HONR 250 WALTERS ANNE ENTRIES SP2000

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 9:40 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 1 Rilke // How About Some Peace?

"Seek not so much to be understood as to understand..." Francis of Assisi

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

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 2:15 PM

To: 'mthamert@csbsju.edu'

Subject: Rilke // How About Some Peace?

I really enjoyed this book, and so many passages stick out. Much of it speaks to my life and where I am right now and where I want to be. What first stood out for me is Rilke's emphasis on the power of solitude and loneliness. "What you really need is simply this--aloneness, great inner solitude. To go within and for hours not to meet anyone--that is what one needs to attain" (Rilke, Letter 6, page 55).

Rilke is telling his pen pal of the importance of quiet and peace, no phone calls, no e-mails, etc. For me, my life is very busy, and I allow many people, phone calls, meetings and details into my everyday life. I love these things, but I also need solitude. At times, I feel my inner peace dissipating. For J-term break I had the opportunity to fly to Florida to visit my god-parents. My 4 day vacation was just what the doctored ordered. I spent a lot of quiet time thinking, and I even started writing in a journal, something I haven't done for awhile. On the plane ride home I looked at my new art books, stared out the window, and kept writing in my journal. In those brief days I recaptured some of my inner peace, and it was through inner solitude, reflection, and staring at the ocean, that it happened. I hope I can continue to make that a priority in my life. I think Rilke is saying that we need to alone with ourselves, to know who we are, and to listen and recognize our inner voice. It is interesting how he stressed the importance of loneliness where in today's society, we are encouraged to be social beings. We can learn a lot from loneliness.

Another passage that was particularly beautiful to me is where Rilke is writing Mr. Kappus a Christmas letter. Mr. Kappus does not believe in God, and Rilke challenges him and offers comforting words. "Perhaps these very days of your transition are the times that He is touched by everything within you. Perhaps you are influencing him, just as you a child with breathless effort left your mark on him" (Rilke, Letter 6, page 59). Many times, I think we always hear about how God affects our lives, how God changes us, etc. Sometimes it can seem like a one-sided relationship. How do we affect God? I love this passage because it is saying that God is personally affected by everything we do, He/She not only watches over all of us, but God is changed personally by our actions. We leave our mark on God. What a beautiful concept.

Lastly, I want to mention the passage where Rilke discusses how we should not live in fear. We mustn't blame society for we have created this fear. "We have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our own terrors. If dangers are present, we must try to love them ..... embrace that which is difficult" (Rilke, Letter 8, page 85). This quote seems relevant to today's society because I think we are taught by the media, parents, etc. etc. to at times live in fear. In reality we are the ones causing fear today. Countries are perpetuating fear and mistrust of each other through wars, trade embargoes, news stories, missile reserves, etc. We have in our mind stereotypes of different types of people, African-Americans, homosexuals, people from the South, International students, and all of these things create barriers and fear between people. Rilke is telling us to face our fears whether it's on a national scale or if it involves talking to someone new on the bus.

Anne Walters

"Seek not so much to be understood as to understand..." Francis of Assisi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Thursday, May 11, 2000 12:52 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: poem by Jimmy Carter

Hey everyone!

Here's a poem I came across in research for another class. It's a poem written by Jimmy Carter about his mother, Lillian Carter, who served as a Peace Corps Volunteer in India from 1967-69.

Miss Lillian Sees Leprosy For the First Time~ by Jimmy Carter

When I nursed in a clinic

near Bombay,

a small girl, shielding

all her leprous sores,

crept inside the door.

I moved away,

but then the doctor called,

"You take this case!"

First I found a mask, and put it on,

quickly gave the child

a shot and then, not well,

I slipped away to be alone

and scrubbed by entire body red and raw.

I faced her treatment every week with dread and loathing

--of the chore, not the child.

As time passed, I was less afraid and managed not to

turn my face away.

Her spirit bloomed as sores began to fade.

She'd raise her anxious,

searching eyes to mine

to show she trusted me.

We'd smile and say

a few Marathih words,

and then reach and

hold each other's hands.

And then love grew between

us, so that, later

when I kissed her lips

I didn't feel unclean.

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."~Rumi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, May 10, 2000 11:42 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: Wulf and Edwace (anonymous) //one that i missed

Wulf and Edwacer, found in Peacock's Chapter 4, "A Queen Sends an SOS," pg. 37

The men of my tribe would treat him as game:

if he comes to the camp they will kill him outright.

Our fate is forked.

Wulf is one island, I on another.

Mine is a fastness: the fens girdle it

and it is defended by the fiercest men.

If he comes to the camp they will kill him for sure.

Our fate is forked.

It was rainy weather, and I wept by the hearth,

thinking of my Wulf's far wanderings;

one of the captains caught me in his arms.

It gladdened me then; but it grieved me, too.

Wulf, my Wulf, it was wanting you

that made me sick, your seldom coming,

the hollowness at heart; not the hunger I spoke of.

Do you hear, Eadwacer? Our whelp

Wulf shall take to the wood.

What was never bound is broken easily,

our song together.

ANONYMOUS

(tenth century)

I do not remember reading this poem at all earlier this year, and that is why I chose it. I read the very first part of Peacock's Chapter 4 which went on to explain that this poem was written by a a Queen from the Middle Ages and it was later transcribed by a monk. It is an "Old English" poem, and is one of the first examples of English poetry written by women (this is another reason why I liked it). In my head I imagine this tough, hardened queen, a ruler, who has to live with these barbaric men and warriors. She has to be smart and perhaps insensitive to rule this country, to stand among the men. But yet, she does have a heart, she loves Wulf. Wulf, ironically, is wanted dead by the other men in the tribe. The men of my tribe would treat him as game:

if he comes to the camp they will kill him outright (Peacock, pg. 37). This line is right at the beginning of the poem and is very clear. It makes me wonder, how much power does this Queen really have? Perhaps not a lot if she cannot stop someone from being killed. She is a woman, but the men are mentioned first in the poem.

What strikes me in this poem is the separated words Our fate is forked are mentioned twice in the poem. I see them as a reflection of earlier stanzas which reveal the futility and danger of her love for this man. I like the alliteration as well of 'fate' and 'forked'.

Next, I think that this Queen is acting out communication patterns that we were just talking about in Tuesday's class. We talked about how it is sometimes difficult to tell people what we are truly mean, and we often have an easier time communicating our inner thoughts via e-mail, instead of face to face. In this poem, the Queen too was afraid to reveal his inner love and her true feelings: Wulf, my Wulf, it was wanting you

that made me sick, your seldom coming,

the hollowness at heart; not the hunger I spoke of.

She wasn't physically sick, she was lovesick. Again, alliteration is used: hollowness, heart, hunger, sick, seldom.

Lastly, I really love the last lines.

What was never bound is broken easily,

our song together.

This Queen, despite her passionate love, may never be able to see this Wulf fellow (Wulf=Wolf???), she may never a chance to have a relationship. It is ended before it even began. She says "My Wulf", but was he ever hers?

"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there."~Rumi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Monday, May 08, 2000 8:09 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: Wei and Carver//run or hide?

I am comparing 2 poems from Luminous. "A Farewell" (pg. 281) by Wang Wei and "The Cobweb" (pg. 265) by Raymond Carver.

Here is a brief bio. on the Chinese author/artists Wang Wei. What I found most interesting is that while he wrote many poems, he is especially noted for his artistry and his "sensitivity" to nature. (see below) Carver was an alcoholic who died of cancer. This information provides insight for his poem.

I chose to compare these poems because they both speak about life, but in different ways. First of all, I relate to "Farewell" right now as paper after paper and test after test is piling up in front of me, and I have an urge to bolt. I relate to "Farewell" with its desire to run and hide, a need to "hibernate at the foot of the Deep South Mountain" (Luminous 281). Because the name of the mountain is capitalized, I believe the author is speaking of a mountain he knows, perhaps one he has drawn. Who is the "I" in the poem and who is the "you?" Perhaps Wang Wei is talking to himself or to a friend. In contrast to the poem--"You say you are a failure"--I personally do not feel like a failure, I just feel like dodging all of my homework and enjoying life as it is. The sadness and finality in this poem is haunting: "Once you're gone no one will ask about you." Isn't that one of our greatest fears, not to be remembered or missed? (ie: not loved) However, the mountain offers something more than this life: "endless white clouds," which introduction say represent the eternal. So the author presents us with a choice: stay in the world where we feel we are a failure, a place where we are tired or else move onto the white clouds ... clouds of oblivion? peaceful clouds of enlightenment. The author is saying good-bye ("farewell") to life.

Similarly, "The Cobweb" is also about choices, but they are choices made after the realization life is worth living, despite the setbacks.

"From there I could see and hear the water,

and everything that's happened to me all these years." (Luminous, 265).

This line strikes me because it involves water, a form of nature which compares to how Wei mentions the "Deep South Mountain" in "Farewell." It always seems as if we run to nature to find answers, peace, quiet, to find ourselves. This poem also reminds me of Father Mark's comment in class about how during a particular Lenten liturgy service, he was flooded with memories of his life, good and bad. I would see this as a positive experience, but to the poet, there is the sharp surprise of nothingness in his memories. "It was hot and still. The tide was out. No birds sang" (Luminous, 265). In contrast to "Farewell," the subject in the poem, despite this loneliness, does not want to run and hide. By looking at the fragility of a spider web, the author has enlightenment about the preciousness of life. "Before long, before anyone realizes, I'll be gone from here" (Luminous, 265). In contrast. the author does not have move onto the above white clouds of enlightenment. He found his meaning in life by looking at the complexity and yet simple meaning of the spider web, and its fragility in the wind. I like this poem for the reason that the author wants to stay and his life, wants to find the meaning here on earth. The author is not ready to say good-bye.

Wang Wei

Wang Wei (699-759), Chinese painter and poet, a figure of legendary stature; Wang is considered the founder of the pure landscape style of painting and was one of the masters of lyric verse in the Tang (T'ang) dynast

Wang's poems, which are preserved, are admired for their sensitivity to nature. His work as an artist is known only in a few inadequate rubbings taken from stone engravings of his famous Wang-ch'uan hand scroll and in paraphrases of his paintings by later artists (such as the Landscape in the Academy of Arts, Honolulu, Hawaii). Most information about his significance as a painter comes from literary sources. He is believed to have been the first painter to treat landscape as an evocation of nature rather than as a vehicle for colorful, artificial decorations, which was the accepted manner of his day. He regarded landscape painting as an intimate communion with nature and is credited with the statement, "When you paint a landscape, it is more important to use your instinct than your brush." Wang is also credited with several far-reaching technical innovations-notably, the monochromatic ink style, which depended for its effect solely on a stringent and expressive use of black or gray ink washes and multiple small brushstrokes. A scholar-poet who withdrew from society to paint, he was considered by later Chinese art historians to be the founder of the Southern School of Chinese art and became the model for the later literati (wen-jen) artist, or unworldly poet-painter.

"Wang Wei," Microsoft« Encarta« Online Encyclopedia 2000

Raymond Carver http://world.std.com/~ptc/

"It's strange. You never start out life with the intention of becoming a bankrupt or an alcoholic or a cheat and a thief. Or a liar." -- Raymond Carver

The American short story writer and poet Raymond Carver was born in Clatskanie, Oregon, on May 25, 1938, and lived in Port Angeles, Washington during his last ten, sober years until his death from cancer on August 2, 1988. He was a Guggenheim Fellow in 1979 and was twice awarded grants from the National Endowment for the Arts. In 1983 Carver received the prestigious Mildred and Harold Strauss Living Award which gave him $35,000 per year tax free and required that he give up any employment other than writing, and in 1985 Poetry magazine's Levinson Prize. In 1988 he was elected to the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters and was awarded an honorary Doctorate of Letters from the University of Hartford. He received a Brandeis Citation for fiction in 1988. His work has been translated into more than twenty languages.

At least that's the basic biography. Of course there's no room in it for the nature of the hardship he and his family went through during most of those fifty years between birth and death. There's no mention of his marriage at 19, the birth of his two children, Christine and Vance, by the time he was 21. No mention of his sometimes ferocious fights with his first wife, Maryann. No mention, either, of his near death, the hospitalisations--four times in 1976 and 1977--for acute alcoholism.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, April 30, 2000 11:29 PM

To: Walters, Anne M; Thamert, Mark

Subject: 24. Swir, Rozewicz // The Same Inside & A Voice

"The Same Inside" struck me the first time I read it. The reason I have "A Voice" in this post is because both of the authors have in their background some kind of experience with WWII, and Nazi occupation, etc. Swir has written poems on Nazi domination in Poland, and she focuses on "empathy and pity for suffering people" (Luminous, 200). Rozewica was a soldier in a guerilla unit which fought against the Nazis. In Luminous Things, he is described as a "desperate nihilist," but also a compassionate interpreter of the human condition (207). Nihilism is the denial of the existence of any basic for knowledge or turth. A nihilist is an advocate of any form of philosphical or political nihilism. When I first read "The Same Inside," I didn't even read the intro. about Anna Swir and the connectionto WWII, and the second time I did. Swir's poem reflects my inner thoughts, and her beautiful, strikingly honest words stay with me.

Here is what struck me from "The Same Inside" ....

The Same Inside~Anna Swir, A Book of Luminous Things, pg. 200

Walking to your place for a love feast

I saw at a street corner

an old beggar woman.

First of all, the kind speaker is stopping to talk to a begar woman, an outcast. She is walking to a love feast, perhaps a meeting with a lover. What strikes me is that I think of Jesus, going to a feast, stopping to talk to an outcast. The contrast, a love feast, a beggar, Jesus. What made her stop?

I took her hand,

kissed her delicate cheek,

we talked, she was the same inside as I am,

WOW, powerful --there is a connection, they are of the same spirit ... it is after talking that they are drawn together. "the same inside"--what do they share? Is it a common suffering experience from WWII? Is it even possible to find someone the same as you "inside"?

from the same kind,

I sensed this instantly

as a dog knows by scent

another dog.

I like this stanza until I read the dog reference. I do not like this animal reference, it seems a stark, ugly, contrast to her beautiful lines and phrases.

I gave her money,

I could not part from her.

After all, one needs

someone who is close.

I like this line, we all need someone close. Interesting that she finds this person, this connection in someone besides her lover.

And then I no longer knew

why I was walking to your place.

These are two of my favorite lines because I love the idea of being captivated so much by someone, something, some experience, that you forget what you first intended .... to be swept away by a blinding experience, to forget your logic. Here, the speaker has had such a powerful connection, a powerful shared experience, she forgets her lover. WOW. I think the two women in this poem are sharing their remembrances of pain, of sorrow, perhaps of an experience with the Nazi's. Or else, they are, as Anne of Green Gables says, "kindred spirits."

A Voice~Tadeusz Rozewicz, A Book of Luminous Things, pg. 207

In regards to this poem, I am very interested in hearing what other people think. I am confused to who the "they" is. Is it the Nazi's that Rozewicz was fighting against? Is he talking about his fellow soldier buddies? There are stark contrasts throughout the poems. "with silences with words" ....

