From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 10:08 PM

To: Oakland, Timothy J; Thamert, Mark

Subject: 3 Reply to Tim: Peacock, Stafford, Meade // Virgin Eyes

I love what Tim said about the quote from Peacock, page 8. It is one I had underlined in my book as well, and it makes me think of my own limited experience with poetry. I have always loved the idea of poetry because I love the fact that there is no right or wrong interpretation of a poem, and that it can mean something completely different for each reader. At the same time, I hesitated at the edge of the forest because I felt that I cannot possibly decode poetry, which sometimes seems like a foreign language to me. My past teachers have been so into pointing out symbolism and finding the author's intention that poetry became a very overwhelming subject for me. Instead, I have found poetry in the music I listen to every day. I have so much respect for singer/songwriters who can write something meaningful about a topic besides relationships. Not that relationships are not a good thing to write and sing about, but so is the rest of life. :o) But Molly Peacock, and this class itself, urge me on past my comfort zone with the poetry that fills my daily life. I have taken a single step into the depths of the woods themselves, but more importantly, I now have the courage to begin this journey. Because I now realize, in the words of Molly Peacock, "It was all right to be lost." (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 8)

-----Original Message-----

From: Oakland, Timothy J

Sent: Friday, February 04, 2000 1:11 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Peacock, Stafford, Meade // Virgin Eyes

Initially I was cautious to consider entering the mysterious world of poetry in an environment where my ability and work would be quantified and turned into a grade. It was intimidating to me to study poems that I will never wholly understand. There is one terrific characteristic of poetry--it's very friendly. Peacock captures this and more in a beautiful paragraph:

I found grown-up poetry to be as spongy as a forest floor --your foot sinks into the pine needles, the air smells mushroomy and dank, and filtered light swirls around you till you're deep in another state. Since the tobacco-and-violet-scented Balmy announced that no one's opinion about verse was ever wrong, I gleefully entered the woods of interpretation. It was all right to be lost. (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p.8).

This makes poems sound dreamy and innately organic. Not only that, she says poems let you feel what you wish, like you add your own creativity to anothers. Peacock goes deeper in describing a reader's connection to poetry, "When we discover poems, they seem to rediscover us." (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p.7). How exciting, poems don't discover us, they rediscover us because they already know us. I am now thoroughly excited to get inside some poems.

I found a connection with William Staffords writing. One section in particular reminded me of a familiar activity. (About a writer and new things) "That is, he does not draw on a reservoir; instead, he engages in an activity that brings to him a whole succession of unforeseen stories, poems, essays, plays, laws, philosophies, religions, or--but wait!" (Stafford, "On the Writing of Poetry," in Rag and Bone, p. 181). This sentence reminds me of one of my favorite activities. With a few good friends, I like to engage in a sort of pseudo-philosophy in which the goal is for the game not to end and a move is finding something clever that builds on what was previously said. Of course this game is not strict in its rules, it's more like a highly touted (by me) B.S. session. Still, it's when I find myself in a creative state that I don't otherwise experience very often.

Another poem spoke to me, but not because I saw my life in it, but for its strong words and its beautiful imagery. Amergin and Cessair impressed me in a special way as I watched the lines, "I am dewdrop, a tear of the sun. I am a lily on a still pond. I am the son of harmony. I am a word of skill. I am the silence of things secret." (Meade and Meade, "Amergin and Cessair," in Rag and Bone, p. 171-173). My first reaction to this poem was that it reminded me of two children one-upping each other it seemed so imaginative. The explanation at the conclusion of how Amergin and Cessair are dueling poets is awesome. For me this poem carried a mythical quality that drew me to reread the poem at least ten times just tonight.

From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Sunday, May 14, 2000 3:48 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 25. Cavafy and Kowit // mortality

I'm sorry this entry is so late, the end of the year has been very busy. ~Joanna

I was intruiged by the poems "Supplication", by Constatine Cavafy (p 184), and "Notice", by Steve Kowit (p. 199), both from A Book of Luminous Things. Each poem has a very different tone from the other, even though both poems describe a sudden and unexpected death of someone close to the speaker. For me, the poem "Supplication" has a very tragic tone to it. The image of the mother praying to the Virgin Mary for the safety of her son who is already dead is a powerful one. I think it is interesting that both the sea and the icon of the Virgin Mary are brought to life in the poem. The very first line is: "The sea took a sailor to its deep.--" Right from the start, the poem gave me a feeling of helplessness- no matter what the sailor did, the sea had complete power over him. It reminds me that I am not in control of when my life will come to an end. Later on in the poem, "the icon listens, solemn and sad, knowing well / that the son she expects will no longer return." This image completes the feeling of tragedy and powerlessness for me. The mother is protecting her son in the only way she knows how, and even that is not enough. And all the icon can do is look on in pity for the helpless mother.

On the other hand, "Notice" has a completely different feel. The first image of sudden loss is when the speaker's jeans unexpectedly rip. This image gives the poem a light and almost humerous feel, and provides a striking contrast to the next part about the sudden death of the speaker's friend. But rather than taking on a tone of tragedy, the poet instead gives an important message to the reader.

Take heed you who read this

& drop to your knees now & again

like the poet Christopher Smart

& kiss the earth and be joyful

& make much of your time

& be kindly to everyone,

even those who do not deserve it.

(Kowit, A Book of Luminous Things, p 199)

This poem reminds me that life is truly precious, and there is no way to know how much longer it will last. Rather than just reminding me of sudden tragedy, it makes me want to go outside and play, write a letter to everyone who has ever touched my life, sing while I shower, and get the most out of every moment I have here. I try to live this way as best I can, despite the restraints caused by school and other sources of responsibility- although even responsibilities can have great meaning if you approach them with the right attitude. This poem reinforces that feeling that lies deep within me, and encourages it to come out and play more often.

From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Wednesday, May 10, 2000 9:08 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 26. Hikmet // the burden of a blessing

I really like the way the poem, "A Sad State of Freedom", by Nazim Hikmet, addresses the contrast difference between freedom and happiness. Freedom is such a high-held ideal, it sometimes seems like it should be the key to our happiness and to all that is good. In reality, however, freedom can exist without justice or peace. When people are free, that means that they have the ability to make their own choices, and as we all know people do not always make good decisions. Indeed, freedom only means that we are left at the mercy of the masses instead of an elite few. Nevertheless, we do value freedom. Maybe it is because it is easier to endure poverty and hardship when we feel that we have some amount of control over our lives, rather than suffering at the mercy of someone else.

Hikmet addresses the injustices that can coexist with the ideal of freedom.

and knead the dough enough for dozens of loaves

of which you'll taste not a morsel;

you are free to slave for others-

you are free to make the rich richer.

(Hikmet, Pinter, p 42)

I was struck by the connection between the concepts of freedom and slavery in this stanza. The individual is free, but because of his or her financial situation, he or she has no choice but to work to support him- or herself. I am not sure if I would even call this freedom, although I suppose the person does have the choice to not work if he or she doesn't mind starving to death. Hikmet makes it clear that simple freedom does not create a just society.

As I read on, I began to wonder if freedom exists at all in the place described in the poem.

You may proclaim that one must live

not as a tool, a number or a link

but as a human being-

then at once they handcuff your wrists.

You are free to be arrested, imprisioned

and even hanged.

(Hikmet, Pinter, p.43)

What is this freedom where one is forced to slave away to survive and is severely punished for expressing an opinion? Can it be called freedom at all? I am not really sure what the poet is trying to say here. There is a great contradiction between the concept of freedom and the rest of the poem. Maybe the poet is trying to find his poetic voice in a place where freedom is proclaimed but not really put into action. He can only write what he wants at the risk of punishment, similar to the worker who is free to choose not to work. Freedom may exist, bu no choice is without consequences.

From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Sunday, March 05, 2000 9:13 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Williams // you CAN get out of the mud!

