From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Friday, February 04, 2000 12:20 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 2 Peacock -- Meade, Thomas, Solomon // From the Warrior Poets to the Poets at War
(disclaimer: this is a journal in its true sense in that I needed to rant a little, I am not sure if it is useable for the email posts but at least you can see what I am thinking about)
From the Warrior Poets to the Poets at War
the ranting of a new artist
One of the most over used and warn out clich1s is that of the artist at war with himself. It is an image that a 20 year old man (some may say the very man that writes this to you) has a difficult time forgetting. Why is it that an artist must struggle with art. I of course must point out that a clich1 would not be a clich1 if it didn't hold truth. Some of the greatest moments in my life come when I shut out the world around me and I start to work on my music or my poetry. Sometimes I can feel it inside me and I know that I have to shut myself off to find it. Rilke may say that I have to seek solitude, while I on the other hand would not even feel the need to point it out. I can never be at one with my art unless I can truly roll up my sleeves and struggle with it. This requires me to seek out that battle between me and my art that I hold so dear. Herein lies my thought upon these poems.
When is the struggle a clich1 and when is a struggle the truth? I have spent a lot of time the past few weeks dealing with the problem of when I should quite saying I am a student and start saying that I am a musician, a singer songwriter in fact. The words feel clumsy coming out of my mouth because it is only recently that I have decided to put everything aside and embrace my art. What that means for me of course is that I am now looking at college in a whole new way. No longer is it anything that holds me. It is merely the thing I am doing in my free time. I feel liberated now. Dylan Thomas, brother of mine, I hear your voice in my soul saying
"I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart." (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art")
And I can answer you saying sing on, sing on! Amergin can stand and command the waves with his art, why can't I? I am told it is a near impossible dream to make anything of my art, well I say I too am "Climber through the Needles Eye," (Michael Meade "Amergin and Cessair") This of course is where I draw the knowing looks and the comments from professors such as "I know, I was there once too," or "I can see the same starry eyed look I once had," in their best patronizing voice dripping with unspoken "you'll grow out of it." They see the clich1 and I see the warrior poet battling my modern enemies. Which might just be myself and my paranoid delusions that my professors are out to get me. I must wonder if Dylan Thomas ever had to deal with the same knowing smiles and half hidden snickers. Of course if he did those people would now be running to the nearest tabloid to say I knew him when. So get to know me now so you can make a buck or two in the following years.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Monday, May 01, 2000 12:12 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 24. Frost // When Lovers Lie Abed
When Lovers Lie Abed
I decided to go with Robert Frost because I havent gotten to my favorite of tangents, which is my love for Robert Frost.(my title is a quote from Dylan Thomas but I like the image so I thought I'd do some allusions of my own) I found the poem in the Earthly Love section in the Rag and Bone Shop and it struck me because I have a poem of his that I have kept as my favorite poem for several years that was so strikingly similar. Both were about love and death (if merely in allusion). So I had to compare them, unfortunately my favorite poem is not in Rag and Bone Shop but in my personal Frost Collection. But anyway, I can deal with that so you will have to. The First Poem in Rag and Bone Shope is "The Impulse" (p. 345) The second is called "A Late Walk" Both had an amazing look at love and death.
The first great thing about Frost that I must talk about is his amazing use of the pastoral setting. Every poem is a picture. I love the way I can practicly smell the descriptions of fresh cut grass and furrowed fields. The beauty of the ideas are contrasted with the weight of each poem. You long to be there but then are reminded of the severity of the poem and feel the pain there with the poet. The beauty of both of these poems is such a wonderful example of frosts use of setting to convey feelings. Each weed speaks volumes and the world rests on the falling of one leaf. As in "A Late Walk" where a leaf is disturbed by his sorrow. The loss of life and the fall of the leaf as one in the same. "A tree beside the wall stands bare / but a leaf that lingered brown / Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought / comes softly rattling there."