They mutilate they torment each other

with silences with words

as if they had another

life to live

they do so

as if they had forgotten

that their bodies

are inclined to death

that the insides of men

easily break down

ruthless with each other

they are weaker

than plants and animals

they can be killed by a word

by a smile by a lookFrom: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, April 18, 2000 9:07 PM

To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M

Subject: final paper (nasrin)/Islam and Subordination

Father Mark,

I will hand you in a paper copy of this tomorrow in class. I thought I would finish it now because I may be leaving early for home, (and I have other papers to write before I am able to leave). Thanks, Anne

Anne Walters

Great Poets, Father Mark

Paper on Nasrin

April 18, 2000

Islam and Subordination

Taslima Nasrin is a woman who is not afraid to speak her mind. This trait may appear as common except for the fact that wherever Nasrin speaks, whether it is in Nottingham, England, or the supposed neutral Canada, angry Muslim demonstrators and angry Islamic students are present wishing her harm. Why is this? Not only is she speaking her mind, she is speaking out against the Islamic religion, which she says oppresses women and confines them to traditional, submissive roles as sexual objects. Bangladesh's government has banned all of her books. In a 1998 interview with the magazine Free Inquiry, Nasrin said: "Islam itself oppresses women. Islam doesn't permit democracy and it violates human rights. If any religion allows the persecution of the people of different faiths, if any religion keeps women in slavery and keeps people in ignorance, then I cannot accept that religion" (Cherry 34).

Nasrin is a doctor, a writer, and a political activist whom Islamic fundamentalists want dead. Currently she is exiled in France for her own protection. In spite of her self-inflicted exile, Nasrin is a world-renown feminist and writer. Her poetry reveals her frustrations and experiences with the Islamic tradition. Her poems portray women trying to escape from a patriarchal system where men are always "blocking the door" (Nasrin 402), where men "follow you and whistle" (401), and where rapists hand out "character references" (403).

In her poem "Character," Nasrin points out a set of confining realities to future generations of women, realities they are forced to swallow because they are "girls." Who are confining the girls? Men. Nasrin writes: "when you step over the threshold of your house/men will look askance [disapproval/suspicion/distrust] at you. When you keep on walking down the lane/men will follow you and whistle" (401). Why is the house safer than the outside world? Are the women only whistled and belittled outside of the home? In this poem, Nasrin reveals little of the inequalities and subordination women and girls face from the men within the "safe" walls of houses. Perhaps, it is because she did not experience these limits in her own family.

Now, another important question for any reader to ask is to whom is the author writing? In "Character," the subject "you" is mentioned throughout the poem which implies that the speaker is talking to another audience, perhaps future generations of women. The poem is filled with "you's," and "I" is never used. Maybe the author is trying to remove herself from the situation. However, I wonder if the author is talking to herself. Despite all of Nasrin's accomplishments, she reminds herself that she is still a "girl." Nasrin begins her poem with two short, separate lines: "You're a girl/and you'd better not forget." The word "girl" as opposed to "woman" reflects innocence, inexperience, and powerlessness. It is as if "girl" implies a mark on the forehead or a sign of the plague. I am reminded of the Bible story where God marked Cain as a form of punishment and protection. Like Cain, the girls of Bangladesh are recognized everywhere they go; however, they are not protected.

While Nasrin is quick to point out the injustices girls face walking down the road, her poem, "Character," is not about a hopeless cause. Her determination and spunk are revealed in the last four lines:

If you've got no character

you'll turn back,

Nasrin does not offer her readers much of a choice. Go forward to the taunting streets or return to the confines of your home. When someone has turned his/her "back," he/she is defenseless, vulnerable.

and if not

you'll keep going

as you're going now." (Nasrin, 401)

The placement on the right side of the page implies the image of a person walking on towards the men in the street, into the face of humiliation, but with a confident walk of character. The earlier lines in the poem are all streamlined towards the right when they talk about leaving the house. What is the meaning of the contractions ("You've" "You'll" "You're" throughout the poem? Is Nasrin enforcing the diminished role of girls in society by not even writing out the full phrases? When "you" is used in the context of the girl walking by the men, the words are written out fully, and there are no contractions. Does that mean the girls are less whole when they are by themselves? Obviously, from this poem, Nasrin is encouraging herself and future generations of women to walk alone with heads held high above the taunting and dominating men. However, will this walk ever lead to freedom? Unless one is willing to choose a life of exile, probably not.

Nasrin develops another theme in her poem "Border." She comments on her desire to leave her family and country, to cross the river to a place where she can cry with her head "in the lap of solitude" (Nasrin, 402). This poem, in contrast to the first one, mentions the confinement of her family and the tension in leaving them, though only to return. However, once she leaves, can she return? Throughout the poem, Nasrin uses "I" which leads me to believe she is writing about herself. Once again, dominant men are present in her poem. As she is trying to leave the house . . .

my husband stands blocking the door

but I will go (402).

Throughout the poem, the image of a river is used. A river keeps flowing and is always moving and changing. Nasrin wants to swim in the river of progress, the river of political and religious freedom and cross to the other side. This poem may represent her exiled flee to Sweden. However, in spite of covering geographical distances, she is still trapped by the patriarchal tradition. "I know how to swim but they won't let me swim, won't let me cross." Are "they" her family? Or are "they" the Islamic fundamentalists who try to quiet her challenging writings?

When talking about the other side of the poem, the words and blank spaces on the page portray the image of emptiness.

There's nothing on the other side of the river

but a vast expanse of fields (402).

Across the river there is nothing, only the unknown and fields. The blank space reminds us as readers of the daunting undertaking. The other side of the river is a place of isolation and loneliness. Another example is:

For years I haven't cried with my head

in the lap of solitude (402).

Despite these attempts at escape, Nasrin sends mixed messages in this poem. At the end of the second, third, and fourth stanzas are the words "and then return." I do not understand why the author wants to return. Throughout this poem and others, I feel that Nasrin is struggling to break away. The contrasting image of "return" puzzles me. Perhaps she longs for her return because Bangladesh is her homeland, and her family ties are strong. However, if she's in exile, is she able to return even if she wants to? Nasrin wants to flee to a place where she can dance, play childhood games, and cry until her tears run dry. Once again, the tears, like the image of the river, are ones of fluid freedom. These are all images of innocence and fun. And yet, her childhood game of "keep-away" is not a childhood game any longer. Is she trying to escape from the Islamic fundamentalists, is she trying to escape from her family, or is she tired of fighting? She uses the word "someday" when discussing these ideas. If she is so anxious to go, if she can swim, if she wants to raise a commotion, why doesn't she leave now? In the end she does leave, but she will return, and the man will still be blocking the doorway. When Nasrin returned to Banladesh in 1998, she was greeted by 3,000 people who yelled, "Kill the infidel!" (Biblio). Nasrin's poems reflect the realities of her life.

Lastly, Nasrin's "At the Back of Progress . . ." is a poem in which she portrays the harsh reality of the sexual domination and exploitation of women as part of the Islamic tradition that affects all social classes of women. It is a mockery of the idea of progress, for what kind of progress includes the abuse of women? The poem's ellipse is present for a purpose. All three persons in the poem--the businessman, the employee, and the bearer-are all abusive to their wives, girlfriends, and the belly dancers in the bars. In addition, all of these men are one of the guys: "fellows" and "buddies" who in their free time, beat their wives regarding material items. These items represent the regression of class from the modern man to the cultural native.

For example, at the beginning of the poem, the businessman is hitting his wife over a handkerchief and shirt collar. Next, the employee continues the polarity because he "indulges . . . on politics, art, and literature," and beats his wife "over a bar of soap." Further, the bearer represents the primitive man as he divorces one of his wives because of her sterility and beats another over a "handful of cooked rice" (403). The downward digression of "shirt collar" to "cooked rice" represents the falsity of progress, and the cycle of violence, which permeates all classes.

In addition, the signs of progress at the beginning are false, and the irony of the progress is represented visually as the poem's words slide down to the right. The first two lines of the poem are in stark contrast, and the second line grabs your soul.

The fellow who sits in the air-conditioned office

Is the one who in his youth raped

A dozen or so young girls (403).

The word "air-conditioned office" projects an image of a civil businessman, but the word "raped" screams animal. The ambiguity and blank space before "a dozen or so" implies the man has raped more than he can remember. This businessman is a man of two faces. At cocktail parties he "secretly stares" at the belly button of dancers. What kind of cocktail party is this? Why does he secretly stare if all of the men beat their women anyway? The sexual exploitation of women is culturally accepted, however, one must uphold an image.

Throughout this poem Nasrin presents a contrast of images including "Five-star hotels" and a man who initiates various sex acts with women (403). This man is the same "fellow"--implying one of the guys-who gives out "character references for people" (403). Nasrin is mocking the progression of Bangladesh's society. It is a country trying to emerge from the primitive servant to professional businessman. However, the progression is false because all classes are trapped in the abuse of women, the cycle of violence. The voice of women in this poem is non-existent, for they are already beaten down.

In all of these poems, Nasrin reveals through her strong, courageous voice the patriarchal society of Bangladesh, a society in which women are sexually exploited and barred from any new venture that threatens society's tradition. While Nasrin never directly mentions Islam, its presence is felt in the background of her poems. It is a religion she has dedicated her life to fight against, sacrificing any normalcy of life to do so. It is a religion she believes is built on the subordination of women. Nasrin allows us as readers to pass our own judgments, but behind each line we can sense her frustration at a religious institution's fundamentalism. What is Nasrin asking us to do? I believe she wants us to examine our own lives and ask ourselves: how are we participating in any social/government/religious institutions that cause harm, harm often hidden in social norms? Are we unconsciously supporting the oppression of any individuals or groups of people? Are we buying into a system in search of success without realizing the fallacy of it? Nasrin challenges us to think beyond ourselves.

Works Cited

"Banned in Bangladesh." Biblio. Dec. 1998: 14.

Cherry, Matt. "One Brave Woman vs. Religious Fundamentalism: An Interview With

Taslima Nasrin." Free Inquiry. Winter 1998: 34(3).

Nasrin, Taslima. The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. Ed. J. D. McClatchy. New York: Vintage Books, 1996. 401-05.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Thursday, April 13, 2000 1:14 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Frerich, Stephanie G

Subject: Frerich//"Fighting and Emerging"

fighting & emerging

oh you didn't think i would feel

those vibrating screams although

they rumbled in your tumbling pit

the rhythm, steadiness behind

those wretched screams rising

out of your swelling chest

and

down

not waking from our hypnotic trance

not realizing the secure cord would

unravel to disconnect

from

you

so hesitant to leave your

warmth, your soup not

wishing to emerge from

here

there

oh mama

let me chirp inside your nest

stretch to swim about your pool

and wither till my fingers wrinkle

preserved eternal youth inside you

-sgf

fighting & emerging

the title suggests a conflict and then a break through

oh you didn't think i would feel

i am thinking to myself, who is the 'you'? because it is a family poem i am guessing it is a mom or a dad or even sibling whose harsh words cut to the core of steph, who i am assume is the "i"

those vibrating screams although

i hear the screams, of course the author would feel them

they rumbled in your tumbling pit

are the screams silent in the person's stomach?

the rhythm, steadiness behind

those wretched screams rising

out of your swelling chest

and

down

i love how steph has visually separated the words "up" "and" & "down" on the page, once again, this is avery visual poem, i feel as if i am seeing and feeling the screams as well. there is a person standing and screaming, something i would call erratic, and yet there is a steadiness to the screams? is this outrage not new?

not waking from our hypnotic trance

i am slightly confused by this change of pace, "our" hypnotic trance. who is in the trance? the writer? the screamer? if they are in a trance, how can they hear the screams or do the screams break through the falseness to reality?

not realizing the secure cord would

is this a mom's umbilical cord?, the author is surprised or unaware of the breaking of the cord, the relationship, or perhaps doesn't want to see it

unravel to disconnect

from

you

once again, i love the visual representation of the words, i see the author being cut away from her family member (mom?), note the word "unravel." this isn't a quick cut or breach of the relationship, perhaps this break is something that has been building

so hesitant to leave your

warmth, your soup not

again, i think of a mom, the warmth, the soup, at least in my family, that is where i find the most of my parental affection, in my mom. i can relate to the author, i wouldn't want to leave either, we all do it at different times, leaving our families, moving on

wishing to emerge from

here

there

the word emerge makes me think of enlightenment, like the speaker is going through some kind of transformation. yet again, the separate words "here" "to" "there" visually mark the poem and this pattern of words throughout the poem is for some reason comforting.

oh mama

the cry for one's mom, the longing, i feel this too,

let me chirp inside your nest

this may sound silly, but i am remembering the time my brother and i found a baby bird that had fallen from its mother's nest, we tried to take care of it, but the bird had left its mother's safety too early, and the bird died. of course the speaker will not die from this separation, but maybe a part of the speaker's soul or past life dies or darkens as she emerges to a new part ... i can relate to the desire for a safe place

stretch to swim about your pool

and wither till my fingers wrinkle

the word "wither" somewhat denotes a fading away, but my impression from this line is that is perhaps reflect the simple experience of kids taking baths, staying in the water until their fingers turn into prunes ... what will happen to the speaker if she stays in her mother's nest?

preserved eternal youth inside you

"eternal youth" is in contrast to "wrinkle" which could denote age if used in that context. i like this last line. i think of how we are always part of the people we love, no matter how far the speaker goes, she is still in her mom, still playing in the water

-sgf

steph--

what an amazing, sincere, and creative poem. i love the poem because it puzzles me. in reading it, i didn't know what you were going to write next. i like the conflict in the words. i can very much relate to your experience of what seems to be losing contact with your mom or moving on to a new phase in your life, or even if your mom became sick (?) .. the images are vivid and i feel as if i can see and feel what you are writing about. i am still thinking about the screams and trying to place their context in the poem. thank you for sharing. i'd love to read more of your poems!

Anne

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, April 05, 2000 6:56 PM

To: Frerich, Stephanie G; Thamert, Mark

Subject: RE: Gonzalez, Angel // Living characteristics of the Dead

I liked this poem as well, so I think I'll throw another perspective in. I agree with Steph that Gonzalez is asking us to look at how we view the dead. However, here are the lines that puzzle me:

Unusually rigid, their faces

accuse us of something, or warn us;

they are the bad conscience, the bad example,

What are the dead people trying to communicate? What are they warning and accusing the survivors of? If the dead are the conscience, then the polarity is the alive are the good conscience. The author seems to focus on the superiority of the alive people, but the alive people have a weakness, they do not know the wisdom of the dead. It is like the dead are trying to communicate something that the alive people do not want to hear, is it a message of mortality? The speaker writes in frustration: there is not way you can kill them. Obviously, dead bodies are dead, but for some reason they are still communicating messages that the alive people are trying to silence. What an interesting concept, the voice of dead people.

Lastly, the other writes: they don't realize what they undo. In the lines previous to this one, the author describes the dead (as Steph mentioned) as distant, cold, obstinate ..... however cold these dead people are, they are still affecting those alive. It is like the author is trying to push away death, maybe the death of loved ones ... trying to place and anger on them so the feelings of loss and grief cannot emerge. However, once again, the dead have power and they undo ...?? feelings of mortality? emotions? grief? Maybe the dead people are trying to awake the alive people who are really dead insid themselves.

"Truth stands outside the doors of our souls...and knocks." Gregory of Nyssa

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

From: Frerich, Stephanie G

Sent: Tuesday, April 04, 2000 6:47 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Gonzalez, Angel // Living characteristics of the Dead

In "Diatribe Against the Dead," Gonzalez gives characteristics to the dead (i.e. "selfish") and speaks out against their state of being or lack of it because of how it effects the living. He describes them as "insensitive, distant, obstinate, cold" (Vintage, 21) when really they are inanimate objects at that point, or at least their bodies are. You might be disturbed by what may seem a lack of respect when talking about the dead, but that is exactly what Gonzalez is doing here--he is forcing us, the living, to look at how we view the dead. Usually they are revered and held at high esteem but "What a burden!" (21) as Gonzalez puts it. The dead "don't realize what they undo" (21). Because they cannot do anything, merely by their absence or "insolence" and "silence", they are undoing something. Are they undoing what they did in life? Gonzalez portrays them in the lines before as not caring what they do to those who care about them and so they don't realize how they are effecting these people. Gonzalez is crying out against "people" who cannot answer and at the end seems to depart from his angst and rant to get at the real issue--that he who is calling them selfish and the worst things really cares about those who are dead and wishes they still had emotions since he is prescribing fake characteristics onto them.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Saturday, April 01, 2000 2:53 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M; 'paddws@netins.net'

Subject: 21. Dahlia Ravikovitch // insights of the soul

I think Dahlia writes incredible poetry because I think she is saying the things that we often think but do not like to say or do not have the courage to say aloud. She is a talented poet, but in the first stanza she says that she prefers the "poems that others have written." She at first would rather hear the stories of others before unearthing her own. Maybe she doesn't have the courage to deal with hers right away, in this light, she seems very human, very accessible.

In the second stanza she writes: "Sometimes I wish everyone would go away." Now that's honesty. She wants alone time, to be with herself. Her assertion for isolation become more confident as in the third stanza she drops "sometimes" and just states: "you wish everyone would go away. You don't know what's the matter with you." (This line reminds me of someone who is dealing with depression and just cannot shake the blues off and cannot figure out what's going on.) However, 'I' is replaced with 'you.' It's as if she is talking about herself but does not want to directly link herself to her statements.

Her direct honesty continues:

"you wish you were dead or alive or

somebody else.

Isn't there a country you love? (relation to Jerusalem) A word? (she can't find her poetic voice)

Surely you remember."

Once again, the 'I' is replaced by 'you.' I like these lines because I think Dahlia feels overwhelmed, burnt out, discourages, and maybe unmotivated. She is trying to figure out how she arrived at this place, and trying to remember her passionate feelings, what she was fighting about. She is having trouble writing as well. She's trying to remember what she cared about.

My greatest fear in my life is apathy, I don't want to arrive at a place where like Dahlia, I have to try to remember why I am living and breathing, why I am involved in the things I am, why I desire to embrace life ... Sometimes apathy creeps up in the shadows of our lives, and we must search for light in the tiniest cracks of life.

"Truth stands outside the doors of our souls...and knocks." Gregory of Nyssa

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Thursday, March 30, 2000 2:14 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 19. Neruda-Hirsch // my thoughts on death at 2 a.m. in the morning

There are cemeteries that are lonely

I think he is talking about more than the literal grave stones. Loneliness can be a cemetery if we are dead inside, if our souls are buried beneath the ground. Sometimes are hearts are lonely places that harbor old bones.

graves full of bones that do not make a sound

Once again, his literal interpretation is obvious because bones cannot talk. One question might be, whose voices were silenced, and were they silenced before their death? What bones are we hiding in ourselves?

the heart moving through a tunnel,

SURPRISE! I did not expect the word 'heart' to come after words like 'graves' and 'bones.' I think of a 'heart' as alive, vibrant and full of life--what is it doing in a dark tunnel? the word 'heart' adds a direct connection to one's humanness, soul, and feelings. it brings a sense of life, however sad, into the poem. maybe the heart is holding the fragments of peoples' lives, lost loves, grief, old bones that perhaps are starting to make a sound.

in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

this is not a happy heart, but one full of sadness. the repetition of 'darkness' is definite and sobering. there is no life.

like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves

the simile of a shipwreck .... rocks splattering through worn wood, wrecking the ship, twisting it into itself ...

there is a subject--we--, the author is not talking about the bones' anymore or the 'heart,' there is a direct personal connection. 'going into ourselves'--similar to the heart traveling down the dark tunnel. when we look inside ourselves, sometimes we cannot bear the pain of what we see. this poem (as one reads on) is obviously about death, about dead bodies, etc. but it's fun to look at meanings beyond death as well.

"Truth stands outside the doors of our souls...and knocks." Gregory of Nyssa

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Monday, March 27, 2000 12:57 AM

To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M

Subject: Alternative Post--Sarah Masen (lots of pictures)--cool!!

Sarah Masen, singer/songwriter/poet/guitarist (acoustic AND electric)

Hi friends!

I forgot my Pinter book at school, so I was unable to post about Cellach. However, I thought I would share the poetry of my of very favorite singers. Her name is Sarah Masen and she writes music, in essence writing poetry. She is very profound, and you can see this from her lyrics and from her interviews. I feel like I touch wisdom and greatness when I read what she says. She's won countless awards, but what is most important is her spirit. She was discovered when her little brother played some of her songs over the phone to a producer in Nashville.

She is an amazing writer. She a poet/singer/songwriter/philosopher, and I should add that she is quiet young (her first album came out in 1995, when she was 18). She has been described as a Christian songwriter, her music has been described as alternative pop to acoustic pop to blues. I love her words, and I like her music as well. She's very poetic. She is a thinker, and her music/words have impacted my life. She performed in MN over Christmas, and the accapella band Go Fish opened for her in Duluth.

In regards to lyrics, what is interesting is that the Gospel Music Association didn't consider her lyrics in her second album Carry Us Through "Christian" enough and she was asked to leave the GMA, therefore excluding herself from any Dove award eligibility. However, the real question right now in the Christian Music Industry is what makes a song Christian? Maybe this is something we can talk about in class. I could talk on and on about this for hours, but I will stop. Enjoy! There are lots of pictures in this e-mail! Anne ;-)

Links for pictures/bio/discograpy/sound clips/articles, etc.

<http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Hills/7081/index.htm> (this one is just about her first album)

<http://members.tripod.com/~baldinggoat/masen/masen.htm> ( this page has everything, bio, discography, sound links, lyrics, and links to all of her articles, album reviews, interviews, links to other pages, etc. If you have time, I would check out her CCM articles, and especially her interviews with Communique Journal, Phantom Tollbooth).

http://www.communiquejournal.org/q6/q6_masen.html

An Interview With Sarah Masen , Phantom Tollbooth

http://www.tollbooth.org/features/smasen.html

Short Facts:

Sarah Masen

FULL NAME: Sarah Elizabeth Masen

DATE OF BIRTH: 12/1/75

HOMETOWN: Detroit, Michigan

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Nashville, Tennessee

MARITAL STATUS: Married, to David Dark on 6/27/98

CHILDREN: Daughter, Dorothy Day Dark, born on 6/26/99

CURRENT ALBUM: The Holding (re-release)

STYLE: Alternative, Contemporary, Pop, Folk, or whatever

PREVIOUS ABLUMS:The Holding (1995), Sarah Masen (1996), Carry Us Through (1998), re-release of The Holding (1999)

Lyrics from the albums Sarah Masen and Carry Us Through : (keep scrolling, pictures below)

Flames Of Truth (4:30)

Written by Sarah Masen

Quite confusion

Strangle illusions

Holding back the tears from falling

Drowning inside me

Cover what I see

Let Your light wash through my soul

Burn out what I see

Blind my eyes

Tear this painted black sea

I'm losing myself in my search for You

I'm reaching through the flames of truth

Show me Your Son's life

Pictures of pure light

I cannot capture His might

But oh how I've tried

Burn out what I see

Blind my eyes

Tear this painted black sea

I'm losing myself in my search for You

I'm reaching through the flames of truth

Forgive my thunder

Pushing You under

Give me the strength to admit

Nothing's my own here

We fall and hearts tear

Facing us towards the truth

Leaving us with the truth

Burn out what I see

Blind my eyes

Tear this painted black sea

I'm losing myself in my search for You

I'm reaching through the flames of truth

Unveiled Faces (4:22)

Written by Sarah Masen

I see where You pulled me

Now I'm reaching

I've felt what You told me

Would consume my soul-shine

You showed me your glory

It overwhelmed me

You've taught me to lose myself

That's where I start to

Shine the unveiled faces

Reflecting the knowledge of Christ

Awakened by sunlight

I'm outside of the cave

Creation is dancing before me

Bearing Your name as it

Shines the unveiled faces

Reflecting the knowledge of Christ

Shine increasing glory

Transforming a simple mold to shine

And the darkness

It kills us

But it calls us friends

Drawing us back home

Shine the unveiled faces

Reflecting the knowledge of Christ

Shine increasing glory

You're crashing the shadows with light

With the light

You're crashing the shadows with light

All Fall Down (3:41)

Written by Sarah Masen

Blow your trumpets angels

Come sweet salvation

Hallelujah

Shout scattered thanks

In power-that's strength and glory

Good Lord glory

And the fool stands only to fall

But the wise trip on grace

All fall down

Hit the ground

All fall down

Very large gates

Keep out very real heartache

Of sin and cracked creation

Oh my soul

And the beggars and saints

Will embrace and dive

Into sweet communion

And the fool stands only to fall

But the wise trip on grace

All fall down

Hit the ground

All fall down

Flyin' around

All fall down

And the Father will laugh

Laugh till He cries

Home at last

Goodbye false notions of independence

Welcome me security

All fall down

Flyin' around

Hit the ground

Ooh take your vow

All fall down

Downtown (4:36)

Written by Sarah Masen

When I'm standing close

To the clouds of fear and doubt

I reach out my hand

To the love that pulls me out

I hop in my car that takes me down the road

That leads me straight into my Father's arms

When I'm flying deep

Into the clouds of fear and doubt

I speak loud Your name

In the midst of my defeat

I run to my car and travel down the road

That leads me straight into my Father's arms

I go driving downtown

Sitting close to fate

I go driving downtown

Where I find Your grace

I go driving downtown

When I'm falling back

Through a past of fear and doubt

I reach hard for truth

Underneath this inbetween

I look for Your lead and follow down the road

That leads me closer to my Father's arms

I go driving downtown

Sitting close to fate

I go driving downtown

Where I find Your grace

I go driving downtown

I'm free

I go driving downtown

Sitting close to fate

I go driving downtown

Where I find Your grace

I go driving downtown

When I'm flying close

Into the clouds of fear and doubt

I reach hard for truth

In the midst of my defeat

I run to my car that takes me down the road

Of grace and freedom in my Father's arms

I go driving downtown

Sitting close to fate

I go driving downtown

Where I find Your grace

I go driving downtown

I'm free

In the middle of our human condition

Is the emerald city of our saving provision

And we wrestle and struggle

Till we can hardly stand

And we drive downtown into that praying land

But what we want most is home

What we want most is home

Seasons Always Change

You're a vision all undone

You are the best kind of dreadful

I've ever been a part of

We're having so much fun

There are some angels in the snow dear

And in the summer we will know dear

chorus:

Seasons always change

Everybody knows that

Everybody says that

And the sun shines through the rain

And the Wind makes us afraid, oh don't give in

Because we learn to love that way

You're a vision on the run

You are a change in the direction

When we are making some connections

We're having so much fun

And the angels watch the mystery

Of everyday you and me

[chorus]

I trust you know

That I love you all

Soon we will play

When the cool rolls off the day

[chorus]

There's goodness and there's pain

And the heart goes 'round again

And for now it never ends

And so you take another day

Because the tenderness it breaks us

And we learn to love that way

Can we learn to love through our mistakes

Can we take our visions all the way

Is there fear that things will always change

Let it go let it go

(repeat)

The Double

He's got a double for his stunts

He's got a way of pushing men out the door

You'll think he's brave until he's touched

Nothing like constancy to show us what we're made of

Here's a man with a time

When he thought he'd liked you too much

Now he's changing his mind

He's all right alone

He likes the colors on the couch

And the way he hangs his things on the wall

He'll break a sweat to stop the rust

Something like frailty is always underneath us

Here's a man with a time

When he thought he'd liked you too much

Now he's changing his mind

It's never enough

And he'll tell you he's grown

To know better than to commit

To subtlety, to subtlety

I know you'd like to rip it up

And take a swing at the sky

But broken it won't fill you up

Though you're taking it in

And you're breaking a sweat

Watch it spilling out

Here's a man with a time

When he thought he'd liked you too much

Now he's changing his mind

It's never enough

And he'll tell you he's grown

To know better than to commit

To subtlety, to subtlety

He's got a double for his stunts

He's got a way of pushing men out the door

You'll think he's brave until he's touched

Nothing like constancy to show us what we're made of

(repeat)

Wrap My Arms Around Your Name

Mystery's walking on my head again

In a pattern figure eight

Round a turn, cross a path again

And again and again

Save communion for the holidays

And keep perception at a safe arms length

Does hallelujah wear the same old face

I'm okay yeah okay fine okay

What I really want is

To wrap my arms around your name

Do all the angels sound the same

To wrap my arms around your name

To break the cycle cynical

Keeping man inside his head

Wisdom offers up her best advice

And I'll run to her side

And ask why and ask why

To wrap my arms around your name

Do all the angels sound the same

To wrap my arms around your name

I'll scrape the bottom 'til I'm good and ready old

And take the cup of kindness while searching for the gold

For the gold, for the gold

Tomorrow's filling up like yesterday

Something's constant underneath this place

Shape this prayer to sing with such a grace

For today just today or someday

What I'd really like is

To wrap my arms around your name

Salvation's forever taking place

To wrap my arms around your name

Hallelujah

To wrap my arms around your name

Someday I will see your face

75 Grains of Sand

Penny's got a new outlook this year

At least that's what she'd like to hear

Though I'd beg to differ

Cause all is still the same back home

Started with the world on fire last fall

Seems it was the spark of something small

That grew with conviction

A personal mission

And what she wouldn't give

To hold them in her hands

Those 75 little grains of sand

April was a night of nothing new

But holding what she though was true

Dawn only backwards

A sunset to start her day

And everything she used to choke at school

Swallowing the whole of untold rules

Filled with desire

all set on fire

And what she wouldn't give

To hold them in her hands

Those 75 little grains of sand

A glimpse of the now

That would change the then

Those 75 little grains of sand

And all is falling

Quite undone

She's letting go

Letting go for what's to come

Hope sometimes can blind the heart

Calling light what breathes like dark

Mistaken provisions

Can lengthen the distance

And shatter our own visions

What we wouldn't give

To hold them in our hands

Those 75 little grains of sand

A glimpse of the now

That would change the then

Those 75 little grains of sand

Mercy sure thing

The tension is evidence that I'm alive and able to respond

To the movement of Spirit the good the terrible

Mercy I cannot see without closing my eyes

Must be a plot

Fragrance of Pink

Too small to come in

Exploding with sunshock and moonfire

It's too much to choke down

I'm crashed by the nature of freedom

I'm too cracked to thrice mend

And I'm sweating my need for redemption

While guilt beads on my skin

I'm broke from my fallen condition

Come catch me in love

Again and again

I'll spin light around your name

Forternal again

I'm confessing my needs

Whispering beautiful sweets

In a fragrance of pink

Move towards my dark side

Because I'm threatened by mystery and matches

But I'll pick up the cup

And swallow my past full of ashes

Come catch me in love

Again and again

I'll spin light around your name

Forternal again

I'm confessing my needs

Whispering beautiful sweets

In stark orange and green

It's my own fragrance of pink

Glory I'm undone

I'm stretched out on the water of wisdom

Fill me up 'til I drown

From sucking the nectar of being found

Sucking the nectar of being found

Come catch me in love

Again and again

I'll spin light around your name

Forternal again

I'm confessing my needs

Whispering beautiful sweets

In a fragrance of pink

Stories in My Pockets

Monday's got us running to our knees again

It seems we're always waiting on the floor

Our destination Sunday is full of the unknown

But we're building our own bridges to the shore

In hopes for so much more

Silent eyes are watching we're beginning to explore

But the lights are growing dim because we are poor

Isn't this the place we're practicing belief

Seems we're always looking at the door

In hopes for so much more

And the stories in my pockets

Are the best I've ever lived

So what if they don't sell sell sell

I'll take you out for coffee

And we'll talk about D.C.

And Philly underneath October moons

Fall is walking us into a cold December wind

And maybe we won't last too long

But maybe we will make it to play a brave new song

Mixing up the failure with the new

In hopes for something true

And the painting on the walls here

Are the best we've ever done

An Experiment in abstract dreams

And the colors are colliding

In strange redemptive hues

What we've got here is a good slow burn

What we've got here is a good true thing

A good true thing, a good true thing

Stories in my pockets

Are the best I've ever lived

And so what if they don't sell sell sell

I'll take you out for coffee

And we'll talk about D.C.

And Philly underneath October moons

And Colorado's sweeping news

And L.A. keeping four in time

You're always setting dreams on fire

Always setting dreams on fire

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, March 26, 2000 9:50 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: better first draft

Dear Father Mark,

Here is another first draft of my paper, the grammatical errors are corrected and my last paragraph is more clear. Anne

"Truth stands outside the doors of our souls...and knocks." Gregory of Nyssa

Anne Walters

Great Poets, Father Mark

Paper on Nasrin

March 16, 2000

Islam and Subordination

Taslima Nasrin is a woman who is not afraid to speak her mind. This trait may not appear uncommon except for the fact that wherever Nasrin speaks, whether it is in Nottingham, England, or the supposed neutral Canada, angry Muslim demonstrators and angry Islamic students are present wishing her harm. Why is this? She is not only speaking her mind, but she is also speaking out against the Islamic religion, which she says oppresses women and confines them to traditional, submissive roles as sexual objects. Bangladesh's government has banned all of her books. In a 1998 interview with the magazine Free Inquiry, Nasrin said: "Islam itself oppresses women. Islam doesn't permit democracy and it violates human rights. If any religion allows the persecution of the people of different faiths, if any religion keeps women in slavery and keeps people in ignorance, then I cannot accept that religion."

Nasrin is a doctor, a writer, a political activist, and a woman who Islamic fundamentalists want dead. Currently she is exiled in France for her own protection. In spite of her self-inflicted exile, Nasrin is a world-renown feminist and writer. Her poetry reveals her frustrations and experiences with the Islamic tradition. Her poems portray women trying to escape from a patriarchal system where men are always "blocking the door," where men "follow you and whistle," and where rapists hand out "character references."

In her poem "Character," Nasrin offers future generations of women a set of confining realities, realities they are forced to swallow because they are "girls." Who are confining the girls? Men. Nasrin writes: "when you step over the threshold of you house/men will look askance (disapproval/suspicion/distrust) at you. When you keep on walking down the lane/men will follow you and whistle" (401). Why is the house safer than the outside world? Are the women only whistled and belittled outside of the home? In this poem, Nasrin reveals little of the inequalities and subordination women and girls face from the men within the "safe" walls of houses. Perhaps, it is because she did not experience these limits in her own family. Now, another important question for any reader to ask is whom is the author writing to?

In "Character," the subject "you" is mentioned throughout the poem which implies that the speaker is talking to another audience, perhaps future generations of women. The poem is filled with "you's," and "I" is never used. Maybe the author is trying to remove herself from the situation. However, at times, I wonder if the author is talking to herself. Despite all of Nasrin's accomplishments, she reminds herself that she is still a "girl." Nasrin begins her poem with two short, separate lines: "You're a girl/and you'd better not forget." The word "girl" as opposed to "woman" reflects innocence, inexperience, and powerless. It is as if "girl" implies a mark on the forehead or a sign of the plague. I am reminded of the Bible story where God marked Cain as a form of punishment and protection. Like Cain, the girls of Bangladesh are recognized everywhere they go; however they are not protected.

While Nasrin is quick to point out the injustices girls face walking down the road, her poem is not a hopeless cause. Her determination and spunk are revealed in the last four lines:

"If you've got no character

you'll turn back,

and if not

you'll keep going

as you're going now." ("Character," Taslima Nasrin, Vintage Book, p. 401)

The placement on the right side of the page implies the image of a person walking on towards the men in the street, into the face of humiliation, but with a confident walk of character. The earlier lines in the poem are all streamlined towards the right when they talk about leaving the house. What is the meaning of the contractions throughout the poem? "You've" "You'll" "You're." Is Nasrin enforcing the diminished role of girls in society by not even writing out the full phrases? When "you" is used in the context of the girl walking by the men, the words are written out fully, and there are no contractions. Does that mean the girls are less whole when they are by themselves? Obviously, from this poem, Nasrin is encouraging herself and the future generations of women to walk alone with heads held high above the taunting and dominating men. However, will this walk ever lead to freedom? Unless one is willing to choose a life of exile, probably not.

Nasrin develops another theme in her poem "Border." She comments on her desire to leave her family and country, to cross the river to a place where she can cry with her head "in the lap of solitude." This poem, in contrast to the first one, mentions the confinement of her family and the tension in leaving them, though only to return. However, once she leaves, can she return? Throughout the poem, Nasrin uses "I" which leads me to believe she is writing about herself. Once again, dominant men are present in her poem. As she is trying to leave the house,

"my husband stands blocking the door

but I will go" (402).

The long sentence forces the image of a burly husband into my mind, and the short line is her simple answer. The first stanza presents her past and family at her back. "Behind me my whole family is calling." Her child is pulling at her "sari-end . . . but I will go" (402). She is running towards progress, but tradition and family are pulling her back. Throughout the poem, the image of a river is used. A river keeps flowing and is always moving and changing. Nasrin wants to swim in the river of progress, the river of political and religious freedom. This poem may represent her exiled flee to Sweden. However, in spite of covering geographical distances, she is still trapped by the patriarchal tradition. "I know how to swim but they won't let me swim, won't let me cross." Are "they" her family? Or the Islamic fundamentalists who try to quiet her challenging writings?

When talking about the other side of the poem, the words and blank spaces on the page portray the image of emptiness.

"There's nothing on the other side of the river

but a vast expanse of fields" (402).

Another example is:

"For years I haven't cried with my head

in the lap of solitude" (402).

The other side of the river is a place of isolation and loneliness. At the end of the second, third, and fourth stanzas are the words "and then return." I do not understand why the author wants to return. Throughout this poem and others, I feel that Nasrin is struggling to break away. The contrasting image of "return" puzzles me. Perhaps she longs for her return because Bangladesh is her homeland, and family ties are strong. However, if she's in exile, is she able to return even if she wants to? Nasrin wants to flee to a place where she can dance, play childhood games, and cry until her tears run dry. Once again, the tears, like the image of the river, are ones of fluid freedom. These are all images of innocence and fun. However, her childhood game of "keep-away" is not a childhood game any longer. Is she trying to escape from the fundamentalist Islamic, or is she trying to escape from her family, or is she tired of fighting? She uses the word "someday" when discussing these ideas. If she is so anxious to go, if she can swim, if she wants to raise a commotion, why doesn't she leave now? In the end she does leave, but she will return, and the man will still be blocking the doorway. An historical note is that when researching Nasrin, I found that when she returned to Banladesh in 1998, she was greeted by 3,000 people who yelled "Kill the infidel!" (Biblio).

Lastly, Nasrin's poem "At the Back of Progress . . ." is a poem in which Nasrin portrays the harsh reality that sexual domination and exploitation of women is part of the Islamic tradition that affects all social classes of women. It is a mockery of the idea of progress, for the secondary effect of progress is the abuse of women. The poem's ellipse is present for a purpose. All three persons in the poem--the businessman, the employee, and the bearer-are all abusive to their wives, girlfriends, and the belly dancers in the bars. In addition, all of these men are one of the guys: "fellows" and "buddies" who in their free time, beat their wives regarding material items which represent the regression of class from the modern man to the cultural native.

For example, at the beginning of the poem, the businessman is hitting his wife over a handkerchief and shirt collar. Next, the employee continues the polarity because he "indulges . . . on politics, art, and literature," and beats wife "over a bar of soap". Lastly, the bearer represents the primitive man as he divorces one of his wives because of her sterility and beats another over a "handful of cooked rice." The downward digression of "shirt collar" to "cooked rice" represents the falsity of progress, and the cycle of violence, which permeates all classes.

"The fellow who sits in the air-conditioned office

Is the one who in his youth raped

A dozen or so young girls" (403).

Throughout this poem Nasrin presents a contrast of images including "Five-star hotels" and a man who initiates various sex acts with women. This man is the same "fellow"--implying one of the guys-who gives out "character references for people" (403). Nasrin is mocking the progression of Bangladesh's society. It is a country trying to emerge from the primitive bearer to professional businessman. However, the progression is false as all classes are trapped in the abuse of women, the cycle of violence. The voice of women in this poem is non-existent, for they are already beaten down.

In all of these poems, Nasrin reveals the patriarchal society of Bangladesh, a society in which women are sexually exploited and barred from any new venture that threatens society's tradition. While Nasrin never directly mentions Islam, its presence is felt in the background of her poems. It is a religion she has protested against, sacrificing any normalcy of life to do so. It is a religion she believes is built on the subordination of women. Nasrin allows her readers to pass their own judgment, but behind each line one senses her frustration at a religious institution's fundamentalism. What is Nasrin asking us to do? I believe she wants us to examine our own lives and ask ourselves: how are we also participating in any social/government/religious institutions that cause harm, (which hidden in social norms)? Are we unconsciously supporting the oppression of any individuals or groups of people? Are we buying into a system in search of success without realizing the fallacy of it? Nasrin challenges us to think beyond ourselves.

Works Cited

"Banned in Bangladesh." Biblio. Dec. 1998: 14.

Cherry, Matt. "One Brave Woman vs. Religious Fundamentalism: An Interview With

Taslima Nasrin." Free Inquiry. Winter 1998: 34(3).

Nasrin, Taslima. The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. Ed. J. D. McClatchy. New York: Vintage Books, 1996. 401-05.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000 11:49 PM

To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M

Subject: 17. Term Paper // Nasrin Paper // Islam and Subordination

Anne Walters

Great Poets, Father Mark

Paper on Nasrin

March 16, 2000

Islam and Subordination

Taslima Nasrin is a woman who is not afraid to speak her mind. This trait may appear common except for the fact that wherever Nasrin speaks, whether it is in Nottingham, England, or the supposed neutral Canada, angry Muslim demonstrators and angry Islamic students are present wishing her harm. Why is this? She is only speaking her mind, but she is speaking out against the Islamic religion, which she says oppresses women and confines them in traditional, submissive roles as sexual objects. The government has banned all of her books. In a 1998 interview with the magazine Free Inquiry, Nasrin said: "Islam itself oppresses women. Islam doesn't permit democracy and it violates human rights. If any religion allows the persecution of the people of different faiths, if any religion keeps women in slavery and keeps people in ignorance, then I cannot accept that religion."

In her poem "Character," Nasrin offers future generations of women a set of confining realities, realities they are forced to swallow because they are "girls." Who are confining the girls? Men. Nasrin writes: "when you step over the threshold of you house/men will look askance (disapproval/suspicion/distrust) at you. When you keep on walking down the lane/men will follow you and whistle" (401). Why is the house safer than the outside world? Are the women only whistled and belittled outside of the home? In this poem, Nasrin reveals little of the inequalities and subordination women and girls faced from the men within safe walls of houses. Perhaps, it is because she did not experience these limits in her own family. An important question for any reader to ask is whom is the author writing to?

While Nasrin is quick to point out the injustices girls face walking down the road, her poem is not a hopeless cause. Her determination and spunk is revealed in the last four lines:

"If you've got no character

you'll turn back,

and if not

you'll keep going

as you're going now." ("Character," Taslima Nasrin, Vintage Book, p. 401)

The placement on the right side of the page implies the image of a person walking on towards the men in the street, into the face of humiliation, but with a confident walk of character. The earlier lines in the poem are all streamlined towards the right when they talk about leaving the house. What is the meaning of the contractions throughout the poem? "You've" "You'll" "You're." Is Nasrin enforcing the diminished role of girls in society by not even writing out the full phrases? When "you" is used in the context of the girl walking by the men, the words are written out fully, and there are no contractions. Does that mean the girls are less whole when they are by themselves? Obviously, from this poem, Nasrin is encouraging herself and the future generation of women to walk alone with heads held high above the taunting and dominating men. However, will this walk ever lead to freedom? Unless one is willing to choose a life of exile, probably not.

Next, in the poem "Border," Nasrin comments on her desire to leave her family and country, to cross the river to a place where she can cry with her head "in the lap of solitude." This poem, in contrast to the first one, mentions the confinement of her family and the tension in leaving them, though only to return. However, once she leaves, can she return? Through the poem, Nasrin uses "I" which leads me to believe she is writing about herself. Once again, dominant men are present in her poem. As she is trying to leave the house,

"my husband stands blocking the door

but I will go" (402).

The long sentence forces the image of a burly husband into my mind, and the short line is her simple answer. The first stanza presents her past and family at her back. "Behind me my whole family is calling." Her child is pulling at the end of her sari." but I will go." She is running towards progress, but tradition and family are pulling her back. Throughout the poem, the image of a river is used. A river keeps flowing, is always moving and changing. Nasrin wants to swim in the river of progress, the river of political and religious freedom. This poem may represent her exiled flee to Sweden. However, she is trapped by the patriarchal tradition. "I know how to swim but they won't let me swim, won't let me cross." Are "they" her family? Or the Islamic fundamentalists who try to quiet her challenging writings?

When talking about the other side of the poem, the words and blank spaces on the page portray the image of emptiness.

"There's nothing on the other side of the river

but a vast expanse of fields" (402).

Another example is:

"For years I haven't cried with my head

in the lap of solitude" (402).

The other side of the river is a place of isolation and loneliness. At the end of the second, third, and fourth stanzas are the words "and then return." I do not understand why the author wants to return. Throughout this poem and others, I feel that Nasrin is struggling to break away. The contrasting image of "return" puzzles me. However, Bangladesh is her homeland, and family ties are strong. However, if she's in exile, is she able to return even if she wants to? Nasrin wants to go to a place where she can dance, play childhood games, and cry until her tears run dry. Once again, the tears, like the image of the river, are ones of fluid freedom. These are all images of innocence and fun. However, her childhood game of "keep-away" is not a childhood game any longer. She is trying to escape from the fundamentalist Islamic, or is she trying to escape from her family, or is she tired of fighting? She uses the word "someday" when discussing these ideas. If she is so anxious to go, if she can swim, if she wants to raise a commotion, why doesn't she leave now? In the end she does leave, but she will return, and the man will still be blocking the doorway. An historical note is that when researching Nasrin, I found that when she returned to Banladesh in 1998, she was greeted by 3,000 people who yelled "Kill the infidel!" (Biblio).

Lastly, Nasrin's poem "At the Back of Progress . . ." is a poem where Nasrin portrays the harsh reality that sexual domination and exploitation of women is part of the Islamic tradition that affects all social classes of women. It is a mockery of the idea of progress, for the secondary effects of progress is the abuse of women. The ellipse is present for a purpose. All three persons in the poem--the businessman, the employee, and the bearer-are all abusive to their wives, girlfriends, and the belly dancers in the bars. In addition, all of these men are one of the guys: "fellows" and "buddies" who in their free time, beat their wives regarding material items which represents the digressions of class from the modern man to the cultural native.

For example, at the beginning of the poem, the businessman is hitting his wife over a handkerchief and shirt collar. Next, the employee continues the polarity because he "indulges . . . on politics, art, and literature," and beats wife "over a bar of soap". Lastly, the bearer represents the primitive man ash he divorces one of his wives because of her sterility and beats another over a "handful of cooked rice." The downward digression of "shirt collar" to "cooked rice" represents the falsity of progress, and the cycle of violence, which permeates all classes.

In addition, the signs of progress at the beginning are false, and the irony of the progress is represented as visually the poem's words slide down to the right. The first two lines of the poem are in stark contrast, and the second line grabs your soul.

"The fellow who sits in the air-conditioned office

Is the one who in his youth raped

A dozen or so young girls" (403).

The words "air-conditioned office" projects an image of a civil businessman, but the word "raped" screams animals. The ambiguity and blank space before "a dozen or so" implies the man has raped more than he can remember. This businessman is man of two faces. At cocktail parties he "secretly stares" at the belly button of dancers. What kind of cocktail party is this? Why does he secretly stare if all of the men beat the women anyway? The sexual exploitation of women is culturally accepted, however, one must uphold an image.

Throughout this poem Nasrin presents a contrast of images. "Five-star hotels" and a man who initiates various sex acts with women. This man is the same "fellow"-implying one of the guys-who gives out "character references for people" (403). Nasrin is mocking the progression of Bangladesh's society. It is a city trying to emerge from the primitive bearer to professional businessman. However, the progression is false as all classes are trapped in its abuse of women, the cycle of violence. The voice of women in this poem is non-existent, for they are already beaten down.

In all of these poems, Nasrins reveals the patriarchal society of Bangeladesh, a society where women are sexually exploited and blocked in any new venture that opposes society's tradition. What Nasrin never directly mentions Islam, a religion that she has sacrificed any normalcy of life to fight against, a religion built on the subordination of women. Nasrin allows her readers to pass their own judgment but behind each line one senses her frustration at a religious institution's fundamentalism. What is Nasrin asking us to do? I believe she wants we readers to examine our own lives and ask ourselves: do we believe in any social/government/religious institutions that are causing harm which hidden in social norms? Are we unconsciously supporting the oppression of any individuals or groups of people? Are we buying into a system in search of a progress without realizing the fallacy of it? Nasrin challenges us to think beyond ourselves.

Works Cited

"Banned in Bangladesh." Biblio. Dec. 1998: 14.

Cherry, Matt. "One Brave Woman vs. Religious Fundamentalism: An Interview With

Taslima Nasrin." Free Inquiry. Winter 1998: 34(3).

Nasrin, Taslima. The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. Ed. J. D. McClatchy. New York: Vintage Books, 1996. 401-05.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, March 14, 2000 8:39 PM

To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M

Subject: 16. Celan // the poison of black milk

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening

Immediately I am struck by the contrasting images: black and milk. I tend to think of milk as something pure, innocent, and childlike. What's more universal than milk and cookies? However, the milk is black, probably from the ashes of the detention camp. This imagery is dark and forbearing. When I see the word "daybreak" I think of morning of a fresh start, but the author is talking about milk in the evening. What else could the milk represent? It isn't a nourishing milk, it is the dark "milk" of nazism.

we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night

we drink and we drink

There is not end to the drinking of this dark "milk." The repetition of the word "drink" reminds me of a constant grind and after reading some information about Celan, I see these images of him slaving away at a work camp.

we shovel a grave in the air there you won't lie too cramped

Why are they shoveling a grave in the air? Later, the same line is repeated except they are digging a grave in the "sky." Later, the Nazi character "grants us a grave in the air." The speaker is no longer preparing the graves of others, he is a victim as well. The earth and sky are not cramped places, rather they are freeing. However, the contrast the word "grave" grabs the reader into realizing these shoveling actions do not have a positive result.

A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes

I a reminded of the image of the Nazi general in the movie Schindler's List. For some reason, I picture the scene where he is standing on his porch, over-looking the detention camp. All of a sudden he picks up his rifle and shoots a couple of Jews.

In this line, the word "plays" is a contrast to the image of the workers slaving away, shoveling graves. "writes"--represents some kind of civility in the mad context of the poem. Thousands of people are being killed and tortured, and yet this German? man is sitting in his house, writing his girlfriend with golden hair. He lives in a "house" which has more confinement than the "air" and "sky" mentioned throughout the poem.

Line by line analysis, I really like the first line ..

Black--dark imagery, evil, in contrast to milk. "Black milk" is used throughout the poem. It never changes. Perhaps it represents the constant ash of the burning bodies at the detention camps or the burning of coal. "Black milk" is the poison of the Nazi's that the Jews are forced to drink.

milk--such a stark contrast to "black." I tend to think of milk as creamy and white, not black. milk is a source of nurturing, as babies we drink the milk of our mothers, it is supposed to help us grow, this "black milk" has the opposite effect. it is killing the workers.

of daybreak --the "black milk" comes from the daybreak, daybreaks are supposed to be sunny and bright with the promise of a new day. for the speaker, daybreak starts dark.

we --the author is not alone, they are drinking together

drink--the author is taking it in, ingesting it ...

it at evening--all day the workers drink. this also makes me think that maybe they were given three breaks during their work days. morning/midday/and evening. during these times they were given something to drink, but it was always clouded by ash.

I like this line because of the contrasting images of the words and because of the beauty in the individual words.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, March 14, 2000 7:58 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 16. bio and picture of Paul Celan

this bio is really interesting. his parents died in concentration camps. he was only 50 when he died. i have found a "young" picture of him and an "older" one.

Anne

"Truth stands outside the doors of our souls...and knocks." Gregory of Nyssa

Paul Celan (1920-1970)

Pseudonym for Paul Antschel

Poet and lecturer, influenced by French Surrealism <abreton.htm>and Symbolism <mallarme.htm>, born in Romania, lived in France, wrote in German, author and gave German literature one of its most powerful voices.

Paul Celan was born in a German-speaking area of Romania in Czwernowitz. He studied medicine in Paris in 1938 and then Romance philology at the University of Czernowitz. His parents were deported to death camps, where they died long afterward. During World War II Celan, a Jew, was sent to a forced-labour camp, where he worked until heavy snow forced it to close. Celan managed to survive the Holocaust, although he was imprisoned until 1943.

When the Russian Army reinvaded his homeland in 1944, Celan went to Bucharest, where he continued reading the great German lyric poets Georg Trakl and Rainer Maria Rilke. He changed his name to Paul Aurel, then to Paul Ancel and finally to Paul Celan.

After the war he moved to Bukarest, where he worked as a translators and editor at an publishing company. In 1947 he went to Vienna and immigrated then to Paris, where he became a teacher of German language at the Ecole Normale Sup1rieure. In 1952 Celan married the graphic artist GisMle Lestrange.

Celan established his reputation first in West Germany. His first poems started to appear in the periodicals in the late 1940s. His second book, MOHN UND GEDACHTNIS (Poppy and Memories, 1952) established his reputation as an important poet of the Holocaust. Todesfugue, Celan's most famous poem, describes the Jewish experience under Nazism. Celan's friends Ren1 Char, Nellie Sachs, and other poets felt the restrictions placed on them by their indentity and by the nightmare of history that the Holocaust represented. As Celan said in his acceptance speech for Georg B6hner prize, language must be set free from the history.

In the 1950s Celan's work was becoming known for its broken syntax and short length, expressing his perception of the fragmented world in which he lived. Celan's radical minimalaism concentrated the poetry to the essential core of the experience.

In 1960 Celan received Georg B6chner Prize. He translated also works from such writers as Cocteau <cocteau.htm>, Michaux, Mandelstam <mandelst.htm>, Ungaretti, Pessoa, Rimbaud, Val1ry, Char, du Bouchet, and Dupin. He suffered from bouts of depression throughout the 1960', and when Claire Goll, poet Yvan Goll's wife, accused him of plagiarizing some of his husband's work, Celan suffered a nervous breakdown. In 1970, overcome with his struggle with language, Celan died by his own hand: he drowned himself in Seine on May 1, at the age of 49.

For further reading: Paul Celan by Amy Colin (1991); The Art of Hunger by Paul Auster (1992)

older younger

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, March 07, 2000 9:53 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 15--reaction to April Bernard

For the sake of writing while the event is still fresh in my mind .... here's my reflection of Bernard's talk. (She teaches in Bennington, VT. I have relatives in Vermont.)

April Bernard is a real person. Tonight her eyes looked tired, but her voice was clear and steady. She has a two-year-old son. She is realistic with her time, she isn't organized, and her writings come in "bursts." A little, silver barrette held back a lock of her hair. While she may have had little circles under her eyes (like many of us in the room), her cheeks were a warm red, and there was life in her voice and in her movements.

I liked listening to the sound of her voice, and I was amazed at its resilience as it read 14 of her poems in a row.

Lines of her poems that I wrote down, may not be correct:

From her book about Sylvia Plath.

"We are fear the dead because in their incompleteness, they have power over us."

Our society does fear death, we do not know how to deal with it. And yet, we are mystified by it.

Bees:

"Preoccupation of the mad kept at bay."

"As long as there is laughter in the house, I still do not worry."

The power of a smile can never be underestimated. Sometimes, it is laughter and laughter alone that keeps me going all day. I think we forget to laugh, we forget to laugh at the world, and we forget to laugh at ourselves.

From her new poems "Yes and No":

"Choose companions wisely, and trust them far."

Once we find our friends and soulmates .... after careful searching, it is then we must trust and give as much of ourselves as possible. What happens if you get hurt?

There is one line that she wrote that particularly stands out for me. I'm not sure which poem it is from.

"Everyone has signed the social contract but me--I won't read it."

It makes me wonder what social contract I've signed. I like her defiance--"I won't read it." To me that symbolizes her true rebellious, strong character. It is something I want to be able to say, I will not buy into the system.

"Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble."

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Monday, March 06, 2000 8:09 PM

To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M

Subject: 14 Rumi//Crossing to the other side (masculinity)

The Core of Masculinity

The core of masculinity does not derive from being male,

"core"--denotes center, strength. "does not derive from being male"-- right away the author moves away from the traditional viewpoint that gender is determined by one's physical sex. appearances can be deceiving.

nor friendliness from those who console.

i like the parallelism of these two lines. i did not understand this line at all the first time i read it. i was trying to find the connection to masculinity, but i think it's just simply saying that just because someone has sympathy, they may not be friendly. it speaks of a falsity, the idea of someone being "fake" friendly? how can masculinity be a facade? how many "unmasculine" men feel the need to hide behind false "masculinity?" society isn't the most friendly place to those who show their true colors.

Your old grandmother says,

"old grandmother"--represents tradition, the past, feminine. "your"--directly points to the person rumi is writing to. maybe he is reflecting on his life and writing to himself or else writing to the men of his time.

"Maybe you shouldn't go to school.

You look a little pale."

"pale"--denotes weakness, femininity, something unmasculine.

Run when you hear that.

this is a direct order. simply stated: RUN, run away from the woman who says you aren't strong enough.

A father's stern slaps are better.

"stern slaps"-alliteration. the father isn't patting this boy's behind, there is force. there isn't an adjective in front of "father" like there was "old" in front of grandmother. it seems like the "stern slaps" describe the father. this punishment is "better" than his grandmother telling him he is weak. to be a man, one must take the pain.

Your bodily soul wants comforting.

"soul" is something as i see as beyond the body, but here it is placed within the body--"bodily." the boy's physical body, sore from his punishment needs nourishment in addition to the boy's soul, that perhaps is lacking the love and affection from his father. for the boy, masculinity doesn't involve any kind of softness, only severity.

The severe father wants spiritual clarity.

now there is an adjective in front of father--"severe" which is similar to "stern slaps" seen above. i am trying to find the connection of "spiritual clarity" and how the father finds this revelation in his severe life. perhaps the father is trying to deal with his own masculinity, and in his frustration, teaches his son through punishment that that life is still about good/evil, still in black/white, still easy to understand ..... his severity masks his own sense of insecurity.

He scolds, but eventually

"scolds"--seems less harsh than severe. i sense a shift. "but eventually"--there is more to this dad than we think. rumi leads us on, eager to hear the next line.

leads you into the open.

what is the "open"?? understanding of one's self? the father is "leading" the boy. "open" seems such a contrast to all of the "severity" and "sterns" of earlier. perhaps once one--in this case the boy--goes through the hardships and punishments of learning masculinity, once he is toughened, he reaches the summit, the place of grace.

Pray for a tough instructor

"pray"--the second reference to some kind of spirituality and religion. why is religion/spirituality in a poem about masculinity. perhaps the father/boy are looking towards their strict religion to find answers about their identity. "tough"--reference to masculinity. i don't see God as tough, so i conflicting themes

to hear and act and stay within you.

hear, act, and stay--all of these things describe to me the role of God. but i don't see God as a traditional, masculine, "tough instructor." is Rumi talking about God as an instructor or is he saying all of us need fathers/mentors?

We have been busy accumulating solace.

the subject is now "we." which is different from the "your." he is including himself in the person he is writing to. "accumulating" makes me think of money, gathering stock or storing up items. "solace" seems like a contrast to the word. accumulating peace/silence. "Solace" seems in contrast to the whole idea of "severity." "Busy" is in contrast to "solace." what do all of these opposites mean? does the author see solace as a good thing, or is it too much time to think and does he think things should be concrete and clear-cut, like the father images above.

Make us afraid of how we were.

"afraid"--the words brings back the earlier father images of "severe slaps." who is Rumi asking to "make us"? I am unclear what Rumi means with "how we were." Does he mean he wants to get rid of their masculine, severe selves of the past and move into the "open"? Or does he want to return to the concrete/black/white images of masculinity. He doesn't like all of this questioning of identity.

If anyone has any words of wisdom about this poem, feel free to share!

Thanks, Anne

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Friday, March 03, 2000 1:05 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 13 Lee, Li-Young // "A story" all too familiar

A Story, Li-Young Lee

Sad is the man who is asked for a story

and can't come up with one.

I know that the context of this story is a father telling a story to a boy. However, if I didn't know the context of the story, I might think that the story represents the identity of the man, his purpose in life. It's like someone asking you, "Who are you?" and you can't even define or describe yourself. That would be sad. The man is sad he can't please his child.

