From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 9:43 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 1 Rilke // Embracing hardship, bountiful creativity

"Then perhaps we would endure our griefs with even greater trust than our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered into us, something unfamiliar" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, pg. 78). This idea, to embrace one's sorrow and one's grief, is a great encouragement to me, as I'm sure it was to Kappus. At times, it seems that life can be a series of one struggle after another, that after one thing is conquered the next obstacle is right behind it. Especially when this involves personal struggles, things that need to be overcome on one's own, it can be overwhelming. But Rilke's comment encourages the struggle--it is not something we should rid of as fast as possible. I know I've always believed that struggles, sorrows, and grief cause a person to grow, but I don't think it's ever made it easier for me to deal with these things. Rilke, however, seems to capture a certain sort of excitement in the face hardship, an acknowledgement that struggles are a part of living and that something beautiful can develop from them--and during them. It seems that if one acknowledges and accepts that life is filled with struggles, if one expects them, then they won't seem so incredibly hard to bear when they come. Then one can maybe even go that one step further and not only accept struggles but "trust" them as Rilke says, embracing them as something new with possibility. "For a moment everything intimate and familiar has been taken from us," Rilke continues, "We stand in the midst of a transition, where we cannot remain standing" (Rilke, pg. 79). Experiencing these moments of grief or difficulty, we are forced to take action, to learn, to change, and this is the beauty.

"For the creative artist there is no poverty--nothing is insignificant or unimportant" (Rilke, pg. 10). Here seems one of the greatest gifts of being an artist--being able to see the world with awe and wonderment, to be able to find value in the little things, like "the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning" (Rilke, "For the Sake of a Single Poem"). The artist, Rilke seems to say, finds beauty all around him/her. He/she is bursting with things to write about, things to describe, because everything can be explored, considered, mused about. It makes the world seem so much more exciting. It makes creativity seem so much more bountiful. It's everywhere, Rilke says. And as long as the artist finds that beauty in it, that wonderment, as long as it's there in the artist's own mind, then the art is beautiful. "For you will hear in them your own voice; you will see in them a piece of your life, a natural possession of yours. A piece of art is good if it is born of necessity. This, its source, is its criterion; there is no other" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, pg. 11). The artist need not look to anyone else to judge it, for he/she has found a necessity to create and to explore this thing, this beauty. He/she has captured it and described it for him/herself, and that is what is most important.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Wednesday, May 17, 2000 9:33 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Ungaretti // lone

I have been intrigued lately with very simple, concise poems and the power and profoundness they can have. This one, with many of its words getting a whole line to themselves, seems to be able to stress them stronger, creating a sense of a feeling of strong emotion. "On my shoulders" the line stops . . . I almost imagine him having to stop for a moment to sigh or take a deep breath. Then with "I feel" I can again imagine a pause, this time maybe as if he's struggling to think of what to say, how to describe exactly how he's feeling. And then the last words of the stanza: "such weariness." I can imagine these words being stressed greatly, drawn out, almost spoken as a sigh themselves. The whole stanza seems to encompass the weight that the poet feels on his shoulders through these short, strong, carefully chosen words.

I was also interested in the use of the word "warmth" in the poem. It seems so surprising, so oxymoronish, this image of a solitary figure, huddled and alone, suddenly finding warmth. It's kind-of a similar paradox to Robert Hadyen's poem "Those Winter Sundays," where his dad drives out the physical cold but the father-son relationship emenates such a wealth of emotional coldness. This same dinstinction and playing with the word "warmth" can be seen here. The speaker of the poem yearns for the physical warmth of the stove speaks as if he is satiated by it. That is what is mentioned here, but it seems obvious that there is much more warmth--emotional, relational--that he is looking for. It doesn't seem likely that the warmth he feels physically is truly satiating his yearning.

Finally, it is interesting to me how much the title, "Christmas," adds to the meaning of the poem. There is no mention of holiday in the text, nothing to make the reader think this is about a time around Christmas (well, except for the fact that he's near a stove lets us know it's cold outside). But the title adds so much dimension to the poem. Without it, the reader would have a whole array of circumstances to try to conjure up . . . a death, depression, . . . but it would most likely a vague conjecture. Adding this snippet of information in the title allows the reader to start to form more of an idea--from this one word, not even wasting space in the body of the poem but in the title. I really admire this ability of using each word as if it is a precious, limited resource. The article below addresses some of this aspect of Ungaretti's style.

Giuseppe Ungaretti

(information and the above picture at: http://www.alfa.it/collabor/cris/LINK2.htm)

Ungaretti was one of the poets who grew up at the very beginning of this century, he was born in 1888 in Aegypt, in Alessandria d'Egitto; his parents were

from Lucca but moved in Aegypt for working. There he lived his youth, to move on later to Paris, at that time the worldwide capital of Arts where he met

some of the most genial and famous artists of the time. In 1915 he was in Italy, so he had to face the First World War in the ranks of the Italian Army. He

experienced the war from its real inside, from the ditches, right in the middle of the battles, running trough explosions, shots and fighting with cold

steel...And from the horrible experiences he was getting he started writing his first poems which ended up later in his first collection of poetry whose name

was "Il Porto Sepolto", in which were clear the inner upsetting, the deep commotion and refusal the war provoked in him. From a certain point of view that

work is considered his best one, and this can let us thihttp://www.alfa.it/collabor/cris/ungaret.jpgnk that somehow it's sad to realize how the best things in life of a man ususally are born in the worst

times of a man's life...Sure they're free, though they cost us our own share of tragedy. His second poetical collection was published in 1919, whose title was

"Allegria di naufragi", which had the same basilar characterizations of the former one. His following work was, in 1933, "Sentimento del Tempo", where

we can find a mutation in the mainlines of Ungaretti's poetry. Indeed, we can see how the main thing, the center and heart of his early poems was the

pure and simple Word, that was isolated, standing-alone in the sheets of the books, and the blank all around it underlined its preminent role, its unique

power: that's what the crtics use to call "The Dried Word", that is, the word freed of anything but its own sound and its deepest and most original meaning,

its inner power, its rythm. In "Sentimento del Tempo" instead we encounter the comeback of the sentence, of the versed composed of several words,

where we can recognize the tentative of the poet to build up his own metrics and images, because in the first period he got rid of the old and retorical

ones. He had also to do this because in that collection the themes developped are harder, even more painful, but also more "ethereal", like Death, Time

itself in their own conception. The form got more complex, with the recover of the glorious Hendecasyllable. In 1936 Ungaretti went to Brazil, where he

taught Italian Literature in the university of San Paolo, but in 1939 a tragedy hit him, his 9-year-old son, Antonietto, died, and this grevious fact influenced

"Il Dolore", the collection published in 1947 in Italy, where he had come back in 1942 to teach in the University of Rome Italian and also Modern Literature.

Naturally, in "Il Dolore" the Second world War plays an important role, due to its lacerating and distressing burden. The sense of Anxiety pervades those

poems. In 1950 "La terra promessa" was published, in 1952 "Un grido e paesaggi", in 1960 "Il taccuino del Vecchio", fundamental legs of the third period of

Ungaretti's poetry that had begun with "Il dolore": Meditation, that is the keyword for explaining this final phase, Meditation in his style, now cristalized in

forms Ungaretti considered just as most perfect, pure as possible, learned from his own past experiences but enherited from three masters of past Italian

poetry, Petrarca, Tasso and Foscolo too, Meditation in the themes, now Ungaretti seems to look at his life, and generally,at the world with the somehow

melancolic somehow ironic wisdom of the "Grown-ups". In 1966 was published "Vita d'un uomo" in which he put together all his poetic production...A

man's life is all he wanted to give to the readers and every other man.

Giuseppe Ungaretti died in 1970.

Eternal

In between a gathered flower and the other presented

the inexpressable nothingness

Night of May

The sky crowns

the minarets

with garlands of nightlights

Memory of Africa

The sun steals the city

You can't see it anymore

Not even the graves resist much

Wake

Cima Quattro 23rd December 1915

A whole night

thrown next to

a comrade

massacrated

with his mouth

gnashed

toward the full-moon

with the congestion

of his hands

penetrated

in my silence

I've writ

letters filled with love

I've never been

so much

fastened up on life

This Evening

Versa 22nd May 1916

Balustrade of breeze

to lay this evening

my melancholy upon

I'm a creature

Valloncello di Cima Quattro 5th August 1916

Like this stone

of S.Michele

so cold

so hard

so dried-up

so refractory

so totally

soulless

Like this stone

is my own cry

not to be seen

Death

you pay for

living

Morning

Saint Mary La Longa 26th January 1917

I'm lightening

with Immensity

Roses in a blaze

Vallone 17th August 1917

On an ocean

of ringings

unexpected

is floating another morning

Clear

Wood of Courton July 1918

After a lot of

fog

one

by one

reveal themselves

the stars

Breathe I

the cool

that the colour of the sky

leaves to me

I recognize myself

an image

going by

In a course

immortal

Prayer

When I weak up

from the dazzle of promiscuity

in a clear and amazed atmosphere

When my burden grows to me light

The wreck will you grant me, my Lord

of that young day at the first shout

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, May 09, 2000 6:24 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 25. Neruda, Ponge // socks and doors

I decided to compare two poems from the Rag and Bone: "The Delights of the Door," by Francis Ponge, and "Ode to My Socks," by Pablo Neruda. (pp. 481-484)

The title of this section of the book is "Loving the World Anyway," and in the introduction, it discusses how sometimes in the midst of our hurrying and stressing, things of the world, like rain, or sunshine in the eyes, become a nuisance and just seem to be in the way, how we can forget--maybe are unable--to see the beauty and the wonder in these things, to appreciate them for what they are in those in times of preoccupation. I thought, then, that this was a fitting time (approaching finals week) to explore this subject. The poems are both very playful and light-hearted, and as with Neruda's artichoke, both poems seem to bring so much life and magic to the seemingly mundane things they describe. What struck me about this Neruda ode is that it is describing something even more a part of my daily life and therefore something I can readily realize I have been overlooking. I'm not saying really that now after reading Neruda's poem I find radiating beauty from my socks, but I think the poem makes apparent that I am missing things, that I can find delight, beauty, and wonder right under my nose, and that by missing it I am too wrapped up in all of my "to do's." But to the poems. ..sorry...

Neruda first compares his socks to attributes of living things, which immediately gives a life-like, alive quality to them: "two socks as soft/ as rabbits," and "knitted/ with threads of/ twilight/ and goatskin." Then he takes this even one step further, now saying they are the living things he compares them to: "Violent socks,/ my feet were/ two fish made of wool,/ two long sharks/" and later "two immense blackbirds".

The poem then gets near hilarity, as he produces an image crazy to imagine: "I resisted/ the mad impulse/ to put them/ in a golden/ cage/ and each day give them/ birdseed/ and pieces of pink melon." Neruda even uses the word "mad" here. It's as if in looking at his socks, he has become so overcome by their power, their wonder, that his mind is being overcome. He has allowed his thoughts, his energy, to become completely involved in the exploration and imagination of the beauty of his socks.

Ponge's poem, "The Delights of the Door," is similar in that he(?) is describing another normal, everyday thing. His, however, is an action--and again, this seems to move even one step closer to my daily life . . . i can decide not to wear socks in a day, but I can never get around opening doors. I do it all the time. But here, Ponge makes this activity seem something to live for. He gives it option for style; we can open it "affectionately or fiercely." He seems to see life in the door like Neruda does in his socks, describing closing the door as "to turn back in order to replace it--holding a door in our arms." Finally, he sees an excitement in the whole process, as if there is great anticipation in the event: ". . . this swift fighting, body-to-body, when, the forward motion for an instant halted, the eye opens and the whole body adjusts to its new surroundings." The image again, like Neruda, is comical when you really think about it, this man slowly and carefully, wide-eyed, going through this process; I think that's what makes the images so striking. Both men bring great magic and life to their surroundings, to things we obviously usually ignore. It makes me want to do some discovering myself.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Monday, May 01, 2000 12:03 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 24. Stafford, Haines // the beauty of reticence

I decided to compare William Stafford's poem "Vacation" on page 95 with John Haine's poem "The Train Stops at Healy Fork" on page 96. When looking at the two together, what struck me most was the contrast between concise and wordy descriptions.

Stafford seems to have chosen his words so carefully: "the scouring --such a strong word--drouth" and "the grave scooped in the gravel," and the shortest line, "someone is gone." These short, bold descriptions and statements seem to hit right at the description, at the feelings. The descriptions' simplicity and the words' scarcity seems all the more effective--each word really counts and pulls its weight. The visual form of the poem helps the description to stay less wordy as well. Indented as the middle section is, the poem imitates the way the poet saw what he saw--sandwiched between a series of actions, just a quick observation/ emotional reaction, a brain glitch almost, as he stands(?) in the train. I get the feeling he could even be in the middle of a conversation with "her," this woman for whom he's pouring the coffee. But Stafford gets away with having to add any of this extra information--he needs no "Suddenly, . . . " or "For an instant, . . ."--because the poem's structure does it for him. And the description, though pretty much hard facts, somehow seems to convey the emotions he was feeling. There is a hint of sympathy in his words, as they "huddle" in the wind, instead of just standing. This word seems to show an understanding of pain, of a need to move close to each other. And the line "someone is gone" is an interesting way of saying this, as if the speaker feels the rift of the person missing just as much as the three Indians. Stafford does all of this with an extremely minimal amount of words.

The next poem has a quite noticeably different style. This poem seems to thrive on rich, beautifully detailed descriptions, and overall Haine chooses to describe more things than Stafford. "We pressed our faces / against the freezing glass, / saw the red soil / mixed with snow, / and a strand of barbed wire." Haine's sentences are much longer; right off, you can see he uses many commas to connect descriptions. This pattern follows throughout, each stanza a complete sentence, connected with several commas. In this way, Haine still does have the flash of an image, as each line is relatively short and usually contains the entire image, the next line moving on to another. Haine's descriptions do seem somewhat similar in their conciseness when one looks at them as individual lines. I think maybe the biggest difference, then, is that Haine simply chooses to include much more in his description--many more images. That's an interesting choice a poet has to make: what really is worthwhile and necessary for a given poem? I was touched by both poems, but their effects are quite different. I have to say that for me, the simplicity of the first is more stunning--the strong, simple words continue to reverberate in my head.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Thursday, April 20, 2000 1:30 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: final paper // Ravikovitch // Inner Fist Fights

Kate Lucas

HONR 250

Fr. Mark Thamert

18 March 2000

Inner Fist Fights

Dahlia Ravikovitch fits into many different categories. She is claimed by her country, Israel, and her Jewish background, called "One of the pillars of Hebrew writers" (Green). She is connected to human rights activists and protesters of war. She is a woman and writes both of celebrating womanhood and protesting its societal limitations. Finally, she writes of her humanity, in which she explores her inner recesses, faults, and loneliness. This great introspectiveness, which seems to permeate most of Ravikovitch's works in some way or another, is a common thread throughout and an important vehicle for a greater understanding of both the poems and the poet herself.

An example of this common undercurrent can be found in the poem "Hovering at a Low Altitude." The premise of the work is war, as it describes the rape of a young shepherd girl, but what becomes even more glaring upon reading the poem is the inner war of the speaker. The work does describe an outward, physical violence of war, but there is also a very apparent inner violence being described.

The poem begins with a strong statement but what seems a quiet dignity: "I am not here." This line initiates right away a yearning for detachment, which rings throughout the work. The vivid, horrific event described is continually juxtaposed with these statements. "I am not here. I am not here," the speaker repeats again and again, as if she is trying to tell herself, make herself believe that she is not. And between these lines, the story comes out.

The poem first introduces the shepherd girl, then right away says, "She won't live out the day, / that girl." This is such a simple, grave statement and almost imitates a child-like honesty. Without sparing words, the speaker tells us right away that this girl is doomed. There is a sorrow, a pity in that simple statement as well. At times the speaker has the ring of an unfeeling, omniscient observer, seeming to watch from afar all that happens, but at other times the speaker expresses very strong emotions. In one instance of this, the following lines, the speaker first objectively describes more of the circumstances of the situation, saying:

From the deep mountain gorge

a red globe floats up,

not yet a sun

Soon, though, the narrator's emotions surface. She turns back inward, saying, "I am not here." Then,

The light will not burn me, the frost

won't touch me.

Why be astonished now?

I've seen worse things in my life.

She seems to be attempting to comfort herself, trying to calm herself down. The lines hint at the idea that she is only trying to make herself believe what she is saying even though in reality she is really emotionally affected.

The next line is to me one of the most important in the poem, as she says, "I gather my skirt and hover very close to the ground." This hovering is referred to in the name of the poem, of course, and later it is described more:

My thoughts cushion me gently, comfortably.

I've found a very simple method,

not with my feet on the ground, and not flying-

hovering

at a low altitude.

The visual image of this is almost angel-like, this omniscient viewer suspended in the air, watching all. But the image created does not completely follow an angelic theme. The observer is not completely worried about the girl she watches; she is also looking out for herself. Her hovering is more about being able to protect and "cushion" herself, detach herself from the danger that is going to happen in front of her eyes. This is an ever-present conflict in the poem.

The lines sandwiched between the ones above about her detachment suggest to me that she wasn't quite so uninvolved and "cushioned" from the situation as she would like. From the following vivid, detailed description, it seems the viewer was deeply intent on watching everything about the girl and not so much on detaching herself:

What is she thinking, that girl?

For a moment she crouches down,

her cheeks flushed,

frostbite on the back of her hands.

The scene, imprinted this clearly, doesn't seem like it was observed carelessly-or that it would be easily forgotten. Later, the observer addresses this, saying,

With one strong push I can hover and whirl around

with the speed of the wind.

I can get away and say to myself:

I haven't seen a thing.

But these lines are ironically followed by the most vivid, horrific lines of the poem, describing in incredibly vivid images the girl's reaction before death. Again, it is hard to believe that this narrator could every really forget.

Throughout the poem, there is this conflict between what the narrator sees and what she wants to see. When talking about her ability to detach herself, the speaker is talking directly to herself, telling herself she isn't where she is or she isn't seeing what she sees. But it seems to me there is a difference between what she is telling herself and her true reality. This point is crucial, the sort of inner turmoil that is created out of a traumatic experience, the mind replaying and replaying the event while some part of the person yearns to control it and discredit its truth. Ravikovitch seems to capture in this poem an incredible amount of empathy and emotional understanding of the injustice and also the emotional turmoil she describes. (And judging from her biographical information, this is most likely because she has experienced similar conflicts in her own life.)

These themes surface again in the poems "Surely You Remember" and "Hard Winter" which both explore similar struggles, emulating overall the great precariousness of a person experiencing such emotional conflict. In the poem "Hard Winter," the theme is described using a metaphor, a description of a mulberry tree struck by lightning. The poem succeeds in creating a great amount of tension and anxiety through this seemingly simple idea.

It begins with a startling image:

The little mulberry shook in the flame

and before its glory vanished

it was lapped in sadness.

The word "little" seems to create a sort of sympathy for the tree. It is small and slight, and it is shaking, being attacked violently. The next line exudes emotion as well, as the speaker watches the tree's "glory" and splendor disappear in a moment. The life and the beauty of this thing is destroyed right before the speaker's eyes, and it is obviously very disturbing for her to watch. At this point, it isn't clear what is causing the tree to tremble and succumb, to lose its glory. This makes the poem all the more striking and tension-filled.

The final line in this series is the first hint of a metaphor. The tree experiences "sadness," a human emotion. This word does two things. First, it shows a great connection and compassion for nature on Ravikovitch's part. Secondly, it gives the tree a human emotion and therefore human characteristics, making the reader wonder if the author is really talking about a tree or if it is a metaphor for a human. Whatever is meant, however, the emotion calls upon all the more sympathy and compassion from the reader; this little tree is really suffering.

In the next stanza, the poem introduces new subjects to the poem:

Rain and sun ruled by turns, and in the house

we were afraid to think

what would become of us.

One wonders, is this a really bad storm? Why does it affect these people, safe in their house, so much that they themselves almost feel in danger? The people continue to watch the tree, and "Each of us was sunk in himself alone." This event is definitely not only affecting the tree. Everyone watching seems in pain or turmoil about what is happening. Then in the next stanza, the author seems to give the first inkling of connection.

But for an instant, offguard,

I saw

how men topple from this world.

So this tree is showing us something about men, about humanity. The tree's struggle correlates to humans' lives.

Like a tree that lightning splits,

heavy with limbs and flesh, the wet branches

trampled like dead grass.

The tree is weighted down, is struggling hard. The author through this vivid imagery creates such a vivid conflict, the image being able to then manifest human conflict. The last stanza is the most intriguing:

All the fibers of the plants were intent

on themselves alone.

This time I never thought I'd survive.

The first two lines echo a line earlier in the poem: "Each of us was sunk in himself alone," and the parallel between the tree and the people becomes clearer. Earlier, the people see the suffering of the tree and have to turn inward, and now it is clear that the suffering tree is doing the same. But the last line is surprising, with its switch in focus to the first person. The poem has spent the majority of its time describing the violent struggle of the tree, but at the end, the speaker turns to talking of her own struggle to survive.

This makes me think of two things. First, it reminds me of the preceding poem, "Hovering at a low altitude." It seems to echo that poem's idea of watching someone suffer and struggle and not being able to do anything about it, then having to deal with the inner turmoil this creates. Secondly, the poem makes me think that maybe the tree is a metaphor for the speaker herself, that this vivid, physical description is a way of personifying, making come alive and concrete her own spiritual, emotional (and therefore abstract) struggle.

What makes me think it might be this second idea is because of Ravikovitch's poem "Surely You Remember." This poem is also very much about an inner turmoil, a struggle for finding self. The speaker in the poem talks about wanting to be alone, with her poetry, "After they all leave." The speaker seems to find in poetry a vehicle for turning inward. "I remain quiet . . . I remain," the poem repeats. Once, alone, however, this person experiences tension: "You wish everyone would go away. / You don't know what's the matter with you" and later "You wish you were dead or alive or / somebody else." But she also seems to find some sort of answers, some clarity, as she says, "Then it all passes, and you are pure crystal." The poem later refers to Narcissus, looking into the river:

Narcissus was so much in love with himself.

Only a fool doesn't understand

he loved the river too.

This part seems to describe a sense of self-absorption. The speaker seems in conflict with her need to turn inward and to poetry. Poetry allows her to see herself better, as Narcissus could see himself in the river, but it also is a selfish thing. Towards the end of the poem, she asks, "Isn't there a country you love? A word? / Surely you remember." She seems to want to find something to focus on, to devote her attention to, even though at this moment she is too sad and depressed to really think of anything else.

The imagery and emotions wrought in this last poem are really too much to describe with any depth or great clarity here. But I think the main thing I took from this poem was, again, the idea of inward turn and turmoil. The speaker of this poem is definitely struggling with these same ideas, and what seems especially interesting to me is that, while "Hard Winter" manifests this in a concrete, vivid description, "Surely You Remember" describes it in the emotions and thoughts themselves. While both poems are powerful, their effects are really quite different; for me, the concrete, vivid description of "Hard Winter" has a more intense, immediate emotional effect.

Ravikovitch writes about a great variety of ideas and expresses them in a great many methods, but the more I read, the more clues I find woven throughout her work, pulling together themes and thoughts. I have begun to see a picture of an introspective, passionate, social justice-minded, and nature-loving woman. And through it all is an undercurrent of self-exploration and questioning that at times seems passionate with conviction while at others seems as precarious as a tree bent in the wind. Most importantly to me this inner battle and introspectiveness manifest a deep thinker, intensely determined to sort things out-both the inner and the outer. I have a feeling that I have found in Ravikovitch a voice worth following in her search.

Works Cited

Cosman, Carol, ed. et al. The Penguin Book of Women Poets. Viking, 1979.

Green, Saguy. "Israel Prizes for writing awarded to Amos Oz and Dahlia Ravikovitch." 1998.

http://www.gsnonweb.com/gsnlib a/gsnbase/98 03/980306/6317.html

McClatchy, J.D, ed. The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. Random House, New York: 1996.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Wednesday, April 12, 2000 9:36 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 23. Briggle // "You ask me" // red light-green light

You ask me

why I ran from my father -

it was not really him,

he was gray and bent.

I ran because he told me to -

right there, on the couch,

he put his drink down

and leaned to my ear

and whispered

"Go."

And I went.

Because when he rubbed my

little feet - it was to ready them

for this final flee

away from his now impossible

gravity.