Frost also has a knack for the use of meter and rhyme. He keeps the traditional elements of poetry and still manages to convey so much emotion. It is a beacon for a songwriter. His traditional style couipled with his use of New England pastoral settings and colloquial language provide an amazing body of work that can only be classifeid as brilliant. In both poems he also has a certain way of delivering the real meat within the last few lines. Both poems have a sense of power within the last statement. The loss of love and the loss of life set against each other in a comparison, as in the last line of the impulse, "Sudden and swift and light as that / the ties gave, / And he learned of finalities / Besides the grave." The finality of the loss of love, the sharp turning point where love leaves, compared to that point where life leaves.
The finality of A Late Walk can only be done when I read it in class. I have so much reverance for this poem that I must read it before I give away its secrets.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 9:44 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 21. Ravikovitch // The Sound of Birds at Noon
This Chirping
is not in the least malicious.
I found this line to be an excellent starting point to look into the view of this poem. Who thinks of the birds chirping as being malicious? It sounds like the view of someone who believes the world is set up against them. But by taking the statement as it is it shows that the speaker feels that the world is changing for them
They sing without giving us a thought
and they are as many
as the seed of Abraham.
This line shows the background by relating the birds to the tribes of Jerusalem (or the people of the world) By saying that the birds are as numerous as the people of the world it sets up the idea that the birds hold no malice towards men whiole men can be malicious towards one another. The fact that they sing without giving thpought to the world of humans with all the problems shows how they shine as a beacon of optimism even as the world around the people that live with them crumbles. Another view is that the world is set up for the struggle of the jewish people but nature can be comforting to show that maybe it is not that way but only man is set up to hold down man.
They have a life of thier own,
they fly without thinking.
Once again they are shown as oblivious to the world of humans but beuatiful in they're oblivion. Like a model for mankind to look to. They can sing and fly without thinking while men kill each other.
Some are rare, some common,
but every wing is grace.
This is a statement that can be taken to mean mankind as well. Minorities and Majorities. Third Worlds and Firsts but they all are beuatiful in their own respects.
Their hearts aren't heavy
even when they peck at a worm.
I find this sentence to be the oddest within the poem. I dont feel it really fits with the rest. I guess I could take it to mean that the birds aere content with their place within the circle of life just as they are content harvesting that which they need, But this is an interesting view if it is truelly supposed to be a paradigm for mankind. I guess it could be an anthem for meat eaters. I heart isnt even heavy as it kills another life form. I lived on a farm and can confess to the feelings of sadness as butchering time came. But I never stopped eating meat so I can agree with this interpretation. (I think)
Perhaps they're light-headed.
This line can also be held away from the rest of the poem. Like a doubt of the optimism that the speaker is verging on. It is a critical moment within the poem as the speaker finally has to decide the view to take on the birds.
The heavens were givin to them
to rule over day and night
This goes back to the old testament parallels that have the birds similar to humans. They were givin the sky and look how they have handled it. Mankind was givin the earth and now they war with each other. Oh to be like the graceful birds.
and when they touch a branch,
the branch too is theirs.
They also become conquerers but they rule as nature. It is a model to mankind. As Mankind wars to take over peices of land a bird can land on it and control it. They are beautiful graceful and happy. Something that man has been attempting for ages. God gave them the sky and gave us the earth so that says something about where we have gone wrong (speaking as the speaker in old testament theology)
This chirping is entirely free of malice.
Once again it returns but after the doubt and wonder it is more solid. The bird is more than the man. And Nature isnt set up to defeat man, it is man who has done that. Nature is chirping happily with its own life.
Over the years
it even seems to have
a note of compassion.
This is a beuatiful end line stateing that Nature can almost feel compassion for how bad mankind has made it.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Wednesday, March 15, 2000 12:30 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 16 Akhmatova // A Nation Without Nationalists
I am not among those who left our land
I am not among those who left our land
The first line and title... They call to mind images of the exiled. Placing herself in a roll of the speaker within the country, that stayed, that endured. That is sure that she is in the right place. (or was)
to be torn to pieces by our enemies.
This of course is a vulgar image, But what better way to set up this poem? She would choose to stay home. She did not go to fight. "Torn to peices" shows the hopelessness of her situation. They werent merely killed but torn to peices. It almost sounds as if she was disgusted with fact that people could leve the country to be destroyed knowing full well they would die. While she was forced out and had no choice. Or maybe they werent killed so much as their identitites were destroyed and therefore they were torn to peices. By leaving the culture and the world they knew they were destroyed by the outside world, or her "enemies" It says something about how hopeless she feels but yet how she still feels right about her choice to stay...
I don't listen to their vulgar flattery,
I will not give them my poems.
This I love. Her poetry is so much a part of her world. It instills a feeling of suffering and great hurt, but also makes the world turn a sympathetic ear saying "how can this happen" But she doesnt write for the soldiers and the fighters. She doesnt write for the people continuing the bloodshed. She writes for those that chose to stay behind and endure, those such as herself. I am reminded of her Poem about Women waiting outside a jail to hear news of their son or husband because they were taken away. The women would wait outside every day hoping to hear if their son or husband was alive. I wish I knew the name of the poem right now. I was introduced to it through Jorie Graham's poem about it. (Read Jorie Graham every chance you get!) But it is another poem written about the people that suffer in a war besides the soldiers. These are people that choose every day not to fight but yet they still have to feel the pain. So she doesnt write for national pride, she writes for the meek, for the pathetic. She writes so that somebody can hear what they are saying every day. They dont care about what is being fought for, they care about they're sons and husbands.
But the exile is for ever pitiful to me,
like a prisoner, like a sick man.
But now that she is away from her homeland she is in just as bad a state. She can no longer suffer with her family and friends, a comforting thought when you wonder where they even are.
Your road is dark, wanderer;
It is a step out of the original speaking voice. The voice of fate that condemns someone to a life that others might rejoice at her surviving, but she herself cannot. For she is a refugee of war and cannot return to the place that she knows.
alien corn smells of wormwood.
Another powerful line to end a stanza that talks about the idea that she is a refugee and did not choose to fight but nonetheless she is out away from her homeland. Among everything that is different and therefore she can never be comfortable again.
But here, stupefied by fumes of fire,
The fire of a camp from a refugee or fire from their homes and their crops burning. It has made them silent. in shock.
wasting the remainder of our youth,
There is nothing that a refugee can do. And nothng takes away youth like war. The loss of innocense puts them into that strange place where a child cannot be a child anymore.
we did not defend ourselves
from a single blow.
Christ turns his cheek, and the refugees move on. They didnt even defend. It is the ideals of christianity taken to its grotesque conclusion. If you do not defend yourself then you end up bruised and bloodied. But that is what is called for, or that is all they could do, either way you cannot decide whether to look up to them or to look down on them.
We know that history
will vindicate our every hour...
What a sad statement. The only thing to look to for hope is that history will prove you right. The hope of the hopeless. The ellipses say that there is something more. How will history vindicate them, The same way it vindicated the slaves that endured lifetimes of slavery? It is so sad to look on this being your only hope left. What happiness is found in a hope that none will live to see? You cannot tell a person that they must die today because then their grandchildren will say they died nobly that day. It is such an odd statement to find pride in.
There is no one in the world more tearless,
more proud, more simple than us.
Tearless can be because they cannot cry anymore, or because they choose not to cry over the fate they were dealt. Proud can be because they walked the right path and history will one day say they did or because that is all they can have left of their own heritage. And simple is just what is left. They had nothing to do with the war around them but they suffered. And they did not ask why but merely endured. The life of a Refugee within one sentence.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Tuesday, March 07, 2000 1:23 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 14 Li-Young Lee // Of Men and Minstrels
I love this poem because of how it deals with men and the relationships between father and son and how that can relate to society and culture.
A Story
Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can't come up with one.
This poem starts with such an active statement. It sounds like a proverb. A line that speaks of wisdom and lessons to be learned. The premise at first being that creativity is so important, but upon further inspection speaks of the importance for a bond of communication, because it doesn't say sad is the man who has no stories, but sad is the man who can't come up with one. As if it all rests upon one moment, one defining moment, a turning point where the man will be asked for a story and if he can not come up with one then all is lost.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Five years old is the age of curiosity... That us when a boy goes to Kindergarten and his mind begins to expand. He is searching for more from his relationship...
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
Now is the time when a boy and his father must make a bridge into adulthood, so early before everything else happens it must start with the father showing his son the world.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
And now it happens that he cannot give his son the world. This is so important to every father son relationship, and it always happens... Suddenly Dad doesnt have the answers that the son seeks and he is forced to look outside of his fathers world.
In a room full of books in a world
I love the line breaks in this stanza, Notice the phrases that come if you just stick to one line. It gives so many images within the stanza. The idea of in a world speaks of how it can be any world... Yours, mine or one altogether unheard of...
of stories, he can recall
This line break almost hints at the fathers unwillingness to tell his son the stories. Is it his own fear or that time in a parents life where they dont want to have their child go down the same path they did.
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
The rythm within this line is excellent. It makes you think like the man must be... Stutering and half thoughts that give a sense of the mans state of mind as he grasps for a story and realises sees the rift between father and son
will give up on his father.
This the fear of every father that there son will look back and say that he cannot learn from his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don't go!
Like any son he must one day leave, and will he take the life lessons of his father or will he grasp out for his own. Does he leave because there is nothing left for him? The father knows of the day that must come in any parenting situation. It is the time when the child leaves and it gives him fear. Suddenly an impact of responsibility with every action. The father must look to the future with everything he does.
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!
This parent to child, this father to son... There is that day when a parent can no longer keep the child within his arms and how does a father react. I feel like the past few years the world has denied that there are gender roles within men that restrict them too. It is something that our constant strive for equality has put upon us. Is it wrong to say that a father to a son has a special bond that no woman will understand... No!. Just as there is a bond between mother and daughter. Father and son share a bond that cannot be expressed in emotion as our world has restrained men and emotions but it is still there and it is just as powerful. A man can find just as much emotional meaning by playing catch as a female can emoting. That is not to say men dont emote and women dont understand catch, it is to say that there is something different between men and women. A father to a son is something women cant understand and they never will. Hear is a father at the crossroads with his son, he knows how it will go.
But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
And it must go as this... The Man knows that the bond is one day to let his son go, and it tears at him and it causes him to question himself because he cannot explain why he feels the way he does. It is a man's love for his son.
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
The saddest day in a boys life is when he realizes his Dad is not a God. The day he sees his father for the person he is. It is like an angels fall from grace. But it is also the first step on that sons second connection to his father. Because one day he must go out and have children and feel the pressure and know that he too will fail.
.
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
But that day has not come... The father knows it will be there. The faliure is in his face. The day when his son will climb off his lap and stop crying when he is hurt. When he will take up sports and reject his parents logic... When he will go his own way, and end up right back were he started... Wanting to reach across time o hug his father to kiss him, to thank him, but now he is grown, now perhaps his father is dead, now it is too late because a man plays catch.
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
God didnt make men this way. There is no right or wrong. Men made Men this way. And I will always tear up when Kevin Costner tosses a baseball to his dad in Field of Dreams, even if my dad and I never played baseball together, Because one day when I am cooking for my son and talking of wine and goofing off in church I will look back and say I love you too Dad.
which posits that a boy's supplications
and a father's love add up to silence.
And who can understand that silence is so full of emotion then a father and a son.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Friday, March 03, 2000 12:58 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 13 Sharon Olds // the double darkness
I had an interesting time reading this poem for the simple fact that I couldnt tell if I was tired and repeating some images in my head or if she really put them there.
Every night, as my grandfather sat
in the darkened room in front of the fire
the liquor like fire in his hand, his eye
The first thing I noticed within this poem is the double imagery. Notice that he was sitting in front of a fire and the liqour was fire. I found this to be an amazing dichotomy as a hearth is considered warm and friendly but the liquor is such a sharp and dark image pattern.
glittering meaninglessly in the light
from the flames, his glass eye baleful and stony,
Once again it comes back this double imagery in his eye glittering meaninglessly while his glass eye is baleful and stony. I found this so interesting because of the reversal of descriptions. Shouldnt the glass eye glitter meaninglessly while the other eye hold meaning? And the description of both eyes along with the description of both fires starts to weigh in heavier as the introduction of the son begins...
a young man sat with him
in silence and darkness, a college boy with
This introduction of a second person, a pupil, let me believe that the double imagery is there to show the two men as they sit before the fire. One being so much more than the next with potential evil. The real eye glitters meaninglessly (the older man) while the good eye shows stormy and baleful, foreshadowing the true evil potential within this younger man. He is not yet real to the world but he holds so much more danger within himself. It can be put on the fire imagery as well, with the fire being the Grandfather and the liquor that reflects is fire as well.
white skin, unlined, a narrow
beautiful face, a broad domed
forehead and eyes amber as the resin from
trees to young to be cut yet
a beautiful group of imagesz all hinting at the youth and vtality. This reminds me of the images of the devil that are used to describe him. In certain stories you finds the devil being described as pale and unlined, almost beautiful, but not quite right in some way, and that is what I am left with hear.
This was his son, who sat, an apprentice,
night after night, his glass of coals,
next to the old mans glass of coals
The glass of coals of coarse being anoter double meaning as the liquor and as the fire that burned within. A glass of coals is so much within so little. The fire of the liqour they drank, and the fire of the anger and oblivion they held
and he drank when the old man drank, and he learned
the craft of oblivion--that young man
This image of apprentice calls to mind that of the simple story line of apprentice who learns and eventually bests his master. The potential is there, but the interesting part is that their craft is oblivion, nothingness, in fact more than nothingness, absolute nothingness
not yet cruel, his hair dark as the
soil that feeds the trees roots,
Another image of trees that speakes of the youth and impression of the young man. A tree feeds from the soil and if the soil is tainted then so is the tree. And the darkness of his har also reflects on that evil imagery. (I wish I could remember the short story that desribed the devil in this way but alas, it is late.)
that son who would come to be in his turn
better than the teacher, the apprentice
who would pass his master in cruelty and oblivion,
This of course is what I brought up about the aprentice becoming better than the master. I cant tell you how many times I read a book with this plot. And always is it is expected that the aprentice just seems to lack something that gives him reason... It makes him that much more cruel because he could not learn the truth to why, he wasnt the originator merely an imposter and that makes him much more cruel to make up for that fact.
drinking steadily by the flames in the blackness,
that young man my father.
This is the clinching statement that ties it all in. This imagined lesson that her father has learned, it is that great cycle of abuse steadily geating to be greater. I have to admit though, I feel like the end of the poem loses what the beginning had. It comes down to a blunt statement that takes a way all the layers. I loved the first half of this poem because it had so much within it and I felt it started to lose it as it closed in on this cliche clinching statement.
And that is what I have to say about that.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Monday, February 28, 2000 12:27 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 11. Hayden // all of the poem in one word
Reading Haydens poem, Those Winter Sundays made me realize the importance of every word within a poem. I believe it was on Thursday that we were having a discussion about reading too much into one word. I love the first line in this poem because it says so much that the rest of the poem tries to explain. And it is all in that one turn of phrase, Sundays too my father got up early. The whole beginning of this poem would hold no weight with the rest of it if He hadnt included the simple small word "too." By using that word he puts it all in context by saying among all the rest his father also did this. It really brings out my idea that every word must be mulled over within a poem. I love how it sets up all the of the strong emotion that comes later in the poem. It has such longing to it. And it is just one small word.
This can be so aparent also in the later use of the word chronic. What an excelent choice for the line. Chronic, not able to be cured. The idea of chrionic anger shows how hopeless he felt in his house but it also takes the blame away from him for not recognising and repairing things with his father. I love the subtlety of the whole poem. It makes me love the investigation that a reader needs to make. There is so much that can be in a small word hidden within a poem that it can only make sense to me that a poet (in the most professional sense) must lay the import of the whole poem on each and every word. The idea of multiplicity within each word makes me love poetry. It can mean so much but exactly what the poet wants at the same time.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Tuesday, February 22, 2000 12:36 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 8 Rumi // Die in This Love
Die in This Love
by Jalalludin Rumi
I found upon my first readiing of this poem that my thoughts lingered on the religious. His use of a double meaning for die and death brought about the christian (and muslim) idea of being saved within Christ (or God)
Die, die, die in this love.
If you die in this love your soul will be renewed.
This phrase caught me the most as religious because of its implications of faith and salvation within love. To die within love as in to completely accept the love of god and within this find salvation (your common everyday relgious idea)
Die, die, don't fear the death of that which is known.
If you die to the temporal you will become timeless.
The line to not fear the death of that which is known tells me that the death that is known is death as in life & death, and all that jazz, but to die within the context of the rest of the poem is to give over to God. So dont fear real death because if you accept god you will be timeless (salvation again)
Die, die, cut off those chains
that hold you prisoner to the world of attachment.
Give up the ties to life as a human. salvation is in the next life so throw out the attachment to this one.
Die, die, die to the deathless and you will be eternal.
resign yourself to God and the church (the deathless in the sense that the church is the faithful) and you will find salvation
Die, die, come out of this cloud.
When you leave the cloud,
you will be the effulgent moon
when you give over to god you become a brite reflection of his being. The moon being the reflection the cloud being the world that you are attached to.
Die, die, die to the din and noise of mundane concerns.
In the silence of love you will find the spark of life.
And of course hear it talks of giving up the mundane concerns to accept the love of god. It is very beuatifully and simply put. Almost as if it is a psalm. the dichotomies are nice because they use the image patterns present within a group. (i.e. clouds : moon, or noise : silence)
The double meaning of die and death make for an interesting comparison (and contrast) I love how Rumi is so simple but yet so emotionalk at the same time. It is very accessible poetry.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 6:40 PM
To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M
Subject: Response to Anne -- 8 Clifton // the inner child
In responce to Anne Walters reading of the Poem by Lucille Clifton I found so many thoughts that sprouted from her interpretation that I had to write about her views. I love the way Anne brought in the nature imagery as it realted to the sexuality of the woman. I feel like the idea of nature tends to lend itself to independance in every aspect including sexuality. The idea of a girl blossoming so that her lovers can harvest speaks volumes about the way the poet interprets her creativity inside her. But I am getting ahead of myself...
I looked at the girl in this peom as the voice within the poet that continues to see the world in new ways (which in turn allows the poet to write). The way the poem progresses to the blossoming of this girl brought in this thought that poetry and sexuality are combined in their companionship with the base emotions of humanity. The way that the girl becomes a woman within the poem as the poet feels the call of youth again within her own life most notably with the recurrence of her wild streak. And who can't say that a wild streak has nothing to do with sex?
----------
From: Walters, Anne M
Sent: Saturday, February 19, 2000 8:45 PM
To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M
Subject: 8 Clifton // the inner child
Lucille Clifton b. 1936
there is a girl inside
she is randy as a wolf.
i looked up "randy" on dictionary.com. the first entry states its meaning as: "uninhibited sexuality." the word randy is quite the contrast to "girl." i think of a girl as being too young to be "randy." what is this girl inside of? an older woman perhaps? from these two lines, i feel a sense that the girl is trying to break through to the outside.
she will not walk away
and leave these bones
to an old woman.
the girl refuses to give in to her outside appearance of an old woman.
she is a green tree
in a forest of kindling.
the girl is young, like a green tree, who won't die in a fire, who won't give in to old age
she is a green girl
in a used poet.
"green girl" is nice alliteration. i see "used poet" as the outershell of the older woman. on the inside, t his woman is a girl, young, fresh, and new, like a seedling.
she has waited
patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom
this makes me think that the girl has been patiently inside, waiting for a long time. what is the second coming? it reminds me of the second coming of Christ. it's as if the older woman will be reborn.
it is as if the girl inside is waiting for someone to say, "okay, you can be young again" and her true identity is revealed. i know many "senior citizens" who may older in life, but are really young at heart. how many times do we even recognize the elderly in our society?
and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.
lovers? they are a new subject. the girl will have lovers, the older woman is no more. it is like the sexuality of
the woman is emerging once again. i don't think the sexuality was missing, it was just buried. i like the
sound of the words: "woods will be wild." the words "woods" is another nature image, "blossom" was used in the stanza above, and "wolf" was used in the first section.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 6:23 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Response to Joanna -- 7 Holm // there is a free spirit within each of us
I must say that I found Joanna's questions of the poem Advice (rag and bone pg 30) very different from my own but at the same time it inspired me to look at this poem in a new light. To begin with I feel that it is not merely a poem about reaching out to taste art and the so called "finer things" in life but merely to find that part of you that says "be safe and choose the path we-ll traveled" and discard it! To pull on my own background once again for an example; My parents are both doctors and very career oriented. But not for the money (we never have had any) but for the love of what they do. It is imnportant to distinguish between the person who chooses a field of work and in that a lifestyle merely for the safety and a person that chooses to live as they feel they have to. My dad is a research scientist living by himself in LA merely because that is where he can work on what he loves. (I wonder how I am so driven to art) True that I might have gained very little from my parents scientist ways, but I did gain my ambition for living life to the hilt and throwing out the voice that says "you should do this..." I think that we need to recognise the differences in people and not hold ourselves above those that find passion in the technical and what we as artists feel is the mundane, because the elusive duende can grab a mathmatician just as easily as it can grab a poet.
-----Original Message-----
From: JTSTONE [mailto:JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]
Sent: Wednesday, February 16, 2000 12:09 AM
To: mthamert@csbsju.edu
Subject: Holm // there is a free spirit within each of us
I really liked the poem Advice, by Bill Holm. (Rag and Bone, p.30) It reminds me that we cannot always do just what society wants us to do, and the importance of discovering the wild, free spirit within each of us. Someone dancing inside us / learned only a few steps: We are limited by the roles society expects us to play. Society says we should be responsible and studious and learn our lessons well so that we may go out into the world of work and get a respectable, well-paying job to go to every day for the rest of our lives. The "Do-Your-Work" in 4/4 time, / the "What-Do-You-Expect" waltz. But this is not necessarily the right path for everyone. It is simply the easiest path to find. He hasn't noticed yet the woman / standing away from the lamp, She is a true free spirit; she is not in the limelight or in mainstream culture- she is not in the lamplight. Instead, she remains in the shadows, mysterious and elusive. The one with black eyes / who knows the rhumba, Yes, this woman is truly something different. She has knowledge of art- of something besides the dull daily occurrences in the lives of those who think they are getting "ahead" in the world. She has experienced life, and knows more than just a few steps. And strange steps in jumpy rhythms / from the mountains in Bulgaria. This woman, this spirit, has not only the wisdom from her own culture, but has traveled to distant lands to learn what she can from the people there and their ideas. We cannot just fall into society like pieces into a jigsaw puzzle, we must challenge ideas and explore alternatives to discover who we really are and become truly alive. If they dance together, / something unexpected will happen, When the unquestioning man meets the freethinking woman, his life will never be the same. She will challenge him through her very existence to think for himself and challenge the roles and ideals placed upon him by society. If they don't, the next world / will be a lot like this one. If the freethinkers do not challenge those who are in control in our society, then nothing will ever change. Wildness and freedom of spirit are essential to the development and improvement of our society.
I'm not really sure what I think about the gender issues implied by this poem. Why is it that the boring person who has "learned only a few steps" is a man, and the free spirit is a woman "with black eyes"? Personally, I feel that the roles in this poem could easily be switched, and would change the images of the poems, but not the meaning. I think that if wildness is different for women and men it is only because of the different roles society tells each to play. Because we have different roles to break out of, our wildness may be different at first. But I believe that in the long run, women and men have more in common than different.
Growing as wild women (or men) involves breaking out of cages, boxes, stereotypes, categories, and captivity. It involves standing tall, laughing loudly, and being who we really are.
(SARK, Succulent Wild Woman, p. 176)
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Tuesday, February 08, 2000 12:48 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 4 Buonarroti, Khlebnikov // Something is Lost in the Translation
Something is Lost in the Translation
(namely me)
I find that one of the hardest things for me to read is poetry that has been translated. I have such a hard time grasping the new forms as it always seems to strain at the English language. But at the same time it is that straining at my language that causes the poem to have a spirit within it that is truly it's own. Within the poem We Chant and Enchant I found myself reading it over and again just enjoying the sound so much. It tested the limits of my vocabulary almost to the point of causing my fascination to be almost purely rythmic. It called to mind such happy memories of my first discovery of The Jabberwocky. And as with the latter poem I find my mind wandering everytime I read it. The simple repetition of sounds as in the lines "Discast it, discant it, / Descant: Decant! Recant!" What wonderful creative use of those words. They fit so well but at the same time they are so absurd because they do. I wish I could look beneath the surface of this peom but alas I am caught upon the snicker snack of it's vorpal sword...
I almost lost my critical thinking abilities completely had it not been for the poem of art taking over a person to the point of destruction. I love the dichotomy within the poem as it staights "since foul I fare and painting is my shame." (On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel) It is the common theme of the artist to be so consumed that he does not care for anything including his own self. Passion is such an amazing thing that it can all encompass a person to the point of complete oblivion. It is a drug that can be just as addictive and just as destructive. The great thing is that no artist would refuse art for their own health. It is a form of true dedication that can only be expected among the empassioned. It is that idea of duende, the demon that gives the masterpeice but takes so much in return. It is a sacrifice of sorts to the gods of expression.
From: Solomon, John P
Sent: Tuesday, February 08, 2000 12:11 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 3 Reply to Ryan's post; The rhythm to the rhyme
In response to Ryan:
The Rhythm to the Rhyme
Ryan and I are on the same wavelength. When I was reading the poems from the Rag and Bone Shop I noticed that some of the poems needed to be said aloud to get the full import of their content. I touched on it slightly in my post that day about the idea of a Warrior-Poet. What a fascinating idea. The idea of a warrior gruff and aggressive in the grace and intelligence of a poet, it conjures up noble images. I found myself reading Amergin's lines in Amergin and Cessair aloud in my room (with a Scottish accent for effect of course.) Poetry was so noble in the past. It's a fascination of mine to imagine these battles fought with words. It recalls the idea of ancient magic only put into the magic of poetry. So much of what poetry used to be is rhythm, and so much of what modern poetry is today (in its simplest sense, lyrical poetry to music) is rhythm.
As I started to first study English as a college student I ran across Beowulf. The first week of that reading was simply awful. I couldn't find any thing of interest in this story that was told so poorly by todays standards. It was only until I imagined it as it was intended, told by a poet to entertain, did the beauty finally dawn on me. I saw it in a whole new light and fell in love with the beauty and grace held within each line. Now I make a habit of reading my older literature out loud (it helps that I have a single) to gain insight into the true beauty that it holds. And who among us doesn't listen to our now modern version of it within todays poetry, rap being the most like the poetry of old, but also any form of pop music today.