I'm going on a vacation with my family, so I won't be in class for a while. I hope you all have a wonderful week, and I'll see you next week! ~Joanna

The poem, "The Turtle", by William Carlos Williams (Rag and Bone, p.55), immediately intruiged me because of the way it sees the world through a child's eyes. I am constantly amazed by childrens' ability to find wonder in what would seem to most people to be every day things and occurrences. In the case of this poem, a boy's admiration for his pet turtle has caused his Grandfather to see the turtle in a completely new way. Through the boy, the Grandfather sees all of the wonderful characteristics and all of the possibilities of the turtle. The Grandfather also sees great beauty and potential in his beloved Granson. But it seems to me that both the turtle and the boy are living in the mud- trapped by their circumstances.

The turtle lives in the mud

but is not mud-like

I think it is possible that the turtle is actualy the Grandfather's symbol for his Grandson, or else a more universal symbol for anyone who is a victim of their circumstances. We are not told anything about the Grandson's background or situation, but this poem makes me think that he is like the turtle, and is living in the "mud". Maybe he comes from a broken home, or maybe his family is very poor and struggling to survive. Whatever the situation, this is his Grandfather's way of telling him that he can get out of the "mud" in his life- he is not a part of the mud.

you can tell it by his eyes

which are clear.

It is interesting that Williams comments on the turtle's eyes. Eyes are such an incredible part of any creature's body- they do so much more than see. When you look deep into someone's eyes, you will find a form of expression and emotion that could never be communicated in words. I have never looked into a turtle's eyes, but if I did, what would I see? (Next time I see a turtle I will have to try that. :o) The grandfather in the poem can tell by looking into his Grandson's eyes that he has so much more potential than he can use. His eyes are clear and bright- not murky or shaded like the mud.

When he shall escape

his present confinement

Williams uses the word "when" here- not "if". I think that is very significant. There is no possibility of the turtle not escaping his present form. He has so much potential, and so much power that he will escape in time. This is another part of his message to his Grandson. This will not last forever- you will escape.You are meant to be and do so much more than this.

he will stride about the world

destroying all

with his sharp beak.

"This turtle may look calm and defenseless now," says the Grandfather, "but he has powers beyond your wildest dreams. You just wait and see!" The end of this poem reminds me of one of Aesop's Fabels or Hans Christian Anderson's stories. It is a wonderful story that will delight a child, and let his or her imagination run wild, and also has a very important lesson to teach them.

Something that struck me after rereading this poem is the first stanza:

Not because of his eyes,

the eyes of a bird,

but because he is beaked,

birdlike, to do an injury,

has the turtle attracted you.

This stanza didn't really make sense to me until I had interpreted the rest of the poem. It seems like eyes are a symbol of hope in this poem, because the Grandfather talks about how the turtle's eyes show that he does not belong in the mud. The beak doesn't come in again until later, as a symbol of the turtle's hidden powers. Maybe the Grandfather is realizing that his Grandson does not see the hope in his situation, and is only fascinated by power. I don't really know, but I thought it was worth noting.From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 9:47 PM

To: Lindquist, Jennifer M; Thamert, Mark

Subject: Response to Jen, 7.2 Martial // a free spirit!

I will start by saying that I agree with all of Jen's points about this poem. When I first read it I found it to be creepy, twisted, and very arrogant on the part of the speaker. I must admit, I found it so revolting that I had little desire to discuss it. But after reading Jen's comments, I decided to give it a try.

The only praise I have for this poem is that it does paint a very vivid image of the speaker, his wife or lover, and their relationship with one another. It is very clear what kind of a man the speaker is, but when I read the poem again a minute ago I got a completely different image. I doubt this was Martial's intended meaning for his poem, but I like it, so here goes!

What about the woman in this poem? As I read this poem again, I saw an image of an intelligent and strong-willed woman, trapped in the house of a dominant, arrogant man who she does not love. According to the culture in which she lived, she has no rights and no power, yet she manages to keep her dignity. By refusing to conform to the tastes of her master, she has refused to degrade herself to the point of living to please one she does not love, and in doing so she has infuriated him. Both realize that while he may have his way with her body, her spirit will always be free. I can picture the scene in which the poem takes place. The man is fuming and yelling at his mistress while she sits a few feet away, calmly, and completely ignores him. She is not submissive, she is distant, and does not allow him to reach her. "Maybe in time," she prays, "he will throw me out of the house!"

-----Original Message-----

From: Lindquist, Jennifer M

Sent: Friday, February 18, 2000 12:36 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 7.2 Martial // Did everyone miss this????

I want to take a step backward for a moment and recap a poem that we were unable to talk about in class on Monday. I would have brought this up earlier, but I didn't realize that this poem was on our schedule. Luckily, it's now on my hit list. On page 72-72 of 99 Poems in Translation lies the poem called "Either get out of the house or conform to my tastes, woman." This response is guaranteed to qualify as reader response criticism, so if you disapprove of such methods, please do not read further. Before I acknowledge my disgust, which began with the very first line of the poem, I must recognize that this poem was written by Martial between the years 40-104. However, I don't think this means that I have to appreciate what is said in the poem, merely in deference to the century in which it was produced.

First of all, the first line of the poem makes my skin crawl. If we assume that this collection of statements is being spoken aloud to a woman, a woman who seems to be the wife or long time mistress of the speaker, one can feel the insult of the first line to the very roots of being. In the speaker's mind, the woman before him doesn't even value a name, but is rather referred to in the manner one would refer to a misbehaving pet. I hope this made you as upset as it did me.

This poem is all directed and manipulated by the incredible ego of the speaker. This man loves nothing more than himself, which is proven through his references to his own thoughts and emotions, in that he speaks of nothing but personal needs, wants, likes, loves, and desires and also through his driving desire for pleasure at whatever cost to his wife. It has obviously not occurred to him that his wife may dislike having sex with him. Wow. What a thought. If you were in a relationship in which your opinions mattered not at all, would you be interested in intimacy with your ruler? Not I.

One other thing, if this poem is supposed to be funny, I am even more disgusted than before. The situations described, even if intended by the author to be hilarious, are not and will never be qualified as a good joke. In fact, if put in this situation, I would probably laugh my way out the door.

We are on our way to the 22nd century. Hopefully a century of EQUAL partnership in relationship and marriage. At least that is my personal hope. Perhaps those of you who read this poem merely felt that it was out of date and unworthy of a response. I hope that was/is the case. I just felt that I couldn't let this poem slide by unacknowledged in our world, where so much is merely let fall to the floor without concern.

If anyone saw something else in this poem, I would love to hear about it! Maybe it would help me to reconcile Martial in my mind. Thanks for listening!

From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 8:38 PM

To: Frerich, Stephanie G; Thamert, Mark

Subject: Response to Stephanie, 7 Anacreontea // We should be drunk!

This is in response to Stephanie's post on the poem Drinking (99 Poems, p.4). I especially like what she has to say in her final paragraph on the last line of the poem. I agree with what Stephanie has to say, and I would also like to take it a step further. Stephanie explained that humans have separated themselves from the communal drinking of nature, and believe that they are above and superior to the rest of creation. She wrote, "I think of the world surrounding the poem, the world within the white space around the poem, and am inclined to imagine humans taking rocks and soil to construct concrete--does concrete drink in anything? Concrete is definitely not a part of this breathtaking drinking and humans have built this."

I think this is a very valuable point, but I also think it is true that we ARE a part of the Great Drunken Circle of Nature, and there is no way to escape this, no matter what we do. Currently, very few humans do or even know how to live as a part of Nature, because our culture has done so much to distance us from it, and continually tells us we are superior to all other forms of life. I believe that while humans are definitely unique among all other life forms, that does not give us the right to live as destructively as we do. It is true that we are not drinking along with the rest of creation, but it is because we are trying so hard to separate ourselves from our roots, not because we are actually too good to do so. So, basically what I'm trying to say is that instead of sitting apart from the wondrous drunkenness of nature and reflecting on our own superiority to it all, maybe we should get drunk!!!

----Original Message-----

From: Frerich, Stephanie G

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 9:29 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 7 Anacreontea//Drinking a Drunk Creation

Drinking a Drunk Creation

Drinking

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

And drinks and gapes for drink again;

These two lines make me think of a time when I am so thirsty and grab for a full glass of ice water and gulp it down only to find that I'm just as thirsty as I was before I drank the water. This is how I imagine the earth, especially from the "drinks and gapes for drink again." I like how these lines make the earth alive, as a being reaching out and up for more rain, begging to be given more in order to quench its dying thirst.

The plants suck in the earth, and are

With constant drinking fresh and fair;

Now the earth, which was so thirsty in the previous lines, is being drunk up by the plants. The growing plants constantly rely on the earth, and through "fresh and fair" drinking, they absorb the earth in order to grow.

The sea itself (which one would think

Should have but little need of drink)

Drink ten thousand rivers up,

You would think that the last thing on the earth that would be thirsty would be the sea! But even the sea wants drink and I never thought of all of the rivers which dump into a big sea as the sea taking one big gulp of river!

So filled that they o'erflow the cup.

This line left me a bit confused. The rivers are being compared to being water in a cup and the cup is so full that it's overflowing. Perhaps I'm trying to read more into it but I don't know what the cup stands for, whether it's referring to the sea or its banks or what. Any ideas or insights?

The busy Sun (and one would guess

By's drunken fiery face no less)

What a different way of thinking about the sun--as busy. The "Sun" needs to rise and set each day and cover the entire earth when not covered itself so it remains busy from routine all the time. How reliant we are on its business. I'm not sure what the second line means: "By's drunken fiery face no less" because it doesn't "flow" in my mind but it creates a very clear picture in my mind.

Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,

The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:

Anacreontea is capturing the natural cycle of the earth and the cosmos. The sun makes water/sea evaporate only for the sun to turn around (or sink down as on earth) and the moon and stars drink up its light so that there is a much different picture on earth. The thought of the moon and stars drinking the sun is a refreshing outlook on day and night.

They drink and dance by their own light,

They drink and revel all the night:

The moon and stars now have drank the sun's light and call the light their own--and they celebrate in this light. Yet they also continue to drink the sun's light all night long and celebrate in this also.

Nothing in Nature's sober found,

But an eternal health goes round.

So although all of nature is drunk off of each other, they are all healthy in their drunkeness. Imagine thinking about your breathing process as drinking the air and from your breathing you are no longer sober but in a healthy drunken stupor--healthy from being drunk off of swallowing nature! But soon Anacreontea distinguishes our acts from the rest of the world.

Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,

Fill all the glasses there, for why

Should every creature drink but I,

The speaker is now telling some person, commanding it of someone, to fill up his/her bowl or glass so that he/she can participate in this great drunken fest--to be an intrinsic part of the rest of what nature is involved in. Here is the first instance that we as readers are made aware that the speaker is separate from this shared drinking bond that the earth, plants, sea, rivers, Sun, Moon, Stars...Nature participates in. There is a strong desire in the command to be included in this, to clink glasses with the rest of creation in a toasting process and to become drunk off of another.

Why, man of morals, tell me why?

Here is the great dividing line, the separation point that distinguishes humans and everything else. "Man of morals"...this is definitely stating several things. First, morals are not necessarily desirable, or at least not the culturally established morals of the time (6th century b.c.) and the morals developed since then. These morals support that humans are above and better than the rest of creation and that man cannot be a part of the drinking process, or at least must have "his" own. It also incorporates that man is the deciding factor in this process, the one establishing morals, the one in control. Okay, so it was 6th century b.c., but it still was translated to be man and the speaker is specifically addressing men. I think this line is quite amusing because I think of a moralist who usually is very willing to explain his/her own views and why they might be right, and now the speaker is challenging this responsive nature--if you have all the answers, tell me why it is this way. I see a human falling from earth and its cycle. I think of the world surrounding the poem, the world within the white space around the poem, and am inclined to imagine humans taking rocks and soil to construct concrete--does concrete drink in anything? Concrete is definitely not a part of this breathtaking drinking and humans have built this. This poem leaves me with such a feeling of remorse for how humans act. Oh I love how we can write poetry, think, discuss, create but sometimes it makes me sad of how we take these as weapons against the rest of the world.

From: Stone, Joanna T

Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 9:29 PM

To: Flynn, Kevin C; Thamert, Mark

Subject: Reply to Kevin // The benefits of variety

This is in response to Kevin's post on Dante. I really liked your interpretation of this poem. It was a really cool image, and I especially found it interesting because it was so different from my own interpretation of the same poem. When I first read this poem, the line "With winds at will where'er our thoughts might wend," (Alighieri, "Sonnet: Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti", 99 Poems, p.36) made me think of a conversation with a good friend. It reminded me of the conversations that wander through your thoughts, going from one topic to another with no intended destination. You never know where you will end up, but it is almost always somewhere spectacular, and somewhere you probably never could have reached had you been trying. However, your image helped me look at this poem in an entirely different way. The thought of the adventure of a road trip gives the poem an entirely new meaning, yet both imags are a form of escape, and lead their participants to incredible new places. :o)

-----Original Message-----

From: Flynn, Kevin C

Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 10:05 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 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: Steve Stone [sstone3@uswest.net]

Sent: Thursday, March 23, 2000 11:50 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 17. Term Paper // Gonzales // The Experience of Reality

Fr. Mark-

Here is the rough draft of my paper on a "Vintage" poet. Thank you for

allowing me some extra time to finish it. :o)

~Joanna Stone

From: Steve Stone [sstone3@uswest.net]

Sent: Thursday, March 23, 2000 8:44 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 15. Orten // healing sorrow

Fr. Mark,

I'd prefer if you didn't post this one in public folders- it's kind of

an emotonal trip down memory lane... Thanks. ~Joanna

"...Autumnal recollection."

These two words immediately leapt out at me as I read the poem "A Small

Elegy", by Jiri Orten. They give me a unique and

very powerful image. I think Orten's season imagery is wonderful. In

nature, plants and animals die throughout the year, but it is in autumn

that everything seems to die at once. Over a relatively short span of

time, the grasses turn brown, foliage wilts

and dies back, and the trees are left with bare branches. We humans are

sometimes overwhelmed by the death that surrounds

us in the late fall, when nothing seems to be green anymore. When I

first read this poem, I was reminded of a particular memory. "Autumnal

recollection" made me think of times in the past when my experiences

with death all come at me at once, in the same way that I am sometimes

overwhelmed by the death surrounding me in nature. I have found that

there are times in life when I suddenly find myself flooded with

thoughts about all of the loved ones I have lost over the years. This

usually happens at funerals and when someone I know dies, and can also

be brought on at other times. One such time from a few years ago came

to my mind in particular. After my family had finished decorating the

Christmas tree, I was sitting in the quiet, dark living room

and gazing at the softly lit tree when I was suddenly overwhelmed by

memories of Christmas Eve at Grandma and Grandpa's

house when I was little. I thought about my Grandma and Grandpa, and

how I sometimes feel that especially my Grandma was taken from my lfe

too soon. I was ony in fifth grade when she died. Many of the other

relative I have lost in my life also entered my thoughts, and I just

gave myself up to my thoughts and emotions. I missed them terribly as I

sat there, but at the same time I felt like the were all there with me.

It was one of those times in life when it just feels good to wallow in

your sorrow for a while- I think it is a way of healing. Similarly,

when I walk outside on a cool, "dead" fall day and smell the damp earth

and the decomposing leaves, and I know that new life will come of all of

this. From death comes new life and from sorrow comes healing.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Wednesday, February 02, 2000 12:52 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 1 Rilke // The Value of Solitude

The Value of Solitude

One of the central themes in Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet is the value of solitude. He discusses how important it is to embrace solitude, so that one may experience life more fully and without distractions. He says that our aloneness is an important part of our identity, and we cannot escape it. "We are unutterably alone, essentially, especially in the things most intimate and most important to us. In order for a person to advise, even to help another, a great deal must happen. Many different elements must coincide harmoniously..." (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p.17-18) I realize that there is truth in this, but I feel that we are not only "unutterably alone", but unutterably together as well. It is true that there are places in the human mind and spirit where no one else can enter, and when we are in these places, we are alone. But at the same time, one's experience of relationships with others is a very central part of our experience of life as a human being. Throughout my reading, I felt that Rilke tended to put a bit too much emphasis on the virtues of solitude, and seemed to be discounting those of human relationships. We are each constantly changing, and we cannot help but be changed by the people who are important to us as well as by ourselves.

"Similarly cloudy have become the deep and simple human needs in which life renews itself. But the individual can clarify them for himself and can live that clarity-- as long as he is not too dependent on others, as long as he has a pact with aloneness." (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p.37) I understand Rilke's point that we have to be careful not to become too dependent on others for our self value. However, there are times when I feel that my "deep and simple human needs" can only be filled in the companionship and care of someone else. I think that this is something that varies from person to person, but I know that there have been times in my life when I have simply needed to lean on someone I love and trust -- people cannot always get through life's hardships on their own. Perhaps Rilke finds his strength in solitude, but I generally find mine in companionship.

For a final thought, I will close with my favorite quote from this book. "Destiny itself is like a wonderful wide tapestry in which every thread is guided by an unspeakably tender hand, placed beside another thread, and held and carried by a hundred others." (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p.24). I love the idea of destiny, and life itself, being like a tapestry. We are all intertwined and interconnected, and each of us is surrounded by people and experiences that change us and guide us in the journey of self discovery. At the same time, we are each a unique and separate thread, unlike any other. To fully understand this, we must spend time in solitude and reflection, and also spend time interacting with those who surround us.

Joanna Stone

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Monday, May 01, 2000 12:40 AM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: Dodd and Weores // something more

I was struck by two poems about rain in the chapter called "The Moment" in A Book of Luminous Things: "Of Rain and Air", by Wayne Dodd (p 173), and "Rain", by Sandor Weores (p 174). In "Of Rain and Air", my favorite part is the following:

All around me the soft rain is whispering

of thousands of feet of air

invisible above us.

In this poem, the night rain frees the speaker from the trivial things which have occupied him or her all day. The speaker becomes united with the night, "myself a center / of darkness" and feels contentment. The rain is a power that is greater than any human, and is a reminder that there is something more out there, besides the "trivial matters" that keep us trapped in our work and school all day. It comes down to us from the great space of air that is "invisible above us". We cannot see what this space beyond the clouds holds, but by its sheer vastness, this air and the rain which comes from it serve as a reminder of how insignificant a single human can be in the grand scheme of things, and how little so many of the things we worry about actually matter.

The next poem seems to me to build on the thoughts of the first. In "Rain", the rain falling on the roof serves as a challenge to the speaker.

You too, and I should walk now

as free as that...

...Move around up there and here below

like this liquid thing,

flowing into human life on rooftops

and on shoes.

The freedom and flexibility of the rainwater challenges the speaker to perhaps leave his or her current position in life and to follow his or her whims, be free and spontaneous, and bring new life to humans and the world in whatever way he or she can.

I have always been drawn to water and to rain, and I think both of these poems depict rain feelings beautifully. :o)

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Thursday, April 13, 2000 9:54 PM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: Steph Kate Joanna -- Language of Life

Fr. Mark,

I will be joining Steph and Kate for the group project on the Language of Life tapes.

~Joanna Stone

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Wednesday, April 12, 2000 11:26 PM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: Jen // we fought like junkyard cats // suddenly

I think one of the most striking parts of Jen's poem is the format. I

love the space between "he" and "Left," in the second stanza. This is

very effective because of the drastic change in where the poem is going

at this point. It's like this magic pause when everything changes.

Suddenly brother and sister go from rivals to friends. The next stanza

seems like a slow realization, because most of the lines are so short.

I'm not really sure why "and no one understood me but" is on one line,

but I like it. It has a really cool effect, but I'm not really sure

what it means. This poem beautifully captures what I think is a very

common experience with siblings. Everyone always told me how close my

sisters and I would become after I left for college, but I never thought

it would happen overnight. But it did. That, to me, is the coolest

part of the poem- the sudden transition from the siblings fighting to

being changed by one another's friendship.

I'm sorry if my thoughts are jumbled tonight and I'm not doing justice

to the poem- it is wonderful, I am just very fried.

~Joanna

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Tuesday, April 04, 2000 11:11 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 22. Celan // too much

I was struck by the poem Thread suns, by Paul Celan because of its simplicity. The poem draws a very distinct picture in my head. I picture myself in the "grey-black wilderness" which is nothing like the image of the forest I am used to. It is dark and intimidating, and tiny, weak threads of sunlight filter through the trees. The sun, which could be a symbol of hope and happiness, is distant, above the cover of the trees. The trees are reaching towards it, but in their enthusiasm they stifle out the very thing they are reaching for. Trees are such a symbol of life and comfort to me, that it is strange to me to use them in this way.

tunes in to light's pitch: there are

still songs to be sung on the other side

of mankind.

(Celan, "Thread suns", Vintage p. 215)

I'm not really sure why the image of music is used here. Maybe music is a metaphor for life. Even though the speaker is caught in the wilderness of despair, life still does exist- at least for other people. The reaching trees realize that there is still life to be lived, if they can reach it. The whole poem gives me a sense of being trapped and smothered- life can be like that sometimes. It reminds me of the times when I am worried about a number of things and feel myself being pulled in multiple directions by friends and family who need me to be there for them, and by my own emotional needs. In those times, all of those things feel so important and overwhelming, and I have distinct memories of sitting in front of my homework and not being able to focus at all. I feel trapped by my responsibilities to school, and overwhelmed by everything else that is going on at the time. There are so many things I feel like I should be doing, yet as I reach for that light and the healing it could bring, I am smothered because, in my overzealousness, I try to do too much. Like the trees that reach and grow until they are too dense to more than threads of light come through, I feel like if I push myself beyond my limits and stretch my energy in too many directions, the light can not reach me either.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Tuesday, April 04, 2000 9:58 PM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: did I send you this before? (My family poem // The Journey)

Fr. Mark,

I sent this to you over break, but I'm not sure if you got it. I

just noticed it wasnt in public folders, so I thought I'd try again.

:o) ~Joanna

The Journey

morning sunshine

open land

I think we're out of the city.

three girls

squished together in the back seat

bursting with excitement

my family

explorers of new places

never knowing what to expect

rocky lakeshores

sunny skies

thunderstorms

crashing waves

a soggy tent-

a night in the car

long hikes

foggy roads

shooting stars

fading embers

Mom always said,

"Just think of it

as an adventure."

It is.

~Joanna Stone

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Monday, April 03, 2000 12:30 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 21. Tamura // Beliefs from within

For me, the last stanza of the poem, "Human House", by Ryuichi Tamura were very powerful.

I rise slowly from a table in a bar

not pulled by a political slogan or religious belief

it's hard enough trying to find my eyes

to see the demolition of the human house

the dismemberment of my language

(Tamura, "Human House", Vintage, p. 464)

Our world is so full of pain and suffering, violence and conflicting ideas that it is easy to be

completely overwhelmed by it all. It is very difficult to even discover your own beliefs amidst all of this chaos, and even harder to stand by those beliefs alone. So many people find it easier to adopt the values and beliefs of a group of people such as an organized religion, a political party, or a nonprofit organization than to discover their own individual beliefs. There is nothing wrong with belonging to these groups, but it would make more sense to join one based on the beliefs and values you have already discovered for yourself and then use the group to challenge and strengthen those beliefs. When you think about it objectively, it is really an odd concept that we are born into a given religion. I understand teaching your children to believe in God, but it seems like so many people simply believe all of the teachings of a given religion because it is the one they were raised in, rather than because they have come to believe in those teachings through serious questioning and discussion. Tamura states that it is ôhard enough trying to find my eyesö without being distracted by the beliefs of so many others. To truly question your own beliefs is an incredible challenge, and one can be distracted from it by the ôpolitical slogan and political beliefö around them. Yet despite the challenge, I think that the beliefs that come from within will be the most valuable to a person, and will be able to grow and adapt to stand up to the test of time.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 10:58 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 20. Jeff, Anne, Jen and Tim // Nasrin presentation // ethnocentrism VS universal human rights

First of all, I was really impressed with your presentation. Taslima

Nasreen is an amazing poet, and one I may never have encountered

otherwise, so thank you for thst. For me, the most powerful part of the

class was the debate over whether Nasreen is brave or foolish. While I

believe that her crusade for women's rights is inspiring and corageous,

the debate made me realize that there can be a very fine line between

fighting for what you believe in and respecting different cultures. It

is very easy for me to say that the way that women are treated in

Bangladesh is horrible, but I wonder if I am really a fit judge since I

know so little about their culture and religion. Throughout history,

there have been many cases when one group of people has forced their

beliefs and ideals on another, without ever fully understanding the

other people's culture. Some incredible wisdom has been lost or nearly

been lost to the world as a result of this. But I wonder if we can

really say that standing up for universal human rights is ethnocentric?

Don't all people deserve basic human rights, regaardless of their

culture? That is a very hard question to answer. But if the oppressed

people within a given culture are protesting and working for change, and

not just outsiders who think that theirs is not a good way to live, I

think it is safe to say that there are some issues of inequality in that

culture which need to be addressed by the people who live within and

understand that culture.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Wednesday, March 29, 2000 11:22 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 19. Neruda // Echoes

As I read this poem, I got a feeling of intense emptiness, as if everything in the poem is merely an echo of something else, something more real. I loved the images in the fourth and fifth stanzas of this poem. The idea that death is "like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it," (Neruda, "Solo la muerte", Hirsch p. 37) is very powerful. Death is empty, only a hollow shell that reminds us of what used to be alive. A suit with no man in it is a much more striking image than just having no one there. The suit stands as a reminder of what used to be, which makes that person's absence more painfully inescapable. It makes me think of every time I have attended the wake of a loved one. I can remember looking at the cold, strange body that used to be my Grandpa, and how he felt more distant in that moment than he ever has since then. In a person's absence, you are left with your memories of and your love for them. When faced with an echo of what used to be a part of your life, whether that echo is an empty suit or an empty body, you are constantly reminded of the part of them that is missing, rather than the part that is still with you.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,

but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,

of violets that are at home in the earth,

because the face of death is green,

and the look death gives is green,

with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf

and the somber color of embittered winter.

(Neruda, "Solo la muerte", Hirsch p. 38)

I think this is an absolutely incredible stanza. Although it is something we, as mortal human beings, can barely understand it, death is not an end, but part of a cycle of life that is greater than any one individual. It at first struck me as odd that Neruda says that "the face of death is green". Green is the color of springtime and life, which is very different from the images of death painted in the rest of the poem. But death is what gives us the beautiful green of life. Without death, none could live. The "violets that are at home in the earth" are nourished by the decaying matter of dead organisms. When death looks at someone, and it is their time to leave this world, that look itself is green- that is to say, it leads to new life. This is something that is a very basic truth of existence, and at the same time is very easy to ignore in our society. We fear death as the end of everything that is known to us, and when it comes, the individuals survivors usually make certain that their loved one's body is secured in a metal box, so that their remains can never join the earth that will surround them until the end of time. Death is thought of as a tragedy, not as a life-giving and natural part of our experience here on Earth. I am not pretending that death, your own or that of someone you love, is easy to think about or deal with. I am simply saying that there is a certain beautiful aspect to death which many people ignore.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Friday, March 17, 2000 12:38 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 18. Sachs // Shirts, Paintings, and Band-Aids

This poem sent chills down my spine when I read it. I thought the first stanza was one of the most intruiging parts, so I will just discuss that part in depth.

Landscape of Screams

by Nelly Sachs

At night when dying proceeds to sever all seams.

Immediately a question enters my mind. What is "night" in this line? I highly doubt it is meant in a literal sense. The word gives the image of darkness and the uncertainty that comes with not being able to see clearly. The way the word is used here gave me a very interesting image. In life, there are some days when I am filled with joy and an overwhelming sense of hope. I realize that there is an immense amount of evil in the world, but I am certain, at these times, that if we all work together, good will eventually win over evil and all will be right with the world. However, on other days, I am overwhelmed by how cruel and selfish human beings can be, and all the ways in which we are hurting ourselves, our Earth, and one another. It is these days, when I dwell in darkness and despair, that I think of when I see the words "At night" in this poem. The days when a trajedy, whether in my personal life or in the world, cause me to loose sight of hope for a while and wallow in my misery.

I think the words "When dying" are also not meant to be taken literally. Dying certainly refers to literal, physical death, but it refers to other things as well. Perhaps it refers to the death of the spirit, when one gives up his or her values to do what another wishes. Or simply any time a human being intentionally or through ignorance harms another living thing. For all forms of violence not only harm the victim, but the one who inflicts the violence as well. In this situation I think "death" is a multifaceted word, meaning all of these things.

"Proceeds"- this is not a new thing. We are simply following in our predeccesors' footsteps. We are continuing the endless chain of hatred and violence that has been going on almost since the beginning of time. The word "proceeds" can also give the sense of moving towards a goal. Could it be that this chain of death is leading us to our destiny? Is death our destiny? I'm not sure if that is what Sachs is trying to say or not.

"to sever all seams." A seam is something that holds two pieces of a material, such as fabric, together. Usually, a seam is not just created randomly, but in attempt to create something beautiful and/or useful. When the pieces of material are put together, they create something greater than any one of the pieces was alone. The seams are what transform a pile of carefully shaped pieces of fabric into a shirt, jacket or dress. People are kind of like the pieces of fabric (sorry if this is a cheesy metaphor- I just got back from work in the Costume Shop :o) we are connected to one another by seams. The seams hold us together, and make us into something greater than any individual alone. But although a seam may seem strong, it is made up of many thin and fragile threads, anf therefore can be easily severed. Life and relationships are both precious and fragile, and it is not hard to have either taken away. Literal death can brutally sever the fragile threads that hold people together, as can other things like greed and hatred.

the landscape of screams

Why did Sachs choose the word "landscape" here? A landscape is something that can be seen in a painting or a photo, two dimensional and distant. It can also be seen in real life- then it is something that surrounds a person- it is physical and real and inescapable. Really the whole world is a landscape, although some scenes may be more magnificent than others. So maybe a "landscape of screams" is the real and ever-present screams of pain that surround us. When we see this pain in the paper or on the news it is like seeing a painting of a landscape. We look at the painting and say, "Oh, that's pretty." and we watch the news and say, "That's horrible!" But both seem distant, more two-dimensional than real, and not terribly pertinent to our daily lives. But when we realize that the landscape of screams is really all around us and present in every moment of our lives we are overwhelmed and nearly consumed by it.

tears open the black bandage,

A bandage is used to cover a wound that has not yet healed to protect it and keep it clean, and to keep it from bleeding too much. Therefore, maybe a "black bandage" is used to cover wounds that occur at night- the wounds of the spirit and the wounds that send us into a state of depression and hopelessness. The landscape of screams, perhaps the realization that there is no escaping the pain all around us, "tears open" that black bandage, exposing the now vulnerable wound.

And all of this is only the beginning of the poem...

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Tuesday, March 14, 2000 11:22 PM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: 16.Akhmatova // Exiled to her homeland

"I am not among those who left our land"

by Anna Akhmatova

I am not among those who left our land

to be torn to pieces by our enemies.

From the very first line, this poem rings with power and pride. "I am not among those..." Akhmatova declares. She did not leave her homeland in the face of opposition or give herself over to the mercy of the people of other lands. Her loyalty to her people and her country is evident.

I don't listen to their vulgar flattery,

I will not give them my poems.

These lines contain amazing imagery. I love the contrast in "vulgar flattery". I imagine that neighboring countries are opening their doors to Akhmatova's people, setting up refugee camps to protect them from the current situation in their own country. But her pride in her own people will not let Akhmatova accept their hospitality. She finds their flattery vulgar and refuses to believe they are sincere. "I will not give them my poems" she says. She refuses to let these foreigners benefit from her art- she will not write poetry on their turf, so that they cannot gain anything from her hard work.

But the exile is for ever pitiful to me,

like a prisoner, like a sick man.

Yet despite everything, Akhmatova is still in exile. She is an exile within the boundaries of her homeland, because she and her people have no control over their own fate and the fate of their country. The images of the prisoner and the sick man depict a sense of helplessness that comes from this loss of control. Akhmatova and her people have been made the victims of every whim of those in power.

Your road is dark, wanderer;

alien corn smells of wormwood.

Now she is addressing the wanderer, one who has left their homeland. She knows that the wanderer's road is even harder, even darker than her own, because the wanderer cannot gain strength from the comfort of their homeland. Even the corn in other countries has a bitter smell.

But here, stupefied by fumes of fire,

wasting the remainder of our youth,

we did not defend ourselves

from a single blow.

But Akhmatova is becoming numb to the violence and the injustice of her situation- the fumes of the fire. As she endures each day, she feels that there is no meaning in the way she is spending the "remainder of her youth". She feels weak and helpless, and she cannot defend herself o what she believes in from her attackers. This is a striking contrast with the pride in the first stanza- she is so proud of her choice not to flee, yet she feels that her life has become futile.

We know that history

will vindicate our every hour . . .

"We" indicates the unity and identity of Akhmatova's people despite the hardship they must endure. "know" is filled with assurance. This is not a guess or a wish, but the inevitable. "that history" History is always connected to us- nothing in the present could ever have happened without history- there is an unbreakable link between the two. "will" Again, this word gives me a feeling of assurance, that the speaker knows what is about to happen. "vindicate" At first this word did not seem to fit, since the definition that pops into my head first is "to get revenge". But I looked "vindicate" up, and it can also mean "to clear of blame". To Akhmatova, it is inevitable that anyone who looks at history- the events that lead up to the current situation- will see that the name of her people is clear of blame. They are only victims. "our" Again, this word has a sense of unity, of belonging together. This is not just about Akhmatova, but her people as well. "every hour . . ." Every injustice, every humiliating and painful moment will be understood through history. They will be neither forgotten nor blamed for their situation.

There is no one in the world more tearless,

more proud, more simple than us.

What an interesting choice of adjectives- tearless, proud, and simple. Why tearless? It seems that Akhmatova's people are suffering in silence, with the faith that in time, the injustices they endure will be exposed. Or maybe it is connected with the next word- pride- which is expressed throughout the poem. Perhaps they are just too proud to show those in power that they are suffering. And finally, simple. Their requests are very simple- all they want is to life in freedom in their own homeland.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Friday, March 03, 2000 2:16 AM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: 13 Lee // PARALYZED!!!

I really liked the poem, "A Story", by Li-Young Lee. I think that a very central part of this poem is the very human fear of good times. Most people expect a certain amount of suffering in life. Whenever things seem to be going just fine, we begin to worry about what might burst in and ruin it. The poem describes a very simple, comforting scene. A father sits, perhaps in a big armchair, with his little boy on his lap. "Baba," comes that oh-so-familiar plea, "tell me a story." One would think that the man would be living in the moment, trying to get the most out of this precious time with his son. One would think he would be content to sit for hours, snuggling and talking with the pudgy five-year-old, and basking in his gaze of love and complete adoration. But instead, the father is thinking into the future. "How long can this perfection possibly last?" he asks himself. "It will have to come to an end someday. Oh, it will be so hard to loose my precious boy." It does not even cross his mind that the value of this time does not dependon how long it will last, because it is here now. There is always something beautiful in the present, and as time goes by its form will change. The father cannot hold the five year old boy in his lap forever. But he can be there for the boy as he grows up and becomes a man, and form a relationship with him that a difference in age and miles will never break. But instead of thinking about all of the wonderful things that may lie in his own and his son's future, the man is afraid. He is paralyzed by fear of change.

He cannot think of a story to tell his son, and he fears the day when he will suddenly loose his magic in his son's eyes. Instead of being the father who can do anything, the son will realize that he is human, and makes mistakes like every other human. When that time comes, he will give anything to captivate his son's attention with a story once again. But right now, he has the boy's full attention, and he cannot even think of a story that could deserve the attention of such a beautiful child. All he can do is worry- worry about changes, about loss, about what the future may hold.

But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?

It is an emotional rather than logical equation,

an earthly rather than heavenly one,

which posits that a boy's supplications

and a father's love add up to silence.

(Lee, "A Story", Rag and Bone, p. 38)

The father returns to earth, to the real, the now. His son is still pleading for his story, but the equation is too charged with emotion for the two to communicate. When small boys plead, and fathers are absorbed with their worries they cannot talk, and they cannot tell stories. Only one result is possible: silence.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Friday, March 03, 2000 12:24 AM

To: "Thamert, Mark"

Subject: Angel Gonzales link

I'm not sure if you wanted us to send you any links we found on our

poets, but here it is. I could only find one site on Angel Gonzalez,

which is a commentary of a poem. However, the poem is not included,

which makes it hard to follow. Anyway, here it is:

http://www.cdc.net/~stifler/cstcc/gonzalez.html

~Joanna Stone

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Wednesday, March 01, 2000 8:29 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: Joanna and Kevin // Angel Gnozalez

Hi Fr. Mark!

Kevin Flynn and I will be doing our project on Angel Gonzalez. :o)

~Joanna Stone

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Tuesday, February 29, 2000 11:24 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 12. McCarriston // the power of a healing touch

Healing the Mare

by Linda McCarriston

Just days after the vet came

after the steroids

that took the fire

out of the festering sores

out of the flesh

that in the heat

took the stings too seriously

and swelled into great welts

wore thin and wept

calling more loudly out

to the green- headed flies

I bathe you

and see your coat returning

your deep force surfacing

in a new layer of hide

black wax alive against

weather and flies

But this morning,

misshapen still,

you look like an effigy

something rudely made

something made to be buffetted

or like an old comforter.

Are they both one

in the end?

So both a child

and a mother

with my sponge and my bucket

I come to annoint

to anneal the still weeping

to croon to you,

"Baby, poor baby"

for the sake of the song

to polish you up

for the sake of the touch

to a shine

As I soothe you

I surprise

wounds of my own

this long time

unmothered

as you stand,

scathed and scabbed,

with your head up

I swab

as you press

I lean into

my own

loving touch

for which no wound

is too ugly.

This beautiful and gentle poem intruiged me for a number of reasons. Just before reading this poem, McCarriston talks about her love of and admiration for animals, and how it makes sense to her to look to animals for an example of how we should live because people are so filled by or victimized by violence. I think that is a beautiful way of looking at things- I believe that animals have a great deal to teach us. I also really liked how nursing the mare back to health brought McCarriston to the wounds that festered still inside of her as well as the wounds she was soothing with her hands.

I love the image this poem paints in my mind. I can see the mare, alert and somewhat agitated, with her head up, and the speaker gently soothing the horse with her hands and her voice, as her thoughts turn to her own internal wounds from long ago. It struck me that the image of healing is a very soothing one, whether I picture myself as the recipient of the healing or the healer. The thought of tending to someone's wounds- whether human or animal, whether wounds of the body or the spirit- is very comforting. I think that everyone has wounds of the spirit to some degree, depending on their life experiences. There is always something within each of us that is hurt and vulnerable. Through healing the wounds of others, we feel a certain empowerment, and can also heal the wounds within ourselves. When McCarriston read the words "I swabbed", towards the end of the poem, I could hear this empowerment in her voice. It is truly an incredible thing to know that you have the power to diminish another's pain. This feeling of empowerment is probably why so many people are drawn to healing professions- doctors, psychiatrists, those who work in shelters for the homeless and for battered women and children. The list is nearly endless. Even those who don't heal as a profession usually do in some capacity in their personal lives, through listening to those they are close to, or doing anything else to lessen others' pain.

In the poem, as the speaker tends the wounds of the mare, she suddenly feels that she is "both a child / and a mother". She is not only mothering the hurt mare, but she is the child, being comforted by her own actions. The child she once was, and who is within her still, has gone too long unmothered. Crying out for her wounds to be tended, this child comes to the surface to partake in the healing.

I lean into

my own

loving touch

for which no wound

is too ugly.

(McCarriston)

This poem ends, very appropriately, with a statement of absolute, unquestioning acceptance. No wound is too ugly or too terrible yo come out and be healed.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Sunday, February 27, 2000 11:18 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 11. Hayden // going unnoticed

I really liked the poem "Those Winter Sundays", by Robert Hayden. There are many people in this world who get little or no thanks for all they do for others, and I think parents are definitely in that group much of the time. I have heard that being a parent can be one of the most rewarding experiences in the world, but at the same time I think all children are guilty of taking at least some of what their parents do for granted. The narrator of the poem tells the reader about how his father used to get up early- even on Sundays- in the winter to get the fire going before he woke the rest of the family. This may seem like a very small thing, but anyone who has had to crawl out of bed on a cold winter morning can appreciate the thoughtfulness of this act. But the father in the poem never got thanked for his thoughtfulness. Instead, his son would wake in dread of the anger in the house- perhaps his father's frustrations about love, life or work. It is not clear exactly what the son fears- maybe his father is bitter and withdrawn, maybe his parents fight a lot. But whatever it is, it causes the son to treat his father with indifference. He does not seem to understand his father, nor does he seem to appreciate his simple acts of affection. I think the most powerful part of the poem is the ending:

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

(Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays", Rag and Bone, p. 141)

Now the son is an adult, and upon looking back he has gained a greater understanding of his father's ways. Now that he is an adult, he has lived through life's trials and has some understanding of "love's austere and lonely offices". He is now living through similar struggles of adult life, the son realizes that on those cold winter Sundays long ago, his father was simply trying to show his love in the only way he could.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Thursday, February 24, 2000 1:50 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 10. Peacock's Chapter Ten // Make new friends, but keep the old...

For me, the most intriguing part of Peacock's analysis on the two poems is her comments on the circularity of the poems. She discusses how the end of each poem brings the reader back to the beginning, like the image of the snake biting its tail. This is something I hadn't been thinking about until she mentioned it. As Peacock mentioned, the circle is a very widely used and a very powerful symbol. It has no defined beginning or end, but is connected in one fluid line. It is a symbol of eternity and of interconnectedness. It can be found in wedding rings, the idea of the "Circle of Life", from The Lion King, and throughout literature. Many stories begin at one time, during which the characters tell a story from their past which brings us full circle- right back to the time in which the story started. The symbol of a circle is even found in an old Girl Scout song: "Make new friends, but keep the old- one is silver and the other gold. A circle is round, it has no end. That's how long I want to be your friend." Circles surround us, enclose us- hold us safe in their grasp. They stand testament to the fact that some things do last for an eternity, and show us that we are not alone, but are necessarily connected with all who have touched our lives. In Peacock's words, "We all seem to like circles. I have never met anyone who didn't see the magic of a ring or didn't like to be held in an embrace, provided it was loose enough......Correspondence, if it is intense enough, is circular, unending. The sadness of Komunyakaa's father's love letters is that they aren't circular. The mother seems to have no intention of responding." (Peacock, How To Read a Poem, p. 139) Any form of communication- whether by letter or in person, should ideally be circular. But in order for this to be true, both individuals must be willing to contribute. I really liked how Peacock pointed out how the letters in Komunyakaa's poem are not circular. Because of past events, the wife has decided to break the comforting image of the circle, because it came too close and was beginning to choke her. She has left, and now all that remains is a man and his son, sending out letters which will never be answered.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Thursday, February 24, 2000 1:15 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 9. Ondaatje // the globe of fear surrounds each of us

I had a very hard time connecting with either of these poems through thinking about my dad, like Molly Peacock did. However, I did really like the strong images in both of these poems. My favorite part is the first two stanzas of Ondaajte's poem, Letters & Other Worlds. I believe there is a little of the fear and insecurity Ondaatje describes within each of us. It seems to me that a fear of being misunderstood and the vulnerability that is often caused by that fear are a central part of what it is to be human. It is so easy for us to be hurt by the harsh words of someone we love or whose opinion we value. In the poem, the father is very distant and mysterious. He is so afraid to open himself up to his family that he locks his feelings and past experiences up in a room no one else can enter. "He hid that he had been where we were going / His letters were a room he seldom lived in" (Ondaatje, Letters & Other Worlds, Peacock, p. 128) He keeps his letters- a source of communication- locked up in a room that even he rarely enters. He can't even open himself up enough to tell his son that he understands what he is going through, because he has been down that road before. I think that this kind of fear- the fear of trusting someone, the fear of opening up, the fear of getting hurt- is something that each of us has to deal with to some extent in their lives. It requires a great leap of faith to decide to truly trust another human being when you know from your own experience how far from perfect we all are. The rewards for making that leap are the most wonderful ones this life has to offer us- friendship, love, the trust of another human being- but at the same time, the risks are also immense. It is a simple decision each of us has to make.

Am I going to make the leap, or am I going to close myself in behind my globe of fear?

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 11:22 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 8 Rumi // The endless possibilities of death

The poem Die in This Love, by Jalalludin Rumi really intrigued me. Despite his repetitive use of the word "die", the poem seems to me to be infused with hope and possibility.

Die, die, die in this love.

If you die in this love your soul will be renewed.

Dying for love is such a noble act, but in this sense it does not seem to be true death, but a new beginning- a renewal.

Die, die, donÆt fear the death of that which is known.

If you die to the temporal you will become timeless.

Do not cling to what is familiar- you can be freed even of time itself if you will only let go

Die, die, cut off those chains

that hold you prisoner to the world of attachment.

"Let go! Let go!" Rumi calls to me, "You are prisoner!" Rumi tells us that we have the power to cut off our chains and be free of the world of attachment. What an incredible realization!

Die, die, die to the deathless and you will be eternal.

We also have to let go of the deathless- those who refuse to let go, those who desperately cling to the bars of the prison for the simple, sad fact of its familiarity. We cannot let ourselves be trapped with them.

Die, die, come out of this cloud.

When you leave the cloud,

you will be the effulgent moon

We are in a cloud- shrouded in mystery and illusion, but if we can break through we will be as clear and as radiant as the moon.

Die, die, die to the din and noise of mundane concerns.

In the silence of love you will find the spark of life.

Let go of the "mundane concerns"- the little things we worry about constantly that have no effect on our lives in the long run. What is really important- "the spark of life"- can be found only in what you love, whether that is a person, an art, or anything else. You must give yourself over to what is truly important to you, and die to your fears and reservations, and only then can you become truly alive. Rumi seems to demand this of us- and what an incredible demand!

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Wednesday, February 16, 2000 12:09 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 7 Holm // there is a free spirit within each of us

I really liked the poem Advice, by Bill Holm. (Rag and Bone, p.30) It reminds me that we cannot always do just what society wants us to do, and the importance of discovering the wild, free spirit within each of us. Someone dancing inside us / learned only a few steps: We are limited by the roles society expects us to play. Society says we should be responsible and studious and learn our lessons well so that we may go out into the world of work and get a respectable, well-paying job to go to every day for the rest of our lives. The ôDo-Your-Workö in 4/4 time, / the ôWhat-Do-You-Expectö waltz. But this is not necessarily the right path for everyone. It is simply the easiest path to find. He hasnÆt noticed yet the woman / standing away from the lamp, She is a true free spirit; she is not in the limelight or in mainstream culture- she is not in the lamplight. Instead, she remains in the shadows, mysterious and elusive. The one with black eyes / who knows the rhumba, Yes, this woman is truly something different. She has knowledge of art- of something besides the dull daily occurrences in the lives of those who think they are getting ôaheadö in the world. She has experienced life, and knows more than just a few steps. And strange steps in jumpy rhythms / from the mountains in Bulgaria. This woman, this spirit, has not only the wisdom from her own culture, but has traveled to distant lands to learn what she can from the people there and their ideas. We cannot just fall into society like pieces into a jigsaw puzzle, we must challenge ideas and explore alternatives to discover who we really are and become truly alive. If they dance together, / something unexpected will happen, When the unquestioning man meets the freethinking woman, his life will never be the same. She will challenge him through her very existence to think for himself and challenge the roles and ideals placed upon him by society. If they donÆt, the next world / will be a lot like this one. If the freethinkers do not challenge those who are in control in our society, then nothing will ever change. Wildness and freedom of spirit are essential to the development and improvement of our society.

IÆm not really sure what I think about the gender issues implied by this poem. Why is it that the boring person who has ôlearned only a few stepsö is a man, and the free spirit is a woman ôwith black eyesö? Personally, I feel that the roles in this poem could easily be switched, and would change the images of the poems, but not the meaning. I think that if wildness is different for women and men it is only because of the different roles society tells each to play. Because we have different roles to break out of, our wildness may be different at first. But I believe that in the long run, women and men have more in common than different.

Growing as wild women (or men) involves breaking out of cages, boxes, stereotypes, categories, and captivity. It involves standing tall, laughing loudly, and being who we really are.

(SARK, Succulent Wild Woman, p. 176)

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Monday, February 14, 2000 12:03 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 6 Baudelaire // train of thoughts

This poem did not exactly give me "pleasure" but it was a very powerful reminder of how beautiful parts of nature are being maimed and destroyed by humans for very trivial reasons. However, I do not think poetry needs to be beautiful or give the reader pleasure to be meaningful. However, there is a kind of beauty in angry, depressed, or just plain hard to deal with poetry. For me, the poem The Albatross falls into the third category. The image of a great, beautiful ocean bird being tortured by sailors for sport is one that makes my stomach churn.

See this winged traveller, so awkward, weak!

He was so fine: how droll and ugly he looks now!

One sailor sticks a cutty in his beak,

Another limps to mock the bird that flew!

(Baudelaire, "The Albatross", 99 Poems, p. 20)

This attitude makes me so angry! And it is so common in our society. I know that many people would never torture another living thing for sport, but we still live in a society that tells us that it is all right for us to use and abuse all aspects of nature in any way that makes our lives better or easier. I realize that we are making great progress in saving the environment in many ways, but we as a culture have still not realized that in order to survive on this planet we need to live in harmony with all other forms of life and respect them all and their right to life! I realize I'm kind of off on a tangent here, but I'm just following my train of thought (which as usual is moving very fast in many directions at once :o).

To close, I'm going to use a quote from one of my favorite books- what Molly Peacock would call one of my Talisman books. Ishmael, the teacher, is explaining to his student that our entire culture is based on the premise that the world was made for man.

"Okay, I see what you mean. I think. If the world was made for us, then it belongs to us and we can do whatever we damn well please with it."

"Exactly. Thats what's been happening here for the past ten thousand years: You've been doing what you damn well please with the world. And of course you mean to go right on doing what you damn well please with it, because the whole damn thing belongs to you."

(Daniel Quinn, Ishmael, p.61)

If we could only realize that the world doesn't belong just to us, our entire planet (including humans) would be much better off. I just hope there is still enough time to reverse our countless mistakes...

Sorry if this is depressing, but I feel that it is the truth. I highly reccomend the book Ishmael- it has some incredible thoughts. ~Joanna

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Sunday, February 13, 2000 9:48 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 5 Hirsch, chapter 1 // cast the bottle into the sea

To me, the most meaningful image in the first chapter of Hirsch's book was the idea of a poem as a message in a bottle. There have been so many times when i have experienced a work of art that felt like it was written specifically for me and my situation. Suddenly I will find a thought or emotion I have been struggling to explain to myself for days expressed with beautiful clarity in a work of art created by a complete stranger. At these times in my life, I have felt relief flow through my entire being as my confusion diminishes, and I am momentarily at a complete loss for words. All I can do is stare at the amazing work of art, and say, "Yeah! That's what I meant!"

I love the thought that poems are written like a message in a bottle, and then tossed out into the world in the hopes that someone will not only read, but truly understand them. "But of course those friends (to whom the poet is writing) aren't necessarily the people around him in daily life. They may be the friends he only hopes exist, or will exist, the ones his words are seeking." (Hirsch, p. 2) "the ones his words are seeking"... poetry actually seeks out the people who need to hear it, for that is the true purpose of its existence. Like a message in a bottle, poetry is written for two reasons: to help the poet sort out and understand his or her thoughts, feelings, or situation, and also to be read and interpreted by others to help them understand their own thoughts and emotions. The poet may never know who else could benefit from reading his or her poetry, or if the poetry ever did reach those people. All the poet can do is hope for the best, and cast the bottle into sea.

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 11:12 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 4 Michelangelo, Khlebnikov // Humility and Confusion

I found Michelangelo's poem, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel", to be very intriguing. I love the mental image of this brilliant and world-renowned classic artist whining as he reaches from all odd angles to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. :o) The poem perfectly depicts Michelangelo's discomfort and the awkwardness of the entire scene. I guess I really like the reminder that even the greatest and most beautiful things in the world come from ungraceful beginnings.

my beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,

fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly

grows like a harp: a rich embroidery

bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin.

(Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel", 99 Poems, p. 76)

It makes me worry less about my own clumsy attempts to live my life and discover exactly what it is I am supposed to do with the time I have here. This poem serves as a reminder of the common ground we have with all of our fellow humans, no matter how well known.

I also really like Khlebnikov's poem, "We chant and enchant", but quite honestly, I'm not sure why. I love the sound of the words- the music of the poem, as Peacock would say. I think the confusion I feel in trying to interpret it reminds me of the confusion of communication and connection in our world. The enchantress reaches out to the enchanter, but he cannot reach back. He does not reject her nor receive her, he simply does not know how to deal with a relationship- being connected to another individual.

He can't. She can't.

Why can't she recant?

Why can't he uncant?

Ranting chanting,

No recanting.

Discant, descant.

(Khlebnikov, "We chant and enchant", 99 Poems, p.56)

This poem reminds me of the incredible value and rarity of true connections among people in a world so filled with confusion. I have no idea what the author's intention was, and I'm interested to hear all of your interpretations when we get to class. I'll leave you with a line from a song that popped into my head as I was writing this.

Connection- in an isolating age

for once the shadows gave way to light

for once i didn't disengage

(Jonathan Larson, "What You Own", RENT)

From: JTSTONE [JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Friday, February 04, 2000 1:28 AM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

Subject: 2 Peacock, Eskimo, Thomas // The Voices

The Voices

I think Molly Peacock has many beautiful insights into the essence of poetry in her book, How to Read a Poem... and Start a Poetry Circle. To me, one of the most meaningful thoughts was about how poetry can strike a chord in the reader. At these times, the reader feels as though the poem is listening to them, and understands their own experiences. "...the voice of a poem allows us to hear ourselves. It can be a great comfort to hear our own voices emanating through the letters of words that come from someone else." (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p.4) This statement contains a lot of truth. I think the amazing power of poetry comes from the many possible interpretations of any given poem. A poem can speak to many different people with different experiences and ideas, and each of their interpretations may be completely different from what the poet was thinking. Once a poem is written, it takes on a life of its own and must be released into the world. When an individual really identifies with a poem, there is a relief in knowing that you are understood, and that someone out there has been through the same thing. "As you meet your own experience through someone else's articulation of it, you are refreshed by having a companion in your solitude." (Peacock, How to Write a Poem, p. 14)

The images painted in the poem "Magic Words", by Eskimo, are amazing. It tells us of the incredible power of words and communication in a world where there are no boundaries dividing living things, and where anything truly was possible. There are no skeptics saying that something is impossible, and therefore "The human mind had mysterious powers. / A word spoken by chance / might have strange consequences." (Eskimo, "Magic Words", in Rag and Bone, p. 160) Any word could have the power to change the world. This contrasts drastically with the mood of Dylan Thomas's poem "In My Craft or Sullen Art". Thomas shows us his lonely struggle to create art. All he seems to want is for someone to read and truly appreciate what he has written, but the lovers, the people who just might understand, aren't listening. "But for the lovers, their arms / Round the griefs of the ages, / Who pay no praise or wages / Nor heed my craft or art." (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art", in Rag and Bone, p. 167)