From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, May 09, 2000 8:28 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 26. Rimbaud // On Being Alienated
Arthur Rimbaud's The Stolen Heart on page 107 of 99 Poems Translated by Wallace Fowlie
Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud, a French poet, was born Oct. 20,1854, in Charleville. His childhood was marred by a "cantankerous and vindictive" mother and by the discipline of the local school, but his poetic virtuosity was extraordinary. By the age of fifteen he had written verse in imitation of the Romanticists (Vers de College, 1932), and one of his teachers, Izambard, introduced him to contemporary poetry. He was fiercely revolutionary, and wrote the words "Down with God" on the public benches of Charleville. He ran away from his native town, twice to Paris and once into Belgium, and once he spent 10 days in prison for travelling by train without a ticket. During these escapades, he wrote such poems as Ma Boheme and Le Cabaret vert.
In 1871, in Charleville, he wrote his first prose poems and the Lettres du voyant, and sent to Verlaine a copy of his poem Le Bateau ivre. Verlaine was enthusiastic with the work and encouraged Rimbaud to come to Paris. At this time he had already started the composition of his Illuminations, which was not published until 1886. Verlaine and Rimbaud drifted into an affair. He served in the army of the Commune, and after its fall he went abroad with Verlaine, travelling in England and Belgium. In 1873, in Brussels, he was shot in the wrist by Verlaine, who was condemned to 2 years' imprisonment in the city of Mons for the act. After the incident, Rimbaud wrote a new Illuminations and Une Saison en Enfer.
In November 1893, Rimbaud gave up the writing of poetry and started traveling through Europe on foot. He returned once more to Paris and then disappeared for 16 years. Part of this time he spent in the East, but the greater part was in Ethiopia, where he dealt in contraband firearms, in ivory and gold, and perhaps in slaves. In 1891 he became ill, returned to France to have one leg amputated, and died on November 10 in a Marseille hospital.
ithDyDphalDlic (th-flk)
adj.
1.Of or relating to the phallus carried in the ancient festival of Bacchus.
2.Having the penis erect. Used of graphic and sculptural representations.
3.Lascivious; salacious.
fresDco (frsk)
n., pl. fresDcoes or fresDcos.
1.The art of painting on fresh, moist plaster with pigments dissolved in water.
2.A painting executed in this way.
abDraDcaDdabDra (br-k-dbr)
n.
1.A magical charm or incantation having the power to ward off disease or disaster.
2.Foolish or unintelligible talk.
abracadabra \Ab`ra*ca*dab"ra\, n. [L. Of unknown origin.] A mystical word or collocation of letters
written as in the figure. Worn on an amulet it was supposed to ward off fever. At present the word is
used chiefly in jest to denote something without meaning; jargon.
I have heard Rimbaud's name mentioned often in the past few years. It seems he made quite an impact on poetry, both during and after his life, so I decided to explore one of his poems. From what I found on the web, it looks like he lived an interesting and tumultuous life. There was, if I recall correctly, a movie made about him a few years back that starred Leonardo DiCaprio. I should try to find a copy if I can.
I particularly like this poem because I know so little about its background, and yet I can still feel deeply what the poet is trying to relate. It appears as though Rimbaud is fighting the common world as it attempts to take away his dignity and his originality. The images throughout the poem are extreme, but remain quite real: "Under the jeering of the soldiers / Who break out laughing / My sad heart drools at the poop / My heart covered with tobacco-spit!" This is one of the many times throughout my life that I wish I were able to speak French. The words, even in translation, have such an intriguing quality about them. The descriptions and the feelings related to the reader become one with each other, but not in a way I imagined. I would like to see how the words look and sound in their original language. But alas, I remain unable to do so; I will push forward with my interpretation.
That the poet is being treated so terribly is hard to understand, but I find so much truth in the fact that it is his heart that bears the brunt of the pain. Just the title alone speaks clearly about what Rimbaud was trying to do with his art, and perhaps gives a critique of how he felt society treated him for it. That is, Rimbaud willingly opened his insides for the world to see, only to have them stolen away, mocked, and destroyed by people who could not understand. There is also an interesting structure to the poem that relates this aspect of the poem--one that is, if I am not mistaken, unlike any other poem I have written about. The lines are (occasionally) repeated within a stanza, but in altered form. So each stanza takes on the form of a circle, but not a perfect one.
As the poem continues, the author is faced with a dilemma: "I will have stomach retchings, / If my heart is degraded: / When they have used up their quid / How will I act, O stolen heart?" I find this intriguing too because the author seems to be asking himself a question to which he should already know the answer. If it is the heart that gives him his inspiration, he must know the workings of it, how best to get in touch with his feelings and actions. But, it seems, he is unable to do so because the humiliation of the moment has stolen this ability from him. What is he supposed to do when there is an end to the terrible actions of the soldier-sailors? He is trapped somewhere, there is no way out, but there will come a time when he must make a decision as to how he will react. The soldier-sailors have condemned this man to suffer a treatment that is for no one, not even an animal. No living being deserves to be mocked and spit on, and I am guessing he did nothing to deserve such treatment.
Is this poem, I wonder, relating of true event? It seems as though Rimbaud could be using this situation to describe his feelings of condemnation and alienation in regards to society. While on the outside things may look peaceful and pleasant in his life, there is so much inner turmoil that he uses this instance as a comparison or metaphor for his real feelings. Society has trapped him like one is trapped on a boat, and he is being treated as an outcast or criminal, perhaps only because he wanted to share the heart which they have now stolen. I picture sailor-soldiers as very unfeeling and logical. They know their duties and do what they must to be successful. I think Rimbaud is making a connection between those sailor-soldiers and people in society that only want monetary or social success. They will do what they must to reach their goal, and poets who attempt to awaken their sleeping hearts are nothing but nuisances. The poet writes, "O abracadabratic waves, / Take my heart, let it be washed! / Ithyphallic and soldierish, / Their jeerings have depraved it." Here, too, it seems as though Rimbaud is feeling alienated from the male sex. I am not too sure if Rimbaud was bisexual, heterosexual, or homosexual, and I do not want to slant my reading because he was one or the other. But it seems odd to look to the oceans, to a group of magical waves, for purification of his heart when there are a group of male human beings all around him. Why is he being treated so? And why is he unable to fit in with the men? The word "ithyphallic" brings to mind an erect penis, and this is followed by the word "soldierish," which seems to describe a certain type of male behavior. It is my guess that Rimbaud often feels as though he is being spit upon, torn apart, degraded and humiliated, because he is different from the average Joe. He feels things that other men cannot, and he thus looks to a small group of people for comfort. There are only so many people who can understand and thus help him, and the rest are doing nothing but spitting on him with their tobacco juice--which itself is another masculine thing.
In the end, I must say that I truly love the language of this poem. I find myself in that weird state wherein I want to learn more about Rimbaud and the technical side of his writing and influence, yet I do not want to damage or slant my readings because of that knowledge. Perhaps I will read some more Rimbaud as an amateur, then go back later and discover the scholarly genius behind his work.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, May 07, 2000 3:02 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 25. Wilson, Merwin // Two Become One
Keith Wilson's Dusk In My Backyard on page 152 of A Book of Luminous Things
W. S. Merwin's West Wall on page 493 of The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart
W.S. Merwin
Pulitzer Prize-Winning Poet & Essayist
In a career spanning five decades, W.S. Merwin, poet, translator and environmental activist, has become one of the most widely read - and imitated - poets in America. He was born in 1927 the son of a Presbyterian minister for whom he began writing hymns at the age of five. As a young man, from 1949 to 1951, W.S. Merwin went to Europe and discovered a facility for languages that led to work as a literary translator. Over the years, his poetic voice has moved from the more formal and medieval -- shaded by the influence of Robert Graves and of the medieval poetry he was then translating - to a more distinctly American voice, following his two years in Boston where he got to know Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Ted Hughes, Adrienne Rich and Donald Hall, all of whom were breaking out of the rhetoric of the 1950s. W.S. Merwin's recent poetry is perhaps his most personal, arising from his deeply held beliefs. He is not only profoundly anti-imperialist, pacifist, and environmentalist, but also possessed by an intimate feeling for landscape and language and the ways in which land and language interflow.
"He has attained - more and more with every collection - a wonderful streamlined diction that unerringly separates and recombines like quicksilver scattered upon a shifting plane, but remains as faithful to the warms and cools of the human heart as that same mercury in the pan-pipe of a thermometer."
-- James Merrill
His first book, A Mask for Janus, was published in 1952 in the Yale Younger Poets series -- chosen by W.H. Auden. His book of poems, The Carrier of Ladders, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1970. His other books include The Drunk in the Furnace, The Moving Target, The Lice, Flower & Hand, The Compass Flower, Feathers from the Hill, Opening the Hand, The Rain in the Trees, Travels, The Vixen, The Lost Upland, Unframed Originals, and The Folding Cliffs. In April of 1999, W.S. Merwin was named Poetry Consultant to the Library of Congress for a jointly held position along with poets Rita Dove and Louise Gluck. His awards include the Pulitzer Prize, the Tanning Prize, the Bollingen Prize, and the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, among many others. His latest collection of poems is entitled The River Sound. In 2000, Knopf published his translation of Purgatorio by Dante, and Cooper Canyon Press published his The First Four Books of Poems. His collection of new poems, The Pupil, will be published by Knopf in 2001.
"Merwin is primarily a philosophical poet whose lyrics and narratives ponder the dilemma of contemporary men and women facing and trying to find
their place in a universe now devoid of discernible meaning. . . In 1970 Merwin published The Carrier of Ladders, which was awarded the Pulitzer
Prize."
-Joseph Parisi
from Poets in Person: a listener's guide
Merwin is one of twelve chancellors of The Academy of American Poets.
I decided to compare and contrast these two poems because each attempts to capture a special moment in time, when we are able to merge the love we have for another human being and the love we share for the world. It seems that, deep down inside, these two apparently separate loves really have the same roots. We are all born into the world, become part of the earth and enjoy its natural beauty, and try to find human companionship. These two poems each relate an experience of finding the connection between the magic of nature and the wonder of human life. To me, all things want to share in the beauty of life, and these poems try to relate that.
In Wilson's poem, a man stands in his yard in New Mexico at twilight. He is writing in the present tense of the coming darkness exactly as he sees it. He is both recording and observing the combination of natural and human beauty before him. The second stanza begins, "Even from here I can see / the illuminated eyes, bright / face of the child before flame." From where he stands, darkness falls upon his home, but he can still see, with the help of a candle, the white eyes of his precious daughter. I can picture this image well. Perhaps the father had gone outside to finish some work around the house, but as he turns to face the house, he notices what his life has given him. The coming of darkness could have been a lonely and unforgiving time, but instead the man realizes that he is blessed. God's eyes watch over the man with love, as the man's own eyes view the beauty and wonder of his best loved creation: his daughter. The image of a face before candlelight is magical: shadows bouncing around, and the moment is being captured and held with the firm grip of the pencil. To be sure, this image could not be taking place without the natural beauty found in the world, the darkness, the cool breeze, and it also would not be remembered so dearly without the important human touch: the child's face appearing in candlelight, and a human poet recording what he sees. "the tin roof of our house / rivers to platinum in the early moon. Dogs bark & in the house, wine, laughter," the man writes to conclude the poem. I feel a sense of anticipation here, when we are able to feel the oncoming enjoyment of a relaxing evening. Even though the man is separated from his family, he knows that it will be soon time to go inside and join in on their happiness. The wine speaks to me of endless and total immersion into the joys of life. It is similar to that moment right before you visit a long lost friend or some beloved family member. You are unaware of what you may do once you get there, but you know it will be a great time no matter what. I like the fact that Wilson is willing to wait to see his family until he finishes writing the poem. He knows that the beauty of his art can compliment the beauty found in nature and in his family. In a sense, I can see Wilson trying to relate to me that art, nature, and humanity are supposed to come together to form one. If you think about it, what good is a poem (how good can it be) if it has no inspiration or audience? Or, on the other hand, how can we truly capture the beauty hidden in the natural world if we are unable to write, paint, or sing about what we see in hear in our art? Every living thing needs to both observe and take part in the tremendous magic found in the world. That way, we are able to experience it to the fullest.
I find a similar voice in Merwin's poem. Here too, it appears a man is both recording and observing the movements of nature taking place before him. Apricots are becoming visible with the break of day. The man writes, "the shadows melt and the apricots appear / now that the branches vanish I see the apricots / from a thousand tree ripening in the air." As the apricots ripen, so does the love between the man and his world. Before, perhaps, he was unwilling to take measures to write about such small things as a tree or pond or apricot. But now he realizes the beauty of the little things in life--his love is ripening out of the shadows of darkness, similar to what is happening to the apricots before him. Out beyond the west wall, so many apricots are starting to ripen that he must put his focus there. There are, he notes, too many to count. Instead, all he can do is absorb the situation and attempt to capture the stunning beauty with his art. In the second stanza, we see that the apricots also make him appreciate the love he has for another person to the extreme, something impossible before the apricots--and his love for the natural world--began to ripen. "I might have stood in orchards forever / without beholding the day in the apricots / or knowing the ripeness of the lucid air / or touching the apricots in your skin / or tasting in your mouth the sun in the apricots." Here, the words form a love poem to an unnamed recipient. The smell, sight, and feel that the man gets from the ripening apricots make him recall the love of another human being. From this moment forward, the man wants to make sure he captures everything about that person he loves so very dearly. What, if you cannot notice the smell, taste, sight, and feel of an apricot is there that makes the apricot so special? Nothing. What, if you cannot notice the smell, taste, sight, and feel of a beloved is there that makes that beloved so special? Nothing. I like how Merwin makes this connection between the beauty of God's creations. A human being has all the magic of a ripening apricot, but if a person is unwilling to stop and absorb what is before him, all the magic is put to waste. In this poem, humanity and nature complement each other and feed off each other. The ripening apricots, when the man attempts to capture their beauty with the written word, help him to recall the characteristics of his beloved. Indeed, if he was never attempting to capture this moment, if he had refused to give it a second look, he might also be left without a lover. But now his memory has been refreshed, and he remembers what it was about life with his lover that made it so special. I can see this man eating apricots under a tree with his beloved and having a sensory overload. He will love all that is around him, perhaps even become one with nature when all is said and done. To me, that would be the appropriate and desirable ending for a man who, like me, once needed to spend more time enjoying life, which, in his case, has been cured by apricots. Whatever works, I guess.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, April 30, 2000 2:43 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 24. Creeley, Frost // Human Intrusion
Robert Creeley's Like They Say on page 18 of A Book of Luminous Things
Robert Frost's Come In on page 114 of The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart
Robert Creeley
Robert Creeley was born in Arlington, Massachusetts, on May 21, 1926. He attended Harvard University from 1943 to 1946, taking time out from 1944 to 1945 to work for the American Field Service in Burman and India. In 1946 he published his first poem, in the Harvard magazine Wake. In 1949 he began corresponding with William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound. The following year he became acquainted with the poet Charles Olson. In 1954, as rector of Black Mountain College (an experimental arts college in North Carolina), Olson invited Creeley to join the faculty and to edit the Black Mountain Review. In 1960 Creeley received a Master's Degree from the University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. Through the Black Mountain Review and his own critical writings, Creeley helped to define an emerging counter-tradition to the literary establishment--a postwar poetry originating with Pound, Williams, and Zukofsky and expanding through the lives and works of Olson, Robert Duncan, Allen Ginsberg, Denise Levertov, Edward Dorn, and others.
Robert Creeley has published more than sixty books of poetry in the United States and abroad, including Life & Death (New Directions, 1998); Echoes (1994); Selected Poems 1945-1990 (1991); Memory Gardens (1986); Mirrors (1983); The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975 (1982); Later (1979); The Finger (1968); and For Love: Poems 1950-1960 (1962). He has also published The Island (novel, 1963), The Gold Diggers and Other Stories (1965), and more than a dozen books of prose, essays, and interviews. He has also edited such books as Charles Olson's Selected Poems (1993), The Essential Burns (1989), and Whitman: Selected Poems (1973). His honors include the Frost Medal, the Shelley Memorial Award, a National Endowment for the Arts grant, a Rockefeller
Foundation grant, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation. He served as New York State Poet from 1989 to 1991 and since 1989 he has been Samuel P. Capen Professor of poetry and humanities at the State University of New York, Buffalo. He was elected a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets in 1999.
I decided to compare and contrast these two poems because they speak of the human attempt to assimilate into nature, something that always remains out of our grasp. Humans cannot blend completely into nature because we are different from it. Instead, we stand on the outside, wishing and hoping to be a part of that which is bigger than us. Indeed, for a moment, as these two poems explain, man may feel as though he is one with the natural world, but soon barriers between himself and nature will appear.
Creeley's poem speaks of the alienation between man and nature very clearly. Two small sentences make up the entire work, but each has much to say. I notice the important description of the setting to begin the poem: "Underneath the tree on some / soft grass I sat, I / watched two happy woodpeckers be dis-/." Immediately, the line breaks, making us wait until the next stanza to find out the effect he has on the two happy woodpeckers. The line itself is disturbed by this man's voice. It's as though he is unable to fully capture the true beauty of nature with his pen. There are holes left unfilled, images that cannot properly be described or seen with his mind. The woodpeckers are "happy" above the poet in a tree, an image that is simple but which says a lot. The man remains unseen, so the woodpeckers go about their business, but once the man is detected, things are never to be the same. A world is alive that humanity can see for just a brief moment, then the experience is over. Man is like a foreign object in a wrestling contest of some sort--it doesn't belong there, but it always seems to intrude upon the match. In the end, the man questions why this must be so: "And / why not, I thought to / myself, why / not." I believe the poet is imagining a time similar to one related in the Eskimo poem entitled "Magic Words." He wants the world to be like it was before Adam's sin, when there was one language spoken by man and animal alike. There was no difference back then, that's the way it was and no one can explain it. The poet here tries to give an explanation, but all he can muster is a simple question for himself to answer. There is sadness here, but there is nothing that can be done to change the situation--indeed, that is the way it is, and the way it must be. It's worth noting that the lines shorten as the poem reaches its conclusion, almost as though the poet is admitting defeat in his attempt to be one with nature. As the poem winds down, he runs out of words that can adequately describe his feelings. The final line is made up of one word only: "not." This has no room for interpretation. We can"not" become one with nature. It's also interesting to note the title: "Like They Say." To me, this furthers my connection with the Eskimo poem. It seems as though a long tradition of stories has been passed down from parents to their children, from one culture to the next, as men explain their inability to become one with nature. It was, before Adam and Eve, possible to assimilate into nature, but no more. In a sense, then, Creeley must admit what others have already discovered, or, "Like They Say," it cannot be explained, but it can never be the same again. Really, then, the poem is better suited to be titled "Like They Don't Say" because nothing of worth can be connected. There are, it appears, no more magic words from which the poet is able to work with.
Frost's poem relates a similar experience. A man stands at the edge of a wooded area, but cannot go in because he feels unwanted. He would disturb the natural life that takes place in the forest, away from human intrusion. At first, Frost relates the magical experience of dusk coming upon the land: "The last light of the sun / That had died in the west / Still lived for one song more / In a thrush's breast." The forest calls for the music of the earth to be played. The man stands at the edge of the tree line in awe. I can picture this scene well. Light breaks through the brush, causing the human heart to beat to a rhythm unlike any other time. Perhaps that is the music of which Frost writes. To start then, this scene appears full of joy and wonder. But, as the poem concludes, Frost tells us that he did not enter the forest for two reasons. First, he was out there for some other reason, and second, he was not invited: "But no, I was out for the stars: / I would not come in. / I meant not even if asked, / And I hadn't been." Here, Frost takes a lighter tone than does Creeley, but I feel there is much sadness hidden beneath the words. The poem ends with the author admitting he was not invited out to where he now stood. To me, it's like going to a party, having a great time, and then, when the night is over, finding out that the person who threw the party didn't want you there anyway. It puts a damper on the entire night. In the poem, even though Frost enjoys the beauty of the forest and stars, he comes to a realization that he is not a part of what he came to see. Just like Creeley, he realizes he is intruding upon nature--a nature that doesn't need his presence. Frost, though, doesn't ask himself why this must be, as Creeley does in his poem. He accepts it, perhaps never even really thinks about it. He intrudes upon nature, he's quite sure, but he's not going to lose any sleep over the "Magic Words" that are forever disappearing. He doesn't ask why, but tells things as they are. Adam and Eve are old news, Frost says, we must go on from there even if we have invitation to do so.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, April 20, 2000 3:44 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Final Paper // Tamura // The Just Price
Have a great, spiritual, and relaxing Easter, Fr. Mark! Take care.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Wednesday, April 12, 2000 4:55 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 23. Sersch // The Watch // A Separate Collection of Memories
Sersch's "The Watch"
My father is a great
The line break here is interesting because it leaves the reader in suspense. Sersch could go anywhere with this opening. What about his father? Is he a great man? A great dictator? How exactly does Sersch feel about his old man?
collector: seventy one shovels sit
Indeed. A collector. Not something I would have expected, to say the least. In this line, I get a sense of musicality from the repetition of the "s" syllable. Moreover, the use of the number seventy-one tells me quite a bit about the author. This isn't merely an estimate or a guess--this is a very precise count. This makes me trust the author a bit more, knowing that he is probably looking at the seventy-one shovels right now (even if it's only in his mind). Sersch, it seems, has spent time contemplating the reasons for the shovels. He pays close attention to the minute details when in their presence. The author obviously knows the situation well.
inside his bedroom waiting,
The word "waiting" at the end of the line seems to play off the whole time element in the poem. I don't really understand the reasoning behind having seventy-one shovels in a bedroom, but that's what makes the poem all the more intriguing. I find that looking at the little things that people do in life can serve to identify them best. If a person chooses to spend an hour of free time each day listening to the radio, sitting under a tree, collecting shovels, I feel I can get a sense of them as an individual character. I associate habits with personalities and names. From this point forward, I will always remember the shovel-collecting dad of the Sersch-man.
lighters spill out from cheap tables onto
floors unswept, knives and pictures
Here too, the word "pictures" captures an element of time. Knives bring to mind violent imagery. The word "cheap" tells a lot about the tables. One the one hand, Sersch's dad likes to collect items, but he's not obsessed with the neatness of a setting. This makes me think that the dad is a very busy man. He balances many things in his life, so the make of a table or the cleanliness of a room usually matters little to him. The floor is dusty and dirty, knives lie around, because he sees no reason to be neat. A type of bohemian lifestyle. I like it.
are stacked and kept, torn in piles.
A nice rhyme with "unswept" and "kept." The two words almost appear to fight each other. The knives and pictures are stacked and kept, I am now told. In piles too. Sersch's dad is like my grandmother--he has trouble throwing things away. Perhaps this is because he feels that all things in life have a use to them. Just because a knife is getting old and rusty, because a shovel has no handle, doesn't mean we must throw them away. They could come in handy some day, I suppose.
It was no surprise when he gave
me the watch, I have received mounds
of junk from him, heaps that sit
Even though the somewhat harsh word of "junk" is placed into this line, I don't think the author really feels that his father's gifts are worthless. Even though they may have very little use-value, the meaning behind them is what counts. Sersch, perhaps, is a bit more practical than his father is. If his dad sees an old notebook lying around the room, he'll send it off to his son, even though his son has never asked for such a thing. Just a guess here, but that could be why the gift of a watch is really no big deal, at least at first.
and wait to be thrown away.
It's interesting that Sersch finds no use with the gifts from his father, and yet he hasn't yet thrown them away. Instead, they sit in a pile and collect dust. There seems to be an emotional attachment here, one that only can exist between two family members. No doubt, it is much more difficult to throw away something that was given to me by a family member. I try to save all the old, dusty letters that my grandmother has written me throughout her life. When I'm older, I'll be able to look back on such items with fond memories of her. The word "wait" in this line also seems noteworthy. To me, waiting has an interesting connection with the passage of time. On the one hand, Sersch feels the gifts are useless, but he takes after his father in not wanting to throw items away that one day may be of use. To me, it seems, maybe Sersch will also become a collector as he gets older.
The watch was different.
I could keep it on my arm
Unlike the other gifts, the watch is a daily, perhaps hourly, reminder of his father. It tags along with Sersch, is used by him at numerous times during the day for reference. Sersch looks at the watch and immediately a memory springs forth into his mind. He is a young boy again, taken care of by his father. The cold and cruel outside world is far away when he looks at the watch. He remembers childhood, when there were few deadlines to worry about, no papers due the next day, no tests to take. Time had no meaning back then.
even though I did not know where he was
at night it was carefully placed
The word "carefully" here says much about the relationship between father and son. Earlier, the author stated that he wasn't surprised to receive a gift from his father because the man likes to collect (and give away) so much stuff. The stuff, then, was "junk." But notice the care and consideration given to the watch. It was carefully placed on an old wooden bureau, no doubt with much love.
onto an old wooden bureau,
silently sitting while father
was in asylum.
The steady time
Whenever I see the word steady before time, I think of mortality. No matter what happens in life, time always ticks away steadily and persistently. There is no escaping from the grip of time. When it comes to parents, this is especially troubling because most children live to be old enough to be forced to watch their parents grow old and die. It's a fact of life, but a troubling one at that. I know friends my age who have lost parents to sickness, accidents, etc., and I admire their courage to be able to continue on with life. I don't know what I'd do if something bad happened to mine right now. Anyway, this line made me think of that.
the soft tick that is
as a heartbeat
Interesting reference for the passage of time--a heartbeat. I think of the closeness that must exist between a father and a son.
keeps me aware
as he teeters and stands
on the curb in traffic
as it whizzes by beyond
The key word in this stanza appears to be "it." I'm not really sure what this alludes to, but I'd like to make a guess. I read into this poem the fact that, as time slowly passes, the author must come to grips with the mortality of his parents. The "it" here, then, appears to me as the world. The world is slowly passing by the father. One day the world will completely pass by him, and the son will be left to fend for himself. When this happens, the small gifts in life will mean so much more. Knife, picture, watch--it doesn't matter what, all things become more important if they conjure up memories of a lost family member. It's a story about the father, the son, and the small items that will exist forever between them. The world can pass the old man by, but he lives on into the coming years with his son. In that sense, then, a person can, if only for a moment, reverse the tables on time.
his vision.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, April 04, 2000 11:42 PM
To: Briggle, Adam R; Schultz, Ryan M; Lindquist, Jennifer M; Frerich, Stephanie G; Lucas, Katherine M; Stone, Joanna T; Flynn, Kevin C; Thamert, Mark
Subject: Women Poets Group Info.
Hey all!
If you can remember or if you think you'll need it, bring along your weekly planners to class on Wednesday. We'll be setting up the first meeting time for the group and it's important that we know when each of us is going to be available. If you find that you're too busy now with other work, and that you want to drop the women poets group, that's okay too. Nobody is going to force you to attend if you think it will be too much of a burden. However, we'd have to let the Registar know about your dropping the group, if that's what you plan to do. I just don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable with the extra time that will be required. Take care and see you tomorrow.
Scott
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Monday, April 03, 2000 7:13 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 22. Gonzalez // No More Blue Mondays
After reading through the poems by Angel Gonzalez and Paul Celan, I have decided to write a brief entry on Gonzalez's "Yesterday." This was the poem that meant the most to me after the first look and a second and much closer examination. "Yesterday" sounds nice when read aloud. A wonderful piece of writing!
The first thing I noticed about "Yesterday" was the language. Simple and direct. My favorite kind of reading. Immediately, Gonzalez starts a story about an average day, but for some reason I'm drawn in. I want to hear more about what it was that made yesterday so special. What significant event took place? It must have been something big, I assume, if someone is willing to write an entire poem about it. "Yesterday was Wednesday all morning. / By afternoon it changed: / it became almost Monday, / sadness invaded hearts," Gonzalez writes. I've always found it interesting that days of the week seem to have a distinct feel about them. Without a calendar or contact with others, I still think I could tell you when it's Friday, Sunday, or Monday. The air is different. The sounds are different. By simply writing that yesterday almost became a Monday, certain depressing and sad images come into my head. I'm thinking of the color blue - blue is what represents the Monday of which Gonzalez writes. To some, however, Monday may be a happy day. To people who love heading off to work in the morning, Monday may be like Saturday night. Yet, there remains something about each day that gives it a separate identity.
Okay, the day felt a little like a Monday. A bit strange, for sure, but not exactly earth-shattering information presented to the reader. I'm still assuming something crazy took place yesterdayąsoon I fill find out what it is, right?
Gonzalez continues:
The cold
was unleashed,
someone went outdoors wearing a hat,
yesterday, and the whole day
was like that,
already you see,
how amusing,
yesterday and always yesterday and even now,
Here I'm starting to lose touch with Gonzalez. Monday was cold. Someone wore a hat. Wow! Let me sit down for that one! After my first reading, I feel this poem is a little bit crazy; it's a little bit country and I'm a little bit rock and roll, you know what I mean? But then a bright light suddenly strikes me as I start to close the book. You know what, I say aloud to myself, yesterday was pretty darn cool, wasn't it. God gave me the gift of life and I was able to live it yesterday. My gift did not run out - it kept giving into the wee hours of the morning when I was reading in my bed until 2:30. Damn right I was tired, but I never forgot about living. Life is good. Yesterday was good, today is good, tomorrow will be better, I say.
The ending to the poem is so beautiful. I must reprint a portion of it here: "about yesterday, once more / about yesterday: the incomparable / day that no one will ever / see again upon the earth." This is poem that I should read to myself every single morning. Also, in a sense, it relates to the discussion that we had that opened class today. Most of us get too carried away (myself included) with the pressure of life, the future that we want to be living. But it is the small things, the day to day items, where the beauty of life is found. As the famous quote goes, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." I feel this poem is trying to relate a similar message. If I can get up in the morning and truly realize how precious each moment of my life is, I will realize that yesterday was the greatest gift of all, never to be repeated. I will be forced to live each moment as though it is my first. In turn, I will look toward tomorrow knowing that all my days can be Fridays if I want them to. I will live each moment, and thank God for those that have already passedąsimply inspiring.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 10:09 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 21. Ravikovitch // Backstreet Boys Rule!
Disclaimer: If you opened this entry because you agree with my title, please stop reading immediately! Just kidding all.
Since I worked on the Japanese poet Ryuichi Tamura with my group, I figured I'd write a quick entry on Dahlia Ravikovitch's poem, "Surely You Remember," found on page 330 of The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry.
I want to make it clear that I really love this poem. It seems to speak to me directly, as I often find that sitting in my room makes the walls grow taller, while "Colors deepen." And yet, "I remain." Really nice stuff here. Indeed, when I am alone for a period of time, and decide to spend my moments of freedom in deep thought or observation, I find that I notice the small things in life much better -- and that, afterward, I'm thankful that I did. Only when I am alone, perhaps with a book of some sort, do I connect with the sounds of nature, and the beauty that's everywhere in the world. To be sure, I notice these things at other times as well, but only when I am alone can I really separate myself from all distractions.
At first, there seems to be a tinge of melancholy in this poem. The author doesn't feel as though she can connect with others, or so it appears when she writes, "Sometimes I wish everyone would go away." But in reality, this isn't a feeling of sadness but of creativity. The artist can only get in touch with the true depths of living when she isn't being harnessed by those around her. She writes, "You wish you were dead or alive or / somebody else." How does this fit into my interpretation? Well, I think the author is writing about the pain that often comes along with creativity. Do you ever notice that many of the greatest authors lived sad, depressing lives? To me, such a life isn't a result of circumstances so much as what the artist feels deep inside at all times. When alone, this woman can write and feel things that she cannot in the company of others. Unfortunately, at first, this is an agonizing situation. Soon, however, the author discovers the power that comes along with her creativity:
Only a fool lets the sun when it likes.
It always drifts off too early
westward to the islands.
Here, the poet has come to grips with the power of her words. With one stroke of the pen, she is able to control the sun, the moon, and the stars. At the moment of composition, the author is, in a sense, playing God. This is both a burden and a blessing. Others will be greatly affected by what is written, just like she is affected by what others have already written.
When alone and feeling creative, Ravikovitch ultimately gets to decide when the sun will go down. If a poem is read, both the author and the reader get to decide how and when the sun will set. Sounds like a good situation to me, no matter the painful circumstances that were the origin of it.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 5:30 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Carolyn Forch1 ōThe Colonelö
The Colonel
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
May 1978
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, April 02, 2000 4:54 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 20. Jeff, Ann, Jen and Tim // Nasrin Presentation // Being Foolishly Brave
Jeff, Ann, Jen and Tim,
Great job on your presentation. Taslima Nasrin is a powerful woman, one that I had never heard of until you chose to cover her in class. I'm glad to have learned so much about her! My favorite part of the presentation was the debate about Nasrin, whether her poetry need be considered foolish or brave. In some strange way, I think she's a little bit of both (now we can all sleep easy at night). I thought the arguments, both for and against, were well spoken by your group and the rest of the class. When I read a poem like "Border," I can only imagine the uproar it must have caused after being published in Bangladesh. Nasrin speaks of a liberation of woman, regardless of who is to be left behind. She writes,
I'm going to move ahead.
Behind me my whole family is calling,
my child is pulling at my sari-end,
my husband stands blocking the door,
but I will go.
No doubt, there is tremendous bravery behind these words. Nasrin confronts the oppression of women head on and refuses to back down. She will walk away, and no one can convince her otherwise. She knows things must be better elsewhere, so she decides it's time to leave her life behind. I commend her for her independence and courage. However, I also can't help but think of the foolishness behind the desertion. First of all, she doesn't really know for sure what lies ahead, and this tends to make her action look arrogant and without justification. Just what is she trying to do again, anyway? Second, she is walking away from people who depend on the role she plays in the family. If she had such desires to leave, shouldn't they have been taken care of before she decided to get married and have kids? To me, it seems like the family will end up as the true victim in the end. At times I can't help but compare her walking away to a similar situation of an absent father. Just because a man gets married, has kids, and then realizes he doesn't want the responsibility of providing for a family, doesn't give him the justification for walking away. I'm sure many men have wondered what they've gotten themselves into after settling down. Well, I say tough cookies. Part of me, too, wants to tell Nasrin about those tough cookies.
I also liked the biographical information and the discussion about the blank spaces in Nasrin's poem "At the Back of Progressą". Before our Great Poets class began, I would never have thought twice about the many interpretations centered around how a group of words appears on a page. Most likely, I would have thought there was some problem with the typesetting when the book was being published. But I have this stupidity no more. I liked how the discussion started off slow on this poem and then slowly built up, as your group and the rest of the class gave more and more insights. Do the spaces after
"Someone is committing suicide his mother
or his grandmother
or his great-grandmother."
represent the passing of time or an emotional or physical separation? Why is the entire poem written in the shape of a list, as though someone was about to stop and pick up the groceries with all these gross tales of abuse. There may be no definitive answers. But I know for sure that, after your nice presentation about Nasrin, I could probably come up with a better interpretation than was possible before. Thanks and take care.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Wednesday, March 29, 2000 8:24 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 19. Bishop // Indeed, Losing Is Easy, But I Still Hate It
Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art" in Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 32
Bishop, Elizabeth (1911-1979), American poet, best known for her poems that examine the physical world in minute detail. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, Bishop grew up in New England and in Nova Scotia. She was educated at Vassar College, where she founded a literary magazine with Mary McCarthy, who would become a novelist. Bishop's first book, North & South, was published in 1946; it was later expanded and reprinted as North & South-A Cold Spring (1955). For this revised edition she received the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1956. Bishop traveled extensively throughout her life and at various times lived in New York City, Florida, Mexico, and Brazil. She also taught at Harvard University from 1970 to 1977. She was influenced and admired by the American poets Marianne Moore and Robert Lowell. Bishop's Complete Poems (1969) won the National Book Award in 1970. Commonplace objects and occurrences had unusual symbolic meanings for Bishop, and many of her poems take the form of meditations on external objects and events. Her linguistic precision and focus on the external world notwithstanding, Bishop's work carries strong emotions. Travel is a major theme in her verse, and in many of her poems, Bishop highlights the sense of strangeness that can underlie even ordinary events. She also wrote short stories, many for The New Yorker magazine. Bishop's works include Questions of Travel (1965), a volume of poetry; Brazil (1967), a travel book; An Anthology of 20th Century Brazilian Poetry (1972), which she edited; and Geography III (1976), her last collection of poems.
"One Art" from Geography III:
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
I like that Bishop begins the poem by referring to losing as an art. Losing really does seem like an acquired and accomplished skill after it has been done so many times. Immediately, I find myself feeling happy because of this line. Bishop shrugs her shoulders at the insane idea that losing is something to be ashamed of, something to keep hidden behind all of one's accomplishments. She wants the reader to feel good about getting up in the morning--the disappointments that we all experience must not get us down on life. Yes, she says, I'm willing to admit that loss, like gain, is a natural part of living. It comes easy to the Bishop, and she has the skill mastered like few before her (though I would leave room for a natural loser such as myself). Hirsch's (as opposed to Serch's) point that the opening line serves as a refrain must be commended. If I were to sing the words to this poem, the opening line would be my chorus. Also, I think it important to note that, unlike any other line throughout "One Art," this one repeats itself exactly later in the poem.
so many things seemed filled with the intent
The word "seemed" really sticks out here. Past tense. The reader is given a word showing that the author has much experience dealing with loss. This is not a young girl talking about losing her Barbie. Bishop has seen how life works and is ready to reflect. I also think it important to note the words "filled" and "intent." To me, "filled" explains that life leaves little room for success and gain. Instead, life is outweighed, filled, by the losses that are a natural part of living. Most of the experiences we have will be heading for a destination of loss. The intention to find an end is present in everything. Nothing lasts forever, and most things only last for a short period of time. We enjoy all things in life because we are privileged to hold onto them for a few moments, not because we deserve them or because they are endless.
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
This line is interesting. It contains a command from Bishop to the reader. I am supposed to lose something every day. Notice that she doesn't write that "I" or "You" lose something, but leaves the command impersonal. She almost appears to separate herself from the poem for a moment. This is a direct dialogue going on with the reader. She wants me to join in on the fun of losing. Up to this point, I always had pictured loss as terrible and sad, but Bishop wants me to rejoice in the strange happenings of life. To be sure, though, there are many different kinds of loss. Bishop wants me to remember to lose something that's not too important. It keeps me humble and happy. If we never lose anything, we never take time to find what it is that we're looking for in the first place. How many times have I stumbled across some forgotten treasure in my attempt to find a inconsequential item that was lost? Numerous, no doubt.
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
Neither of these items is all that important, except when one badly needs them. I don't like being locked out of my room, though I rarely think about my keys unless I cannot find them. Same with an hour's worth of time. I'll waste an hour playing video games or watching Montel Williams, but I'll cry for that entire hour when I want to hold time still for a moment. I feel Bishop is intentionally placing importance on the little things in life--then she tells us to lose them. It won't be that important anyway, she says. One set of keys and one hour of the day do not define an individual. What good are keys when they cannot be lost? What good is an hour when it cannot be wasted anyway?
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
Now Bishop wants to push my limits a little bit. Keys--not a problem. An hour--if you say so. But these things, I am told, are not nearly dear enough. As Hirsch notes, Bishop starts with small losses and then continually builds them up as the poem goes on. The first things she mentioned were pretty irrelevant as far as life goes, but now she's looking to expand both my number of losses and the content of those losses. At first, this poem seemed a little bit irrelevant. But now Bishop is attempting to force the reader to up the ante. Practice, as we all know, makes perfect, and Bishop wants us to practice losing big things on purpose. When we do, the most important losses won't be so difficult to overcome. Still, I don't find as much happiness in these words anymore...Loss is terrible no matter how you look at it, isn't it?
planes, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
True, the loss of these items will not bring complete disaster, but I'm too uptight to think it's okay to lose planes and where it was that I meant to travel. I need to get where I'm going in an orderly fashion, thank you very much. I like the word choices in these two lines. Planes and names sounds great together; similar to the ear yet so very different. Bishop now starts to speak directly to the reader. Before, she was giving examples of losses from her own life, but now she speaks directly to me. She is older, wiser, mature, and wants to let me know about those things that are truly important in life. Relax those shoulders, Scott. Feel good that you're unsure about your future. That's it. Nice and easy relaxation. Shrug those damn shoulders, I say.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
After speaking to the reader, Bishop goes back to personalizing her poem. This makes me feel much more comfortable. I'm no longer in the spotlight, and it's her loss we're hearing about, not mine. To be honest, I could care less if Bishop loses her mother's watch--loss seems to mean so little to her anyway. Now, if I was to lose my own mother's watch, well, let's just say I wouldn't have been so careless with it in the first place. And if I did somehow lose an important family item to me, it would be nice to know that my friends cared, not have one of them say "That's no disaster, you big baby." I also feel that the watch is important because it brings an element of time--endless time--into the poem. I already talked about the fact that Bishop is older and wiser, and now she wants the reader to understand that life only lasts for a short period of time. Losing a watch is no big deal because a person should not be worrying about deadlines and minutes anyway. The things that we find pleasurable in life must not be taken for granted. Therefore, we cannot worry about the end time before we have experienced each moment for what it's worth. Bishop takes an mundane experience close to home and extends its importance greatly.
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Bishop, as Hirsch notes, attempts to remain specific and avoid overstatement when writing about her losses. That's why she pauses after writing that her "last, or / next-to-last, of three loved houses went." She wants to remain exact, distinct, and sound in her ability to relate the true feelings of loss. If, for one moment, Bishop puts her credibility into question, I wouldn't be able to follow the commands of her poem. I would question whether she truly knows about, whether she has really experienced, great loss in life. By remaining exact in her examples, Bishop shows me that she's completely aware of what's being said. I enjoy the importance that's placed on the factual information. Facts are yummy.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
The losses continue to mount. We started with some keys and now we've made a complete circle. A continent. A huge amount of land and air. Rivers. Her home. These things too have been lost.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
Finally, Bishop is willing to admit some feelings of sadness that were felt in her loss. She puts on a qualifier, mind you, explaining that the losses still were no disaster, but for the first time in the poem she admits that she misses those things that were once dear to her. As Hirsch correctly explains, even as Bishop acknowledges that the losses cut deeper and deeper, she wants to add on the fact that they still weren't a disaster. I'm not sure if I can agree with Bishop here, as I think moving away from my homeland would be somewhat of a disaster. However, I think it very effective for her to admit that some feelings of sadness came out of the separation. If she had not, I would most likely think of her as a cold and unforgiving woman, and I could not let this poem influence my life, since I would not understand where she is coming from. By letting the reader know that she does miss some of the things that are lost, Bishop humanizes her writing. Losses may hurt for a period of time, she tells me, but they still are no disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
There is so much going on in these two lines. First, we have the dash, which I think is used to signify that Bishop is coming out of her author persona and starting to speak to someone directly. Is it me? Probably not, but I can personalize it if I want to. Bishop is telling me something important. Second, we have the parenthesis, which signify an offhand comment of some sort--to be honest, I'm not sure why this made it's way into the poem, it doesn't really fit with any interpretation I have.
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Hirsch's interpretation of this line was amazing. I really can't think of a better way to explain what these lines mean to me than what he came up with. I, like Hirsch, find it interesting that the loss of a beloved is viewed as the greatest loss of all (I would agree on this with Bishop.) Even more than a continent, a loved one can drastically change one's life for the better or worse. Indeed, such a loss (of a lover) really does seem disastrous at the time. There is simply no other way to describe such an intense feeling of pain. Bishop breaks down the reflexive barriers of toughness--those barriers that stand between loss and her true feelings--for this example. She cannot lie to herself anymore. She must Write it! even though it doesn't fit with her moral message, her advice. Above all else, the loss of a beloved will break you down and make you admit that a true disaster has taken place. As Hirsch writes, "The repetition of the word like compounds the effect." She is forced to admit what she wants to keep secret. When Bishop began composing the poem, I'm not really sure she knew she would come to this conclusion. It's almost as if her feelings are being poured on to the page as we read. She starts out with some defense mechanisms, but finds that they cannot hold water. As Bishop's poem progresses, so does her train of thought. I felt Hirsch's interpretation of this poem was a little on the technical side, but overall quite good. To be sure, there was no disaster to be found in the poem itself or in Hirsch's nice interpretation of it.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, March 26, 2000 10:55 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 17. Term Paper // Tamura // The Just Price
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Friday, March 17, 2000 11:14 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Paper on Poet Tamura
Fr. Mark,
I just wanted to let you know that, after finishing my entry last night, I wrote about a page and a half on my poet Tamura. However, I don't want to submit what I've done so far because I want to use free time over Spring Break to finish and edit what I have. I'm leaving for Frisco today at 5:00, but I'll be back on Tuesday night, so I'll have time after that to turn in a nice paper once we get back. Thanks.
Also, I just wanted to say thanks for the great dinner last night and the good talk. I'm thinking my pants are fitting a little tighter today after eating the pie and sauce, but that's okay. Take care.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, March 16, 2000 11:24 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 18 Sachs // To Scream For Silence
Nelly Sachs in 99 Poems, p. 110
the first stanza of Landscape of Screams
At night
When darkness falls, anything can happen and usually does. But I'm not so sure that Sachs writes of night in the literal sense. Here, night seems to mean more than just a time of day. It is a way of explaining the pains inherent in life and how they are meant to be defeated. Night is calm, night is dark, but night is also a time on intense thinking and dreaming. One must come to grips with how the world works when everyone else is asleep. The only light is the one constantly turned on inside your head, when images come into focus much more clearly than they do during the day. Things are known at night that cannot be known or talked about during the daytime hours. The freaks come out to play, I might say, but never during the day. The day is simply much too bright for the trouble of the world. Sunshine works to destroy all chances of evil. Why does one feel scared at night? Because we cannot see what lurks ahead. Sachs uses these two words to break down the barriers separating the author from the reader. She holds us in her power. She is able to see through the darkness and into the dark path, where our human eyes cannot follow. Therefore, we must wait for the next descriptive word to find out how the future looks. The darkness attempts to cover all of the difficulties of the day, but it never seems to work. Sachs tells us immediately that the following is going to be taking place at night. It lends a sense of mystery and suspense. Why do things happen at night instead of the day? Let's see...
when dying proceeds
I like the image of death reaching out across the land to pull in more victims. I don't like the image as in "Wow! Isn't that nice image," but I think it serves the purpose well. I picture death to be a hand that constantly reaches out for more--it can never be satisfied with a handful of victims. Death itself may not be the thing that sweeps across the land, but instead it's a sense of reality and violence. We must come to grips with the world as it is, since there is no other world to join while alive. The word "proceeds" is very important. It alludes to the fact that dying may stop for a short period of time, but it always returns. That's what it means to proceed: to continue on forward toward something, especially after an interruption has taken place. We can only hold on to life for short period of time. Death can be pushed aside for a few days, a few years, but it cannot cease to exist within our future.
to sever all seams
The act of dying really does divide or dissolve relationships. The seams are tightly knitted in a good friendship or relationship, but each nightfall enhances the little tear that's always present. Little by little, time and sacrifice take over, and the small tear becomes a tremendous hole. In the end, we are half of what we once were. Sever and seams each have five letters in them and sound somewhat similar, but they have very different images associated with them. When I think of sever, I think of pain and separation from a whole. A seam is where the tear begins, but it's also how a hole can be put back together--by placing the seams back together. There is a fragile element to this line. No person is a whole piece of cloth or a complete bandage. We are put together by seams; two or more pieces that come together to form one. But it's always possible to see our seams--those small pieces that continually work together to form the character of an individual. We are limited, but perhaps also proud, of our seams. They tell us about our weaknesses, and we must learn how to sew them together the next time around.
the landscape
When I first see the word "landscape," I think of a vast body of land or a type of art. It has a limitless quality to it; the cup never runs out; the corn never fails to grow. Dictionary.com tells me that landscape can also mean "an extensive mental view; an interior prospect." Sachs word choice here lets it be known that dying covers all points in history and all parts of the world. I must refer back to my hand image: dying reaches out for everything and we cannot hide from it. A landscape is an expanse of scenery that can be seen in a single view. Well, death does not knock twice at the door. It sees it's victim once, from anywhere, and ends life right there.
of screams
A landscape of screams makes me think of a high-pitched wail. You can't cover your ears to avoid it. The screams force their way into the very depths of my soul. I'm reminded of Edgar Allen Poe's short story, "The Telltale Heart." The screams, like the heart, become of part of the conscience that cannot be escaped. They continually sound off until something is done--until we come to terms with them. I think that the screams are always going on too, regardless of whether we choose to hear them or not. How many of us take time out of the day to hear the screams from those who have no voice. Of course, you might argue, one can't hear screams if there is no voice, but that's exactly the point. I think Sachs is attempting to give a voice, a piercing voice, to those who previously wailed in silence.
tears open the
The word "tears" is full of action. It is a constant ripping of the seam. But not only does it continually occur, it slowly reveals the inside. A bandage or cover of some sort has hidden the wound underneath. The wound is a gaping hole in the human heart, a hear that clearly understands its own mortality. But why the word "tear." To me, tear is also a forced action. We are tearing apart the seams ourselves. Things are not torn by an invisible source of power but by the human hand.
black bandage,
When the black bandage is pulled away, the light shines in and reveals all the sickness found in the vital fluid that makes life enjoyable. The light shines into the darkness, and what it illuminates is vile. Again, Sachs chooses the word "black," to describe the bandage. We choose to tear off the bandage--or perhaps we were forced to--and we take a look inside. We see thousands of people who have been oppressed and killed for the sake of good. The black bandage itself is often worn for the sake of mourning. Athletes wear it on their jersey to honor a friend, coach, teammate, owner, who has died. Sachs chooses the black bandage to symbolize all the mourning that needs to take place now that the bandage has been revealed and the blood has begun to show. The blood that is itself a consequence of the human hand and its need to tear things apart.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, March 14, 2000 7:30 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 16 Akhmatova // A Part...But Not That Part
Anna Akhmatova in 99 Poems, p. 1
Biography: http://www.odessit.com/namegal/english/ahmatova.htm
I've done quite a few line-by-line readings lately, so I'm just going to select a few lines of this poem that are special to me and then elaborate as much as possible, okay? Thanks.
I am not among those who left our land (Akhmatova, 99 Poems, p. 1)
I am not among those who left our land
to be torn to pieces by our enemies.
I don't listen to their vulgar flattery,
I will not give them my poems.
The author is identified by her poems. They mean more to her, and explain more about her, than anything else in the world. To me, this is a recognition of the power of the written word. It's not surprising that tyrannical rulers want to silence the pens of the great authors of their nation. Oppressive leaders always try to control the newspapers and art of the country. If the poet decides to give away her words, or if she is forced to give them away, there is nothing left for her to say. Art can often influence people more deeply than money, sex, and food. Therefore, art must be completely silenced for one to have true and complete authority over it--just like our natural urges are often silenced to show that we control them. This is an extremely powerful line. It's tough and straightforward. "I will not" is a command to anyone near. "give" points to an impending struggle should anyone decide to challenge the author for her art. She refuses to give it away, someone must try to come and pull it from her. "them" is the enemy, although the enemy remains nameless and faceless. I picture the author writing this poem in a lonely room, trapped and hidden away from the outside world. She is being hunted, yet she still has something to say. She will not give away her poems, but will use the poems to fight back if she can. Poetry is her weapon of choice. The way this line is written, it's as if Akhmatova is sharing a little secret with me...in a whispered voice, she tells me that, no matter what the consequence, she will not give her poems over to the forces of evil. This is because her poems are a source of beauty and peace in the world. They cannot mix well with evil and hatred. Poems go much deeper than religion, race, economic status, etc. and so she refuses to put a label on them and give them away. The author assumes that we are not part of the problem, but part of the solution. As such, she will not give "them" her poems, but she will share them with you and me. In a sense, this is almost like a response to someone else, possibly someone who was telling her to conform or give up her quest for hope. The forces of evil can take away her physical possessions, but she refuses to compromise the place where her poems are found--in the depths of the soul. She will give up a certain part of herself, but not that part that belongs to the soul.
But the exile is for ever pitiful to me,
like a prisoner, like a sick man.
Two weak, vulnerable, and controlled descriptions. The prisoner is held against his will and is treated however badly his captors choose to treat him. He eats when told to eat. He drinks when told to drink. He sleeps when told to sleep. The prison walls are inescapable and cold. Prisoners watch them, waiting for them to fall, but they never do. And so it is with a dictator: the people wait for him, watch him, hope that he falls, but he never seems to--at least not until all signs of life are gone. A prisoner gets all of his possessions taken away from him. The guards hope that physical possessions are what define a man. But Akhmatova will not give away her soul. A sick man, similar to a prisoner, has little control over his life. He becomes alienated from his own body, fighting it for survival. A body is like a homeland, but it goes through many changes when a virus enters the area. Such things--sickness, prison, dictator--aren't natural and people cannot live well confined by them. When health of body is taken away, the mind must fight back as long as it is able.
Your road is dark, wanderer;
There is a path up ahead. But one cannot see what it is or where it leads. Because of the circumstances, the poet will forever find herself wandering the world. Home can never be home again. And the new places of the world will never feel safe or comfortable. Akhmatova has lived through the defining moment of her life. She has seen what the crushing forces of darkness can do when they take control of humanity. Her pathway is forever full of stones and boulders--there will be no more easy travels. I like this line because it seems to stand out from the rest of the poem. The poet is able to see into the future--my future. She is speaking to me directly, telling me to learn from the struggles of her life. I am part of the future of the world, the youth. Therefore, I must look back and see clearly the gross mistakes of the past. Akhmatova appears to speak about the coming of a day of darkness. There will be a new government in her homeland, and she can foretell the doom that is to follow. The land that was once her home and place of worship now belongs to someone else.
alien corn smells of wormwood.
But here, stupefied by fumes of fire,
wasting the remainder of our youth,
we did not defend ourselves
from a single blow.
We know that history
will vindicate our every hour...
I find both hope and sadness within these lines. On the one hand, the author hopes for a better tomorrow. On the other, she recognizes her terrible plight and knows that deep down inside things can never return to form. She looks to the future, hoping, perhaps knowing, that history will prove all modern day actions of evil to be reprehensible. This seems strange to me as well. It's almost like Akhmatova feels that she doesn't belong in her society. She sees things and understands how actions will be perceived in the future, but she doesn't feel that the situation can be changed in her time. The human condition progresses throughout time, but all changes for the good seem to take so very long. The ellipsis at the end of this line indicates the unknown amount of time that all human beings will need before they understand the evils of dictatorship. It's hard to take on society in the way that Akhmatova wants to....she understands that time makes more converts than reason, to borrow a phrase, and it's a bit troubling. How can one convince others that their actions will be seen as vile in years to come? Unfortunately, we usually can't, leaving us alone with our thoughts. Our rage-filled thoughts. Does Akhmatova feel let down by her country? Or are some forms of evil impossible to stop? I think she recognizes that evil enters the world at certain times for unknown reasons, but that it takes the history books to truly attempt to explain how evil forms. Problem is, a writer of history can never see things so clearly while they are still going on.
There is no one in the world more tearless,
more proud, more simple than us.
Translated by Richard Mckane in 99 Poems, p. 1)
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, March 09, 2000 11:37 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 14.5 Reply to Jen and Adam // Stars of Natural Law
2
Las estrellas comportan un hßbito en la noche.
Una ley escrita entre las hojas del oto±o,
en el centro irrevocable de los pßjaros.
Las estrellas comportan un hßbito en la noche.
Aunque pronuncies ahora el adi#s que alimentas.
Y sobre el mar te deshojes,
hacia un mutuo silencio.
The stars bear a custom in the night.
A law written among the leaves of autumn,
in the irrevocable center of birds.
The stars bear a custom in the night.
Though you now say the good-bye you nourish.
And over the sea you shed your leaves,
to mutual silence.
To me, the custom of these stars is to watch over the turning of the clock on our planet and perhaps other planets as well. They are the observers of the natural law, one "written among the leaves of autumn", which are the leaves that are dead upon the ground in shriveled color, or near death, clinging desperately to their individual branches, hoping to survive the oncoming frosts. Death is an "irrevocable" part of life, observable by all who choose to look. The stars are an example of that observant nature, singing in the blackness of night, lighting the laws at work below. These natural laws, though sad and seemingly desperate "nourish" the ground with the nutrients of their dead, saying "good-bye" in order to bring more to life. The leaves return to reinforce the theme of autumn's inevitable death.
Jennifer, I think you are correct to see the natural law in this poem, that is, Fontan is looking to pattern his life around the rules of physics and the ways of living creatures. I wanted to add a couple of my insights. First, the repetition of the first line lends the poem a circular quality, as if it is making two circles, each one beginning with that line. That lead me to think of the Dharma Chakra of Buddhist thought, which is the "Wheel of Life" or the "Wheel of Law". The Buddha set this wheel spinning with his first sermon. (I also noticed the Aboriginal concept of "Dream Time" in the first of these poems, and I wonder how global this poet is and how much I am just putting words in his mouth).
The second point follows along the wheel, and that is death and re-birth. I differ from you in the imagery of the leaves, I see them not as wanting to hold on, but gladly dying and being re-born in the Earth. I think the "you" is the reader, who now understands the cyclical nature of the law and is no longer afraid of death. This has been growing in him or her all along, he has been nourishing this understanding. The good-bye is the release of the self. And at the end, I feel a transcendental touch, as we look far across a sea to see the enlightened figure, who is in a mutual, a shared, a common, and agreeable silence (no more need be said, the lesson is learned) with all of life.
HOWEVER, I don't understand who "you" is in the poem. Is it the reader? The stars? The birds? The law itself? A tree? This part of the poem confuses me and doesn't seem to fit into my interpretation.
It was groovy reading the dialogue between Jen and Adam in regards to this poem. Gustavo was a good guy. I was glad to see that he had thought--or was still thinking--about many of the same questions that we discuss in class. It was also good to see that we're covering many of the poets that Gustavo had used for influences. I feel like I belong to a club of poet people--a club that I did not know about until I joined. Anyway, I just wanted to make a couple of comments. I think Adam had a nice insight into the repetition of the line about the stars bearing their custom in the night. Not only does this give the poem a circular quality, but it also makes me think about life as a circle and how the earth is a continual circle of the sun. It is "customary" for such things to happen. From the earth our bodies begin, and to the earth our bodies return. Moreover, I liked Jen's idea about death being an "irrevocable part of life. I guess this poem gives me a feeling of loneliness, one that puts into perspective the role of the human being in the world. When we die, we must say our good-by, yet we continue on through others and because of the natural laws of the universe. Our souls never leave the world, though our human voices may be silenced for eternity. Perhaps Gustavo had in mind that we become one with the stars when life meets its end. Stars always nourish and watch over the land below, though we have little information on them and have yet to travel to one. Stars are a mystery, but they are customary in the night. Even though it is assumed that they should shine forth, we only hear their silence. I find the image of the sea to be striking as well. I associate the sea with isolation. When it is dark out and I go down to a lake to look at the sky, I can see the stars better and come to a better grasp of my role here on earth. I realize that I'm one human being out of many, but yet I was given a life all its own. It's both a spiritual and humbling experience. Other things much more important than my trivial problems are taking place in the world. When the leaves fall, I need to realize that life is bigger and much more lasting than the autumn. Spring will come again...or did it ever leave?
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, March 09, 2000 11:15 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 15 Orten // "The Best Days Are First To Flee"
JirN Orten
A Small Elegy (from Edward Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 41-42)
translated by Lyn Coffin
My friends have left. Far away, my darling is asleep.
Simply stated. The author lets us know he is alone. His friends have gone somewhere else. Where they went is not important. His darling too is at a great distance. I find it interesting that this poem does not attempt to fix the words into a specific time or place. This poet could be writing from anywhere, at anytime, to anyone. For all we know, the darling could be half-way around the world, and the friends could be long lost companions whom the author will never see again. There is something simple about the two opening sentences, yet they pack a tremendously powerful punch. Tough, terse, effective word choices.
Outside, it's as dark as pitch.
Not only is the author alone, but the outside world is long gone. Again, the words are simple but they explain much. I picture the author looking out his window as these two opening lines force their way into his head. To understand his story, we need to take a look at his life as it is right now. Dark. Alone. This sets up the images and ideas for the rest of the poem. It's now between the author and the reader. He will tell us his darkest secrets because there is no one there to stop him. It's late at night anyway. Who will find his memories disturbing?
I'm saying words to myself, words that are white
Perhaps he has taken a step back from his situation and realized how strange he's acting. He asks, Why am I talking to myself in such a manner? I'm not too sure what to make of the words being described as white. Obviously, there's a contrast between the darkness of the outside world and the light that shines forth from his mind. The images in his head are easier to see than the physical surroundings of his home, which is a bit unnerving. I associate the word white with cleanliness. Perhaps he can remember things in his past that were much better than his situation today. His words are white. The words that belong to the world now, however, are dark.
in the lamplight and when I'm half-asleep I begin
He sits alone by lamplight, nearly falling asleep. A perfect time to recollect and assess life. Consciousness has started to fade just a bit. The images that enter his mind now will not be altered by his social circumstances or superego. We can find out just what it is that makes this man's life important. How does he feel deep down inside, away from the fake smiles and handshakes. Of course, since he's falling asleep, he can assume that no one will hold him accountable for his memories. He lets us know that he's half-asleep because its more real to him than being awake.
to think about my mother. Autumnal recollection.
To me, this signifies a bond with his mother that was so strong and loving that he's having trouble giving it up. This reminds me of my first week or so of being at college. At night, when I jumped in to bed, something would just strike me in the chest and say, You are alone up here, mother is nowhere near. Needless to say, it was a scary and sad feeling. It seems that such images always come to me in times when I'm about to fall asleep, when, like in this poem, the outside world is dark and my friends are far away. Then a person must come to terms with life as it is. When such memories would creep into my mind, I would always place myself back at home, away from my scary floormates and such. I could distinctly picture my family going on with life, even though I wasn't around. What is mom doing now? And dad? The images in my head were more realistic than anything I could ever try to describe in words. That is, they defy description but exist as they were and are.
Really, under the cover of winter, it's as if I know
everything--even what my mother is doing now.
Images of the past continue to spring forth. There is something extremely realistic about his memory. Not only can he picture the actions of his mother, but he is truly with her now. It is winter in his memory. Cold outside, dark and unfeeling. But his mother is his protector. Now, when the author lets us know about the darkness outside, there is nobody there to protect him.
She's at home in the kitchen. She has a small child's stove
toward which the wooden rocking horse can trot,
I like Hirsch's interpretation of this line of the poem. In his home, his mother is much smaller than she appeared to him as a child. Now she is vulnerable and prone to the difficulties of life, just like anyone else in the world. I remember growing up and assuming that my parents didn't have any connection to the difficulties of life. Our home was a safe haven. My parents never seemed to get down on life or struggle to make ends meet. Today, however, I recognize that they had difficult times just like everyone else.
she has a small child's stove, the sort nobody uses today, but
The repetition of the small child's stove is interesting, especially since he notes that it's the kind that nobody uses today. He seems to feel alienated by the modern world. The feeling is so intense to him that he seems to lose control. I picture the sights, sounds, smells rushing through his mind so fast that he cannot keep up with them. For that reason, some things are repeated and he jumps around in his recollections.
she basks in its heat. Mother. My diminutive mom.
Here, the author notices the heat of the room first. This leads him to a general feeling and picture of his mother. A one word sentence. Mother. A sentence as short as it is important to him. I like how these words come forth from his mind just as they enter it. For example, he goes from "Mother." to "My diminutive mom." just like real memory would. There is no real reason for the words to follow each other like that, except that they exist and move about in his head. This tells me the author is not holding anything back. The words are coming to us before he has a chance to censor or alter them.
She sits quietly, hands folded, and thinks about
my father, who died years ago.
Apparently, this was an important image for the author as he was growing up. Perhaps this was the one time where he could not cure his mother's pain. She would think about her husband who passed away, but the child could do nothing to bring him back. From the moment of his father's death, the memories of his childhood were forever changed. It could be that his father's death made him mature much quicker than he would have liked. A normal child goes through childhood once, but a man-child cannot relive childhood except through his memories.
And then she is skinning fruit for me. I am
in the room. Sitting right next to her. You've got to see us,
This experience is so real and vivid that the author wants to share it with us. Take a look, he says. This is how beautiful my life once was. On the surface, this memory appears pretty normal, but to the author, the feelings and emotions are so great that they cannot be reproduced again. If we want to see what his life was like, we must look now,
God, you bully, who took so much. How
The comparison of the past and today is too painful for him. God took all those happy times away from him. Doesn't God understand what he's done? I like Hirsch's interpretation of this line as well. The author takes on a child's language because his memory has placed in back into life as a child. Therefore, God is a bully. I find it interesting too that the poet pleads for God to see him and his mother as though he could not before. It's like he assumes that God would never let such a happy image fade, and so He must not have seen how happy he was before. I can tell that he has anger for God, but I can't blame him. I think the anger has its roots more in questioning and misunderstanding than true feelings of disrespect. As such, he calls God a bully, but then drops the subject there, so as not to say something that would be inappropriate or too harsh. Perhaps my interpretation differs a bit from Hirsch's, but that's okay.
dark it is outside! What was I going to say?
Oh, yes, now I remember. Because
Speaking to God and recognizing his situation today, the vivid memories disappear for a moment. He's trying to tell us a story through pain and happiness, but it gets lost for a moment in the transition. He takes a look outside and once again recognizes how dark it is--how isolated he is from the rest of the world. No doubt, this darkness is even more intense because of the light from his memory (lamplight). It's like stepping out of the sunshine into a dark and dusty building. Everything appears much darker at first than it really is, and it takes a person a moment or two to regain bearings on the world around them. That is what's happening to the poet.
of all those hours I slept soundly, through calm
nights, because of all those loved ones who are deep
Contrast his nights of sleeping calmly and soundly with tonight. Before, he was tucked into bed by his mother and slept a nice, soft, dream-filled sleep. Tonight, he is alone in complete darkness, with no one to care if he should drop dead. He had many loved ones as a child, but now his friends are away and his darling is asleep. He wonders why such changes have taken place. He brings his complaints before God.
in dreams--Now, when everything's running short,
I can't stand being here by myself. The lamplight's too strong.
The happy memories, connected in word by the author to the lamplight, make this man realize how pitiful his life has become. He has no one to talk to anymore, at least not in the same way he could talk to his mother. This reminds me of a quote that appears before the text of Willa Cather's novel My Antonia, which is probably my favorite book to read. I believe it is a quote from a work by Virgil that goes something like "Optima dies....prima fugit," which, I'm told, translates to "The best days are first to flee" (The wording of and origin of the quotes may be slightly off as I don't have the book with me.) I don't know if this a such a sad thing, but it is often a realistic one. To me, it speaks a lot about enjoying each moment as you live life. When I was younger, I wanted to be older. Now that I'm older, I often want to be younger. But then I need to remember the way that life works. To be happy always, I must enjoy life as it comes and goes.
I am sowing grain on the headland.
I will not live long.
I think the author is questioning whether it's even worthwhile to live anymore. All the good days have passed, and he's sick of living alone and unloved. He feels that it is up to the individual how long one wants to live. The minute that his will to go with life finally fades, which he can feel happening soon, life will end too. In some ways, this a really troubling ending, but I also can recognize that there comes a point in life, at least for most people, when they feel that they no longer belong in the modern world. I think of some elderly people who outlive their families, friends, classmates, and then find that the world is a much different place without the usual company of those people. Some find death to be comforting, as it takes them back to the life that once was, or so I believe. However, I find it extremely intriguing and sad that Orten was only twenty-two years old when he died after being dragged by a car and then refused admission to a hospital for being Jewish. He must have had a very old soul inside him. I would assume that an old man had composed this poem on his deathbed, not a young man with so much to offer the world and supposedly so many experiences ahead in life.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, March 05, 2000 10:59 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 14 Haki Madhubuti // Breaking Birth
Breaking Birth
"Men and Birth: The Unexplainable" by Haki Madhubuti, Rag and Bone, p. 46
I just finished reading Stephanie's entry and I thought she had some great interpretations of the second stanza of this poem. Therefore, I'm going to focus on my favorite part of the work, the last poetry section.
birth (Madhubuti, "Men and Birth: The Unexplainable," in Rag and Bone, p. 46)
Simply stated. The word stands alone yet has tremendous power. It signifies the beginning of life. One of God's greatest and new creations. For parents, the birth of a child is the defining moment of life. A new creature enters the world, free and carrying with it unconditional love. Babies are free from the outside world and its evil, they know nothing but what they see first: Their mother and father. Their new family. The love of a newborn child has no bounds or restrictions. I cannot associate the word birth with any type of evil. If I hear of someone experiencing a new birth or a re-birth, it always seems positive. Birth. Simple, positive, love. Endless. The one moment in all of human nature that has no equal.
unlocks cultural strangulation allowing (Madhubuti, "Men and Birth: The Unexplainable," in Rag and Bone, p. 46)
I like the image of birth unlocking something that has been held down. The new creation sets forth a new meaning of life. The culture or society in which we live has no power over a baby. The father of a newborn is free to show his emotions, to let the world know that he can cry for a miracle. The word strangulation has such a nasty connotation. I picture hands that slowly squeeze the life out of the one being strangled. Fresh air cannot enter into the body. There is no oxygen. The baby, however, provides an endless amount of new oxygen and fresh air. A new child is a new beginning. It allows things previously restricted.
men to feel & touch & experience (Madhubuti, "Men and Birth: The Unexplainable," in Rag and Bone, p. 46)
A father has no connection with the man who is not the daddy to his child. He is a different person. The father's senses are in touch with the world like never before. In a sense, a baby's birth allows a father to have a re-birth. He touches things for the first time--they are different. Experiences of yesterday mean nothing today. I like the absence of the word "and" in this poem. A symbol (&) allows the important words to come closer to each other. This new birth is about feeling, touching, experiencing new things, all of which are similar. There is no room for ands or buts.
a source of love that springs in (Madhubuti, "Men and Birth: The Unexplainable," in Rag and Bone, p. 46)
A new child is like an bottomless glass of love. An endless fountain of youth. I think of an image that springs forth from the ground, which, in a sense, is where the father and child will return together when life is over. The child springs forth from the other world, carrying with it love and peace. The world the child enters, however, has pain and agony. But to return to the source is to understand what the birth means. The love that fills the room when a child is born defeats all the pain in the world. Creating something of their own, the father watches his perfect newborn enter the world.
smiles occasional tears and undying commitment. (Madhubuti, "Men and Birth: The Unexplainable," in Rag and Bone, p. 46)
A child brings happiness to all. The smiles never end, and the tears stop flowing because of sadness and start because of happiness. The father has also been reborn. He cries and smiles, smiles and cries, because he knows the future has no bound. His child will never make the same mistakes he did, will learn from the father how to be a solid citizen, one who helps old ladies cross the road and bags their groceries in the supermarket. No doubt, this child is the special one. Of course, this child also depends upon the father for existence. The father owes his child life itself. The commitment is undying until the day he himself dies. From this day forward, the man has entered a new world just like his baby. Will the path be an easy one? Not likely. Rewarding? Definitely.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, March 02, 2000 6:24 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 13 Olds // Fillin' Daddy's Big Shoes
Sharon Olds
Rag and Bone, p. 129
Sharon Olds was born in 1942, in San Francisco, and educated at Stanford University and Columbia University. Her first book of poems, Satan Says (1980), received the inaugural San Francisco Poetry Center Award. Her second, The Dead and the Living, was both the Lamont Poetry Selection for 1983 and winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award. She teaches poetry workshops in the Graduate Creative Writing Program at New York University and in the N.Y.U. workshop program at Goldwater Hospital on Roosevelt Island in New York.
http://www.albany.edu/writers-inst/olds.html
Interview with Sharon Olds:
http://www.salon.com/weekly/interview960701.html
guild from Dictionary.com: http://www.dictionary.com/cgi-bin/dict.pl?term=guild
1. An association of persons of the same trade or pursuits, formed to protect mutual interests and maintain standards.
2. An association of men belonging to the same class, or engaged in kindred pursuits, formed for mutual aid and protection a business fraternity or corporation; as, the Stationers' Guild; the Ironmongers' Guild. They were originally licensed by the government, and endowed with special privileges and authority.
3. A formal association of people with similar interests; "he joined a golf club"; "they formed a small lunch society"; "men from the fraternal order will staff the soup kitchen today"
THE GUILD
Every night, as my grandfather sat
The first word of the poem jumps out at me. Olds is making it clear that the following situation happened all the time. Every single night. The day could have been spent doing various things, but the night always brought out its usual routine.
in the darkened room in front of the fire,
It's strange to think about the contrast of a darkened room and the fire. I always picture a fire lighting up a darkened area. Here, even with the fire blazing, the room is darkened. This image makes me think of hell or Satan. There is no light in sight, but there is fire all around. An uncomfortable and disturbing image.
the liquor like fire in his hand, his eye
Again, Olds makes a reference to fire. Her memories of her grandfather appear troubled. In this line, "his eye" seems to be peeking out and taking a look at the story being told. I'm thinking of a literary image of an eye--it watches the other words, since it really doesn't fit in with them. We are forced to wait until the next line to find out about the mysterious eye. "his eye" is still watching, waiting, to see if anyone will defy it. The comma makes me pause before I can learn more about the eye. Okay, there's alcohol, fire, a darkened room, the eye....but what next? Also, the "fire in his hand" reference makes me think of a weapon of evil.
glittering meaninglessly in the light
I wonder where Olds gets this imagery. It almost seems as though she has acquired a picture of her father and grandfather in years gone by. She knows, or perhaps she can intensely understand, how the setting would have looked and felt. How does something "glitter meaninglessly"? Is it because the fire is reflecting, even dancing, in his eyes, though there is little feeling or soul behind them? For most people, I would think that light from a fire could provide a window to the soul. The eyes often tell you what kind of person is behind them. In this case, the eyes glitter from the effects of the fire, but the grandfather still looks indifferent. Even with the glitter of the flame, the grandfather still has no strong emotion or feeling. I cannot see behind his eyes--is anything there?
from the flames, his glass eye baleful and stony,
Now we are told about the glass eye. At first, I wonder why she describes it as "baleful" and "stony." But here too the description appears to fit the personality. The grandfather is a wooden man, distant and difficult to know. The searching eye is ominous, harmful, malignant, with questionable intentions. How did the man lose the eye? The heat of the fire and the searching eye make for a frightening picture. Although the eye is made of glass, it looks like it can mysteriously move. It is alive. This description brings out a feeling of roughness or bitterness. The grandfather has probably lived a hard life, a cold life, which is now trying to be heated by a fire. But it's still dark in front of the fire. It's always dark. Is there redemption for him? The glass eye makes it difficult to know what's in his head. Others can look at him, but there exists no window to the soul. The eye stays the same, regardless of the situation. He cannot be figured out. Is there anger behind the glass eye?
a young man sat with him
Perhaps this young man is the guild, the student who wants to be tutored, who wants to be a part of something bigger than himself. He shares similar interests and feelings with the old man. I wonder why the young man would also want to sit in the darkened room, along with the drunken grandfather. What rewards are offered for doing so? The only thing I can think of is that the boy wants to be like the man. He wants to grow up and follow in his footsteps, regardless of the tough life that may lie ahead. In fact, he may not think of it as a tough life. The boy likes the thought of sitting in front of a fire drinking things that are themselves "like fire."
in silence and darkness, a college boy with
Again, perhaps for emphasis, we are told about the darkness. The room is pitch black. But there is no talking. This is a strange image to me. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable. It seems like one of those awkward silences, but in this case it's not so awkward--it's the normal occurrence among the two men. Instead of talking to each other, sharing love, the two men sit in silence. Here too the line break is effective. We know that the young man is "a college boy," but we're not really sure of what kind. Is he as mysterious and quiet as the grandfather? I must read on to find out.
white skin, unlined, a narrow
The young man seems to be built differently than the grandfather. He is young, with white skin that is unlined. A picture of health.
beautiful face, a broad domed
Olds makes a specific attempt to point out the youthfulness in the young man. Simply put, he has a "beautiful face." To me, this represents promises of success and happiness. The young man has opportunities before him, whereas the grandfather is watching and waiting for his life to slow down. The two men are in different positions in life, but they sit together. Obviously, the connection between them is important.
forehead, and eyes amber as the resin from
trees too young to be cut yet.
I always associate the word "amber" with jewelry. There is a sense of wonder about the young man. He's off to college, making something of himself, very different from the old grandfather--not necessarily in a bad way however. Perhaps the grandfather lived a very successful and happy life, and now the young man is trying to follow in his footsteps. Their unspoken silence communicates on a far deeper level than their words ever could. I'm starting to think I could have been too harsh on the grandfather before. He has this special relationship with the young man, a young man who is doing well for himself. His tree is still growing and remains healthy. Olds description of him is hopeful. Amber, jewelry, green, freshness, trees, breathe, space--these are images, sounds, words brought immediately to the forefront of my mind.
This was his son, who sat, an apprentice,
Now, half-way through the poem, the young man's identity is revealed. The son is indeed attempting to follow in the footsteps of his old man. Olds carefully selects the word "apprentice." The young boy is a beginner, a learner of knowledge. He is in a school to learn the ways of the world. Perhaps nights like these allow him to understand just as much as a riveting book could. He doesn't need to speak to his father, but just sit near him, feel his aura, to find the correct path in life. He looks at the sacrifices his father made for him, the student, the healthy young man, and says his thank-you's by spending a dark night alone with him.
night after night, his glass of coals,
Olds makes yet another reference to the fact that this scene took place every night. In a way, I think she could be doing this to relate in a literary way the similarities of the young man to his father. It is like a circle, or a complete cycle of a poem (a circular poem). What has happened in the old man's life will soon happen to the boy. What was described in the beginning of the poem will therefore be described once again. We are now focusing on the boy, but his situation is described in a manner not unlike his father's. We are told that this scene took place every night, but this was also told to us earlier when the grandfather was at the center of attention. Indeed, this looks like a literary way of showing the lifelong connection between the two men.
and he drank when the old man drank, and he learned
The boy, we are learning, is much more like his father than it first appeared. Although they are very different on the outside, Olds tells us that "he drank when the old man drank." Now Olds is using the same words to describe the action of two different individuals. He drank..old man drank. How much more alike can two men become? What could have been a touching scene has now returned to its earlier strangeness. Why does the young man drink with the grandfather? I'm not liking this situation too much anymore. Perhaps my first reaction to the grandfather was correct--he's an evil man.
the craft of oblivion--that young man
not yet cruel, his hair dark as the
The word "craft" makes a perfect connection with the apprentice description earlier. The boy is learning his craft. Unfortunately, the grandfather (master) is not a blacksmith or a tailor, but a cold man. A drunkard. The dash used in this line by Olds seem to represent a longing to return to the bright description of the boy, if only for a moment. She doesn't want to go into those terrible details about how the young man lost his youth and vigor under the watch of the grandfather. Olds wants to put her focus back on the happy times, when the boy was full of promise and light, not the darkness of the room.
soil that feeds the tree's roots,
Earlier, Olds made a reference to boy's eyes as "resin from trees too young to be cut." His dark hair, dark like soil, was the beginning of the beauty in the eyes. Indeed, Olds pictures the eyes as a window to the soul. The boy used to possess jewels for eyes before he became cruel. Compare jewels for eyes with the mysterious reflection given off by the glass eye. You can't see what's behind the glass, what kinds of things are spinning around in the mind. The soul does not shine, but reflects. Jewels always shine. We can see the beauty and worth of a jewel.
that son who would come to be in his turn
better at this than the teacher, the apprentice
Exactly what every master wants to see happen with his apprentice. The craft is learned so well that he can take the place, perhaps even improve, the business of the teacher. But this story doesn't appear to have such a happy ending. I find it interesting that Olds points out that the son would soon have his "turn" to be like the grandfather. It's almost like a changing of the guard. The father brings the boy up and passes on the baton of cruelty and coldness when he dies.
who would pass his master in cruelty and oblivion,
I associate the word "pass" with progress or moving forward, but here the idea is much different. The father actually takes a step backward, regresses into a more difficult and painful life. Interesting word choice; almost like a race to see who can become the worse man. The grandfather was in the lead, but soon the young man would pass him.
drinking steadily by the flames in the blackness,
The flames and blackness are noted again. The cycle appears complete. The boy has grown up to assume the same role, the same position as his own father. The word "steadily" is used to signify the "every night" occurrence of the drinking and sitting by the fire.
that young man my father.
A personal and painful connection. It's almost like Olds had to separate herself from the literary picture until it had faded somewhat from her mind. Obviously, she wasn't around when the described events were taking place, but it seems as though she wouldn't have wanted to be. She can acknowledge her personal relationship with her troubled father (the young man, college boy) only when the poem is nearing completion. To begin the poem by explaining that the following events were part of her father's life would have been too real, too painful. I also find it interesting that the poem used no spoken dialogue between the two men, yet the action spoke volumes. I don't think dialogue would fit correctly in this poem. Silence can explain more, especially in how Olds writes about it, than the spoken word ever could.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, February 29, 2000 8:53 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 12. McPherson // Bad Mother Blues
Bad Mother Blues
Sandra McPherson
When you were arrested, child, and I had to take your pocketknife
When you were booked and I had to confiscate your pocketknife
I love reading lyrics to blues music, so maybe this poem attracted my attention simply because of its form. McPherson, as she said before reading this poem on the tape, has a daughter Phoebe, who was born with Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism (I found the clinical name from a website on McPherson). Since we all know the incident of theft upon which this story is based, I'll continue on with my interpretation assuming you know the story...I guess the first thing that jumps out at me about this poem is its title. McPherson seems to put blame on her own shoulders for what her daughter has done. By calling the poem "Bad Mother Blues," she seems willing (and wanting) to accept the consequences of the theft. She wants to take the place of her daughter and forget that such a sad thing ever happened. It's the mother who's bad, not the child. The first two lines of the poem are spoken with a sense of anguish and fragility. I can picture McPherson sitting her daughter down and telling her about the tremendous embarrassment that getting caught for stealing brings upon the family.
It had blood on it from where you'd tried to take your life
This suicide attempt raises the stakes dramatically. McPherson has to be wondering what she can do to help her daughter. In a sense, McPherson is playing the role of the authorities, saving her daughter from herself when times are tough.
It was the night before Thanksgiving, all the family coming over
The night before Thanksgiving, all the family coming over
The repetition of lines seems appropriate because it relates a sense of disbelief. It's almost as though McPherson has to repeat the line one more time just to make herself come to grips with reality of the situation. Could Phoebe's problem have occurred at a worse time? The entire family was about to come over. Now the shame is extended in scope. The tone of the poem picks up in the second line of the stanza. Can you believe it? The night before, said again in order to remind herself of the horrible situation. McPherson must consciously focus on her position to understand the possibilities for healing or action. She must repeat aloud the terrible circumstances to understand them better.
We had to hide your porno magazine and put your handcuff's undercover
This line seems to clash with the one right above it. Before, we are told about the family coming over, a very public and community-oriented time. A loving time. Now things have to be hidden from everyone else. There's a secret in the family. Phoebe's theft and attempted sucicide has brought so much shame that part of the Thanksgiving gathering will take place under a cloud of darkness. From the line above, we hear about the family coming over. But now the handcuff's needed to be put undercover. Coming over versus undercover. Two very different ideas. One brings out a sense of triumph and bravery, the other an act of cowardness or fragility.
Each naked man looked at you, said, Baby who do you think you are
Each man looked straight down on you, like a waiting astronomer's star
Now McPherson has started to recall the pictures in the magazine. Her daughter has lost some of her innocence and given up some of her power. The men, already naked, refer to Phoebe as Baby. They are staring at her like a sex object just like she's staring at them. I wonder why McPherson chooses to put the dialogue into the mouths of the men -- is it the naked men who are saying Baby who do you think you are, or is it McPherson's inner conscious wondering why her little baby is doing such an adult act -who does baby Phoebe think she is? Moreover, now McPherson pictures each man looking down on Phoebe. To me, this represents a loss of power. Phoebe has given in to her womanly desires and, in the process, has lost some of the innocence that provides the youth with their power. Like an astronomer's star...Perhaps McPherson is pointing to the fact that God can see what Phoebe has done. The stars come out at night and can see the world at all times. The astronomer focuses on the stars. Phoebe focuses on the men. God focuses on Phoebe when she commits the sin of looking at naked men, after stealing them from a store.
Solely, disgustedly, each wagged his luster
More sexual imagery. McPherson sees the images as a disgusting because she objects to their content, but also because they played a part in her daughter's crime. The men on the revealing pages have come alive, they have taken away part of Phoebe's innocence and blind trust. McPherson watches what her daughter risked getting into trouble for--disgusting men, sexual tension, shallow beings. Why would her daughter do such a thing?
I've decided to throw horror down the well and wish on it
Decided I'll throw horror down the well and wish on it
McPherson decides to use this terrible circumstance for the chance of a better tomorrow. I always associate a wishing well with goodness, but McPherson wants to throw away the vileness of the world and turn it into something better. Perhaps she is coming to terms with how her daughter must be dealt with. Sure, she has committed a stupid act, but it's best to put such things past--throw the bad down the well, wish for it to turn out better. Here the repetition of lines seems to deal with decision-making. In the first line, a choice is made. In the second, it's affirmed.
And up from the water will shine my sweet girl in her baby bonnet
McPherson is hoping for a return to the past, before Phoebe lost her innocence and trustworthiness. She pictures her girl, not just any girl though, a sweet girl in her baby bonnet coming from the well. Not many images can be more comforting. This is quite a different picture than that of a shameful naked man. A baby bonnet is associated with promises of the good life and enjoyment. McPherson wants those promises back.
A thief will blind you with his flashlight but a daughter be your bouquet
A thief will blind you with his flashlight but a daughter be your bouquet
Two different images here. Two different sounds. The thief attempts to do things when you cannot see--you are blinded by the evil eminating from his or her body. You cannot enjoy the thief who wants to take things from you when you cannot see in the darkness. On the other hand, a daughter is fragile like a bouquet. A daughter does not bring pain into the world--a daughter brings joy and comfort. McPherson contrasts the harsh and mysterious words of blind and flashlight with cleaner words like daughter and bouquet. In this one line alone we see the conflict between Phoebe the innocent girl and Phoebe the adolescent girl who wants to, needs to, hide things away from her family and other forms of authority.
When the thief's your daughter you turn your eyes the other way
The two different images collide. I'm not sure whether McPherson turns away merely because the lights are now in her eyes, or because she doesn't want to see what's on the other side--now that her daughter's there. Does she want to forget about the whole episode, turn her cheek the other way and let it fall to the wayside. Or does she need to come to a better understanding of right and wrong with her daughter? Perhaps now that the daughter is shining light on her mother's face, the mother wants to hide away herself, away from the glare and shame of the theft.
I'm going into the sunflower field where all of them are facing me
I'm going into the sunflower field so all of them are facing me
The line repetition makes it clear that she plans to reach a destination. But what is it? I see the sunflower field as an escape from the sin and vice of the real world. Into the sunflower field naked men cannot go. It is the place where innocence never dies and problems do not arise. On the other hand, I could see the sunflowers representing society, her family. She's going back into the glare of her family and she's going to be forced to explain what's taken place with Phoebe. She's going to notice the looks of everyone who will want to know how she's making out in light of the theft and attempted suicide. It is her time to shine now. McPherson must shine because all eyes will be on her.
Going to go behind the sunflowers, feel all the sun that I can't see
If she's referring to the glare of her family and friends, it seems that she envisions feeling the heat of their questions but not being able to see the light of the sun. She feels the warmness of their relationships, but cannot see the rewards. Perhaps McPherson wants her daughter to return to an innocent and child-like state, but now she knows it's too late. She's going away, behind the sunflowers, where shadows creep in and block the view of perfection. In light of recent events, she has found the shadows in her flower filled prairie, but will she ever see only the sun again?
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, February 29, 2000 8:43 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Sandra McPherson Links
Sandra McPherson
Raised in California, Sandra McPherson received her B.A. at San Jose University and studied at the graduate level with Elizabeth Bishop and David Wagoner at the University of Washington. Her poetry collections include, The Edge Effect (Wesleyan University Press, 1996), The Spaces Between Birds (1996), The God of Indeterminancy (1993), and The Year of Our Birth (1978), which was nominated for the National Book Award. She has also published nine chapbooks, including Beauty in Use (1997). Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The Yale Review, The Paris Review, Poetry, The Southern Review and TriQuarterly.
Sandra McPherson's honors include two grants from the Ingram Merrill Foundation, three National Endowment of the Arts fellowships, a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship, and an award in literature from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. She has taught at the University of Iowa's Writer's Workshop, the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival, and the Art of the Wild Conference. Her poetry was also featured in the PBS special, The Language of Life, hosted by Bill Moyers. She currently teaches English at the University of California at Davis.
http://wwwenglish.ucdavis.edu/faculty/mcpherson/mcpherson.htm
http://www.dcn.davis.ca.us/go/gizmo/sandy2.html
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, February 27, 2000 11:32 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Hayden Links
Robert Hayden
Born Asa Bundy Sheffey in 1913, Robert Hayden was raised in a poor neighborhood in Detroit. He had an emotionally tumultuous childhood and was shuttled between the home of his parents and that of a foster family, who lived next door. Because of impaired vision, he was unable to participate in sports, but was able to spend his time reading. In 1932, he graduated from high school and, with the help of a scholarship, attended Detroit City College (later Wayne State University).
Hayden published his first book of poems, Heart-Shape in the Dust, in 1940. He enrolled in a graduate English Literature program at the University of Michigan where he studied with W. H. Auden. Auden became an influential critical guide in the development of Hayden's writing. Hayden admired the work of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Elinor Wiley, Carl Sandburg, and Hart Crane, as well as the poets of the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, and Jean Toomer. He had an interest in African-American history and explored his concerns about race in his writing.
Hayden's poetry gained international recognition in the 1960s and he was awarded the grand prize for poetry at the First World Festival of Negro Arts in Dakar, Senegal, in 1966 for his book Ballad of Remembrance. In 1976, he became the first black American to be appointed as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress (later called the Poet Laureate). He died in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in 1980.
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/g_l/hayden/hayden.htm
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, February 27, 2000 11:09 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 11. Hayden // Missed Opportunities
Missed Opportunities
ausDtere (!-st,r) from Dictionary.com
adj. ausDterDe
1.Severe or stern in disposition or appearance; somber and grave: the austere figure of a
Puritan minister.
2.Strict or severe in discipline; ascetic: a desert nomad's austere life.
3.Having no adornment or ornamentation; bare: an austere style. See Synonyms at severe.
Robert Hayden's poem, "Those Winter Sundays" is driven by missed opportunities. Images of the past creep into the poet's mind, yet he cannot feel completely satisfied. I know exactly how the poet feels. Looking back on my own childhood years, it saddens me to remember some of the things that my parents did that went unrecognized. At times, I took their care for granted, and actually said nasty stuff to them when they were merely trying to help my development. At the time, of course, I thought they were out to get me--not help me--but I still think back on my past actions of stupidity with shame.
Hayden's poem starts out with one long sentence, a warm memory from his younger years. His father woke up early in the morning on his day off to make the house comfortable. It was winter, but the father wanted his family to be warm. One problem: "No one ever thanked him" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in Rag and Bone, p. 141). This sentence is quite intense because of its tough, terse wording. Compared to the fuzzy memories of the first long sentence, this short statement puts a damper on the warm memory. As I was reading this, it reminded me of some of my own childhood recollections. On the one hand, they're filled with love, warmth, friends, timelessness, and family. In short, they're the perfect images of the past. But on the other hand, there's always more to the story than my mind is willing to immediately recall. I often catch myself looking back on a seemingly ideal experience, only to delve a little deeper into the past and remember some of the immense difficulties of the real moment as well. I feel that Hayden does a nice job of relating a similar experience. He pictures his father waking early to make a sacrifice for the family, which itself is a nice memory, but one that has another side to it. Nobody ever thanked the man. The father got up early, alone, and went about his business completely unrecognized.
Not only that, the boy doesn't appear to have a very good relationship with his father in the first place. He writes: "When the rooms were warm, he'd call, / and slowly I would rise and dress, / fearing the chronic angers of that house" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in Rag and Bone, p. 141). This reminds me of going through adolescence, when my parents were my bitter enemies. I wanted to live in a house that had no rules, no codes of conduct, no parental authority. My parents wanted the opposite. Of course, as long as I lived "under their roof," which, for some odd reason ($$$) I always did, I had no real option. In a sense, however, even when I wanted my personal freedom and a life away from the steady hand of authority, I always enjoyed having my parents take care of me as well. No doubt, I often argued with my parents, but I didn't exactly want them to stop paying the electric bill either. Again, Hayden seems to be relating a similar experience. The boy would rise out of bed slowly and comfortably after a good night's sleep, enter the warm rooms of the house, then argue with his father about some frivolous issue--at least that's how I'm reading it. The boy didn't want to show that he loved his father, perhaps he didn't even realize it.
In the end, he can only ask himself, "What did I know, what did I know / of love's austere and lonely offices?" (Hayden, "Those Winter Sundays," in Rag and Bone, p. 141)
Indeed what did he know? Better yet, What did I know?
From: Williams, Scott G
Posted At: Friday, February 25, 2000 5:04 PM
Conversation: IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR READING GROUP
Posted To: HONR 250 -- Great Poets
Subject: IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR READING GROUP
Hey all,
If you signed up for the reading group and/or you're thinking of doing it, here's what's up: We're going to focus on Pablo Neruda with maybe one session for some favorite Rumi. Fr. Mark's planning on 5 or 6 sessions. Once you've decided whether you would like the credit that goes along with the group, please email me and let me know ASAP (by Sunday evening, if possible). That way we can let the Registar know of our group. If you don't want the credit because it would cost you an overload fee for the term, please let me know that as well. I know that some of you were wondering about possible dates and times for meetings, but I'd recommend that you sign up anyway if you're interested --I'm sure we can find 5 or 6 times when we all could make it. If it sounds good, let me know!
Take care and have a great day
Scott Williams
sgwilliams@csbsju.eduFrom: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 11:23 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Links to Komunyakaa and Ondaatje
Fr. Mark,
Here's a cool photo and biography I found on Yusef Komunyakaa:
http://metalab.unc.edu/ipa/komunyakaa/bio.html
And here's a few small items I found on another page:
Yusef Komunyakaa:
Recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the Kingsley Tufts Award and the William Faulkner Prize. In 1999, He was elected to the board of the Academy of American
Poets. His recent work includes a CD of poetry along with the jazz music of John Tchicai, Love Notes from the Madhouse, and the book Thieves of Paradise, which was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Here's a decent link to Michael Ondaatje:
http://www.tceplus.com/ondatje.htm
Poet, novelist (The English Patient) and filmmaker Michael Ondaatje was born in 1943 in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). At the age of 5, his
parents separated because of his father's drunkenness. Later, in 1954, he and his mother left the island for Britain where Ondaatje
finished his education. He now lives with his wife, novelist Linda Spalding, in Toronto, where they edit a literary magazine.
His novels, which often take him five or six years to write, finally gained him international respect when he received the Booker Prize in
1992 for The English Patient, which has since been made into an Academy award winning film by Anthony Minghella. All his novels
take place in an historical setting ("historical" here being defined as before Ondaatje surpassed toddlerhood), and have a very personal,
intimate style.
Perhaps the most notable aspect of his writing is his preference of images over standard novelistic cause and effect plotlines. The action
is always enhanced by his intense sense of motion and picture. Ondaatje even claims that he is less influenced by books than "other art
forms, such as music and painting." Whether he accomplishes this or not is difficult to say, but in the process of trying, he ends up writing
some potent fiction.
I couldn't find too much on Ondaatje, other than the many websites dedicated to The English Patient and so forth.
Also, you wanted me to remind you to type in Entry 8 for Tuesday's writing assignment on the Assignments page.
Oh yeah, Did that Honors 370 Directed Reading look like it would work? I tried getting into Webster today to see if the Registrar signed me up, but it said "down for maintenance" Just wondering. I'll try to figure today how many people are interested in doing the Poetry reading group(s) and what author(s) everyone would like to spend time on.
Take care and see you at 11:20. Have a great day until then...Scott
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 9:35 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 10. Peacock's Chapter Ten // As the Words Turn
As the Words Turn
Responding to Yusef Komunyakaa's poem, "My Father's Loveletters," Molly Peacock first identifies the type of poem she's dealing with, which, in this case, is a circular poem. She notices the father's shut eye lids is both an opening and closing image. Since Komunyakaa's poem is free verse, Peacock immediately tells us to pay attention to short lines. The number of syllables are of the utmost importance. In the poem, she explains, the author consciously creates a shorter line that's different in tone from the rest of the poem. Our attention should be drawn there to figure out why the author has employed such a device. Lines like "To slip in something bad; On the concrete floor; Of the tool shed change the music and meaning of the poem. Peacock points out that the feeling of the poem "is harnessed by Komunyakaa's coordination of line rhythm and visual frame (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 136). As such, the poem's longest sentence is followed by its shortest. Connections are made between the words themselves and the action or plot within the poem. The author's father can tell us how many bricks are in each blueprint; Peacock explains that Komunyakaa's poem intentionally has images stacked brick by brick. Moreover, by using the word quiet to explain the brutal setting of the tool shed, Peacock tells us, Komunyakaa "makes us realize that brutality is usually noisy, but here it is silent--or inarticulate" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 136). It's easy to see that Peacock wants a reader to recognize the great care taken while composing a poem. The words on the page are merely one part of the dialogue between poet and reader. What's written between the words, or rather inside the words, for example, the forceful images, the music, the absolute meaning behind every sound and syllable is likewise important.
Peacock explains that free verse attempts to disrupt our predictable lives and predictable readings. Therefore, we are led to guess at the next word to start the next line, but usually find ourselves surprised when we get there. She explains that Komunyakaa uses this to great effect with the word almost, which is used at the end of the second-to-last line. In many ways, this can be more truthful and real to explaining a situation than predictable word choices. We have to wait until the next line to find out what happens, instead of assuming things based on previous reading experience.
Peacock listens to the word "balled" and points out that it sound similar to "'bawled' because the poem is so close to crying" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 138). This is another important connection to make. How do the words sound as compared to actions? Why are certain words used in certain poems? Peacock explores this issue well.
At the end of her look into "My Father's Loveletters," Peacock also points out that the "sadness of Komunyakaa's father's love letters is that they aren't circular. The mother seems to have no intention of responding" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 139). Here, she wants us to pay attention to the focus of the poem itself, who it's being written to, why it's being written at all, who it's trying to connect to. From Peacock's view, this can have an important impact on the final tone of the poem. No doubt, if we knew or felt there was a possibility of the poet's mother responding to the father's letter, we would understand the poem differently.
I think Peacock's methods of exploring a poem are helpful because of their great care and attention to detail. It's obvious that when she gets through examining a poem, she really knows the words, sounds, images, themes, sentences, and lines inside out. That doesn't mean she always understands everything perfectly or better than anyone else, but it does mean that the poem has stuck with her for an extended period of time. She tastes the words, feels them, plays with them, sounds them out, all in search of a deeper meaning. I can use these techniques to expand my own understanding of a poem.
Most important, it seems that Peacock wants to make clear that every single aspect of a poem has meaning. Each word, line break, etc. is chosen very carefully and for a specific reason. Great poets use great ideas in their writings. With Peacock's help, I feel I have a better idea where to find and appreciate these powerful ideas.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Wednesday, February 23, 2000 6:17 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 9. Komunyakaa // Alone With Sadness Himself
Alone With Sadness Himself
The poem, "My Father's Loveletters," by Yusef Komunyakaa is extremely powerful in a mysterious way. I'm not really sure what to make of the young child's plight. It seems obvious that he's scared or unsure about his (illiterate?) father. The old man is described, along with his tool shed, in a grotesque and dark fashion. The youngster sets the intimidating scene:
We lingered in the quiet brutality
Of voltage meters & pipe threaders,
Lost between sentences...the heartless
Gleam of a two-pound wedge
On the concrete floor. (Komunyakaa, "My Father's Loveletters," in Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 127)
The cold description of the tools and other surroundings points to a distant relationship between the parent and the child. Simply put, there doesn't seem to be much love in the room. To me, it seems like the father is a simple man, one who doesn't know how to show emotion in person, but who uses letters to express his true feelings. One problem: he's stuck with a hole in his heart after his wife left him alone with the child, due to his physical abuse. In some ways, I want to severely hate the father. He takes out his problems on his wife and then wants to use his child to help get her back. Quite frankly, it's a pitiful scene. My stomach turns thinking about growing up in such a household. Mother goes away, the child has nowhere to turn, the future is dim. But I also feel sorry for the father. No doubt, he grew up in a similar situation. It's likely that he was treated horribly at home, missed out on an education (I'm assuming the child writes because the man cannot), and saw his own father beat his mother. He doesn't know the proper way to treat another human being, but he can still feel the pain and sadness of being left alone.
The sadness is probably even more intense because the mother, we are told, "sent postcards of desert flowers / Taller than a man. (Komunyakaa, My Father's Loveletters," in Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 126) This signifies that she has found a better life away from the family. Compare beautiful and tall desert flowers to the current scene in the dusty and unfeeling tool shed. I can't. There is no real comparison. I think the newfound happy life for the mother eats away at the husband. (And the flower imagery brings to mind a male penis.) Now that she sends postcards showing how beautiful life is, the man can't stand her being away. It's like a nasty break-up with a girlfriend. You probably don't want your former love to get hit by a bus the next time she's crossing the road, but you don't exactly want to see her win the Miss America pageant either. Well, this man didn't feel the need to treat his wife with respect while she was around, but he just wants one more chance to make her unhappy. The fact that she found peace elsewhere, without him, ruins the whole plan. She no longer feels that she must stay. She's no longer dependent and scared.
But I shouldn't be so harsh. In a sense, it feels like the child still has some respect for his father. He explains that the father could "look at blueprints / & tell you how many bricks / Formed each wall. That seems to say that he's good at his chosen craft. Respectable. And don't forget the last four lines, when the child sums up the situation by writing,
With eyes closed & fists balled,
Laboring over a simple word,
Opened like a fresh wound, almost
Redeemed by what he tried to say. (Komunyakaa, "My Father's Loveletters," in Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 127)
Unfortunately, I don't think there will be any redemption. The father has missed his chance. But where does that leave the child? He appears scared of his father, yet he also recognizes that he's only human. At one point, the child seems to side with the father. The child writes, speaking about his mother, "I was almost happy / She was gone, and sometimes wanted / To slip in something bad. I'm not really sure what to make of this. Is the child feeling abandoned by his mother? From the looks of it, he's tense around his father, but it could be that he also has tremendous respect for him. Maybe he doesn't realize that beating a woman is a gross act. On the other hand, perhaps he's happy for his mother because she's gone to a better place, regardless of where that leaves the child. He wants to slip in something bad so she'll never be tempted to return to the sad and brutal home.
I think it's the latter of the two possibilities for one simple reason: the word "almost" that appears right before the final line. Although the child recognizes the tremendous (and likely real) pain the father is in as he tries to conjure up the right words to make his lover come back through letters, the child can't accept what has already been done. Too much has taken place. The pain has been too great. In the final judgement, his father "almost" redeems himself. Almost, that is, but not quite.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 10:36 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 8 Rumi // From Death Comes Life
Die in This Love
by Jalalludin Rumi
Die, die, die in this love.
This is one powerful way to begin a poem. Often, death is perceived to be the worst of all possible things. On the other hand, love is seen as the best. The first three words appear evil. I picture an enemy on the battlefield saying to a fallen warrior that it's time to die, to give up since there is no chance for victory. But then I wonder why we need to die in this love. How can one suffer the pain of death during the greatest love of all? The opening line is a simple command. It has nothing more to say. The period really seems to stand out in the sentence. There is no opening for dissent or a question. There is no question mark. A period. Period.
If you die in this love your soul will be renewed.
At first, I wonder why I need to die in love. Now I am told. It is the one true chance for a soul to be renewed. I'm thinking of religious commitment. I must be willing to surrender my wants and desires for something much greater than myself. That is how I can connect with my true being. The author wants me to realize that not all forms of life are similar. Sometimes I must be willing to suffer for goodness. I cannot go on living a life of isolation and disillusion. I need to make a decision, a commitment, a promise, to get to my final and greatest destination. Now the poet has given me the cure for my instant apprehension.
Die, die, don't fear the death of that which is known.
The poet can see my trouble. I live in a world that wants answers to everything. I need to know the answers to life's greatest questions, how many planets make up our solar system, whether Bill Clinton lied to his wife. But deep down I have little commitment to myself. Inside, I know that God has a plan for my life. Now I must be willing to act. The poets seems to be pleading with me -- he tells me I already know the answer. Then why am I still afraid? The things I thought I knew might die. But need not fear.
If you die to the temporal you will become timeless.
When I die to the limits of time, I become timeless. It seems simple enough. I can take control of my life, make it my own, for my own reasons, the best reasons. I worry too much about the modern world and how it perceives me. Do I look strange because my clock ticks a little different than others? The poet never wants me to ask such questions. When I do, I limit the power that lives inside me, as I give in to the deadlines of time.
Die, die, cut off those chains
that hold you prisoner to the world of attachment.
I must break free from this world. I'm too attached to my surroundings. The physical world has few answers. It holds me down, suffocates my ambition and goals. The world of attachment is the one I live in right now. I try to become attached to things. I cannot die, I cannot destroy the pain I feel when something close to me leaves. But the author wants me to recognize the limits of this world. I can choose to cut off the chains myself; they only hold me when I let them.
Die, die, die to the deathless and you will be eternal.
Here and elsewhere, die seems to mean give in and believe. If I give in and believe in eternal life, I will never meet death. Instead, I've been letting this world tell me the limits to life. The words in this line are not so commanding, but soothing. Repeating die seems to conjure op strange images in my mind. Although the poet doesn't seem to use death in a evil way, my mind immediately connects death to pain.
Die, die, come out of this cloud.
It is time to clear my head and find the answers. Right now, the world has clouded my vision and judgement. I've lost sight of the real meaning in life -- the meaning that I discover and make for myself. The poet wants me to leave this world and come join him. He has figured out a better way of living. The troubles and struggles in my life are unnecessary. Can't I see? Please let me see the answers. I want to see the answers.
When you leave the cloud,
you will be the effulgent moon
Effulgent, from Dictionary.com: Shining brilliantly; resplendent. When the disappear from the sight of the moon, the night is lit. I can be the moon to the common world. When I choose to live life how the poet wants, I can light the path for my friends and family. The darkness of the normal and pitied life has no light. I need to focus on something greater, something that will let me see in during a misty night.
Die, die, die to the din and noise of mundane concerns.
Here and elsewhere, die seems to mean give up or break away. When I focus on mundane concerns, the noise is too loud for me to hear my true calling. When I'm distracted, time passes just the same, but I have no true vision or focus.
In the silence of love you will find the spark of life.
Here, I think the poet refers to the silence of listening to, and getting in touch with, God. When the world is quiet, when we make it quiet for ourselves, we can hear the trees, the birds, the land, the water, the air. That's where God is. The poet wants to know if I've listened to him lately. Have I? In this silence I find the spark -- the true meaning and instigation for the rest of my days. Simply put, a brilliant ending.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 8:42 PM
To: Walters, Anne M; Thamert, Mark
Subject: Reply to Anne: 8 Clifton // the inner child
Anne,
Your reading and interpretation of Lucille Clifton's poem was well done. Each line of her poem has such great imagery. I like Clifton's use of tough, terse prose. The first two lines, as you stated, really do seem to contrast each other. You write, "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." The one word that really doesn't seem to fit correctly into the first two lines is "inside." If the girl is randy--meaning uninhibited sexuality, as your useful definition states--I wonder how she can be trapped inside. To me, this is like saying that a circus animal is treated well, or that it's natural for an animal to spend its life in a cage doing tricks. I don't agree. The animals, along with the girl, are forced out of their natural elements, be it nature or human life. No doubt, old age is creeping up on this girl, wanting to trap her inside her body, but she is willing to fight back. Clifton writes that "she will not walk away / and leave these bones / to an old woman. When some people hit an elderly age, they expect their body to wear down and die. They accept that they will never again be like they were in their prime, willing to overcome the many challenges of the world. I love how this poem refuses to accept such a notion. To the outside world, the woman likely appears old and frail. But the author doesn't spend much time worrying about the physical decay that time brings about. She's fighting back, waiting for that day when everyone is given the chance to return to their vital youth.
The line about waiting for "the second coming" seems quite religious, as you mentioned: "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. In fact, I think there's a lot more religious imagery in this poem. The author states that this woman has been waiting patiently as a nun for the second coming. To me, this may signify that the woman had lived a tempered life while in her youth because of her religious beliefs. When she was young, while many people choose to explore the world in a sinful and careless manner, the author spent time at church or Sunday school, living by a strict code of conduct. She's now waiting for the coming harvest--also extremely biblical--to receive her reward for making so many sacrifices. That final day, judgement day, will be the day when others look at her in awe, for she has given up many passions to serve the Lord.
Moreover, I see some similarities to this reading in the lines, "she is a green girl in a used poet." In response to these lines, you write, "i see 'used poet' as the outershell of the older woman. on the inside, this woman is a girl, young, fresh, and new, like a seedling. I agree to an extent, but I look at her as a "seedling" because she has not been corrupted by the outside world. She has refused to act on her innermost passions throughout life. She is green, meaning not yet ripe, since she has lived a sheltered life. But the poet in her has been used up. Perhaps this is a comparison. Perhaps it is a sign of split desires. The artistic part of her has been explored to the full, tainted by the world, corrupted by the problems of life. Her faith, her character, on the other hand, remains untouched.
In particular, I feel the last line of the poem to be very important. Although you don't specifically address the final line, "with the damn wonder of it," to me it might be the most important one in the poem. Let me explain. I picture an old, somewhat bitter woman. Age, in a physical sense, has caught up with her, though she has missed many experiences because she lived a sheltered life. In a sense, she's waiting for that final day when the Lord rewards her. She's getting frustrated with her present life. Therefore, the poem ends abruptly and with the word "damn." To me, this signifies frustration with society. She's a little bit angry because people with no morals appear to have all the fun, while she's patiently waiting for something far greater. It's about making sacrifices to God. They're not fun to make, but in the end, they're rewarding. Unfortunately, her reward hasn't arrived yet. But it will. No doubt, it will.
-----Original Message-----
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: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Monday, February 21, 2000 7:34 PM
To: Oakland, Timothy J; Thamert, Mark
Subject: Reply to Tim: 7 Williams // Clark Kent hold the Superego
Tim,
I enjoyed reading your line-by-line response to William Carlos Williams' "Danse Russe," in Rag and Bone, p. 6. Isn't this poem great? Your reaction to the first line, "If when my wife is sleeping" is nice. You write, "Since his wife is sleeping, it seems he is going to talk about something secret, something personal." Indeed, it seems as though the author lets us take a peek into his very private life, the life that each of us has, but that we usually don't share. The opening immediately breaks down the barriers that separate the audience from the author. Right away I wonder what kind of relationship this man has with his wife. Why can't he show this side of himself when she is awake? Not only that, but it's strange to think that the author is willing to tell a complete stranger about his wild action/fantasy but not his spouse. In a sense, this both sad and funny. Sad because the man seems to have no living outlet for his desires and needs; funny because the tone is light-hearted and independent. That is, it's likely that the man could care less if his wife is asleep or awake, live or dead, at least for the moment of dancing. He's at his best when he's alone and carefree. I find that this poem has tremendous power because of the personal nature. Like it or not, after we read the poem, we are given a glimpse into this man's secret life. The poet views us as a friend and wants to tell us about his life. He does not censor his thoughts in our presence.
I also liked your reaction to the line, "waving my shirt round my head." You write, "This image is certainly wild, even primitive. I think of the time when I am through with classes and meeting and I take off my top shirt so that I can relax wearing just a tee-shirt. For me, this is like shedding my conventional posture, dropping my social conscience. The speaker's celebration shows his delight in experiencing his primal state. To me, this is the best line of the poem. The shirt seems to represent the rules and responsibilities of the world. Whenever we go out to eat, attend church, work -- anything social, we are required to wear a shirt (and sometimes tie). This is our way of recognizing and following the customs of the world. Unfortunately, customs and habits can be binding. The husband enjoys mocking such regulations. The title of your post seems quite apt here. We're getting a view of Clark Kent, grotesque dancing and all, not the Superman who must be a father, brother, husband, employee and friend to others throughout the working day.
No doubt, this fantasy/action seems odd when placed in the public eye. But I liked your idea at the end of your post about his wife having her own Danse Russe: "I wonder now if he is the happy genius of his household. Does his wife have a similar rite even later in the night, or during the day?" I asked myself the same question after studying the poem. Personally, I tend to think that she also has her own dance, but I'm not too sure. Perhaps this man feels alienated in his own household because he's surrounded by women. We know about his wife and Kathleen and a baby (let's assume it's a girl for now). If so, this poem seems to resemble a bar room confession of some sort. The man doesn't want to lose his macho persona, so he always begins with "if," yet he reaches out for companionship in a subtle way. He's examining the audience to find out whether we've ever done the exact same crazy, ugly dance. Of course, if we haven't, then he just laughs off his comments and goes back to his beer. But if we have, there is a special bond there. He wants to be macho and strong but in touch with another human being, someone who knows what it's like when the shirt can't come off because the outside world is watching.
That said, I wonder what this poem would sound like if the wife had written it? Are all of her hopes and dreams fulfilled by her husband? Does she feel free enough to publicly dance herself? I doubt it. She could also do a dance, for sure, but perhaps her explanation for it would sound different. Would she feel the need to begin with the "if"? Or is she more open and honest about her true actions/fantasies, regardless of who it is that is listening. Perhaps we can never know.
Take care,
Scott
-----Original Message-----
From: Oakland, Timothy J
Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 8:38 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 7 Williams // Clark Kent hold the Superego
Danse Russe, Rag and Bone Shop, p.6
If when my wife is sleeping
The speaker is a man. Since his wife is sleeping, it seems he is going to talk about something secret, something personal.
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
I can imagine this man, maybe in his thirties. He seems pretty ordinary, almost boring. I feel like he is going to tell me about the deepest thoughts he has after everyone else is asleep, when his responsibilities are all but gone. I wonder what this man will say or do, since the speaker is a normal guy, what must happen?
and the sun is a flame-white disc
This image of the moon is very lively. The moon isn't pale it is a flame hotter than the sun during the day. The night time brings something powerful and passionate to this seemingly ordinary man.
in silken mists
above shining trees, --
Silken mists and shining trees sounds more tranquil than the previous statement; It seems like an opposing image. Maybe the image isn't tranquil, but beautiful, carrying the passion forward.
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
Since he is in his north room, he probably isn't doing this in the room his wife is sleeping in. He dances grotesquely, there is no beauty, there is something else. This is crazy.
before my mirror
He is doing this dance for himself. My friend adds: the mirror is like the relationship of the moon to the sun (described earlier).
waving my shirt round my head
This image is certainly wild, even primitive. I think of the time when I am through with classes and meeting and I take off my top shirt so that I can relax wearing just a tee-shirt. For me, this is like shedding my conventional posture, dropping my social conscience. The speaker's celebration shows his delight in experiencing his primal state.
and singing softly to myself:
"I am lonely, lonely.
His chant is interesting. He is lonely, he had this energy that he can't share with anyone but his reflected self. He can't do this wild dance with his wife and kids, they would worry about his sanity and their safety.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
The statement that his loneliness is innate, catches me. I assumed his primitive energy was contained by societal norms, but he is saying that he is born to do this dance alone. Perhaps he is saying that it is best if you only see yourself do this dance, it is not meant to be shared, but to reinforce individuality.
If I admire my arms, my face,
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
His dance is grotesque, yet he admires each part of himself in action. Also, he admires his body parts, not his character or his soul.
against the yellow drawn shades, --
This image brings the story back into its setting. He is in his house, in a room where no one can see him.
Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?
I find it intriguing that he asks who shall say when no one knows about his dance. I wonder now if he is the happy genius of his household. Does his wife have a similar rite even later in the night, or during the day? I also wonder about the title, I have taken only two semesters of French and no other languages, but in French this title means Russian Dance.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, February 15, 2000 11:46 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 7 Yeats // The Unseen Future; The Present Past
William Butler Yeats, "Mad as the Mist and Snow," in Rag and Bone, p. 27
Bolt and bar the shutter,
To whom is this poem written? The first line begins feeling dark, cold, unfriendly. It is a command to us, the readers. Something is lurking out there. It is powerful, too powerful for a bolt; a bar is needed as well. The words have a choppy and abrupt rhythm. From the title, we can assume that madness awaits in the outside world. We must return to the darkness and safety of the secluded room.
For the foul winds blow:
Outside is danger. Again, things are unsettled. Strong language and imagery. I picture a blizzard in the vast countryside. A lonely road leading we know not whither. Cold wind blows snow across the concrete. It is difficult to see into the distance.
Our minds are at their best this night,
The poet is now one of us. He or she is here with us. Because it is "our" minds that are at their best, not yours or mine. But why? Does the forced seclusion make us think about ourselves, how we fit into the world? Yes. We think best because we are alone, left to examine our lives away from society. The winds blow too strongly to go anywhere, to escape the forced examination of the inside of our heads. Our minds are best because they're forced to be; without thoughts on such a terrible and lonely night, we have nothing.
And I seem to know
A shift has taken place. Now the poet separates from us. He knows something we don't. What is it? I picture an empty room in an old shack. There is barely enough heat to stay warm. But there is nowhere to go. We are at the mercy of the poet. He knows something, will he or she tell us?
That everything outside us is
I like the line break right here. The anticipation builds... Everything on the outside is something. We are nothing. We are even more secluded than before. Now the world is against us. The poet has joined us again. It is us, the poet and the reader, against the rest of the world. Each line leads into the next, but we now know that everything is disconnected from us; that is why we need to bolt and bar the shutter.
Mad as the mist and snow.
When I think of snow and mist combined with foul wind, there is a definite feeling of madness. Things are more difficult to see. Our perception slowly dissolves. We cannot see into the distance. The path before us is unclear. We can only look behind to see where we've been on this night. The room feels warm knowing what's going on outside, yet we are not feeling comfortable.
Horace there by Homer stands,
Figures of the past come back to haunt the contemporary world. There is a burden for the poet; how can he or she feel comfortable looking into the wisdom of the past? This line reminds me of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, when Scrooge is forced to see the past with raw emotion and real memories. In a sense, Yeats seems to be calling for a return of the minds of the ages.
Plato stands below,
I wonder if there is a specific reasoning behind Plato standing below Homer and Horace.
And here is Tully's open page.
A page is yet to be written. A page is yet to be read.
How many years ago
Evoking images of the past. Yeats, especially in this poem, reminds me a lot of James Joyce, probably because they're both Irish, and each was influenced heavily by their homeland. James Joyce's short novel "The Dead" also concentrates on figures of the past and their impact on (what was then) modern-day Irish society. Granted, these images aren't of Irish history, yet there seems to be a connection between the strong Irish feeling for history and the need to move onward into the future.
Were you and I unlettered lads
Before the poet became a poet. The wisdom and experience of life had not yet arrived. I picture an old man thinking back to glory days of youth, when the world seemed free and full of mystery. Now, the poet has been "lettered" with age.
Mad as the mist and snow?
Is the author looking into the past for inspiration? Does he feel different now as a poet than he once did?
You ask what makes me sigh, old friend,
Reflection. Today's troubles are worse than yesterday's. Life is not the same as it used to be. Is the author calling us the "old friend?" In some ways, the author seems both friendly and evil, past and future, close and far away from and to the reader throughout this poem. What has changed in the author's life? What has been changing in our life?
What makes me shudder so?
I shudder and I sigh to think
A repeat of the word "shudder." Also, remember the first line, "Bolt and bar the shutter"
That even Cicero
Here, the author seems somewhat disappointed in Cicero. Did he expect something else. Why "even" Cicero?
And many-minded Homer were
Mad as the mist and snow
Mad seems both good and evil in this poem. On one hand, it refers to the creative process and evokes images of influential artists of the past. Mad, then, seems to refer to a release of emotion. Yet complete madness, the kind that causes us to retreat to our home and bar and bolt the shutter, is most definitely a vice. Poetry may be madness, but is that always good and productive, or can it be problematic as well?
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, February 13, 2000 9:00 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 6 Baudelaire // Too Much Beauty Can Hurt...Why?
Too Much Beauty Can Hurt...Why?
Random Thoughts After Reading
Charles Baudelaire's poem, "The Albatross," is interesting both for its beauty and its scope. The author attempts to define the existence of the poet here on earth:
The Poet's like the monarch of the clouds
Who haunts the tempest, scorns the bows and slings;
Exiled on earth amid the shouting crowds,
He cannot walk, for he has giant's wings. (Baudelaire, "The Albatross," in 99 Poems, p. 20)
But what happens to such a beautiful and powerful bird? Idle humans (in this sense, I think Baudelaire refers to people who can't--who just plain don't--want to understand or feel art in any sense or form) destroy and mock it when it lets loose its vulnerability. When the "heavenly" bird (poet) is forced to the ground, not much is left for it to do. On land, with its wings let out, it appears strange and worthless. Its apparent power is gone. As Baudelaire writes, "He was so fine: how droll and ugly now!" The art has been corrupted by the ignorant world.
In particular, I love the last line of the poem: "He [the Poet] cannot walk, for he has giant's wings" (Baudelaire, "The Albatross," in 99 Poems, p. 20). To me, this has a connection to Molly Peacock's fear of tearing the wings off a poem, being a bully to the words. Baudelaire notices the power that a poet possesses when his or her work is appreciated and read (aloud), but in a world without art, the poet remains undefined and expendable. The author of this poem must feel alienated from the common world around him.
Also, this poem, perhaps in a strange way, reminds me of what happened to Jesus leading up to him being crucified. Jesus was too good and caring to fit into the structured and harsh world in which he lived. So too is the poet (though obviously in a much lesser fashion) when the world ignores his or her message of beauty.
In some ways, this poem is very painful for me to read. It reminds me too much of feeling misunderstood by the world. I hate that feeling of aloneness, when it appears as though nobody else is going down the same path that I want to be on (of course, this path seems to change daily as well). Also, being a huge animal lover, it saddens me whenever I think of people who take out their anger on innocent birds, dogs, cats, etc. To me, people who do such things are mentally sick.
Baudelaire does well in contrasting two very different images. The first is of a clean bird, soaring in the air, full of beauty and grace. The second is a dirty ship, full of "idle mariners" who must destroy something to enjoy it.
Reading the poem from top to bottom is interesting. There seems to be a gradual feeling of sadness and pain that enters into the work. At first, we are merely told that "idle mariners at sea / Catch albatrosses, vast birds of the deep" (Baudelaire, "The Albatross," in 99 Poems, p. 20). But we are left wondering what is done to them. Then, the author tells us that the birds look "full of shame" on the deck of the ship. Finally, the sailors mock the beauty to dispose of it.
Here's a few photos I found of Baudelaire:
On most of the websites I visited pertaining to Baudelaire, he was called "angry" or "brooding." As you can see, these pictures aren't exactly full of sunshine. Perhaps Baudelaire felt the world (including us) could do nothing but ruin his poetry? Or are we the chosen ones who can recognize its beauty?
And here's a brief biography I found of Baudelaire: http://www.angelfire.com/ct/edarling/index.html
Also, here's a different translation of "The Albatross," found at: http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Arc/5340/01370.htm
The Albatross
by Charles Baudelaire
Often, for pastime, mariners will ensnare
The albatross, that vast sea-bird who sweeps
On high companionable pinion where
Their vessel glides upon the bitter deeps.
Torn from his native space, this captive king
Flounders upon the deck in stricken pride,
And pitiably lets his great white wing
Drag like a heavy paddle at his side.
This rider of winds, how awkward he is, and weak !
How droll he seems, who lately was all grace !
A sailor pokes a pipestem into his beak;
Another, hobbling, mocks his trammeled pace
The Poet is like this monarch of the clouds,
Familiar of storms, of stars, and of all high things;
Exiled on earth amidst its hooting crowds,
He cannot walk, borne down by his giant wings.
Personally, I like the 99 Poems version better.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Sunday, February 13, 2000 7:15 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 5 Hirsch, Chapter 1 // Shivers Down My Spine
Shivers Down My Spine
One opening passage in Edward Hirsch's book immediately sent shivers down my spine: "I am at home in the middle of the night and suddenly hear myself being called, as if by name. I go over and take down the book--the message in the bottle--because tonight I am its recipient, its posterity, its heartland" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 2). I absolutely love these two sentences. It's almost as though Hirsch has captured my fascination for literature in these lines. No kidding, this could have been taken directly from a letter or journal entry of my own. (Of course, if I had actually written it, the sentence most likely would have been disfigured in some shape or fashion, serving to ruin the entire effect, but that's another story.) I love the connection between the poet, the reader, and their shared message in a bottle. To me, a poet really does place a poem in a bottle and let it out sea, later to be read or not. The author, therefore, finds satisfaction with his art regardless of who receives it, yet leaves it to the reader to become "its recipient, its posterity, its heartland." The poem exists without an audience (contrary to some opinions) but finds its rhythm and home in the one who receives it. Also, I like this image because it leaves open the possibility that we may never find the one poem which speaks directly to our hearts. With so many bottles at sea, we must cherish the ones that are found, yet continually search for the special one that's addressed directly to us. Moreover, it lets me feel comfortable as I begin my journey into the world of poetry. Though I have spent little time studying the works of the great poets, it's merely because I haven't reached over the side of the boat and picked them up -- not because they're not meant for me at all. In this one passage, Hirsch has helped me to capture the meaning of a community of poets, each of whom tosses something overboard (preferably a poem, not a person) for the one who stands at the shore patiently awaiting its arrival. One more thing: I like the idea of being called out to a poem in the middle of the night, almost to the point of no control. When one finds an activity he or she loves, it's nice to lose your struggles and inhibitions in the process. That is what poetry does for Hirsch. Poems are his blanket on a cold night; his body and mind need the satisfaction of one more line, one more chance for understanding. The poems come to him trapped in a bottle, but they enter his body through his beating heart.
Unfortunately, however, I feel Hirsch's writing comes down to earth, if only for a moment, a short time later in his opening chapter. My complaints are few and far between (I thoroughly enjoyed the reading), but he seems to dismiss the conscious reasoning of a poet a bit too quickly for my liking. After spending a copious amount of time explaining the magic and mystery that goes into the creative process, he leaves only a half-page to explain the outward struggle and skill that a poet uses. Edgar Allan Poe writes, "Most writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true purposes seized only in the last moment...the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 25). Granted, Poe may be exaggerating in a most extreme fashion, but I truly do believe that much great poetry comes from the conscious genius behind the work, at least enough to devote more than one small portion of how poetry is created to its importance in the craft. In my opinion, magic may help the poem begin, but the artist must have some concept as to what he or she wants to do with the poem too. That's why authors like Hemingway and Faulkner spent countless hours examining each word they placed on the page -- they already had some idea as to what they wanted to say, even before they put their pens to paper, or fingers to typewriter. Magic, mystery, spirituality, emotion, care -- all these things and more are part of a poem. But so too, in a significant way, is the conscious artist working for the right voice and tone for his or her work. Perhaps this complaint is frivolous, but I like to think that poetry is a process of great care and consideration, much in the same way I like to think it's mysterious and unexplainable.
Nevertheless, I enjoy reading books by authors such as Molly Peacock and Hirsch. Their shared passion for poetry helps me understand what it is about a poem that makes for a magical reading time and time again. I can think of no better way to get acquainted with poetry than by reading those who sleep, talk, and breathe their favorite works. It strikes me how similar Peacock and Hirsch seem to be. Each has a select number of poems (talismans) that continually give them comfort in times of need. I thank them for sharing their love of poetry with me.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, February 10, 2000 10:23 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Hirsch, Baudelaire // Shivers Down My Spine
Shivers Down My Spine
One opening passage in Edward Hirsch's book immediately sent shivers down my spine: "I am at home in the middle of the night and suddenly hear myself being called, as if by name. I go over and take down the book--the message in the bottle--because tonight I am its recipient, its posterity, its heartland" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 2). I absolutely love these two sentences. It's almost as though Hirsch captured my fascination for literature in these lines. No kidding, this could have been taken directly from a letter or journal entry of my own. (Of course, if I had actually written it, the sentence most likely would have been disfigured in some shape or fashion, serving to ruin the entire effect, but that's another story.) I love the connection between the poet, the reader, and their shared message in a bottle. To me, a poet really does place a poem in a bottle and let it out sea, later to be read or not. The author, therefore, finds satisfaction with his art regardless of who receives it, yet leaves it to the reader to become "its recipient, its posterity, its heartland." The poem exists without an audience (contrary to some opinions) but finds its rhythm and home in the one who receives it. