer and Nails can't mend...
This poem portrays the terrible situation of a child whose mother has left the family because of an abusive father, that much is plainly obvious, what isnt so obvious is how the boy feels about both of his parental figures. We can assume that the father still loves the mother, by the way he writes her letters every friday, but perhaps not enough to write the letters himself or to get help for his abusive nature. And we can also assume that the mother is quite happy being gone and has no intention of coming back.
I think the child (are we to assume its a boy? im not sure.) does not feel very connected to his mother. I was almost happy she was gone, and sometimes wanted to slip in something bad (My Fathers Love Letters, Komunyakaa, qtd in Peacock, 126) He/she is happy the mother is gone because that means she will be safe from the abuse, but by the same token, the mother does not make much of an effort to remain a part of the childs life. The poem discusses the way she sends the same or very similar postcards all the time. It also talks about the mother burning the father's letters, and i have no problem with that at all, but i think that is something that she would not do if she loved the child, because after being married to the husband, she would know he cant write and must be having the child do it. Thus, why would she burn something she knew was coming from the child? It seems clear to me she has moved on and left all parts of her former life behind, including her offspring.
The main point of the poem is about the father. In my estimation, the child both pities and respects the father. Lines such as Stood there// eyes closed, fists balled// laboring over a single word (127) whereas a few lines earlier the words were rolling from the pen of the child. He (im just gonna assume its a male child from here on out for brevities sake) sees his father as being out of touch with his emotions and how to express himself. Also he sees his father pleading for the return of the mother. At the same time i think the child respets the father for everything he is capable of. Its pretty impressive that a guy can look at a set of prints and tell you how many bricks it will take to build. Also, i think the kid respects his dad, in a way, for trying and not giving up on getting the mothe back. Im not quite sure what the last line about being almost redeemed means, but i think that the kid is impressed by the way the father lays himself open like a fresh wound (127), that takes courage.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Tuesday, February 22, 2000 1:31 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 8 Clifton//
Lucille Clifton (no title given)
There is a girl inside
She is randy as a wolf
She will not walk away
And leave these bones
To an old woman
I picture a sweet old woman, sitting on her porch in the summer time in a rocking chair sipping lemonade, watching the world go by. She wonders what it would be like to go play ball with the children again, to walk in the park with the young parents, maybe even what it would be like to have a trist with the mail man. One day, she decides she will go across the street and play hop scotch with the kids. Her body may be old, but her spirit certainly isn't. She still has lots of living to do.
She is a green tree
In a forest of kindling
The woman refuses to be blown down by the winds of time. Whereas all her surrounding trees have long since succumbed, she stands tall and proud. The rest of the forest is ready to be immolated by the smallest spark, they live a very precarious existence. But her tree is green and full of life.
She is a green girl
In a used poet
This is most probably autobiographical. Clifton is the young vivacious girl who is still young and inexperienced; green. And at the same time, she realizes she is an old poet, an old woman.
She has waited
Patient as a nun
For the second coming
She is waiting for some event to happen. To find a second husband perhaps? The lines that follow would certainly suggest this. Another possibility that I came up with is that the second coming is her own death, when she will be reborn into the kingdom of God.
When she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
In heaven, we aren't weighed down by aged bodies. She waits for the day when she can break free and run likes she hasn't run in years.
And her lovers will harvest
Honey and thyme
And the woods will be wild
With the damn wonder of it
Her loved ones here in the flesh will be filled with her memories, and the joyous spirit with which she lived, and the hosts in heaven will throw her a great party. She does not plan to go out with a whimper, no way. The whole woods will know what has happened and they will be happy for her and happy for having known her.
Just an idea,
I am very interested to see what the rest of y'all came up with.
~kevin
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 9:36 PM
To: Schultz, Ryan M; Thamert, Mark
Subject: RE: 7 Rumi//Ageless Advice
way to go Ryan! I really enjoyed the way you dissected this poem. when I read it, I also dissected into three almost separate poems; the first four lines about nature and mans place, the next four about love and letting go of ones self, and the last eight about fellowship and merriment.
As I was reading your commentary, I was very interested in your use of God in the first four line section. When I read further down, I was struck (quite literally) by the notion that this poem might be about a wedding, more specifically to one member of the happy couple. Show me a man willing to be // thrown into the fire the groom is having cold feet. Rumi is trying to psych him up, restore his confidence. I like what you said about the love and shambles and all that. In order for a person to enter love, and more specifically matrimony, they give up a part of themselves, they sacrifice part of their individuality and enter a blessed union. The next part about the wine and instruments could be the wedding reception, or more likely in Rumi's times it was the wedding festival. And if you think of it in the connotations of a wedding, the lines, "One thing is forbidden // One thing; sleep takes on obvious meaning. The last four lines apply more to the wedding attendees. The wedding is the most joyous of events. Let go all your inhibitions and go wild.
Well Ryan, thanks very much for your ideas and your contributions, if for no other reason than they stimulated my own thought. Keep up the good work.
-----Original Message-----
From: Schultz, Ryan M
Sent: Wednesday, February 16, 2000 1:19 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 7 Rumi//Ageless Advice
"Where is a foot worthy to walk in a garden" (Rumi in Rag and Bone, p 9). A dichotomy of nature and man. As I stated in class yesterday, I do not feel that man and nature can fully be reunited. What is it about humans, when were we cast out of the garden? For the animals and nature, it is easy. We humans create a microcosm around ourselves, building our egos and illusions that we are actually in control of anything. We are not. Rumi's poetry is about his incredible faith in God, and it is very apparent even in this first line. Reminds us that we are here only because God allows us to be here.
"Or an eye that deserves to look at trees?" (Rumi in Rag and Bone, p 9). Another line in the same vein as the first. Who is truly worthy to desecrate the supreme beauty of a tree with our filthy glances? Has anyone ever really looked closely at a tree? The intricate veins in its broad, semi-translucent leaves or the tiny crawling things that live in the grooves in its rough bark are all tiny miracles that are taken for granted.
"Show me a man willing to be" (Rumi in Rag and Bone, p 9). This line is very interesting. Although it is only half of a sentence, it says much without its remainder. This line illustrates the illus ional world in which we dwell, and the rarity of someone who wishes to be. The rare person who seeks the truth only found in God.
"Thrown in the fire." A sort of shocking conclusion to the sentence. This line was obviously constructed to make the reader expect one thing and get another. Being thrown into something is a feeling of helplessness, but Rumi wants this man to willingly be thrown. A definite act of faith.
"In the shambles of love, they kill only the best" A reference to Christ? After a failing of love, the best are selected and killed. A sort of sacrifice perhaps. Rumi seems to speak of a kind of love where absolutely nothing is held back. Loving from head to toe, every moment of life. Does anyone love anything this much?
"None of the weak or deformed" The love Rumi writes about is only a perfect love. Those unable of such a relationship need not apply. "They" select only the most worthy, the most perfect to sacrifice for this perfect, all giving love in shambles.
"Don't run away from this dying." Yes, this love is painful and demanding, but be not afraid! To give all you have, you must give all you have. If you face this dying, you have been selected, one of the worthy tested by fire. You are the foot worthy to walk in the garden and the eye that deserves to look at trees. Yet it is a dying. You must let go. Leave your microcosm behind and give yourself over to the rare and diving love.
"Whoever is not killed for love is dead meat." Oh, the blatant truth of this simple line! If you think about it, what else is there really to live for than love? Why live at all if you cannot live happily and in peace?
"Tonight with wine being poured" Very sensual images. The pouring of wine has many meanings from promises of drunkenness and wildness, to a night of luxury, to a romantic evening. This imagery definitely sets a mood in a single sentence and energizes the next stanza with an image of two wine glasses filled full in the light of a solitary candle.
"And instruments singing among themselves," On this magical night of wine and excess, even the instruments come to life to join in the festivities. This is a powerful image of joy, like a wild party spinning around at a feverish pace late into the night. Inhibitions definitely not welcome.
"One thing is forbidden" An evening that is spinning wildly out of control with ecstasy and pleasure is held short by only one single rule. What could it be? Why does Rumi divide the line here? The reader must pause, if only for a second, to decide what the rule could be. What rule could there be that could steal the magic from this night?
"one thing: Sleep." An excellent surprise. Rumi leads the reader one way and then suddenly pulls them back another. There is nothing that can ruin the festivities except for slumber. People can live like this party everyday if they so choose, they only need desire to continue. Through this line Rumi questions his reader by asking, "the choice is yours; will you sleep?"
"Two strong impulses: One" A foreshadowing. The reader must ask what the two impulses could possibly be.
"To drink long and deep," Wow. Another sort of rule like the forbidden sleep. Let go of yourself, lose you ego, give into the incredible love of God. The reader can choose to live this amazing life of pleasure, and the only price they have to pay is to have fun and follow your impulses.
"The other" Again, Rumi breaks up the sentence for emphasis.
"Not to sober up too soon." A clever trick played by the poet. The reader expects something different, not the same impose mentioned before. This line washes away all the anxiety of wonder and mystery in the poem and leaves the reader fulfilled with promise of happiness. We truly create our own destiny.
This poem is an invitation to join a party that is always happening. Rumi even provides his readers with instructions to his house. He tells us that living is truly living. Desiring to be frees us from our mundane world of insignificant worries which master us. A love is out there that encompasses all and delivers all.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Wednesday, February 16, 2000 1:40 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 7 Holderlin & Rumi // What is lost
What does it all mean? This poem has confused me more than any other poem we have read so far, save the lace curtain. The first couple lines The divine energies// are still alive, but isolated above us, in the archetypal// world. (Holderlin, Rag and Bone, 12) remind me very much of the Platonic Dualism, the separation between the real world and the world of ideas. Plato philosophized that there are two realms, one which houses all the ideal things. The ideal tree, the ideal bowler hat, stuff like that, and that it exists somewhere above us in the sky. The other world, the real world, the one we live in, is full of representations of the things in the ideal world. So the trees we look at are merely imperfect replicas of the ideal tree. This idea reappears later when it is said, "Human Beings can carry the divine only sometimes" Very rarely can people see into the realm of ideas. Holderlin might be trying to say that through the medium of art, especially poem, people can become connected to the divine, to that realm of ideas. The last several lines would certainly lead us to believe so, although Holderlin seems to not work so much with the Platonic idea, but with the idea of a divine entity that dwells in his higher existence. The poet is the link to that divine idea that has been lost in todays world.
Rumi's poem, Has Anyone Seen the Boy, seems to be about the poets own search for a part of himself that he has lost. I believe the boy in the poem is Rumi, only it is his youthful naivete and creativity. The part about the pharaoh and about Joseph and Egypt are most certainly about dreams, or rather a dreamer. Rumi is expressing his longing to recapture the spirit of his youth. He wishes to return to the free spirited times when he had his whole life in front of him and the only limits he had were the limits of his imagination, and of his dreams. I can guess from the quatrains we read for today by Rumi that he feels trapped, or maybe just limited by the events and circumstances of his life. One of the best illustrations of this is when he talks of being killed by love. He wishes he could return to his childhood when he had an empty canvas in front of him, that he could repaint his life.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, February 14, 2000 9:46 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 6 Baudelaire;
Immediately when i read the title of this poem i was reminded of other times i have read of the albatross. (As you may have gathered by now, my baggage has alot to do with how i read poems and what i take from them) I though especially of the mariner stigma that to kill an ablatross is to invite peril, even death. I once read that to sailors, the albatross is a representation of the very spirit of the air and the ocean. To kill one is to tept fate and to raise the anger of the winds and seas. They are an omen of good luck. As i read the poem i saw it was about something else entirely. I saw it was about a poet and how he feels mocked and mistreated among society. He wants to spread his wings and fly, but he is laughed at by his peers. Immediately i removed the line about the poet from the poem. It had potential for so much more had that line not been in there. Really, it is the play between the poet and greatness that bothers me, and i think the last line about greatness needs to be included, so subconsciously i removed or refused to understand the part about the poet. I wanted so badly for this poem to be about the contrast between humanity and nature, about respect and disregard. The albatross is a great bird that posesses the ability to fly, an ablility that we will never have on our own. We can make it come down to our level, and then we laugh at it, because it does not walk as we do, but should one of us try to fly as it does, we would surely be laughed at. There are things in nature that we can never do on our own. We can hold them in reverie, or we can mock the flaws in them. The albatross is perfectly suited for long ocean flights. What are we perfectly suited for?
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, February 14, 2000 9:11 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 5 Hirsh Chapter 1// Natural and Essential
Hirsh attempts to explain the eternal question "why poetry?" in the first chapter of his book. he uses many quotes from authors that use natural metaphors to explain elements of poetry. One of the ones i found most striking comes to us from Shelley, " A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musicain, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet they know not whence or why." (Shelley, qtd in How to read a poem, Hirsh, 14) I love this image. I myself have had the pleasure of spending an autumn evening listening to the sweet songs of said bird. The poet doesnt write for the readers, htey write for the RIlkesque reason that they need to, something deep within their soul forces them to create. Which brings me to my major point, it is essential for humans to have poetry of some kind. It is part of our nature and our very being to have an outlet for the emotions, thoughts, and creative forces that well up inside of us. We choose to vent these urges in many different ways; some by art, some by sport, some by cooking. We all have that one thing that we must do in order to keep sane. For a select few, the medium is poem.
"We discover in poetry that we are participating in something which cannot be explained or apprehended by reason or understanding alone. We participate..." (Hirsh, 24) Poems speak to us, in ways which we cannot fully understand. As Jung might say, they are part of the collective unconscious, and by reading them we are tapping into that well. When we read a poem, we are getting a glimpse, through the eyes of the author, into the very base elements of humanity. The same drive that causes the poet to write, pulls us to read. Through the act of reading, we come in contact with that part of human nature that lies below the surface, with the Jungian shadow.
Poetry is communication of the soul. That is why i can read and be moved by a poem written many centuries ago across a great ocean. The same things that the author was compelled to write are the same my soul is compelled to seek out, and perhaps the same thing i will someday pass on.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 9:56 PM
To: Lindquist, Jennifer M; Markwardt, Jeffrey R; Thamert, Mark
Subject: RE: REPLY TO JEFF: More Thoughts on Shakespeare's Sonnet LXV
Jeff and Jen,
I was rereading the Shakespeare sonnet myself this evening and came up with a third, if only slightly different interpretation than you did. more of a meld of the two than anything else. Jeff, if I am correct, your interpretation dealt with harnessing the "flower power" within as a means to true happiness and healthiness. And Jen; you took it to be a lament on the inevitability of death and our own mortality, while at the same time hoping words can live on. I think he is getting at the power of the human spirit as the unconquerable entity that will live on, for Shakespeare specifically it was his writing. Time will wither our bodies just as surely as it will erode rocks, but love is unbeatable. So, I think you are both very correct in what you said, just not completely so. The one thing that still throws me is the line about, "Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?" What is the jewel? Why is time capitalized? Almost given divinity status. Is it reflexive of the Fates from Classical myth? From the context and the lines that follows, I took the jewel to be love. Love is the hand holding the foot back, and we find whatever we love beautiful even if it is spoiled. I am by no means saying I have the correct interpretation, merely tossing out food for thought.
-----Original Message-----
From: Lindquist, Jennifer M
Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 7:26 PM
To: Markwardt, Jeffrey R; Thamert, Mark
Subject: REPLY TO JEFF: More Thoughts on Shakespeare's Sonnet LXV
Jeff,
I found your interpretation of this Sonnet really interesting because the two of us appreciated Shakespeare's work in completely different ways. You found a connection between the sonnet and a search for inner peace, but I found the sonnet to be a clear representation of the slow slide of time through its hourglass. In other words, rather than your positive approach, I took the sonnet to infer that life and the natural world is mortal and responds to the steady march of time. Even as I read the sonnet now, I can see Shakespeare looking at his own mortality and watching his life slip away, hoping that his wonderful poetry will last beyond his personal, mortal limitations.
I'm not trying to imply that your interpretation is incorrect because I certainly do not have the inside line on Shakespeare's sonnets. I merely offer you another impression of the poem. Thanks for your thoughts though! They made me look at the sonnet in a different light!
Jen
-----Original Message-----
From: Markwardt, Jeffrey R
Sent: Thursday, February 03, 2000 1:15 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Peacock, Thomas, Shakespeare // The Poem: The Perfect Balance Between Companionship and Solitude
Our class discussion yesterday consisted of many paradoxes: solitude vs. companionship, innocence vs. the wisdom of old age, and Freud's view of the id as the dark side vs. Yung's view of the id as the light side, etc. Even though these paradoxes are conflicting and they tend to stir some heated arguments, Fr. Mark addressed that these paradoxes are OK. Sersch--I'm sure you were happy because here is a new way to look at settling these conflicts and making peace with these topics. Instead of trying to resolve the conflicts with one correct answer, we should be able to accept the paradox and find a balance between both of the sides. Where am I going with this you might ask. When I think about poetry, I tend to think of a person reading in solitude in a quiet and dark room. But then I also think about Poetry Slams where poets competitively read their poems in front of an audience. Poetry is the perfect medium that bridges the wide gap between the paradox of solitude and companionship in our world today!
I came to this realization after reading the first two chapters of Molly Peacock's How to Read a Poem...and Start a Poetry Circle. First, Molly addresses the power of solitude in poetry: "...reading poetry gives you a kind of internal message. Your organs readjust, they re-relate to one another, as you become aware of a new thought or a new feeling or more likely, of something you, too, have thought and felt all along" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem...and Start a Poetry Circle, p. 14). Second, Molly addresses the power of companionship in poetry through poetry circles. I smiled when I imagined this image of Molly and her friend Georgianna Orsini "climb[ing] into [their] jammies by SIX P.M. to read poems out loud while cooking dinner" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem...and Start a Poetry Circle, p. 16). Poetry has many things to teach me. It not only will connect me to a new form of solitude, but also deeper feelings of companionship with those around me.
"I labor by singing light / Not for ambition or bread ... But for the common wages / Of their secret heart ... But for the lovers, their arms / Round the griefs of ages,..." (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art," in Rag and Bone, p. 167). I might be misinterpreting "In My Craft or Sullen Art," but I'm picturing Dylan Thomas writing to soothe the lovers' hearts in order to heal the lovers' outside griefs. I think this concept is neat: healing the inside in order to heal the outside. One must first heal the inside heart and body before one begins to heal the outside griefs of this troubled world we live in. A poet, who most likely has a special connection with solitude and the inner realm of the soul, must then have the key to solving the world's griefs. The poet's words alone will touch our hearts and heal us in ways that food or water cannot. Is it possible then to solve world hunger through poetry?
Again, I see this same concept of strengthening the inner self in Shakespeare's poem. "Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, / But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, / How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?" (Shakespeare, "Sonnet LXV," in Rag and Bone, p. 176). Too often in this world, we think that by healing the outside of our bodies, we will heal the inside body. By being thin, or having muscles we strive for beauty. However, no matter how much iron we pump, if the inside of our bodies is not strong, the appearance of our outside bodies is insignificant. I'm not saying that lifting weights is bad. I'm just suggesting that if one is going to lift an iron bar, I'm sure that person can also try to lift that weak little flower growing inside ourselves to the light.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 10:05 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 4 Dante and Michelangelo // Stuck in a dead end job?
It seems that anyone can be stricken by wanderlust.
When I saw that we were to be reading a sonnet by Dante, I immediately conjured images in my head of demon's with hooked claws and sinners immersed in a lake of ice. Needless to say, the sonnet to Cavalcanti was a bit of a shock for me. When I read the poem, my mind's eye conjured up an image of Dante seated at a desk looking out a window, witnessing a beautiful spring morning, wanting nothing more than to leave the monotony of his daily life and embark on some random adventure with his comrades. I don't know how many times I have sat in first period and wondered why the hell didn't I just call in sick. Dante is using his profoundly beautiful and symbolistic language to tell a buddy that he wishes they were out kicking the soccer ball around in some field. He wants to grab a few sandwiches, a few pals, their lady friends (the Vanna and Bice referred to later?), and hop in the car and drive to wherever the spirit leads them. Or, more accurately in his case, a ship. The lines, "...Might ascend // a magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly // with winds at will where'er our thoughts might wend, // so that no change, nor any evil chance // should mar our joyous voyage..." (Dante, Sonnet to Guido Cavalcanti, 99 Poems, 36) speak to me and stimulate my great sense of adventure and stir within me a desire to drop all my books and drive off into the setting sun. Dante seems to want a freedom that reminds me very much of Kerouac and his many travels. Everytime I reread this short poem I feel a need to be on the open road with the wind in my hair and the radio blaring. I'm quite sure that is not what Dante had in mind when he wrote it, but it was something along those lines.
"Giovanni, try // to succour my dead pictures and my fame; // since foul I fare and painting is my shame." (Michelangelo, On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel, 99 Poems 76) wow. "my dead pictures." "painting is my shame." those are powerful negative thoughts coming from the painter of one of the greatest works of renaissance art. I can imagine why the great painter allowed doubt to creep in. I'm sure all that time up on a scaffold hunched over and stretching to reach spots day after day would do a number on a person's morale. It makes me feel more human to know that one of the true greats doubted his own work and had his share of rotten days. It inspires me to not give up when I have a bad day. If Michelangelo could have this much doubt and resentment about what became his greatest work, then certainly I am allowed to question my own artistic endeavors from time to time. I am puzzled as to why he says painting is his shame. that is an awfully powerful statement coming from an artist of his caliber. perhaps he is a perfectionist and can not except flaws. what do you all think?
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 7:40 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 3 response to scott and john// wrong turns become new adventures
I think that Scotts post was well thought out and well spoken. My immediate reaction to Peacock was that she was being hypocritical for criticizing the dissection of poems, only to do it herself one chapter later. And perhpas i still feel that way, but after reading the posts by several class members i decided to suspend my cynacism and actually try and understand Peacock's methods. What Scott made reference to about poems conveying emotions from people we would otherwise never meet makes a whole lot of sense. and i like Scott, "have realized more is included in a poem than i ever suspected. I too have looked at a poem and not understood what i was reading." I still dont entirely comprehend Peacocks triad of line, sentence, and image, but thanks to scott and others from the class for giving me a reason to go back and take a second look.
I was also intrigued by John's post. His struggle with his art, and more specifically his pondering of whether to embrace his craft and devote himself to it, reminds me very much of myself and people within my life. the biggest reason that i signed up for this course is that i used to spend a good deal of time writing. for whatever reasons, be it that i outgrew my creativity, or that i simply became to busy, one day i simply stopped. i hope that somehow by furthering my knowlege and familiarity i can reopen or rekindle that fire inside of me. it seems that John is faced with a choice, and he is choosing to throw caution to the wind and follow his art. As someone who may have already missed that opportunity, i applaud you for it.
~kevin flynn
"Easy writing is hard reading. Hard writing is easy reading." -George Bernard Shaw
-----Original Message-----
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, February 03, 2000 6:23 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Peacock, Thomas, Eskimo // Unknown Human Emotion
Unknown Human Emotion
I have spent countless hours pondering these questions: Why does God allow pain in the world? Why are we able to feel lonely, hurt, and abandoned? Unfortunately, I have no concrete answers. But I do know where to search for better understanding. Molly Peacock does too: "To learn about something hair-trigged and complex, complete with its own structures and therefore its own ways of knowing and conveying, is to illumine the paths of existence itself. Communing with these poems collected over years, each continuing to exhibit vitality as I look at its body...with greater consciousness and greater regard, fires in me a respect for the conscious act of living" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 11). Art allows me to connect with people who appear much different than myself. After all, on the surface, I have little in common with Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, and Langston Hughes. These people live (or lived) in a world much different than my own. Or do (did) they? If we listen carefully to the words of Molly Peacock, we may have found a new way to understand our existence. It is called poetry. Perhaps if I read the great poets of the world I can come to grips with my unknown human emotion. Perhaps I will find that much of human existence is the same. We all must eat, breathe, and die. And we all must suffer. I can think of no other form of expression that communicates the pain (and joy!) of life than art. That is why I took this course, and that is why I can admire Peacock's work: She has found a way to explore the many questions of the world. Through her shared passion for poetry, I realized that more is on included in a poem than I ever suspected. I too have looked at poetry and not understood what I was reading. Or, as Peacock writes, "Sometimes I feel we are restoring those wings torn from poems by bullies with low tolerance for ambiguity - the bullies perhaps we ourselves once were" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 17). I was once a bully (or perhaps I still am). But I do not want to be a bully anymore. I want to feel the words!
I enjoy the way Peacock explains the foundation of a poem: "Poetry is really the fusion of three arts: music, storytelling, and painting. The line displays the poem's music, the sentence displays its thoughts, and the image displays the vision of the poet" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 19). After reading this, I looked at one of Peacock's talismans, "Let Evening Come," by Jane Kenyon (on page 25). I really felt I could grasp the content better. It paints a beautiful picture with words, but it also contains thoughts (a message) and music as well. I do not know whether Peacock's foundation will work for all poems, but it really does seem like something worth remembering. Poetry is difficult to explain to someone else, but I think every poem has a unique sound, story, and visual. Not only that, each reader can enjoy his or her own interpretation. That said, I can see why Peacock enjoys returning to her favorite poems again and again. A fresh reading has a new sound and a new visual. Meanwhile, the story is given a new explanation.
Rag and Bone
The poem by Dylan Thomas is fascinating.
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart. (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art," in Rag and Bone, p. 167)
For one thing, it has great music. Thomas seems to say that his labor can connect with a heart better than a physical presence can. The "lovers lie abed / With all their griefs in their arms" -- notice that lovers (most likely embracing) hold "grief" in their arms; but Thomas wants no money or fame, merely the "secret heart" of his audience (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art"). I also find it interesting that Thomas works while lovers lie. Poetry has left him alone at night, but he absolutely must share his art with others -- that is how he can connect with lovers best. Hopefully this poem will come up in class tomorrow, as I'm interested to see what everyone else took from Thomas' work.
The poem entitled "Magic Words" grabbed me immediately. It reminded me of Peacock's book, where she writes, "Each time any of us reads a favorite poem, it conjures a special sorcery of second sight, and third, and fourth, until understanding is so profound that we are returned to a state before we even had language - a prelinguistic place (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 3). (Yes, that excerpt also appeared in the Great Poets course description.) The author, Eskimo, seems to convey a similar message, this time about a group of magic words: "Sometimes they were people / and sometimes animals / and there was no difference. / All spoke the same language" (Eskimo, "Magic Words," (in Rag and Bone, p 160). Peacock must feel that Eskimo is talking about poetry. Maybe he is. Maybe he is not. All I know is that Eskimo writes well.
"Easy writing makes bad reading" - Ernest Hemingway
Take care all,
Scott Williams
(disclaimer: this is a journal in its true sense in that I needed to rant a little, I am not sure if it is useable for the email posts but at least you can see what I am thinking about)
From the Warrior Poets to the Poets at War
the ranting of a new artist
One of the most over used and warn out clich1s is that of the artist at war with himself. It is an image that a 20 year old man (some may say the very man that writes this to you) has a difficult time forgetting. Why is it that an artist must struggle with art. I of course must point out that a clich1 would not be a clich1 if it didn't hold truth. Some of the greatest moments in my life come when I shut out the world around me and I start to work on my music or my poetry. Sometimes I can feel it inside me and I know that I have to shut myself off to find it. Rilke may say that I have to seek solitude, while I on the other hand would not even feel the need to point it out. I can never be at one with my art unless I can truly roll up my sleeves and struggle with it. This requires me to seek out that battle between me and my art that I hold so dear. Herein lies my thought upon these poems.
When is the struggle a clich1 and when is a struggle the truth? I have spent a lot of time the past few weeks dealing with the problem of when I should quite saying I am a student and start saying that I am a musician, a singer songwriter in fact. The words feel clumsy coming out of my mouth because it is only recently that I have decided to put everything aside and embrace my art. What that means for me of course is that I am now looking at college in a whole new way. No longer is it anything that holds me. It is merely the thing I am doing in my free time. I feel liberated now. Dylan Thomas, brother of mine, I hear your voice in my soul saying
"I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart." (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art")
And I can answer you saying sing on, sing on! Amergin can stand and command the waves with his art, why can't I? I am told it is a near impossible dream to make anything of my art, well I say I too am "Climber through the Needles Eye," (Michael Meade "Amergin and Cessair") This of course is where I draw the knowing looks and the comments from professors such as "I know, I was there once too," or "I can see the same starry eyed look I once had," in their best patronizing voice dripping with unspoken "you'll grow out of it." They see the clich1 and I see the warrior poet battling my modern enemies. Which might just be myself and my paranoid delusions that my professors are out to get me. I must wonder if Dylan Thomas ever had to deal with the same knowing smiles and half hidden snickers. Of course if he did those people would now be running to the nearest tabloid to say I knew him when. So get to know me now so you can make a buck or two in the following years.
From: Flynn, Kevin C
Sent: Thursday, February 03, 2000 11:30 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 2 Peacock, Stevens, Orpingalik // Cruelty to poems?
The first chapter in Peacock's How to Read a Poem introduced a paradox (theres that word again) that i have often wrestled with over the course of my studies; whether it is best to take any selection or piece of art and analyze it till you find the hidden meanings and the structure and why it works, or just leave it be and apperciate it for what it is. She writes "Inadvertantly i had become the bully who tears the wings from butterflies. I would rather not understand than kill a poem, I resolved right then." (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, 6) By dissecting the poems she sought to emmulate, she had sucked all the emotions out of them. As i was reading on page three about talismans, i noticed right away Peacock was using personification to describe poems, and yet i was missing some of the meaning. Peacock too seems caught in the paradox, she wrote five pages later about how, "Communing with these poems..., each contiunuing to exhibit vitality as i look at its body-its nervous system, skeletal system, circulatory system." (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, 11) Furthermore, the whole second chapter deals with breaking down elements of poems. When looking at a piece of art we are faced with a choice; we can experience it and know it triggers somekind of emotion within us, or we can delve into what the artist did in hopes of setting off that emotion. We can look at a still life and see a cool bowl of fruit, and we can witness the use of shadown and light and the interplay between textures used to draw our focus.
What is the solution? I dont know. As with most things dealing with art and personal expression, it is subjective. The best solution seems to be to look for the middle ground. Everything in moderation. If we can read a poem and be deeply moved, while at the same time catch noticing the beautiful use of alliteration, we seem to get the full benefit. We might miss a few historical references along the way, or perhaps lose that initial weepy feeling we had, but we will get the best of both worlds.
"Poetry is the art of letting your primordial word resound through the common word." - Gerhart Hauptman. (found on page 182)
Who is better; Dr Spock or Homer Simpson? On the one hand, Spock is the epitome of a logical thinker, whereas Homer ia at the mercy of his many whims. Using what we discussed in class the other day, Freud believed that the rational thinker, the person that uses his or her super ego, is superior. meanwhile Jung stated that impulse actions were completely neccessary and good. In his poem, Poetry is a Destructive Force, Stevens attacks the idea that emotions are good. He compares emotions to savage beasts. "He tastes its blood, not spit" (Stevens, Poetry is a Destructive Force, 166) Blood, from the heart, the center of emotions. Spit, from the mouth, the tool of the mind. Stevens goes so far as to say that impulse and non-logical actions can kill.
Orpingalik, by contrast, believes that emotions are the inspiration for great thoughts, not their downfall. "Songs are thoughts, sung out with the breath when people are moved by great forces and ordinary speech no longer suffices." (Orpingalik, Songs are Thoughts) The song occurs when a person is awash with thoughts, and at the same time filled with great emotion. It is a very positive thing, perhaps the most postive of all.
Once again, it is my humble opinion that the best solution is found in moderation. We need to take into account our own thoughts and our own instincts and emotions, then we can make a solid decision.