His five-year-old son waits in his lap.

Not the same story, Baba. A new one.

These lines remind me of my childhood when my dad or mom would put me to bed, and I'd ask them to tell a story or sing a song. If I had heard it before, like the boy in poem, I would ask for a different one. "Baba"--is that a nickname for his dad? The equivalent of "dad" in a different language? Lee's parents were Chinese. "Not the same story"--this implies the child is bored, impatient. It reminds me that our society grows tired when we think life becomes monotonous. We like new things, though we often don't like change.

These lines also help me picture a tiny little boy, sitting comfortably in his dad's lap, waiting for his treat.

The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.

I think the dad is stalling, and sincerely asking himself, "Hmm, a story??" This line provides a visual image for the reader.

In a room full of books in a world

Why doesn't the father just grab one of the many books and read it to his son?

of stories, he can recall

"In a room full of books"--the books are contained in the room, there is not as much freedom when compared to a "world of stories." The world is so much bigger than a room, and stories do not have to be written down. But how much of the world does the father want to bring his 5-year-old son? Perhaps that is why he can't think of one ... or else he is just tired/lazy.

not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy

In the vast expanse of the world, the father cannot think of one story.

will give up on his father.

The dad is waiting for the boy to stop asking so he will not have to tell a story. The father is impatient with the boy for asking and he is waiting for the boy to become impatient with him. However, this may be an example of the father coming home from work tired, too tired to spend time with his son. How many times are we too tired for the things that really matter in life? The father may be glad for his boy to give up on him now, but what about the future?

Already the man lives far ahead, he sees

"Already"--the man cannot live in the present, he is thinking ahead to the future. While his boy is only 5 years old, he is already thinking years ahead. He is not only thinking years ahead, he is "living" ahead. One of my personal goals this year is to live in the present. As college students, it is hard not to think about the future, graduate school, jobs, etc. Sometimes we have count-downs until spring break or we're worried about a big paper we have do. I think we need to slow down, we need to look at the little boy sitting on our lap, asking for a story.

the day this boy will go. Don't go!

Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!

You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.

Let me tell it!

The father is thinking in the future now, imagining the time when his son does not want to hear the stories. No longer is the boy begging for his father's time, the father is begging for his boy. Perhaps the boy isn't a boy anymore. He doesn't need to hear stories of the world because he is going out in the world. The father says "Let me tell it!" He wants to be the main focus of the boy, he wants to tell him about the world.

But the boy is packing his shirts,

he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,

If he's looking for his keys, he is no longer a boy, but a young man. Maybe he is leaving for college. "Are you a god?"--this speaks to me of the teenage years when many young people and there parents don't get along or communicate. The man's words are no longer kind. Perhaps the father feels his son thinks he is above his dad. A popular conception of a god is someone is an image of a being that doesn't have time for the mere subjects below him/her. "god" is not capitalized.

the man screams, that I sit mute before you?

In reality, the little boy is still sitting in his dad's lap, but his dad is lost in imagination and is screaming at the boy, who in his mind, is now a young man. There is intense anger. There is no communication between father and son. Note, the father is sitting, he is not standing over his son, he is not bigger, they are equal. And yet, the father is not ready for that equality. The father cannot talk, he is mute. The speechless are often considered "mute" or dumb. They have no voice, and the voiceless have no power.

Am I a god that I should never disappoint?

Now the father is comparing himself to a god. The father feels his son has too high expectations of him. The father is asking him, "Am I supposed to be perfect?" There are negative connotations to the word god. First, the father compares his son as an uppity god who is above him, and then the father compares himself to a god. Does the father expect God to be perfect? Has he been disappointed by God in the past? The father is angry.

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

We return to the present, the five-year-old boy on his lap who is still kindly asking for a story. "But"--there is no need to worry about the future, the father is trying to calm himself from his vivid imagination.

It is an emotional rather than logical equation,

I am puzzled at the word "equation" because that implies the adding or subtracting or 2 or more things to find a sum, difference. It is as if the father is weighing the consequences of reading or not reading the story. If he reads the story, he keeps his "control" in the father son relationship, and keeps himself safe so in the future, he won't be affected when the boy leaves home or the boy is too good for his father. If he does tell a story, he is supposedly giving in to his son. While this would create a deeper bond between them, he is thinking of the consequences of the future. Emotion is separated from logic. In this case, the father is going to rely on his feelings.

an earthly rather than heavenly one,

Once again, there is a separation, heaven and earth. Emotion and earthly are connected versus logic and heaven. I find that contrast interesting. I would associate emotions with heaven rather than the earth. Perhaps the father is thinking of his reference to god earlier, and that is why he chooses the earthly thought.

which posits that a boy's supplications

"posit" means to affirm or assume the existence of

"supplication" means to ask for humbly, earnestly as by praying

The boy is simply asking for a story. Once again, the definition refers to "praying" yet another image associated with god, heaven. Somehow, I cannot put my finger on how it all ties together.

and a father's love add up to silence.

Even after reading this poem many times, I am still confused by the ending. The father cannot honor the boy's simple request because he cannot think of a story. That is too simple. "Silence" is a powerful word. Because the father loves the boy, he feels he is keeping the boy safe by not telling him stories of the outside world, stories that might make the boy try to reach heaven, try to reach God??? In his silence, the father thinks he is protecting himself and his son from future pain when they both have to break away from each other. However, if he is silent, they will never have a chance to really know one another. We once again have the reference to "equation" (mentioned earlier in the poem). The boy's humble request for a story, "supplication" + the father's love = silence.

-- Li-Young Lee, 11990. Reproduced from The City in Which I Love You, with kind permission of BOA Editions, Ltd.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Thursday, March 02, 2000 9:57 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: Biographical information and picture on Li-Young Lee

Li-Young Lee

Li-Young Lee was born in 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesia, of Chinese parents. In 1959, his father, after spending a year as a political prisoner in President Sukarno's jails, fled Indonesia with his family. Between 1959 and 1964 they traveled in Hong Kong, Macau, and Japan, until arriving in America.

Mr. Lee studied at the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Arizona, and the State University of New York, College at Brockport. He has taught at various universities, including Northwestern University and the University of Iowa. In 1990 Li-Young Lee traveled in China and Indonesia to do personal research for a book of autobiographical prose.

Li-Young Lee's several honors include grants from the Illinois Arts Council, The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, and the National Endowment for the Arts. In 1989 he was awarded a fellowship by the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation; in 1988 he was the recipient of a Writer's Award from the Mrs. Giles Whiting Foundation. In 1987 Mr. Lee received New York University's Delmore Schwartz Memorial Poetry Award for his first book, Rose, published by BOA Editions, Ltd. in 1986; and The City in Which I Love You, Li-Young Lee's second book of poems, was the 1990 Lamont Poetry Selection of The Academy of American Poets. He has also won the Lannan Literary Award.

http://www.indiana.edu/~primate/lee.html

Additional Bio on Lee

<TBODY> Li-Young Lee b. 1957 Biography Born in Jakarta, Indonesia, Li-Young Lee moved to America with his family to escape a dictatorial regime that had imprisoned his father for nineteen months. In his poetry, Lee often reflects upon his father's experiences as Mao-Tse-tung's personal physician and as a Presbyterian minister in Pennsylvania, exploring the dramatic differences between that life and his own. Lee's work is characterized by its fluidity -- his poems slip gracefully between the physical and dream worlds -- and its attention to the senses. Educated at the University of Pittsburgh, the University of Arizona, and the State University of New York, Lee has published two books of poems, Rose (1986) and The City in Which I Love You (1990), as well as a prose memoir, The Winged Seed: A Remembrance (1995). Explorations Writing of love, of family, of ordinary experience and a personal past, Lee may seem to be a spontaneous, romantic poet. But Lee's surfaces are deceptive; his poetry is highly literate, engaged in an affectionate and even playful dialogue with the voices of earlier American artists. Part of the pleasure in reading Lee is hearing how those voices echo and transform within his own. </TBODY>

http://www.wwnorton.com/naal/explore/lee.htm

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, February 29, 2000 9:56 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 12. McPherson // Snails!

my reflection after listening to parts of the tape:

Did everyone hear the introduction to this poem and the story about Sandra coming home to find that her autistic daughter had written the word "hi" on the lawn in snails? ..... if so, this poem will make better sense. there is something powerful about hearing an author read his/her poetry. i loved listening to sandra's voice on the tape. i can feel her emotion by the sound of it, i feel her joys, frustrations, and pain in the strainings of her voice .... as a listener, it is sometimes hard to bear.

i found the story behind this poem beautiful and moving. for some reason, i felt it at the core of my being. this mother and daughter, trying to communicate, their tensions, their love, the simpleness of the snails. it reveals truth about all of us struggling to be closer to one another, realizing that sometimes we do not know how to communicate with one another. I can hear the Sandra's love for her daughter in her voice, and on a personal note, it makes me miss my mom, who I haven't seen for a long time.

I absolutely love this poem, for its images, its beauty, its honesty and for its message that we are trying to reach one another. in what ways are we today limited in our communications with one another? have we found a way to connect deeply with each other? what if we couldn't speak, what if we didn't have e-mail .... would we let these barriers separate us from each other?

what a neat idea Sandra's daughter had about writing "hi" to her mom in snails. I can picture myself doing that as well.

transcribed poem:

One way she spoke to me--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

i can imagine the frustration on the mother's part, trying to communicate to your child, and there is no response. has anyone seen the movie "Rainman"???

and yet, you cannot be mad, the daughter cannot help it. from these lines, it seems as though mother and daughter have a hard time communicating. they can't reach each other. the daughter obviously has a hard time speaking. imagine the frustration in trying to find other ways to communicate, in a society that revolves around speaking (though e-mail is quickly advancing)

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.

a breakthrough. the communication barrier pushed away by a few slimy snails. the mother and daughter have become more in-tune to one another. i wonder what she means by "silver memos on the front door?" i keep asking myself, what would have happen if i couldn't talk very well or understand words? i do not know much about autism at all.

home late, i found them slurred and searching,

erasing the welcome she'd arranged them in.

H--12 snails

I--7 or 6

the author's lines paint a picture in my mind. i like the alliteration, slurred and searching. notice the numbers "12" and "7". there is precision in the memory of the author. she can still remember the number of snails, she took the time to count them ....

they were mis-spelling it, digresing in wayward caravans and pile-ups

mobile and rolling but with little perspective

little perspective? the snails are moving but do not have a sense of where. i wonder if that is how sandra's daughter felt? she is moving through life, but because of her autism, does not know exactly where she is going or is unaware of it .... or perhaps, the mom sees the relationship between her and daughter in the snails ...

their eye stalks smooth as nylons on tiny legs.

this image is easy to visualize, thought i feel sorry for any little child who has to wear "nylons."

i raised her in isolation, but it is these snails who keep climbing the walls.

the author is reflecting about how she raised her daughter. perhaps she did not have a lot of friends, perhaps she was guarded at home .... maybe the mother/daughter never knew how to communicated with each other. but the walls between the daughter/mother are not impenetrable, for even snails can "climb" them.

for them, maybe every vertical makes an un-ending tree

and every assension's lovely.

this comparison to the snails: i think the author is talking about how each gradual step she maks with her daughter is amazing, and it will lead to more. when you think about snails, they are SLOW, and it requires patience to watch them. the communication between the daughter and mother is going to be slow in progress.

why else don't they wend homewards to ground?

the snails do not give up, the mother and daughter do not give up in communicating, no matter how hard the journey

but what do we do?

we are only a part of a letter in a word--this is the line i am unsure of. we are a part of something larger than ourselves, individually we are letters trying to make a word with each other.

and we are on our bellies with speech--communicating/connecting with others is often slow, tedious work, it may not be graceful .... we are on our bellies, VULNERABLE, awkward

wondering, wondering slowly, how to move toward one another.

this lines speaks of our desire as humans to connect with each other,not to just walk by them, but to really connect. it's similar to her daughter writing "hi" with the snails, trying to connect with her mom when speech doesn't work. how do we break down the barriers with each other? how do we reveal our true selves?

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, February 27, 2000 2:42 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 11. Hayden // I have lived in a cold house

I feel I definitely can relate to Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays" (Rag and Bone Shop, pg. 141) because I can remember the cold mornings of my childhood in New Hampshire. We lived in a big, very old white house in West Lebonan, NH which was very drafty. The upstairs was frigid during the winter no matter how high my parents turned the heat up. They didn't like to turn it up either. My brother and I would always dread taking a bath upstairs because the bathroom was so chilly. Anyway, we had a wood stove downstairs, and our family always used this to heat the house (in addition to a regular furnance) and to keep the heating bill down. In the poem the author talks about the dad waking early in the morning to start the fire. In my house, often it was my mom who was always up early. She'd be the one to turn the furnance on and then either my dad or her would light our wood stove. It was black, with silver coils on the handles that got really hot when the stove had been burning for awhile. After playing outside in the snow, my brother, friends, and I would place our soggy, wet mittens and hats directly on the black stove's furnace to dry. They'd start to steam and eventually, if we were careless, they would get a little crispy. I can relate to the boy (?) in the poem; "slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house" (Rag and Bone Shop, Hayden, pg. 141). I can remember laying in bed, and I wouldn't get up until I heard our furnance kick in or my mom would come and say it was warm. My toes would always quickly scamper across our wooden floors so I could get to the carpeted stairs. I loved our wood stove. It made our house cozy, and it was fun to watch the flames dance and burn on the frosted glass windows/door of the stove.

"No one ever thanked him." I am asking myself, I wonder if I ever thanked my parents for being the first ones up to warm the house? How often do our parents do these little things without we as children/kids thanking them? I'm sure I've missed the little things.

"Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold ..." In this poem, the boy is unaware of his father's sacrifice. To him, it's just a normal part of the routine. He doesn't recognize these tasks as a sign of love. As a reader, I can sense the love and devotion this dad has to his family by the description of his hands: "then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze." This dad gets up early every morning to warm his little house, his hands are worn from work. He works hard, and yet his son, like many of us, doesn't seem to notice. He doesn't recognize the affection in that.

I really like the last line: "What did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?" (Rag and Bone Shop, Hayden, pag. 141).

The boy in the story is remembering these early mornings, he is looking back, and in this reflection, is realizing the love his offered in his daily morning chores. There is a sadness in this last line. The author realizes that at the age of his remembrances, he wasn't able to recognize the love in his father, who probably wasn't that close to the boy or maybe not even that affectionate. I can relate to that as well. Love comes in all different forms, and some are easier to see than others.

Now that we live in Iowa, we don't have a wooden stove. In high school, I was often the first one up, so the role of heating the house fell to me. And you can bet, when I came down in the morning, I cranked it up :-)

p.s. I have enjoyed these family poems, and they seem to focus on a father/son relationship quite a bit. I am hoping we can see some "mothers/daughters" soon ....

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 5:40 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 10. Peacock's Chapter Ten // Peacock's profound, poignant points

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

I found Peacock's chapter about the father poems very helpful because it gave her interpretations of the poems and also provided little nuggets of wisdom. She writes: "Poetry, after all, is responsible for articulation, no matter how small or opaque or ephemeral the articulated thing is" (Peacock, Chapter 10, pg. 132).

After the first line about articulation, I wrote in my book, "but I am not good at articulation." I think that is why I read poems because the writers seem to articulate my inner thoughts. However, I am not giving myself enough credit. Peacock did write "no matter how small or opaque," so basically, any attempt we make at writing poetry, at articulating our inner voices, at fumbling for words ....all of this is valid.

I really liked what Peacock wrote about culture and poetry: "I would go so far as to say that it [poetry] articulates culture itself--provided we know a culture by the rhythms of its details" (Peacock, Chapter 10, pg. 132). I agree with Peacock that poetry does represent our culture, for our culture is in the details of everyday life. I just think her statement is profound.

Lastly, what I found particularly beautiful is what Peacock wrote about the parent-child relationships. "Parent-child relationships, whatever the attempts to sever them, endure forever, surely past the death of the parent, who lives on, ingested, inside the child, as the child was once contained in that parent's zygote" (Peacock, Chapter 10, pg. 139).

These are comforting words to me, and yet I think they may stand in contrast to Komunyakaa's poem where the boy and his mother do not have a relationship any more. Do they still have a bond? The image of the parent living inside the child is a wonderful parallel to the child growing up in a parent's womb. We are always connected to the ones we love.

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 4:37 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 9. Komunyakaa // What about the boy?

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

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

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 2:35 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: Komunyakaa//What about the boy?

The first time I read "My Father's Letters," I felt a lot of sympathy for the woman/mother who left her abusive husband. I liked the line where the author/boy writes: "I wondered if she'd laugh/As she held them over a flame" (Peacock, "Letters from Two Fathers," pg. 127). Those lines painted the visual image in my head, and I could imagine the woman burning up her desperate husband's letters. I do not have a lot of sympathy for abusive spouses. I also could feel the mother's cold/distant heart in the line, "The same letter to my mother/Who sent postcards to desert flowers/taller than a man" (pg. 126). The use of the word desert makes me think of a dry place, a place of no feeling. This woman has left her family, has left her son, and she has left her husband who is still in love with her.

The estranged relationship between the mother and son intrigues me. The son is glad his mom is gone, he is relieved the stressful relationship between his parents is no longer present. "I was almost happy she was gone and sometime wanted to slip in something bad" (pg. 126). This boy does not seem to miss his mom at all, for he has had to grow up quickly to be a "man" for his dad. I feel sad for the boy because he doesn't seem to have that close connection with his mom. Personally, I am quite close to my mom, and when she was gone for over 2 months, it was hard for me, but I knew she was returning. The mom doesn't sound like she is returning, and the boy doesn't seem to care. Is he perhaps bitter that she left him or is he just relieved he doesn't have to witness the conflicts between his parents? I think he lost something, he's lost his mother's love, and he's lost his childhood.

After reading this a few times, I am also mad at the woman/mother for leaving. I realize she needed to leave her husband, but why was her boy left with this abusive dad? Why doesn't she visit? Doesn't she love him enough to want to have him in her life?

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Saturday, February 19, 2000 8:46 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: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Saturday, February 19, 2000 4:07 PM

To: 'JTSTONE@csbsju.edu'; mthamert@csbsju.edu

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: Response to Joanna, Holm // the seductress

I agree with Joanna that this poem is about people finding freedom. It can be a model for individuals trying to break their traditional molds in society or in themselves. For the speaker of the poem, he may be overcoming his fear of dancing the rhumba in front of people. He is taking a risk, he may not know the exact steps, but has a choice to try it or not. One factor that may help his decision is that the person coaxing him to this new level of individuality, is a seductive woman with "black eyes." Joanna asks a good question: what are the implications of the gender of the people in this poem? 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?

However, despite these implications I am not troubled by this poem. I like it, and am focusing on the larger context of its theme or trying something new. How do male readers feel? If the roles were reversed, and it was a man asking a woman to dance, I might feel slightly offended. Why does a woman need a man to make her life more exciting?

I keep thinking of the popular movie, Pretty Woman. Almost everyone I know likes it. I do like it, but thanks to my women/gender class, I can't watch it the same way. I have issues with it. Like many movies of this time (80's) Pretty Woman enforces the idea of a strong, businessman (prince in shining armor) coming in to save the poor, prostitute, who obviously can't save herself. Richard Gere helps Julia Roberts realize that she is more than a prostitute, she can be somebody. In turn, Julia Roberts helps Richard learn to relax and have fun. I am simplifying the movie. I may be off topic, but we haven't really talked about gender roles yet, so maybe this will raise some comments.

Lastly,(back to the poem), in her post Joanna writes: 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.

I agree that society at large may have definitions of what is successful and what is not. However, I do not think we are limited by society. We allow ourselves to fall into the trap of society, into the idea that we must make so much money, own cars, etc. etc.. However, society does not limit us, we limit ourselves. We do not have to listen to society. I think that is what Joanna means ??, but I thought I would add my two cents.

"If they dance together,

something unexpected will hapen.

If they don't, the next world

will be a lot like this one." (Holm, Rag and Bones, pg. 30)

Hmm, in looking beyond this poem and the man who is trying to decide if he should "dance" or not. What does this poem say to us? Are willing to try a new "dance" even if we miss a step or two? Or do we want to stay where things are comfortable. Forget about the woman with black eyes, would we dance if she wasn't there?

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

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

From: JTSTONE [SMTP:JTSTONE@csbsju.edu]

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 10:09 PM

To: mthamert@csbsju.edu

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

I really liked the poem Advice, by Bill Holm. (Rag and Bone, p.30) It reminds me that we cannot always do just what society wants us to do, and the importance of discovering the wild, free spirit within each of us. Someone dancing inside us / learned only a few steps: We are limited by the roles society expects us to play. Society says we should be responsible and studious and learn our lessons well so that we may go out into the world of work and get a respectable, well-paying job to go to every day for the rest of our lives. The "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: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Friday, February 18, 2000 10:09 PM

To: Frerich, Stephanie G; Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: reply to Steff: 7 Anacreontea//concrete doesn't crumble easily

I really liked Steph's response and I agree with her reading as the poem reflecting the cycle of the earth, the universe. The poem moves in progression from the earth, to plants, to the sea, to the sun, moon, and stars. It seems all of creation is part of this "drinking," this thirst for life and renewal. And yet, humans are excluded. "Should every creature drink but I, Why, man of morals, tell me why?" (Anacreontea, 99 Poems, pg. 4). Like Steph said, humans morals seem to exclude us from nature. We have the ability to pass judgment, to see life as right/wrong, we see beginnings/endings. This is not how nature works.

Instead of drinking in nature, we are using concrete (see Steph's response) to build walls and barriers that separate us from nature. From many of our conversations in class, many of us seem to be in agreement that we as humans have lost our balance of nature. Much of society abuses nature, and we take it for granted. As Father Mark said, it is easy to become caught up in classes and life, and forget to notice the trees at St. Ben's and St. John's. However, there is a desire in our class, on our campuses, and in society at large to reconnect with nature, in essence our inner selves. Yoga, mediation, Zen, self-reflection books, spirituality, these words are becoming popular terms. We want to be reconnected with who we are, our inner voices, and nature. I believe our hearts and souls can be found in nature. However, let's return to the concrete. If we have already separated ourselves from the earth, if we have used its "rocks and soil" to build up concrete walls, how easy is it to break them? We must chip away slowly, piece by piece. And some of us have more muscle arm than others! :-)

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

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

From: Frerich, Stephanie G

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 7:29 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 7 Anacreontea//Drinking a Drunk Creation

Drinking a Drunk Creation

Drinking

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

And drinks and gapes for drink again;

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

The plants suck in the earth, and are

With constant drinking fresh and fair;

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

The sea itself (which one would think

Should have but little need of drink)

Drink ten thousand rivers up,

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

So filled that they o'erflow the cup.

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

The busy Sun (and one would guess

By's drunken fiery face no less)

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

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

The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:

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

They drink and dance by their own light,

They drink and revel all the night:

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

Nothing in Nature's sober found,

But an eternal health goes round.

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

Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,

Fill all the glasses there, for why

Should every creature drink but I,

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

Why, man of morals, tell me why?

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

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 2:53 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 7 Rumi // Is the boy now a man?

"Has Anyone Seen the Boy?" Rag and Bone Shop, Rumi, pg. 13

Has anyone seen the boy who used to come here?

In looking at the poem itself, I am wondering who the speaker is, and who he/she is talking to. I can imagine the speaker talking to a group of people, whether it be friends or neighbors, at a spot in town where people gather, maybe at a church/store/street corner, etc. From this line, I understand that the boy no longer stops by, and while the boy may be 10 years old, I wonder how much time has passed since the boy came, and how old is he now. Is he still a boy?

Round-faced trouble-maker, quick to find a joke,

I see a boy, with red cheeks, darting around, picking on people, causing trouble, I am reminded of kids in my class from high school.

slow to be serious, red shirt

This kid likes to have a good time. The color red sticks out. While the speaker may not approve of the antics of the boy, he/she must like the kid to remember so much and to ask about him.

with things always in his pocket: reed flute,

typical kids, frogs and rocks and things in his pocket. significance of flute?? is the boy a musician who plays for people?

worn pick, polished and ready for his Talent

you know that one.

is the pick used to play a guitar? it seems like another reference to musical talent. the pick is worn, the boy uses it often. why is Talent capitalized?? His talent must be more than music if it is capitalized. In society, words relating to God/Jesus are often capitalized: Divine, He/She, Word, etc.

Have you heard stories about him?

It seems as if the speaker is trying to find someone who can recall memories with him about the boy.

Pharoah and the whole Egyptian world

collapsed for such a Joseph.

This may be an intertextual comment, but this line refers directly to the Bible, and the story of Joseph. Is the boy Joseph?? I think so? Maybe the speaker is talking to people, they remember Joseph as a boy and now have heard that he is a powerful leader in Egypt.

I'd gladly spend years getting word of him, even third or fourth hand.

This boy--Joseph--has really impressed the speaker. Maybe he and the boy share a special bond. The speaker is dying to hear anything about the boy, who is probably now a man. Perhaps the speaker has been searching for knowledge about the boy for a long time. The speakers says he/she would be spend years searching just to hear a word. Now that's dedication. I wonder who this boy really is? Perhaps he is Joseph. The red shirt--the coat of many colors??

Also, for some reason, this poem reminds me of the story of Jesus, as a child, talking to people in the temple while his parents are desperately looking for him.

"There is more to life than increasing its speed." ~Gandhi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, February 13, 2000 11:51 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 6 Holderlin // Divine???

I really liked the poem, "Bread and Wine" by the German poet/novelist Friedrich Holderlin, found on page 12 in Rag and Bone Shop. After looking at this thorough website, http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Troy/2967/Holderlin.html, dedicated to Holderlin's work, I discovered some biographical information on the poet and found common themes in his poems. Holderlin was Born March 20, 1770 in Lauffen, Germany. His own father died when he was two, and then his step-father died as well. Holderlin attended convent schools and later studied theology. According to the website's bio, Holderlin was deemed the "master of German literature." He believed that "art reveals the nature of reality" which was a preview to the Romanticism movement. He also felt the artist is a mediator between gods and humans. It is the artist's job to transmit messages back and forth between the two.

The poem below was found on the website, but I did not see a title of it. The poem below has similar characteristics of "Bread and Wine" (Holderlin, Rag and Bone Shop, pg. 12). Both poems mention the "divine" as something desired, something to share with people, something that is hard to find or always out of reach. Both poems talk about the frustrations of being human, of being trapped on earth, unable to connect to the divine. Below, Holderlin writes:

"With our own hand to grasp the Father's lightening-flash

And to pass on, wrapped in song,

The divine gift to the people." http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Troy/2967/Holderlin.html

In this sense, the "divine" is poems/messages from God, which poets pass on to humanity. The poems are messages of the divine represented in the lines of poems.

In "Bread and Wine," the speaker and his friend are searching for the "divine" as well. "Oh friend, we arrived too late. The divine energies are still alive, but isolated above us, in the archetypal world" (Holderlin, Rag and Bone Shop, pg. 12). The author is too late, the "divine" is too far above them. (One definition of archetypal is: the world as it existed or an idea of God before the creation).

Once again, the "divine" is represented as something above humans in the realm of God. The "divine" is the inspiration to write poems, which are messages of God. Later in the poem: "Human beings can carry the divine only sometimes." This line reminds me that inspiration is hard to find, we cannot always be creative. Holderlin is talking about the struggle of trying to hear God's message, the struggle to find his creativity to write poems in order to transmit God's message to the people. "Divine" is used to throughout "Bread and Wine," and the word is not capitalized. If it were capitalized, I would surely see it as representing God.

Does anyone see "divine" as something to do with poetic inspiration, a message from God ....etc. ???

"Though he has to earn a living,

Man dwells poetically on this earth."

"Yet it behoves us, under the storms of God,

Ye poets! with uncovered head to stand,

With our own hand to grasp the Father's lightening-flash

And to pass on, wrapped in song,

The divine gift to the people."

"But, friends, we have come too late! The gods are, indeed, alive,

But above our heads, up there in another world.

There they are endlessly active, and seen to heed little

Whether we are alive: that's how much the heavenly ones care."

"Perhaps some of the wisdom to sputter and of being

dumbfounded may be the inheritance that our spiritual

culture ought to transmit to the next generations."

http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Troy/2967/Holderlin.html

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, February 13, 2000 12:52 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 5 Hirsch, Chapter 1 //"Me? How about We?"

After taking a wonderful theology class this past semester, I learned a lot about Christianity in general and the differences among Christian denominations. The one thing I missed from this class was the discussion of spirituality which is able to unite all people. In Hirsch's book, and in other readings, I love the connection between poetry/art and spirituality.

"The poem delivers our spiritual lives precisely because it simultaneously gives us the gift of intimacy and interiority, privacy, and participation" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, pg. 4). No matter what religion or denomination we are, what church we belong to or even what God we worship, poetry is neutral medium which reaches and touches our spiritual selves. Poetry unites humans in our quest for "something more" in life, for something beyond ourselves. A poem can be very personal, but it also has the potential of being a very communal and "participatory" action. In poetry and spirituality, what is often most important is what a poem means to ME, or what God means or has done for ME. Without losing that individual connection, I think it is important to move to place where we see ourselves in a community, participating in life together, reading poems together, and listening/searching for God together.

"Reading poetry is for me an art of the most immense intimacy, of intimate immensity. I am shocked by what I see in the poem, but also by what the poem finds in me. It activates my secret world, commands my inner life . . . words pressure me into myself" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, pg. 8). Poems at times enable/force us to think of the glorious/painful memories of the past. I think poems touch places in ourselves that we have tried to forget or places we thought didn't exist anymore. They may light ideas or passions in us that we had put aside, and now want to focus on again. This awakening is a good thing, but not always easy. Many times I have heard the lyrics or music of a particular song (in the mall, on the bus, in my room), and all of a sudden a certain memory/experience flashes in my head, and I am lost in it. When reading poems, what amazes me is the emotions and thoughts that pop into my head. I poems are the safe mediators which release our barriers and walls and allow us to think/feel freely whatever we want. Lastly, I think it's so important to feel all of life (the joy and the pain), to be enchanted by the little things, to play hide and seek, to swing on the swings .... we must hold on to our inner child. Poems can be our playmates.

"Let the beauty of what you love be what you do." ~Rumi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 4:21 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: links for Rilke

photos of him:

http://www.mtsu.edu/~dlavery/rmrpics.htm

website with links:

http://www.sfgoth.com/~immanis/rilke/index.html

website with links and poems in different translations:

http://www.econ.jhu.edu/People/Fonseca/goethe/rilke.htm

"Let the beauty of what you love be what you do." ~Rumi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 3:46 PM

To: Schultz, Ryan M; Thamert, Mark

Subject: Response to Ryan//Stop Beating Yourself Up!

Ryan,

First of all, stop beating yourself up. You are not giving yourself enough credit. You say you do not have the talent to create or the passion of Michelangelo. While you may not be an artist in the sense of painting, (though I do not know you), I am guessing that you have passion for the things you believe in: your classes, your activities, your relationships. I'd like to expand the definition of art to include the things in life in which we are passionate, whether it's music, love, writing, painting, relationships, activities, classes, or service onto others. I think anytime we throw ourselves and our hearts and souls completely into something, that itself is art and passion. Art is fulfilling the longing and ambition in our hearts for something more, for deeper meaning, or for at times, selfish pleasure. And the passion can be blinding and it may sacrifice other aspects of our lives. When I think of my life, my passion is music and writing for papers and all of my extracurricular activities such as CAB. At times, these things keep me from other aspects of my life, and I am forced to make sacrifices. I do not see my friends as much, I have constant sleep deprivation, etc. And yet I continue to do what I love. However--perhaps this is where I differ from Michelangelo--I wish I had more of a balance in my life. Is it possible to balance everything? It is a question I face each day. I think the goal would be able to live each moment of our experience in the present, seeking joy out of everything we do. I admire Michelangelo for his passion and commitment to his art, and his bravery in hanging upside down all day. :-) And yet, part of me wonders, did he ever find a sense of peace? Jeff talked about contentment in of his posts. Can we have a balance of contentment and passion? I hope so.

Another question. Are their "good" and "bad" types of passion and art? I think of Mother Teresa and her art and passion to the life of service. She sacrificed many worldly comforts in her humble service to God. She was passionate and strong in her work, and yet, I believe she has contentment and peace. What about a CEO of a company? A person who spend 12 hours a day on the job running a company that he/she believes in? Is that art? I would say yes. But what if the person's goal is to only make money? Are their selfish kinds of art? Do we judge people for the sacrifices they make? What if the CEO is never home with her/his family or isn't able to tuck her/his children into bed?

What about the struggling artist who drops out of college to live in the streets of NYC, to write about the frozen faces walking on the streets? That person is living out his/her art and passion, but society might not deem the art worthy, until that person published a poem.

Lastly, what about the parent whose passion is his/her family and children? The parent who stays home each day to take care of the kids, read them stories, or drive them to soccer practice. It is the art of love and nurturance. I see that as passion as well. This person is saving the world in their own way.

I know right now that I do not have the level of passion of Michelangelo, and I can certainly not paint at his level. :-) However, I am giving all I can give at this time in my life, and I think that's the best we can do.

These are my thoughts out loud. I will continue to ponder this issue, and I do everyday.

Peace, Anne

"Let the beauty of what you love be what you do." ~Rumi

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

From: Schultz, Ryan M

Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 9:28 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: Michaelangelo, Khlebnikov // The price of words

"try/to succour my dead pictures and my fame;/since foul I fare and painting is my shame." (Michelangelo, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel" In 99 Poems p. 76). Michelangelo gives us a vivid account of the physical sacrifices made during the painting of the Sistine Chapel. The poet is actually ashamed of his work and the state of affairs it has left his decrepit body in. Vivid imagery of an elderly man, skin hanging off his bones and splattered with paint, are effective in making the audience feel and understand what he has given for his art. Although this imagery moves me, I have trouble associating with what the author is feeling. 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. Michelangelo's sacrifice for his art is sharply contrasted with the poem by Khlebnikov entitled "We chant and enchant." One line that particularly struck me goes "Here rant! There cant!/ You charming enchanter" (99 Poems, p 56). Khlebnikov's creation differs from Michelangelo in that he seems to be having fun. This is obvious thought the light interplay of words and toying with sounds and meanings. Prefixes are subtly changed to add a "tongue-twisting" effect on the reader which seems to draw them further into the poem. Although "We Chant and Enchant" is more fun, I am still drawn to the sacrifices of Michelangelo. I wonder if a poem can be profound and deep in meaning if the poet is unable to delve deep into him/herself and draw out that which is one with the soul.

Hence the debate. Does a poem require sacrifice like some ancient god to be full of meaning and depth? Or can a poem be fun and lively, and not be deep or grand in scale? I believe the answer is both. Again, I stress that I have not the creator spirit in me, and it is difficult for me to understand the emotional connection between the artist and their art. That is why I respect these two poems for different reasons. I like Michelangelo's for it describes a feeling I envy and wish I could partake in, but I also enjoy the witty, light mastery of language presented in "We Chant and Enchant."

My experience with poetry is minimal, but I hope that with time and experience I will be able to understand the relationship between art and artist.

Ryan Schultz

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, February 06, 2000 9:37 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Cc: Walters, Anne M

Subject: 4 Alighieri, Khlebnikov // I Wish I Had a Flying Ship

After reading Dante Alighieri's "Sonnet: Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti (Pinter, 36)," I am wondering who these two people are and what is their relationship. Is it one of friendship? A deep working relationship? Soulmates? The poem mentions other names:

Guido, I would that Lapo though, and I,

Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend

A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly ..." (Alighieri, "Sonnet: Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti," in 99 Poems in Translation, 36).

Dante mentions other names in the poems, close friends. Who is Lapo? Vanna? Bice? I feel drawn to this poem which seems a wistful dream. Dante wants to escape from reality for awhile in a magical ship that flies away to a place where time is suspended and there is no evil. "So that no change, nor any evil chance Should mar our joyous voyage" (36). What is Dante trying to escape from? He wants to bring his friends with him on this journey. I would do the same thing, gather the people closest to my heart and depart. He wants to share the moment with them and engage in meaningful talk. He wants to build community, which is similar to those in our poetry class. "Companions of our wandering, and would grace with passionate talk, wherever we might rove, Our time, and each were as content and free" (36). Dante is hitting on a desire many people have to fly away to a place where there are no worries, only good companionship and thought. I can almost see the flying ship.

In addition, I want to comment on Velmir Khlebnikov's poem, "We chant and enchant," found on page 56 of Pinter's 99 Poems in Translation. This poem has a rolling rhythm and beat to it. I like the alliteration and slight spelling shifts of the words. I am unsure of who the speaker is because "We" is mentioned two times and then the narrator refers to "He" and "She." The narrator/speaker is at first one of the chanters and then the speaker is observing a situation, warning another person.

At first, the narrator seems drawn into the spell of the enchantress. "This ranting enchantress has cast her enchantment--We see what her chant meant!" (Khlebnikov, "We chant and enchant," in 99 Poems in Translation, 56). But then the narrator's wits are recovered and he (?) seeks to rescue another male enchanter. "Cast our her enchantment, Uncast it, uncant it." Once the words are put forth, they cannot be taken back. It is too late, the two enchanters are caught together. They both cannot free themselves from each other. The narrator wonders why: "Why can't she recant? Why can't he uncant?" Perhaps it is love that draws them together, or they are two souls, too alike to want to leave each other. This poem does mystify me, so if anyone has any other comments ..... :-)

How many times are we drawn to people/experiences and find ourselves feeling trapped? Or, sometimes, what at first seems like an unfamiliar situation is actually the beginning of something wonderful? Do we listen to ourselves or to the voices of others?

Anne Walters

"Seek not so much to be understood as to understand..." Francis of Assisi

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Sunday, February 06, 2000 7:45 PM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 3 response to Jeff's post "The Poem: The Perfect Balance Between ....."

First of all, I really liked Jeff's post. It summarized many important thoughts and ideas. Like Jeff, when I think of poetry, an image that pops into my mind is a solitary person curled up on the couch reading poems. However, I find the social possibilities of poetry very exciting. I enjoy discussing ideas with people and friends, and I enjoy being in their presence. I think poetry gains more meaning and insight when read and discussed in a large group because each listener brings a different perspective to the table. What I want to capture is the enthusiasm and anticipation that Peacock and her friends felt for their poetry dinners. I think most of us are looking for deeper connections to others in life. Poetry is one way to cut through the superficial conversation to the heart of life.

Jeff wrote:

"I think this concept is neat: healing the inside in order to heal the outside. One must first heal the inside heart and body before one begins to heal the outside grief's of this troubled world we live in. "

This line reminds me of the idea that you must know who you are before you can commit yourself to loving someone else, but that's not always the case. I agree with Jeff's thoughts, and yet I wonder if healing the outside world can also contribute to the healing of ourselves. I think helping others may be a form of therapy. When we see people in situations worse than our own, it puts our grief/struggles/problems in perspective. Shared suffering also relieves the pain of isolation.

Anne Walters

"Seek not so much to be understood as to understand..." Francis of Assisi

Jeff's post:

Our class discussion yesterday consisted of many paradoxes: solitude vs. companionship, innocence vs. the wisdom of old age, and Freud's view of the id as the dark side vs. Yung's view of the id as the light side, etc. Even though these paradoxes are conflicting and they tend to stir some heated arguments, Fr. Mark addressed that these paradoxes are OK. Sersch--I'm sure you were happy because here is a new way to look at settling these conflicts and making peace with these topics. Instead of trying to resolve the conflicts with one correct answer, we should be able to accept the paradox and find a balance between both of the sides. Where am I going with this you might ask. When I think about poetry, I tend to think of a person reading in solitude in a quiet and dark room. But then I also think about Poetry Slams where poets competitively read their poems in front of an audience. Poetry is the perfect medium that bridges the wide gap between the paradox of solitude and companionship in our world today!

I came to this realization after reading the first two chapters of Molly Peacock's How to Read a Poemàand Start a Poetry Circle. First, Molly addresses the power of solitude in poetry: "àreading poetry gives you a kind of internal message. Your organs readjust, they re-relate to one another, as you become aware of a new thought or a new feeling or more likely, of something you, too, have thought and felt all along" (Peacock, How to Read a Poemàand Start a Poetry Circle, p. 14). Second, Molly addresses the power of companionship in poetry through poetry circles. I smiled when I imagined this image of Molly and her friend Georgianna Orsini "climb[ing] into [their] jammies by SIX P.M. to read poems out loud while cooking dinner" (Peacock, How to Read a Poemàand Start a Poetry Circle, p. 16). Poetry has many things to teach me. It not only will connect me to a new form of solitude, but also deeper feelings of companionship with those around me.

"I labor by singing light / Not for ambition or bread à But for the common wages / Of their secret heart à But for the lovers, their arms / Round the griefs of ages,à" (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art," in Rag and Bone, p. 167). I might be misinterpreting "In My Craft or Sullen Art," but I'm picturing Dylan Thomas writing to soothe the lovers' hearts in order to heal the lovers' outside griefs. I think this concept is neat: healing the inside in order to heal the outside. One must first heal the inside heart and body before one begins to heal the outside griefs of this troubled world we live in. A poet, who most likely has a special connection with solitude and the inner realm of the soul, must then have the key to solving the world's griefs. The poet's words alone will touch our hearts and heal us in ways that food or water cannot. Is it possible then to solve world hunger through poetry?

Again, I see this same concept of strengthening the inner self in Shakespeare's poem. "Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, / But sad mortality o'er-sways their power, / How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?" (Shakespeare, "Sonnet LXV," in Rag and Bone, p. 176). Too often in this world, we think that by healing the outside of our bodies, we will heal the inside body. By being thin, or having muscles we strive for beauty. However, no matter how much iron we pump, if the inside of our bodies is not strong, the appearance of our outside bodies is insignificant. I'm not saying that lifting weights is bad. I'm just suggesting that if one is going to lift an iron bar, I'm sure that person can also try to lift that weak little flower growing inside ourselves to the light.

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Friday, February 04, 2000 8:24 AM

To: Thamert, Mark

Subject: 2 Peacock, Stafford, Francis // Is There Freedom in Technique?

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

From: Walters, Anne M

Sent: Thursday, February 03, 2000 11:49 PM

To: Thamert, Mark; Walters, Anne M

Subject: Peacock, Stafford, Francis // Is There Freedom in Technique?

The beginning of Molly Peacock's (what a neat name!) book speaks volumes to me. "Sometimes I think we are attracted to a poem because it makes us feel as if someone is listening to us . . . the voice of the poem allows us to hear ourselves" (Peacock, 4). First of all, this line stands out because we just read a chapter about the difference between hearing and listening in my comm. public speaking. I try really hard to listen to what people are saying, but I know I need to improve my listening skills in conversation. Listening is waning into a lost art, but it is also a skill that can be learned or practiced. Peacock is hitting on a basic human need. I think we as humans all have a desire to be heard and actually listened to. It deals with our self-worth. With one's voice there is power, and when a person is not listened to or even recognized, there is a sense of powerlessness. A good example is the whole discussion of the academic calendar and J-term. Many students attended the faculty assembly meeting today because they felt their voices/opinions were not being heard or recognized.

"Certain poems allow you to feel what you mean, even though you cannot dare to say what that is yourself" (Peacock, 4). I cannot even count the number of times I have read the lyrics of a song or poem and have just been amazed at how those lines articulate what I am feeling. After reading a particular profound line or quote, I ask myself, "now why in the world couldn't I have written or thought of that?" Music/poems create safe forums where the deepest secrets of the heart are allowed to reveal themselves.

I really like William Stafford's open and relaxed approach to writing, it seems very freeing. Every day he gets up before anyone else and writes, letting all thoughts flow. He is patient, nothing is forced. "I get pen and paper, take a glance out of the window (often it is dark out there), and wait" (Stamford, Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, p.181).

Sometimes I find myself tense and worried when writing a paper or newspaper article. I cannot seem to find an angle/thesis, let alone the words to express these things. Instead of relaxing and waiting for inspiration, I often feel frustrated and stop. Stafford writes: "To get started I will accept anything that occurs to me. Something always occurs, of course, to any of us" (Stamford, Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, p.181). Our thoughts are always present, it is just whether we listen to them or not. I may have pre-conceived notions of what the paper has to entail or what I think the professor expects, so instead of being open to any thoughts or ideas, I restrict myself. I find that my best writing occurs when I first free-write and jot down ideas freely. Sometimes I may have pages filled with ideas and thoughts. The hard part is discovering and thinking about how they fit together. Stamford offers this advice: "These things, odd or trivial as they may be, are somehow connected. And if I let them string out, surprising things will happen (181)."

Lastly, Robert Francis's poem is a wonderful analogy of the relationship between writer (pitcher) and reader (reader). In contrast to Stafford, the writer (pitcher) in this poem seems to have a specific game plan in mind. I do not feel a lot of creative freedom for the rider in this poem. While the author does not want to reader to fully understand the poem, the writer is deliberate in his/her actions and precise in his/her purpose. "His art is eccentricity, his aim

How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,

His passion how to avoid the obvious,

His technique how to vary the avoidance." (Francis, Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, 187).

Like Stafford, the author has developed a "process" in his/her creative attempts. However, in Francis's poem, I do not feel the same sense of freedom and joy that I felt in Stanford's essay. I'm not sure why .......

"Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go." TBS. Eliot