--Adam Briggle

I think this poem struck me much because of the intensity, the present tense, of the moment described. Right away the poem draws the reader in with the first line, "You ask me." It is a way of making the reader feel like they are already in the middle of a discussion with the poet, or overhearing the middle of a discussion by someone else. But especially the "You" in the poem makes it seem like it is the reader itself that the poet is talking to, and that we are familiar with each other, that this is a real conversation, these are real emotions being conveyed.

But as far as the intensity of the moment which struck me so much, it starts I think with the lines, "I ran because he told me to - / right there, on the couch," Especially the words "right there" draw me in. "Look, pay attention," the speaker seems to be saying, this really happened. And the next part, when this moment is described the images are very vivid, and it seems almost as if the speaker is experiencing it right at this moment. I think the word "Go," with it's own line, and at the end of this escalating description is for me one of the most important in the poem. It stands by itself, leaves an impression, as it seems the words did on the speaker.

I like the irony that is portrayed here too, the way on the one hand, there is this encouragement, this push for the speaker to leave, to spread his wings, and on the other hand, he is being held back. It seems that the father is doing both of these things, can't seem to decide between them. But it's interesting that the yearning the father has for his son is expressed in terms of a scientific, factual term, "gravity," as if this is something the father--or the son/daughter--doesn't have any control over. Even though the father is consciously telling his son/daughter to go, there is this other force, emotion, whatever, that is promoting the opposite.

Finally, it is interesting to me to consider who/what exactly this "gravity" is being caused by. Because in a lot of ways, as I said above, it seems like it would be the father, either through uncontrollable or controllable feelings/emotions/ whatever, that is causing this pull towards him. But it makes me think also that there might be a pull from the son/daughter too, that they are somehow a part of this force, or have difficulty fighting it because they themselves feel the pull towards their father.

The poem reminds me of the complicated, tangled conflict of children growing up, both the yearning of independence--really on both the parents' and children's' sides--but at the same time a sadness, a fear, a loneliness to separate the close bond of childhood parenthood into a more adult/adult relationship. This transition seems always wrought with conflicting emotion, making the heart hurt in some ways even while it may rejoice in others.

These are just some of my reactions after reading the poem . . . thank you Adam for sharing it with us.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Wednesday, April 05, 2000 2:18 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 22. Gonzalez // trapped and other thoughts

I decided to write about the poem "The Future." I thought there was an interesting contrast in this poem, starting right in the first stanza. The first lines begin:

"But the future is different / from that destiny seen from afar, magical world, vast sphere / brushed by the long arm of desire, / brilliant ball the eyes dream, / shared dwelling / of hope . . . " Up until this point, there seems a sense of anticipation of the future. It is seen as "magical" and "brilliant." There is "dreaming" and "hoping."

And then suddenly, half-way through the last line quoted above, the poem shifts: the full line is, "of hope and deception, dark / land / of illusion and tears / the stars predicted / and the heart awaits / and that is always, always, always distant." The poet seems to fall from the initial cloud of anticipation and hope, as he realizes he was fooled. This is a powerful shift and one that is only slightly anticipated or warned. The first line of the stanza does say "But the future is different / from that destiny seen from afar," which is the magical one described. But the lines after this seemed to get me caught up in their words about magic and anticipation, making me fall with surprise just like the speaker of the poem seems to have when his hope suddenly changes to a realization of deception.

I was intrigued by the following lines also: "I'm on this line, / in this deep trajectory of agony and battle, / trapped in a tunnel or trench / that with my hands I open, close, or leave, / obeying the heart that orders, / pushes, determines, demands, and searches." There is an interesting conflict here between who is really in control. The speaker says he is "trapped," but he is trapped in a place that he can open with his own hands. So he has the ability to free himself or keep himself where he is, but there is still a sense of helplessness in these lines. He still uses the words "trapped." What exactly is controlling him here?

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 8:44 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 20. jeff, anne, jen, tim // nasrin presentation // get outta her way.

i liked the part of your presentation where you debated between the two dynamics presented in Nasrin's poem, "Border." I thought it was a good way of drawing the rest of the class into the poem, to pick a defined conflict and work from there, seeing how those reactions and this debate could show how people felt about the poem. I liked that you gave your opinions but then let the class also have input to add to or dispute what you said. So this is what I enjoyed the most about your presentation--the ways in which you encouraged and facilitated class involvment and participation.

You picked a very intriguing and strong character, and you depicted/described her well. Thank you for introducing me to her. I especially liked the poem "Border." There were two lines that especially struck me. First: "Behind me my whole family is calling, / my child is pulling at my sari-end," To me, this really establishes one end of the tension in the argument you presented. It is such a sad, emotionally-wrenching image here, of this woman leaving her children as they call after her, plead her to stay. It presents the side of the woman as a more selfish, neglectful mother. Her leaving can best be described in this instant as abandonment of her family.

There is one more line in this section that seemed important to me, and which doesn't follow the above argument. It is a shift in perspective, in the very next line: "my husband stands blocking the door." I think it is important to note the action of the husband in this line. Unlike the rest of the family and the children, who are pleading, asking her, the husband is actively trying to dominate, and without asking, prevent her from leaving. He is "blocking the door," physically putting himself in her way, implying an attempt to overpower her. This makes me not feel quite so bad about the lines just before. It makes me go back to the idea that an attempt to stop the cycle of domination is more important to her in this instant, and would seem to be helping her children more in the future, than staying where she is now.

The next line that struck me is: ". . . a vast expanse of fields / but I'll touch this emptiness once / and run against the wind, whose whooshing sound makes me want to dance . . ." These lines hit on the other side of the pull in this poem, I think. They seem to capture her feeling of being captured, her confinement, and the injustice of this. It also seems to depict her deep emotional and physical longing to be free and out in the open. She just wants to feel and experience "emptiness" and "vast expanses" for a little while. The freedom and openness she longs for is described in these physical terms but seem to be signs of her emotional longing as well.

thanks again for the good introduction.

kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 6:38 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: RE: Dahlia info.--but please only post pictures today.

thanks!

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

From: Thamert, Mark

Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 5:04 PM

To: Lucas, Katherine M

Subject: RE: Dahlia info.--but please only post pictures today.

sure

!1!*E,@@,E*!1!*E,@@,E*!1!*E,@@,E*!1!*E,@@,

Mark Thamert, O.S.B.

Director of the CSB/SJU Honors Program

Saint John's University and the College of Saint Benedict

Collegeville, MN 56321

(320) 363-3520, 363-2394 evenings

***************************************************

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

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 4:46 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Dahlia info.--but please only post pictures today.

Father mark, here is our info. on Dahlia, but we have a request: could you please not post the bio information onto the web page until after class tomorrow? You can post the pictures, though. We are doing a sort of experiment. Thanks, kate

<< OLE Object: Picture (Metafile) >>

<< OLE Object: Picture (Metafile) >>

Dahlia Ravikovitch

Born in Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv, Dahlia Ravikovitch studied at Hebrew University in Jerusalem and has since worked as a teacher and journalist. She has written fiction, books for children, and several collections of poems, which have been awarded many literary prizes in Israel.

(Introduction to Dahlia Ravikovitch, The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, 329)

Dahlia Ravikovitch does not like to be interviewed. ("Can't you write about me without me?") If her reticence is extreme ("And the silence shrieks in me/ and I shriek in it") she is one of Israel's greatest poets alive today and has been seeping into the country's culturaląFor Ravikovitch, fame and a sense of self-worth are mutually exclusive. Her vulnerability is palpable in her constant pauses, her resistance to discussing anything personal; "I can't answer that," is her whispered refrain. Asked the wrong question, it seems she might shatter like dropped crystal.

But Ravikovitch has been revealing her inner world over and over to thousands of readers for the past 30 years. . . She writes of extreme states of human emotion on a level both intimate and universal. An intensely personal poet ("I write to reach people, to put things in perspective"), her language and imagery are firmly grounded in history and mythology. Her favorite text is the Bible, especially the later prophets, whose humanity she finds more accessible than the earlier, larger-than-life personalitiesą

...Ravikovitch frequently writes about love and motherhood, which, aside from the tumultuous joys, says the poet, contain dark elements of pain and sorrow. It is a world Ravikovitch knows well.

Born in Ramat Gan in 1939, her father died when she was six, the victim of a hit-and-run accident. She and her family were sent to Kibbutz Geva where all her father's lessons on individual freedom were contradicted by the collective mentality of the kibbutz. Levi Ravikovitch's sudden death cast a permanent shadow on the poet's life and certainly has had a profound impact on her writing. "Because I know what it is like to be hurt, I try not to hurt anyone," she says.

Ravikovitch suffers bouts of depression which, to some extent, she considers part and parcel of her trade. It is the good things in life and not poetry that lift Ravikovitch out of the psychological morass in which she sometimes finds herself embedded. Thrice divorced, her greatest source of strength, she says, is her twenty year-old son, Idoą

- (Shelley Kleiman, "Poetically Speaking: A Profile of Dahlia Ravikovitch," http://www.israel mfa.gov.il/mfa/go.asp?MFAH01ws0#spot )

Dahlia Ravikovitch is one of the most important poets in modern Hebrew literature. Since the appearance of her exceptionally well-received first collection of poems in 1959, she has maintained her unique status in Hebrew poetryąFrom the start of her writing career she has been identified with the revolution in Israeli poetry which occurred in the 1950s ąHer language expresses the poet's repugnance with everyday matters and her longing for wonderful, distant worlds that convey beauty, infinite liberty and a happiness unattainable in daily life. The imagination plays a central role in her poetry, thanks to its power to carry the speaker to exotic destinations and different times, both historically and literally, inspired by mythology and legendąThe significant female character in her works is romantic, passionate, ever yearning for the perfect love. But this love is also painful and destructive, with pleasures bordering on the masochistic. Her poetry always expresses a tremendous, frustrating gap between her very limited power and her feelings of denial and deprivation and her ambitions and impossible dreams, which she rarely touches onąIn her political poems, Ravikovitch breaks away from the sphere of the ego and cries the cry of the weak, of the children and the women on the "other" side with a power unequaled in Hebrew poetry.

(http://www.ithl.org.il/catalogue.asp)

Hard Winter

The little mulberry shook in the flame

and before its glory vanished

it was lapped in sadness.

Rain and sun ruled by turns, and in the house

we were afraid to think

what would become of us.

The plants reddened at their hearts

and the pool lay low.

Each of us was sunk in himself alone.

But for an instant, offguard,

I saw

how men topple from this world

like a tree that lightning splits,

heavy with limbs and flesh, the wet branches

trampled like dead grass.

The shutter was worn and the walls thin.

Rain and sun, by turns, rode over us

with iron wheels.

All the fibers of the plants were intent

on themselves alone.

This time I never thought I'd survive.

-translated by Chana Bloch

Pride

Even rocks break, I tell you,

and not from old age.

For years they lie on their backs

in the heat and the cold,

so many years

it almost seems peaceful.

They don't move from their place

and so the cracks are hidden.

A kind of pride.

Year after year passes over them,

expectant, waiting.

The one who will shatter them later

has not yet come.

And so moss grows,

the seaweeds are tossed about,

the sea pounces in, and returns.

And they, it seems, do not move.

Until a little seal comes

to rub against the rocks,

comes and goes away.

And suddenly the stone is wounded.

I told you, when rocks break

it comes as a surprise.

And all the more with people

-translated by Marcia Falk

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Thursday, March 30, 2000 12:26 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 19. Orten, Hirsch // vibrant memory

vibrant memory

When I first read the poem, I soon felt a stark loneliness in the tone. I think this started with the first sentence, "My friends have left." This sentence is very short, simple, and straight to the point. I noticed this again with the second line: "Outside, it's dark as pitch." This inversion of the familiar saying "pitch dark" is striking, and ending the sentence with the word pitch, clipped and short, adds to the starkness I felt. (I guess the use of the word "pitch" the translator's addition, but the short, simple sentences would resonate from the original poem, I would think.) The phrase "words that are white" somewhat stumps me. One thought is that it seems it must be something very much charged with emotion; like a person who is blind with anger. Hirsch had quite a different reading of this, thinking instead that "white" meant pure. But in some ways, a great, overwhelming emotion, unkempt, is a very true and pure one.

Two of the most important words in the poem for me were "Autumnal recollection." The word "autumnal" brings to me the idea of a fading, slowly dying image, his memory of his mother. It also, however makes me think of how before autumn ends it has a sudden flourish of brightness and glory; then it fades away. This vibrant flourish brings to mind the comment Hirsch made about the memory of the narrator, which seems to have a similar suddeness--and vividness. He is describing his memory of his mother and suddenly moves to present tense, saying, "I am / in the room. Sitting right next to her." I liked Hirsch's take on this; he says:

This is an instance of what Proust calls 'involuntary memory,' when the entire world of the past comes flooding back. It is not something willfully recalled, but something that comes unbidden--suddenly, overwhelmingly present.

This idea ties beautifully, I think, to the image of autumn mentioned earlier. This "autumnal recollection," like autumn's sudden flourish of colors, is a sudden flourish of memory, sensation, emotion. It is a vibrant, vivid memory, and captures those sorts of experiences very well for me.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Saturday, March 18, 2000 11:41 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 17. Term Paper // Ravikovitch // A woman of many hats

Kate Lucas

HONR 250

Fr. Mark Thamert

18 March 2000

A woman of many hats

Dahlia Ravikovitch fits into many different categories. She is claimed by her country, Israel, and her Jewish background, called "One of the pillars of Hebrew writers" (Green). She is connected to human rights activists and protesters of war. She is a woman, sometimes writing about this aspect of her life: both celebrating womanhood and protesting its limitations. Finally, the broadest category to which she belongs is to humanity, as she explores her self: her inner recesses, faults, and loneliness.

The area where I felt she most expressed her passion, however, was in her poems about war. Here, with vivid imagery and emotional expression, Ravikovitch taps into a current of feeling running very strong. She seems to be able to create universality out of her poems even though they protest specific events. As J.D. McClatchy says in The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry, "she makes a military horror into a moral fable of violence and detachment that continues to haunt" (329). This ability seems to me born out of her intense feeling and emotional reaction against the events about which she writes.

Her poem "Hovering at a Low Altitude" is one such work about war, describing the rape of a young shepherd girl. The poem begins with a strong statement but what seems a quiet dignity: "I am not here." This line initiates right away a yearning for detachment, and this rings throughout the poem. The vivid, horrific event described is continually juxtaposed with these statements. "I am not here. I am not here," the speaker repeats again and again, as if she is trying to tell herself, make herself believe that she is not. And between these lines, the story comes out.

The poem first introduces the girl, then right away says, "She won't live out the day, / that girl." This is such a simple, grave statement and almost imitates a child-like honesty. Without sparing words, the speaker tells us right away that this girl is doomed. There is a sorrow, a pity in that simple statement as well. At times the speaker has the ring of an unfeeling, omniscient observer, seeming to watch from afar all that happens, but at other times the speaker expresses very strong emotions. In one instance of this, the following lines, she objectively describes more the circumstances of the situation and the girl, saying: "From the deep mountain gorge / a red globe floats up, / not yet a sun . . ." Soon, though, the narrator's emotions surface. She turns back inward, saying, "I am not here." Then, "The light will not burn me, the frost / won't touch me. / Why be astonished now? / I've seen worse things in my life." She seems to be attempting to comfort herself, trying to calm herself down. The lines hint at the idea that she is only trying to make herself believe what she is saying, that she is not bothered, but that she is really emotionally affected.

The next line is to me one of the most important in the poem, as she says, "I gather my skirt and hover very close to the ground." This hovering is referred to in the name of the poem, of course, and later it is described more: "My thoughts cushion me gently, comfortably. I've found a very simple method, / not with my feet on the ground, and not flying-- / hovering / at a low altitude." The visual image of this is almost angel-like, this omniscient viewer suspended in the air, watching all. But the image created does not completely follow an angelic theme. The observer is not completely worried about the girl she watches; she is also looking out for herself. Her hovering is more about being able to protect and "cushion" herself, detach herself from the danger that is going to happen in front of her eyes. This is an ever-present conflict in the poem.

The lines sandwiched between the ones above about her detachment suggest to me that she wasn't quite so uninvolved and "cushioned" from the situation as she would like. From her vivid, detailed description, it seems the viewer was deeply intent on watching everything about the girl and not so much on detaching herself: "What is she thinking, that girl? / For a moment she crouches down, / her cheeks flushed, / frostbite on the back of her hands." The scene, imprinted this clearly, doesn't seem like it would be easily forgotten. Later, the observer addresses this, saying, "With one strong push I can hover and whirl around / with the speed of the wind. / I can get away and say to myself: / I haven't seen a thing." But these lines are ironically followed by the most vivid, horrific lines of the poem, describing in incredibly vivid images the girl's reaction before death. Again, it is hard to believe that this narrator could every really forget.

Throughout the poem, there is this conflict between what the narrator sees and what she wants to see. When talking about her ability to detach herself, the speaker is talking directly to herself, telling herself she isn't where she is or she isn't seeing what she sees. But it seems to me there is a difference between what she is telling herself and her true reality. This seems crucial, the sort of inner turmoil that is created out of a traumatic experience, the mind replaying and replaying the event while some part of the person yearns to control it and disprove or discredit its truth. Ravikovitch seems to capture in this poem an incredible amount of empathy and emotional understanding of the injustice she describes and its effects. The sorrow and regret Ravikovitch must feel for such events resonates very strongly throughout the work.

A second theme in Ravikovitch's work, something that even weaves its way into the preceding poem, is inner struggles and self-discovery. This theme seems another emotionally packed area for her. Her poems "Surely You Remember" and "Hard Winter" both explore these sorts of struggles, emulating overall the great precariousness of a person experiencing such emotional turmoil. In the poem "Hard Winter," this is done using a metaphor, a description of a mulberry tree stuck by lightening. The poem succeeds in creating a great amount of tension and anxiety through this seemingly simple idea.

The poem begins with a startling image: "The little mulberry shook in the flame / and before its glory vanished / it was lapped in sadness." The word "little" seems to create a sort of sympathy for the tree. It is small and slight, and it is shaking, being attacked violently. The next line exudes emotion as well, as the speaker watches the tree's "glory" and splendor disappear in a moment. The life and the beauty of this thing is destroyed right before the speaker's eyes, and it is obviously very disturbing for her to watch. At this point, it isn't clear what is causing the tree to tremble and succumb, losing its glory. This makes the poem all the more striking and tension-filled.

The final line in this series is the first hint of a metaphor. The tree experiences "sadness," a human emotion. This word does two things. First, it shows a great connection and compassion for nature on Ravikovitch's part. Secondly, it gives the tree a human emotion and therefore human characteristics, making the reader wonder if the author is really talking about a tree or if it is a metaphor for a human. Whatever is meant, however, the emotion calls upon all the more sympathy and compassion from the reader; this little tree is really suffering.

In the next stanza, the poem introduces new subjects to the poem: "Rain and sun ruled by turns, and in the house / we were afraid to think / what would become of us." Is this a really bad storm, one wonders? Why does this affect these people, safe in the house, so much that they themselves almost feel in danger? The people continue to watch the tree, and "Each of us was sunk in himself alone." This event is definitely not only affecting the tree. These people all seem in pain or turmoil about what is happening.

Then in the next stanza, the author seems to give the first inkling of connection. "But for an instant, offguard, / I saw / how men topple from this world." So this tree is showing us something about men, about humanity. The tree's struggle correlates to humans' lives. "Like a tree that lightening splits, / heavy with limbs and flesh, the wet branches / trampled like dead grass." The tree is weighted down, is struggling hard. The author through this vivid imagery creates such a vivid conflict, the image being able to then manifest human conflict.

The last stanza is the most intriguing: "All the fibers of the plants were intent / on themselves alone. / This time I never thought I'd survive." The first two lines echo a line earlier in the poem: "Each of us was sunk in himself alone," and the parallel between the tree and the people becomes clearer. Earlier, the people see the suffering of the tree and have to turn inward, and now it is clear that the suffering tree is doing the same. But the last line is surprising, with its switch in focus to the first person. The poem has spent the majority of its time describing the violent struggle of the tree, but at the end, the speaker turns to talking of her own struggle to survive.

This makes me think of two things. First, it reminds me of the preceding poem, "Hovering at a low altitude." It seems to echo that poem's theme of watching someone/thing suffer and struggle and not being able to do anything about it, then having to deal with the inner turmoil this creates. Secondly, the poem makes me think that maybe the tree is a metaphor for the speaker herself, that this vivid, physical description is a way of personifying, making come alive and concrete her own spiritual, emotional (and therefore abstract) struggle.

What makes me think it might be this second idea is because of Ravikovitch's poem "Surely You Remember." But it is interesting to me that, comparing "Hard Winter" to one of these poems or the other, one can find similarities in theme running through both. The poem "Surely You Remember" is also very much about an inner struggle, a struggle for finding self. The speaker in the poem talks about being alone with her poetry, "After they all leave." The speaker seems to find in poetry a vehicle for turning inward. "I remain quiet . . . I remain," the poem repeats. Once, alone, however, this person experiences tension: "You wish everyone would go away. / You don't know what's the matter with you" and later "You wish you were dead or alive or / somebody else." But she also seems to find some sort of answers, some clarity, as she says, "Then it all passes, and you are pure crystal."

The poem later refers to Narcissus, looking into the river: "Narcissus was so much in love with himself. / Only a fool doesn't understand / he loved the river too." This part seems to describe a sense of self-absorption. The speaker seems in conflict with her need to turn inward and to poetry. Poetry allows her to see herself better, as Narcissus could see himself in the river, but it also is a selfish thing. Towards the end of the poem, she asks, "Isn't there a country you love? A word? / Surely you remember." She seems to want to find something to focus on, to devote her attention to, even though at this moment she is too sad and depressed to really think of anything else.

The imagery and emotions wrought in this last poem are really too much to describe to any depth or great clarity here. But I think the main thing I took from this poem was the idea of inward turn and turmoil. The speaker of this poem is definitely struggling with these ideas, and what seems interesting to me is that, while "Hard Winter" manifests this idea in a concrete, vivid description, "Surely You Remember" describes it in the emotions and thoughts themselves. While both poems are valuable and effective, the effects are really quite different, and to me, the vivid description has quite a strong effect and can describe more emotion than I would've thought possible.

Ravikovitch has a great variety in the ideas she expresses and in her methods of expressing them. By reading a broader base of her poems, one can begin to understand more about her personality and beliefs as a poet and a person. From my readings, I have begun to see a picture of an introspective, passionate, social justice-minded, and nature-loving woman. But the most exciting thing about poetry-and poets-is that there is still so much more to discover.

Works Cited

Cosman, Carol, ed. et al. The Penguin Book of Women Poets. Viking, 1979.

Green, Saguy. "Israel Prizes for writing awarded to Amos Oz and Dahlia Ravikovitch." 1998.

http://www.gsnonweb.com/gsnlib a/gsnbase/98 03/980306/6317.html

McClatchy, J.D, ed. The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. Random House, New York: 1996.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Friday, March 17, 2000 12:54 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 18. Brecht // who do these people think they are?

I am told that the best people have begun saying

All around, this poem seems very tongue-in-cheek to me, very sarcastic in tone. It has a real, consistent voice throughout, a conversational tone. The way it beings with "I am told" begins this tone right away (both the sarcastic and the conversational). "I am told" also seems to qualify what the speaker is about to say; this isn't something the he himself believes. There are many words throughout the poem that point toward a sarcastic rather than genuine, face-value tone. "The best people" in this line is the first such phrase. It is such a bold, generalized statement. Why are they the "best?" What gives them the authority to speak on this issue? Why are they better than anyone else?

How, from a moral point of view, the Second World War

The poem's style as a whole with its qualifiers, parenthetical-like statements sandwiched between commas, adds to the ironicy in the speaker's voice. For example, in the next line, the parenthetical "from a moral point of view," so matter-of-fact, only brings more questions. Who's morals? How did these morals all of a sudden appear, as the line above says the "best people" have just started to say these things? Aren't morals believe to be a solid, stable thing? Where was this "moral point of view" during the war?

Fell below the standard of the First. The Wehrmacht

Another question. What standard? By what scale did WWI differ so greatly to make it acceptable but put WWII over the brink? The poem leaves these answers out and stays purposely vague, i think. Standard of war? I don't think the speaker really thinks there is one. This is made all the more ironic by the self-assured tone in which these people talk (whom he, the narrator, is quoting).

Allegedly deplores the methods by which the SS effected

Allegedly is an important word in this line; it takes away more of the credibility of the "best people." It seems to become more clear here that the speaker doesn't trust or believe them. "Deplores" is also an important word. It is a strong, emphatic emotion, again a self-assured, confident tone. It brings up another question. How can they be so sure all of a sudden? Finally, the word "effected" is interesting. It seems to imply that the SS weren't as actively involved in the deaths. It's not a very action verb. They were a source of the deaths but they didn't actual do the killing? It sounds like a euphemism on the "best people's" part to me.

The extermination of certain peoples. The Ruhr industrialists

Extermination is a pretty strong word, however, and therefore doesn't quite fit if i'm saying this part is downplaying the deaths. But the phrase "certain peoples" seems a downplay again to me. Can't they say who was actually killed? Is it hush-hush all of a sudden? They murdered (not "effected the extermination") Jews, gypsies, homosexuals---real people (not "certain individuals"). Why don't they say it like it really is, this part makes me want to ask.

Are said to regret the bloody manhunts

"Are said" is another qualifier, another detachment of the speaker from the "best people." The word "regret" sticks out. Before were overstatements, a seeming exaggeration with "deplores," now a seeming understatement, which sounds fake. "Regret" bloody manhunts? What kind of weak, passive word is this for such a vulgar way of describing murder?

i'm going to jump to this line and then stop---there's so much here it's hard for me to be concise . . .

Dissociate themselves from this way of waging war; in short the feeling

"This way" seems to be used ironically here. . . again, why is "this way," this war, so different from all others? "Dissociate" is also a strong word. We all seem to want to shy away from blame, not claim a part in it. But we, someone, had to stop it. Does anyone really deserve the right to dissociate themselves from the situation? I think complacency is synonymous with consent in these circumstances. And are these circumstances really that unusual, that different, from situations today? Say, Burma? Afghanistan?

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, March 14, 2000 11:55 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 16. Sachs // screeching spirits

Screeching Spirits

At night when dying proceeds to sever all seams

This is an ominous beginning, first with "night," which is darkness and mystery; then the word "dying." The most foreboding part, however, is the last part: "to sever all seams." It implies a sort of chaos or disorder, as if everything is about to fall apart. At this point, I wonder what Sachs is referring to, what exactly is going to be severed. Is it the night itself?

The landscape of screams

Screams is such a potent, descriptive word for me. Right away, I can hear them. The word "landscape" makes me think that the screams are all around, that they cannot be escaped from. It is interesting that this line ends with a word so similar to the line above. My eyes kept playing tricks on me when I read this, thinking "seams" was "screams," vice versa. The poem uses the word "scream" a lot, and it is interesting that there is also this word so similar. It's almost as if the word "seams" is a phantom "scream" which fades in and out, playing tricks on the eyes, haunting the reader. aaah.

Tears open the black bandage

Here is the severing of seams, the undoing of order mentioned in the first line. What is the black bandage? A metaphor for night? "Tears" adds action to the poem, and tension. It is a violent action and I can almost hear the rip. The word "tears" is also interesting because it could be read two ways--as "teardrops" or "to rip." I think "to rip" makes the most sense here, but the ambiguity is interesting. The one is a powerful, violent action, while the other is a passive, sorrowful or pain-filled one. One meaning is an action, the other a reaction.

Above Moria, the falling off cliffs to God,

The word arrangement here is interesting . . . I would think it would say "the cliffs falling off." But with the way it is arranged, I read it with "cliffs" as the verb. This is a powerful, descriptive verb, implying to me a swift, severe fall. I wonder if this is a description, a metaphor for the death she mentions earlier. Maybe this is the source of the screams. It is interesting that it is a "falling" toward God, a downward movement, instead of an upward swing toward heaven.

there hovers the flag of the sacrificial knife / Abraham's scream for the son of his heart, / at the great ear of the Bible it lies preserved.

The flag remains suspended, a reminder. It has a knife, so a reminder of the deaths that occurred? "Sacrificial" is interesting here, however . . . I'm not sure how it fits into the Holocaust. It may, however, only be a referral to the metaphor of Abraham that follows. Here is the word "scream" again, this time not involved in an action (the tearing above) but instead "preserved," suspended like the flag. This pain, this regret and remorse doesn't go away. It is "preserved" like a baby fetus in formaldehyde, untouched like the day it was born. This is an incredible way to describe a scream, which is a sound and will inherently fade. These screams, however, don't seem to fade.

O hieroglyphs of screams / engraved at the entrance gate to death

I think these two lines are the most important for me in the poem.

O

makes me think of a moan, it seems to express great despair. It also reminds me of Molly Peacock's :) interpretation of the letter "o", how it is never-ending, perpetual. The moan keeps echoing and reverberating, without end, preserved like Abraham's scream.

hieroglyphs

brings an ancient, historical quality to the screams. From my experience, seeing hieroglyphs is a very powerful thing; it feels like almost being able to see into the minds of the ancient people who wrote them. It is such a close, tangible connection to people from so long ago. A moment of their time, of their expression, is frozen, "preserved" on the wall.

of screams

The screams are like these paintings; they are recorded, permanent, stilled in time. A frozen moment in history, of a specific person, of a specific past.

engraved

This adds to the permanency . . . they are etched in stone.

at the entrance gate to death

I can't help but think of banshees with this poem, and especially with this line. The screams came, or are frozen, right before death, the line seems to say. I went to Pastiche last Friday, and since then Banshees have been on the mind, so bear with me, but I think it really relates. At the concert, Brian Campbell played a song called "The Banshee" on the strings of the piano. He would slide his fingernails over the strings making an array of screeching noises that would echo and reverberate for a really long time. It created a very eerie, supernatural effect. Campbell explained that Banshees were a part of Irish folklore, fairies that would scream before someone died. See how this relates? I think I'm hearing these screeching noises as I read the poem, and the effect is really quite frightening.

I think this is some of the effect Sachs was going for with the poem. She got me.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, March 14, 2000 10:41 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Sachs info.

Nelly Sachs (1891-1970)

German poet and dramatist, who became a spokesperson for her fellow Jews of experiences in the Nazi death camps. In 1966 Sachs shared the Nobel Prize for

Literature with S.Y. Agnon.

Nelly Sachs was born in Berlin into a middle-class Jewish family, as the only child of inventor and industrialist William Sachs and Margareta (Karger) Sachs. She

was educated by private teacher before entering the Berliner H÷here T÷chterschule. At the age of 15 she started with Swedish author Selma Lagerl÷f a

crorespondence, which lasted some 35 years until Lagerl÷f's death. Her early poems attracted attention from Austrian writer Stefan Zweig, who arranged for the

publication of one poem. During the 1920s and 1930s her lyrical works appeared in newspapers and magazines.

After her father died in 1930 she lived with her mother. In 1940 Sachs fled with her to Sweden with the aid of Selma Lagerl÷f. By the time they arrived, the writer

had died, but Sachs managed to support herself and her mother with translations of German poetry, living in a one-room apartment in Stockholm. She also become a

Swedish citizen.

During the postwar years Sachs published poems as a "mute outcry" against the Holocaust, plays and dramatic fragments, among them IN DEN WOHNUNGEN

DES TODES (1946), ELI: EIN MYSTERIENSPIEL VOM LEIDEN ISRAELS (1951).

In 1959 appeared FLUCHT UND VERWANDLUNG, which established Sachs as an outstanding writer in German literature. After receiving the Nobel Prize,

Sachs, who never married, continued to live and work in her small apartment in Stockholm.

NOTE: Only nine women have received (1901-1997) the Nobel Prize for Literature: Selma Lagerl÷f, Sigrid Undset, Grazia Deledda, Pearl S.Buck, Gabriela

Mistral, Nelly Sachs, Toni Morrison, Nadine Gordimer, Wislawa Szymborska

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Monday, March 13, 2000 1:35 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 15 April Bernard // word laughter

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

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

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

"He rang like a telephone"

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

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

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

"the boxes bleached in the sun"

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

"I don't know about you, but I'm looking for a narrative where suffering makes sense. . . i have not found one yet . . . this is another one of my high-minded failures."

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

I think the arrangement of this line is powerful, the repetition at the beginning has so much emotion, and the end of the line is a sort of surprising clincher.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Monday, March 06, 2000 11:34 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 14. Madhubuti // describing the indescribable

describing the indescribable

Looking at other peoples' posts on this poem, I decided to do the one stanza no one has done yet. I thought this stanza was wonderful in that it seemed to imitate the whole birthing experience so well: the confusion, surprise, bewilderment, commotion--the whole barrage of images and emotions that are occurring during this event. And the way this is arranged, as a clump of words and images, also seems to connect the title . . . Men and Birth: The Unexplainable. From the very beginning of the poem, the author concedes that this is a very difficult, well, he almost seems to say impossible, thing to describe. But the poem attempts, through the collection of words and images, to somewhat recreate this "unquestioned miracle."

"muffled grunts interrupt sleep urging participation counting / push pushing encouraging your mate to relax to breathe prop-/ erly, constantly setting the mental clock. in the bed at her rear/"

The words are all spread out evenly on the page, flush with the margin on both sides, without any punctuation for most of these first two lines. In one way, it almost imitates the even breathing or panting of his wife giving birth. The lack of punctuation makes me as i read it want to punch the words out rhythmically and evenly. The words "to relax to breath prop- / erly" is especially unnatural punctuation. One would definitely expect a comma after relax, which would emulate a much more slow, calm, and comforting voice. Instead, the words are in the same choppy rhythm as before, emanating a tense, unnatural intonation. This seems to suggest or imitate the man being nervous and unsure--actually needing to be told to relax just as much as his "mate."

"pulling legs back enlarging womb creating unbelievable spaces / This line creates quite a vivid image of what the man is seeing, and to me it is comical in its end, "creating unbelievable spaces." It makes me imagine the man's jaw drop in surprise and awe as he watches this all happen, thinking, "How does she do that?"

"wider urging life here. men viewing & aiding the unquestioned / miracle on earth. sliding head first helpless struggling searching /"

The word urging here is powerful. . . . all the commotion and action in the room is united in this single process, "urging life here." It's a beautiful image. I connect this phrase most, however, with the father, standing by, watching the struggle, not really being able to help, but silently urging. The word is very close to urgent and urgency, and it brings to mind a sense of intensity and worry, also pleading. "here" is an important word also. it adds to the pleading. the father wants the life here, right now. The phrase "unquestioned miracle on earth" greatens the sense of awe in the poem. The word "unquestioned" shows his disbelief; he can't believe this miracle is just an accepted, everyday event. "On earth," then, seems to say he doesn't really think it belongs here, that it is a much more heavenly, divine sort of occurrence.

"attacking life into waiting hands baby crying for mother & lov- / ing touches. this is the drama, birth the maturing force that can / transform males, making them men of conscious. making them /"

"Attacking" is an interesting switch from the images described the line before which emphasized a more passive nature. "Attacking" contrasts greatly--an active, aggressive word and something not usually associated with babies. It does make sense, though--the baby being so helpless, maybe even feeling that herself, feeling her dependency, really needs to fight hard to survive. The line "crying for mother" strikes me, because i wonder what sort of emotion this arouses in the father as he watches--sadness? joy? envy? Are men envious of women's closeness to children? The last line describes an interesting irony, that birth is a "maturing force." Birth, the most young and impressionable time of the baby's life is a time of great maturation for the father. It suggests a very interesting aspect to the cycle of life.

"bringers of life and partners in the fight to guarantee better / better futures."

The word "fight" in this line is an interesting parallel to the image of the "struggling, attacking" image of the baby. The father has seen the baby in its vulnerable and feisty state and is moved, "transformed," he says, to help and protect this life, to help him in his "fight." The actual participation in the birthing process seems crucial. Through this intense, stressful, eye-widening experience, and only after experiencing it, could he fully conceptualize the "unquestioned miracle."

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Friday, March 03, 2000 10:32 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Li-Young Lee // Look out Northwest and Suncountry

father mark, i finished this last night, and i guess for some reason i forget to send it. i just looked in my draft folder and it was still in there.

--kate

Look out Northwest and Suncountry; here comes Time.

The poem starts out with an unusual word order, a rearranged syntax. "Sad is the man," the poem starts. The emphasis is on the word sad first--it begins the line, it is the first word we hear. Sad seems to have a sort of verbal imitation of itself; when said, it can be drawn out, the "a" almost turning in to a sort of soft cry, as one would imagine by the word. And this is a poem of sadness, i think, a very deep, aching sadness that doesn't lightly go away. The next word emphasized in this phrase is man, and i think this word is quite deliberate--i guess i don't think Lee would readily substitute the word woman here . . . i think that much of what he describes he feels is a father issue, a problem of male social norms.

"His five-year-old son waits in his lap." This seems a very intimate position, the boy very close to his father. Of course, it isn't really considered 'intimate' when he's this young, but it strikes me that the time is really short in which the boy will be able to do this with his father, have this level of closeness, affection and intimacy. It is interesting that the author says in his lap, instead of on. This position is very close, the father surrounds the boy, the boy is in the circle of his father's arms and legs.

"Already, the man lives far ahead, . . ." This line is the most important in the poem for me, I think. At one level of reading, I make of it that he is looking into the future, that he is imagining what is to come, predicting. And he lives this image. It is such a vivid experience for him. It is almost there, almost makes him feel he is actually experiencing it: the senses, the overwhelming emotions, the strong visuals. This line, jumping from the man with his young son to an abrupt, jolting, "Already" really imitates for me these sorts of experiences, those times when a smell or a word cause you to jump back into the past and be completely immersed in that memory. This reading of this line brings up the whole idea that we live in the present, but often it doesn't seem so . . . we're anticipating or worrying about the future, or reliving experiences of the past.

And though the man seems to be doing this, living in the future instead of experiencing the present, at the same time there is a great tension in the poem for stopping all advancement of time, stopping all growing up or growing apart. "Don't go!" The man shouts, he pleads. The father wants his son to stay with him, the way he is, forever. Yet there is an irony in this, because the whole time he is thinking of these things, that he doesn't want his boy to leave, the boy is still sitting on his lap, as physically close as they'll ever be. They are together, but his father is living a time when they will be separated.

This poem seems to imitate the abruptness with which life changes. The poem jumps from a time of reading stories to a time of car keys and packing. And I think this is partly just the way life is. In some ways, days and hours seem to drag on forever. At other times, it's as if we have jumped ahead in time, as we suddenly look back at all the time that has passed, all the things that have changed. I think part of this has to do with the fact that we don't often live right in the present, that we are reliving or anticipating, and in that way suddenly the present moment is gone. I think this idea is really an issue for parents--or adults in general. The poem reminds me a lot of something my mom told me. She has said that she can remember when she used to go to the park with my brother and sister and me, pushing us there in the stroller, helping us along all the way then pushing us all on the swings. And she can remember thinking "it will be so nice when my they get to the age where they can swing by themselves, and i can sit on the bench for awhile and just watch." "I have that memory, that has seemed to still in my mind," my mom says, "and then i swing to about high school time. There was no in-between."

The other way i thought the line "Already . . . " is that the poem does literally jump to the future. That the man is maybe thinking about the past, while in the future, and reminiscing like my mom did. He sees that rift of time in between the bedtime stories and car keys that he can't seem to remember or that just seemed to fly by so quickly.

The poem is a lot about communication also and how it is affected by growing up and growing apart--and father-son dynamics (which is why i said in the beginning i thought this was a lot about men, even though i haven't discussed it).

Okay, this is a lot of ideas, and i hope it is in a reasonable amount of order . . . . it is kind-of late :)

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Wednesday, March 01, 2000 1:18 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 12. mcpherson // we are all on our bellies

one way she spoke to me

by sandra mcpherson

i would say whisper

and she could never figure how to do it.

i would say, speak louder into the phone.

nor could she raise her voice.

it is difficult for me now, after listening to mcpherson read the poem, to separate the emotion she expressed from the words on the page, but i guess that's not really bad. anyway . . . these first lines seem to express a certain urgency or bewilderment, even frustration, in the narrator, this mother in reaction to her "odd" daughter, as mcpherson put it in the interview. It is an interesting thing (voice volume) to be unable to "figure out," and it seems it would be extremely hard for the mother to understand, to relate to.

but then i found such a whisper,

the trail as she began to write to me in snails

in silver memos on the front door

in witnesses to her sense of touch.

the first four lines were bewilderment and disappointment--the mother tried . . . and the daughter couldn't. But this new line is a sort of exciting redemption: "then i found such a whisper," she says. She suddenly finds some sort of connection with her daughter, after being denied so many times. It is interesting that she can call it a "whisper" and can see it as that same sort of connection even though it really isn't. It's really an odd message in snails. But it is as if the author is realizing that these "silver memos" and "witnesses," however odd, are a bridge between her daughter's world and her own.

home late, i found them slurred and searching

erasing the welcome she'd arranged them in.

H, 12 snails . . . I, 7 or 6

i like the use of the words "slurred and searching" because it seems like a metaphor for the way mcpherson oftentimes perceives her daughter. It's interesting that the "HI" message existed for a only a several seconds and then was slowly "erased"--as probably oftentimes the daughter's attempts to communicate are. They maybe seem clear to the daughter, but they are soon lost in the confusion of their different ways of communicating. That seems a big thing that is brought out in this poem--a great, vivid image of the difference in how they communicate.

they were misspelling it, digressing in wayward caravans and pileups

mobile and rolling but with little perspective

their eyestalks smooth as nylons on tiny legs

the narrator seems to watch almost helplessly as the message is "misspelled" and "digressed." This seems a great visual of Mcpherson's frustration . . . she is watching her daughter's clear message, her bridge into Mcpherson's world of "whispering," slowly dissipate. The sort of clumsy, comical words to she uses to describe this are interesting. It's almost as if she's saying, "stupid snails . . . quite messing it up"--as if she's letting her frustration, and probably need to sometimes laugh at the situation, come out through the metaphor.

i raised her in isolation

but it is these snails who keep climbing the walls.

for them maybe every vertical makes an unending tree

and every ascension's lovely.

why else don't they wend homeward to ground?

this first line seems a sort of abrupt switch, back to talking directly about her daughter. it is interesting that she's talking about communicating and then she says that she was in isolation . . . not much communicating happens there. does she think this is partly to blame?

This next part about the snails seems a different perspective of them. Instead of being described in a sort of clumsy way, this seems a much more positive image of them. They "keep climbing" and they see their struggle as "lovely." The snails, the things that are impeding her daughter's ability to communicate--also her path to communication--are persevering. They don't give up, and they see the struggle as beautiful.

but what do we do? we are only part of a letter in a word

and we are on our bellies with speech

wondering, wondering slowly

how to move towards one another.

in the end here, she seems to realize that we all have these struggles, that no one has a perfect bridge to communicate with another human being. She seems to reach a sort of humility here--we are all "on our bellies with speech." This is a very vivid image. We all struggle, look awkward, sound stupid sometimes--maybe some people more than others, but still, we all do. We all need to work and continually reach for this ability to connect, to find "how to move towards one another." It is a struggle all of humankind shares, Mcpherson seems to realize, not something completely odd and out-of-the-ordinary found just in her daughter.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Sunday, February 27, 2000 11:43 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 11. Hayden // Loves me, Loves me not

Loves me, Loves me not

Sundays too my father got up early / and put his clothes on in the blueback cold,

There seems a sort of reverence in these lines. The phrase "blueback cold" is very descriptive, very emphatic. Starting out the poem with "Sundays too" makes me think that the narrator wants to specially emphasize this . . . his father not only got up early in the cold all week long, but on Sundays too. . . he didn't get a day off.

Then with cracked hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather made / banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

The last sentence of these lines is very different and is almost startling. The whole beginning of the stanza--all of the lines in this stanza so far--have been one long, unwieldy sentence describing his father's morning routine, but this last sentence is short, blunt, and brings, I think, a lot of emotion and feeling to the poem. The narrator is no longer strictly and objectively describing this scene.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking / When the rooms were warm, he'd call,/

This is an interesting use of words. I think he's describing the sounds of the fire crackling, but it really seems to create a sense of just how cold it feels--so bitter and sharp and brittle that the cold itself could splinter and break.

and slowly I would rise and dress, / fearing the chronic angers of that house, /

Hayden does it again, abruptly switching in the last line of the stanza. He was back to describing the morning happenings . . . and suddenly he throws in a line about anger, almost as if he needs to slide these things in, like he's too afraid to say it outright. I researched a little of Hayden's life, of his unhappy childhood in a strict foster home. It would be my guess, then, that the narrator of this poem is Hayden himself, describing his own life. As with the other poems on fathers, this one seems equally emotionally-charged, and radiating a similar personal attachment to what is being described. It's interesting that he describes the angers as angers "of that house" and not of certain people. It almost seems like an infection of the house, like it has permeated the entire environment and everyone in it.

Speaking indifferently to him, / who had driven out the cold / and polished my good shoes as well.

From what I read of Hayden's life, it sounds like he was hurt quite a bit by his family. For one, being highly religious, they continually reinforced the "sinfulness" of his homosexuality. His indifference, then, seems understandable, a way of closing off from being hurt more by his father. These lines also, however, reminded me of my own--and many teenagers' tendency--to close myself off from my parents during my adolescent years.

What did I know, what did I know / of love's austere and lonely offices?

These lines seem sad, mourning here, with the repetition of the question. It seems as if this has really plagued him. The narrator has been talking about anger, indifference, coldness throughout the poem, and in this last line, he talks of love. It seems that his father did not know how to show his love to his son. Love is often about obligation, duty, and sacrifice, especially parental love. It seems that this father could express his love through this outlet, through this "austere and lonely office." The narrator seems to realize that his father was making sacrifices and working hard for him, and that though anger was often more readily expressed, here, he realized, was a place where his father's love was clearly manifested. Maybe his father's love was not always accepting of him or affectionate, but it was there just the same.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Sunday, February 27, 2000 11:30 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: hayden info

here's two websites i found on Hayden; the second one is in full text below.

--kate

________

http://www.poets.org/LIT/poet/rhaydfst.htm

http://encarta.msn.com/events/black_history_month/africana/lit_aa10.shtm

______________

Hayden, Robert Earl

Hayden, Robert Earl (b. August 4, 1913, Detroit, Mich.; d. February 25, 1980, Ann Arbor, Mich.), poet and

educator.

Born Asa Bundy Sheffey, Hayden was adopted by William and Sue Ellen Hayden, who changed his name.

Hayden spent a difficult childhood in the Paradise Valley ghetto of Detroit. He suffered from extremely

poor eyesight and was in frequent conflict with his extremely strict and religious foster parents, who

imbued in him the sense of sinfulness - particularly about his homosexual inclination that would inform

much of his poetry.

After graduating from Detroit City College (now Wayne State University) in 1936, Hayden worked on the

Federal Writers' Project and as an editor and critic for the Michigan Chronicle, Detroit's leading African

American newspaper. He became involved in Detroit's lively left-wing arts scene, reading his poetry at

political demonstrations and union rallies. With help from Louis Martin, editor-in-chief of the Michigan

Chronicle, in 1940 Hayden published a collection of his radical poetry, Heart-Shape in the Dust.

Hayden attended graduate school at the University of Michigan where he studied poetry under W. H.

Auden and wrote a number of historical poems about the slave era, including "Middle Passage" and "The

Ballad of Nat Turner," for which he won the Hopwood Award in 1942. At this time, Hayden also converted

to the Baha'i religion, which emphasizes the spiritual unity of humanity, and moved away from his earlier

radical politics.

In 1946, Hayden joined the English Department at Fisk University. After teaching there for 23 years, he

took a job at the University of Michigan, where he taught for the rest of his life. Hayden published eight

books of poetry, but it was not until the publication of his Selected Poems in 1966, however, that he

received national recognition.

Although Hayden would, like many African American poets before him, sometimes use traditional forms

such as the ballad and the sonnet, more often he wrote a sort of modernist collage, juxtaposing images,

phrases, and rhythms. This ornate diction and combination of abstract, but suggestive, metaphors with

homely local detail contributed to his reputation as a difficult and intellectual poet influenced by the

modernism of Eliot and Auden.

The influence of Euro-American modernism on Hayden's poetry as well as Hayden's frequent declarations

that he wanted to be considered an "American poet" rather than a "black poet" led to much criticism of him

as a literary "Uncle Tom" by African American critics during the 1960s. Ironically, African American history,

contemporary black figures such as Malcolm X, and African American communities, particularly Hayden's

native Paradise Valley, were the subjects of many of his poems.

During the 1960s and 1970s Hayden adopted a simpler and more directly personal style, as in his "Elegies

for Paradise Valley." In 1976 he became the first African American to be appointed Consultant in Poetry at

the Library of Congress, an equivalent at the time to being named national poet laureate.

Contributed By:

James Smethurst

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Thursday, February 24, 2000 12:16 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 10. Peacock's Ch. 10 // remember teeter-totters?

remember teeter-totters?

At one point in the chapter, Peacock says, "The enterprise of reading poetry permits us, even requires us, as readers to hold both intuition and reasoning as twins in our arms. Our obligation to the poem is to balance the reality of the poet's vocabulary with the force of the reaction it provokes in us" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, 143). I thought this was a good way to put it and that this statement was something i should latch on to. I think Peacock demonstrates this balance in her reactions to Ondaatje's poem, discussing much of the style and structural effects but also her emotional and personal reactions. I had a little bit of a difficult time finding an organization to Peacock's explorations, which was sometimes a little confusing for me--she seemed to go back and forth very seamlessly between intuitive and reasoning comments--but maybe that's how she finds the balance between the two . . . i don't know.

Peacock first discusses the meter accents of the poem, its "songlike," "chant" nature, how the syllables are evenly stressed in the beginning lines. She then talks about punctuation, how the absence of or addition of affects the mood/message. Next, she discusses tone and how this relates to/affects the reader. She also compares and contrasts Ondaatje's poem with Komunyakaa, through their ideas, themes, and some structures. Then she discusses ways in which the poem seems to make statements about poetry in general, for example the truthfulness vs. falsities in poetry (on page 145). Peacock further discusses the structure of the poem through the different levels that exist (line vs. sentence). And finally, she explores how she personally related to and identified with the poem.

I think I can definitely expand on my reactions in the area of reasoning, looking at more of the structural and vocabulary decisions made in poems. I think why I haven't done this as much is because i feel like I don't really know much about these things, but Peacock seems to analyze it in a way not necessarily using all the big poetry terms but just looking at the different effects of the poem. She had many exciting insights that make me excited to explore these aspects more.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 11:23 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 9. Ondaatje // dad? oh.

dad? oh.

Ondaatje's poem "Letters & Other Worlds" intrigued me first because of the intense divide in the poem between the father's two personalities, lives, or "rooms" (I'm not sure what is the best way to describe this). The father's life is divided between his drunken self and his room of letters. It is intriguing that he shuts himself away from his family and only allows his true, open self to come out when he's with his writing. Ondaatje writes, "His letters were a room he seldom lived in / In them the logic of his love could grow." His love could only grow shut up in this room. What a terrible, heart-rending thing for the narrator to experience,to be able to acknowedge and write down. Ondaatje writes later about the room,

There speeches, head dreams, apologies,

the gentle letters, were composed.

With the clarity of architects

he would write of the row of blue flowers

his new wife had planted,

. . . Letters in a clear hand of the most complete empathy

I would think Ondaatje would feel such frustration, to know that this part of his father exists but not be able to be a part of it, not be able to experience it.

I like the tone used in the poem; it has a sort of ironic frankness about it, as if the narrator is just telling us how it is, simply and truthfully--as in the stanza where he discusses his mother's bad driving. At the same time, this frankness conveys such a sadness, a sort of childlike truthfulness but yet vulnerability.

I also thought the use of lines was interesting, as in the example "and once, gaining instant fame, / managed to stop a Perabara in Ceylon--the whole procession of elephants dancers / local dignitaries--by falling / dead drunk onto the street." The last line in this is was so unexpected for me, and it seems like it could be imitating the sort of reaction the narrator would've had as a boy, first the yearning and expectation to be proud of his father . . . and then the last line is a sort of surprising let down. (It seems like he probably had many of these in his life.)

I had more things i wanted to write but I think for now I need to stop. :)

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, February 22, 2000 10:50 AM

To: Walters, Anne M; Thamert, Mark

Subject: reponse to anne's response to joanna // disconcerting imagery

(In response to your post about joanna's post about Holm's poem, "Advice.")

disconcerting imagery

Anne, I like the ideas you brought up about the woman in this poem, especially the following: "The woman in the poem is "standing away from the lamp," which signifies that she is in the dark area of the room, in the shadows. An image of an exotic seductress pops into my head. In a sense, the woman represents women as wild, exotic women who lead men away from the straight and narrow. Are their negative implications of women and sexulaity?"

Your ideas especially intrigue me because when i read your post, i realized that i had not thought about this when i first read "Advice." It seems like a strong enough image now when I read the poem that I would've thought it would've struck me. The way I first read it, i simply saw the woman as an exciting, interesting person with which to lead the narrator out of his boring, stagnant life. And i think it can be read that way, as you seem to agree.

But since you brought this other way of reading the poem, I have a hard time liking the poem as much. It does seem interesting that the woman is "exotic," and that she seems to "seduce" the man. This image seems a little too overused in our culture, heck, since Adam and Eve. I'm not sure if i can just overlook it in this poem.

However, the woman in this poem is really doing something positive, as opposed to Eve. And I do really like the idea that the poem is conveying, of dancing to a different beat and trying to lessen the monotony in our lives, but I guess i'm just not sure if i can like the image Holm uses to get us there.

Still, the image is intriguing, this idea of dancing inside ourselves. It is a very powerful image, first the image of this person doing the same steps over and over, and then the image of two people, together, doing a wild, exotic, exciting dance. The dichotomy between these two images . . . it really works. I don't know. I'm torn, I guess.

--Kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, February 22, 2000 10:11 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 8 Clifton // Blossoming into old age

Blossoming into old age

I really like Lucille Clifton's poem ("there is a girl inside"); it just struck me right away. I tried to do a little research on Clifton, and I didn't find a whole lot--only short biographies of major dates in her life and some more of her poetry--but I found the following poem by her which I had seen before and liked a lot as well. I also read Steph's posting which gave some background into some of Clifton's message and purpose.

Steph said that "Lucille Clifton is known for her transgression of "regular" or societal thought. She takes what could be overused topics and twists and turns them into something extraordinary. Clifton addresses such things as aging, female body image, slavery, racism, traditional religion, etc. She takes issues from the past and weaves them into her poem so that a new understanding of the present evolves." Both of these poems seem to "transgress from regular thought," and that's what i think strikes me so much. The two poems both seem to challenge our societal ideas of womanhood.

In the poem we read for class, the first stanza talks about the youngness, the "girl" still exisiting in an old woman, "randy as a wolf." An old woman still has the wildness of a young girl. This seems a somewhat surprising, unusual image for our society. It seems like often as women get older, they lose their place. They are seen as "old" and "frail," maybe even boring. This idea is manifested in the fact that Hollywood doesn't have very many parts for aging actresses, but older male actresses are still very much in demand, playing right beside young, twenty-something beauties. In this poem, however, the old woman is not frail but instead "she is a green tree / in a forest of kindling." That's a wonderful image, I think. The next stanza, "she has waited / patient as a nun / for the second coming, / when she can break through gray hairs / into blossom," is a great image also, the idea of blossoming into old age. It makes me think of my grandma, who is (still) a wild, free, adventurous spirit. I think in some ways she really has "blossomed" into that, that she is more wild and free than she was in her young age. This is a wonderful idea.

I think overall, Clifton challenges our ideas of old age, especially towards women. She writes of it as a time of rebirth, of new beginnings, of wildness. There is much powerful, striking imagery in the poem to challenge the images of old age we have all acquired. Also so with the poem "Homage to My Hips" below.

Homage to My Hips

Lucille Clifton

these hips are big hips.

they need space to

move around in.

they don't fit into little

petty places. these hips

are free hips.

they don't like to be held back.

these hips have never been enslaved,

they go where they want to go

they do what they want to do.

these hips are mighty hips.

these hips are magic hips.

i have known them

to put a spell on a man and

spin him like a top!

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, February 22, 2000 9:34 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Response to Scott // Mindful Meanderings

Scott, this is in response to your post "The Unseen Future; The Present Past" on Yeat's Poem "Mad as the Mist and the Snow.

Your post brought up a lot of ideas and questions for me about Yeat's poem. Every time I read the poem, I get inklings of ideas, but I've never really been able to get a solid reading of it. Some of your ideas, however, have made me think, and I feel like if I write through them and explore them, I may understand this better.

First, your reaction to the lines "Were you and I unlettered lads." You write, "Before the poet became a poet. The wisdom and experience of life had not yet arrived. I picture an old man thinking back to glory days of youth, when the world seemed free and full of mystery. Now the poet has been "lettered with age." I think I agree with you on this part, that he's remembering a time when he wasn't as knowledgeable or experienced but also that it was a time of "glory days," as you put it. These ideas confuse me, however. As you bring up in your post, it seems like there are two conflicting ideas in this poem: the idea that being young and "mad as the mist" is a good, exciting time, and the idea that it is something to lock oneself away from.

As you say, in the beginning of the poem, the way it is described, it does seem something awful, the "snow and mist combined with foul wind . . . Things are more difficult to see. Our perception slowly dissolves. We cannot see into the distance. The path before us is unclear." And earlier Yeats says that inside, sheltered from the madness, "Our minds are at their best this night." These lines make me think that Yeats is saying that the madness of youth is something we should steer clear of as much as possible, that it is a dangerous, unproductive time.

But then the next lines, as you bring up, somewhat confuse these ideas, as Yeats realizes that many great authors of the past, ". . . even Cicero / And many-minded Homer were / Mad as the mist and the snow." This makes me think that he realizes that the madness as he uses the word is a good thing, something that gives creative inspiration, etc. But this is further confused because Yeats says this realization makes him "sigh" and "shudder." He doesn't seem to like the idea that these greats were once "unlettered lads."

So what does all this mean, I still ask. Well, it seems for one that Yeats realizes that everyone needs to be, or at least is inevitably, wild at some point in their lives. It also seems clear that at this point in his life, Yeats doesn't like this madness and wildness, that it frightens him or at least is just something he really wants to avoid. There are two possible readings that I get from this. One, maybe Yeats is being ironical, taking the poetic voice of a weary, sighing old man who has forgotten what it is like to be mad and unlettered and now can no longer see the value and importance of it . . . so while the poetic voice says "no," Yeats is really being ironical, saying, "Yes! Look at this old sourpuss talking! Don't lose this creative, young splendor, full of mystery (your words, Scott)." Two, maybe Yeats is recognizing these greats' (Homer, Cicero, etc.) younger days and realizing that they too went through a time of not being great, before their were knowledgeable and experienced. So he's shuddering at this time of ignorance and inexperience and the idea that people he now respects so much once were that way too (and that he was once that way) but realizes that it is just a time everyone has to go through. In this reading, he is sort of realizing the humanity, the imperfection, the humble roots of even some of the greatest thinkers.

Hmmmm . . . i guess i still need to think. I feel like I'm getting closer, though. Thanks, Scott.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

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

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 5 Hirsch // Stimulating the Deep

Stimulating the Deep

"So, too, does the reader make, or remake, the poem out of a mouthful of air, out of breath. When I recite a poem I reinhabit it, I bring the words off the page into my own mouth, my own body . . . I let its heartbeat pulse through me as embodied experience, as experience embedded in the sensuality of sounds. The poem implies mutual participation in language, and for me, that participation is at the heart of the lyric exchange" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 5).

I really like this idea of participation involved in poetry, this unique relationship between poet and reader. It makes me feel a deeper connection as I read poems. Hirsch says poems are mouthfuls of air--that's first what the poet made them out of, and then what the reader takes into her own body. The reader takes the words in and can give them emotion and feeling when she recites the poem. She can create a living, breathing meaning for herself. This makes me think that reading a poem aloud really is important because it can bring it alive so much more. It really lifts the ink marks off the page and gives them a roundness, a depth. It is exciting to me that the reader can have this much importance in a poem . . . I never had thought of it in this way before.

"We use our sense in poetry, but it is a mistake to try to use our senses everywhere. The poem plunges us from the visible to the unvisible, it plunges us into the domain of psyche, of soul" (p. 24).

This is an interesting point, that no matter how much a poem stimulates our visual and auditory realm, it also affects us at a deeper and sometimes unexplainable level; "The poem moves from the eye to the ear, to the inner ear, the inner eye . . . It actualizes an intuition flowing deeper than intellect" (p. 24). I like how Hirsch says this is beyond the realm of intellect. It is deeper, into the realm of the spiritual and emotional, into the intuitive sense where one can just know something without having to describe it. I like how Hirsch says this intuition is experienced in both the reader and the poet, that this invisible depth is important in the inspiration of a poem as well as the reading of it. It is a sort of connection again between the reader and the poet. It's as if they both tap into this invisible source of understanding. It is this source that connects the poet and reader and gives them their unique sort of relationship.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 11:41 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 7 Williams // Freedom dancing

Williams, "Danse Russe," Rag and Bone Shop, p. 6

Freedom Dancing

"If when my wife is sleeping / and the baby and Kathleen / are sleeping"

These lines seem sort of mischievous, sort of child-like to me. When everyone else is sleeping, I sneak out of my room and . . .It seems to introduce right away a sense of freedom. I also like how he says sleeping twice. It adds an emphasis on that word. Also, it almost seems to create a rhythm, especially when read aloud, almost like the slow, even breathing of someone asleep.

"and the sun is a flame-white disc / in silken mists / above shining trees, --"

I really like these descriptions. They are vivid and yet created in so few words. "Silken mists" and "shining trees" gives a sort of magical quality to the images. It creates a picture in my head of those peaceful, sunny afternoons where everything is bright with sunlight and the light streams through the windows and floating dust particles, illuminating whatever it touches.

"if I in my north room / dance naked, grotesquely, / before my mirror"

This is such a great image--he is not just standing naked in front of the mirror, but dancing. I would imagine if someone were standing naked in front of the mirror he/she would be scrutinizing his/her body, self-conscious and unsure. But this man dances. The thing that mars this beautiful image for me is the word "grotesquely." I wonder why Williams uses this word. I guess it's fitting considering our culture's aversion to nakedness. As I said, I would expect someone to be scrutinizing their body in front of the mirror. Nakedness, flabbiness, fat . . . all these things are avoided in our culture. For this man to be letting it all hang out, and to be seemingly okay with it, well, I guess it would seem sort of crass, grotesque--especially if his body was less than our idea of perfect.

"waving my shirt around my head / and singing softly to myself:"

I really like this image; I can't help but laugh when I read it. It's so shocking to me, to my socially constructed sense of normalcy--this grown, naked man waving a shirt and singing to himself. The image is really striking, arresting. The man seems so free, so exuberant, so childlike. The "singing softly to myself" reminds me especially of a child, how children often hum to themselves as they play.

" 'I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!' "

This reminds me of Rilke's discussion of loneliness--of embracing it, going inward, and getting to know oneself. I like especially that he's singing this softly to himself, as if comforting himself, like a lullaby. A grown man needing comforting!? Man, this poem is just shattering all my preconceived notions. :)

"If I admire my arms, my face, / my shoulders, flanks, buttocks, / against the yellow drawn shades, --"

He is admiring his body, another striking thing. It seems we are taught to be ashamed of our bodies, to be modest--we often don't even know what to do when someone compliments us. But here is a man who is admiring himself, looking at each individual part, finding pleasure in his shape. A beautiful image. I like the image "against the yellow drawn shades." It makes me think of the man as a dark silhouette against this yellow, glowing background.

"Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household?"

The word choice of "happy genius" is striking here. The narrator does seem happy, but the word loneliness is most often tied to emotions of sadness. This makes me think again that he is talking of loneliness similar to Rilke, in the sense of finding in loneliness self-reliance, self-awareness, etc. The word genius is also interesting--nothing in the poem seems to imply that he's a deep thinker . . . he seems childlike if anything. But genius still seems appropriate. This man seems to have discovered a happiness, a contentment that many people haven't found. He seems to have found his inner child, his inner wildness. He seems to have broken from the mold of manhood. In this way, as an intuitive, free, innovative person, he does very much seem a genius.

--kate

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 8:20 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: RESPONSE TO RYAN: enviable passion

Enviable Passion

Ryan, this is in response to your posting on Michaelangelo and Khlebnikov, entitled, "The price of words."

Thank you for your posting and the honesty in your reaction. I was really struck by the beautiful yet perplexing irony that exists in the ideas you described so well--the sorrow, even "horrification" one feels for Michaelango but at the same time the incredible envy of the degree of passion to which he lived his life. I love the following passage in your post:

I am not an artist (drawing stick men is a struggle for me), and I think that is why I am drawn to this poem. To me, the idea of giving one's entire life to paint the inside of a chapel is beyond me. What could possibly move someone to sacrifice so much for their art? Why isn't this desire to create burning in my soul? Although horrified by what has become of the poet in this poem, I am left jealous for I do not possess the only thing he is left with: his art and talent to create. I actually feel as though the man with his broken body and face smeared with paint is luckier than I. I wish I had his passion.

I had similar feelings when reading this poem. While I do have a desire to create, especially through writing, I still feel I haven't yet found my passion, my true "creative calling," as Fr. Mark put it the other day. I too yearn for the sort of drive and focus which Michealangelo describes. I find it especially intriguing that our envy for Michealangelo shines through the sorrow we feel for the difficult conditions his passion creates. It seems to show the necessity of a drive such as this in everyone's life; everyone wants something to wake up for, to dream about, to throw oneself into wholeheartedly.

I thought a lot about creativity this j-term in my class with Richard Bresnahan, the potter-in-residence at St. John's. One of the main things Richard wanted us to take from the class was that, in his words, "Creativity in life is important; the medium, however, is irrelevant." This has given me some feeling of encouragement as I search for my own true creative calling. I'm beginning to realize (though it may be hard to accept at first) that we don't all have to be amazing painters or breathtaking poets . . . we don't even have to work in the realms of stick figures or prepositional phrases. We only have to find something, some medium, with which to direct our drive, our deepest creative rumblings. And we may not all want to direct our passions quite so heavily or so much in one particular outlet (as I'm sure Jeff would agree.)

I guess what I'm saying is that the possibility for passion really is there for all of us . . . we just have the challenge of finding where ours is best ignited. Good luck on your search, fellow classmates.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 10:57 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 4 Mallarme, Dante // Restless images

Restless images

I really liked the poem "A lace curtain self-destructs" for the great image it creates in my head. I especially liked the following lines: "The concerted all-white internecine / fight of this hanging thing / dashed against a wan pane / flutters more than it lays to rest" (Mallarme, 99 Poems, p. 70). These words bring to mind such a vivid image of the curtain flapping violently in the window. The passage also stirs in me an emotions of unsettlement and disconcertment. It's especially interesting to me because in another context, the image could be a very peaceful thing--describing the beautiful lace as it flaps gently in the breeze--but by the way it is described, it has the ability to leave me deeply unsettled. Mallarme has achieved an incredible powerfulness in her use of words. The curtain doesn't just blow gently; it is involved in a deadly "fight." It doesn't brush lightly against the sill but "dashes against" it. The curtain does all of these things "more than it lays to rest." All of these words combined create a very strong image and much emotion--an amazing feat, I think, one of those magical moments with words.

When I read Dante's poem, about going to a place of satiety, contentment, and freedom, it strikes me that the first line begins with "I would that . . . " (Dante, 99 Poems, p. 36). It makes me think that whatever Dante is writing about is something he would do if he could, something he wishes he could do, but which he can't. So again, the poem made me think about the subject of struggle. (Sorry if this seems like overkill -- the theme just keeps popping up for me.) Dante wishes for a place, as I said, of satiety, contentment, and freedom "So that no change, nor any evil chance / Should mar our joyous voyage . . . " (Dante, 99 Poems, p. 36). This place, however, is described as "magic . . . charmed . . . led by some strong enchantment . . ." and brought about by a "bounteous wizard." While this could just be a way of expressing how special and wonderful this place is, these words made me think that it was a place that could only exist in the imaginary, a place that could only be fantasy. The poem made me think that Dante was saying that these things--satiety, bounty, and contentment--don't really exist regularly in the mortal world. And I don't really mean this in a pessimistic sort of way--just that it seems Dante is acknowledging that struggle is definitely a part of our world and that to imagine a world without it, one has to reach to imagine something magical and enchanted.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

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

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 3 RESPONSE TO JOHN: Must the artist struggle?

Must the Artist Struggle?

John, I liked the question you raised, asking why an artist must struggle with art. You say: "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." I have experienced similar struggles with my artistic endeavors--especially with my writing--and I don't foresee these struggles going away. I think they are an integral part of the process, the artist always wanting to improve and also sometimes struggling for inspiration. These struggles make the artist never completely satisfied or content, for this contentment, as you said in class, can be harmful to the creative process. These struggles cause the move the artist to keep creating and improving. They create this place which Rilke talks about (and which I highlighted before) in which "for a moment everything intimate and familiar has been taken from us," and "We stand in the midst of a transition, where we cannot remain standing" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, pg. 79).

As I thought about these ideas, I realized that an artist's struggles didn't have to be directly related to her creative process, either. It seems that struggles in life itself, the daily hardships one faces, are also a necessary part of an artist's life. These life struggles are very often the subject about which the author creates. The novel Brave New World expresses this idea well, I think. Forgive me, I don't remember specifics, but the novel takes place in a supposed Utopia, where life is perfect and no one struggles or is unhappy. One character, who has not been programmed well enough to live in this world, is not happy there. He wants to be a writer, to create. Finally, he is allowed to leave, and where he requests to go is a place where the weather is cold and tumultuous, where there can be sickness and where people are aware of death. The character realized that hardships are what gives life depth and what causes us to experience our emotions more fully. Hardships are also what cause us to appreciate times when they're good. It is this depth of emotion and experience that becomes the fuel for an artist's creative process. I think the struggles are really a necessary component. It is this place which Rilke talks about (and which I brought out before) where

Finally on this subject, I was thinking that some people do probably yearn for a life of contentment, without struggle. I began to think that maybe there is something unique about the artist's personality that causes them to live amidst struggle, almost flourish amidst it. Maybe there is something innate about the mind of artists and creators, something that drives them to look at the world, study it, question and explore it, and that maybe these characteristics contribute to an artist's experience of struggles. I think there is something about the creative mind that isn't willing to just accept things as they are even if it'll make life easier for them. They continue to question, to probe. So maybe this is sort of the burden of the artist--to have the qualities of intuitiveness, exploration, etc., one also will realize and understand the not-so-fun things about the world. To not being happy with one's art--to want to continue to improve--to feel a need to keep creating and not really ever feel satisfied, these hardships are somewhat unique to the creative mind. The characteristics I mentioned seem to be both the reason a person becomes an artist and the reason he/she can't be content in life. It's an interesting paradox, I think.

From: Lucas, Katherine M

Sent: Friday, February 04, 2000 12:42 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 2 Peacock, Eskimo, Stafford// Magical Layers

"A word spoken by chance / might have strange consequences. / It would suddenly come alive . . . " (Eskimo, Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, p. 160). These lines seem to describe some of the magic of poetry, the ability to mix words in just the right combination to make an idea or an image stick out more clearly than in any other way. This is similar to Stafford's description of writing, which he says is "a process that will bring about new things [the author] would not have thought of if he started to say them" (Stafford, Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, p. 181). Stafford describes how he begins to write about anything, however small and unimportant, and then sees what wonderful, surprising things develop from it. The authors of these two works have found the magic of words through poetry--the exciting, unpredictable revelations that can come from the writing and reading of it. It is also interesting that the Eskimo poem speaks of this magic coming when humans and animals are connected. These moments of revelation, when words come alive in poetry, do seem moments when the reader and the writer have a deeper understanding and connection to the world around them.

Peacock talks about loving the poems that strike her but which she might not undertand right away. "This toughness of resistance to meaning," she says, "feels as if the poem had an inpenetrable rind--yet how the poem glows!" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 5). Ambivalence is important in poetry, it seems, as the pitcher in Robert Francis' poem also aimed for slightly off the mark. Amibivalence adds to poetry's richness, to the layers of rind. If the poem is not understood right away, it will be thought about and reconsidered many times. Each time, a new layer can be discovered. This richness helps the meaning and importance of the poem to keep changing with the reader. Francis' pitcher throws to be "a moment misunderstood" (Francis, Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, p. 187). At first, I wondered why an author would strive for this moment of confusion, what misunderstanding could do for the reader. I realized that it allows the reader to make the poem his/her own. The moment of confusion, when the rind is inpenetrable, is the time when the reader has to work to find his/her personal connection and understanding of the poem. I think this is what Peacock is referring to when she says "the voice of the poem allows us to hear ourselves" (Peacock, p. 4).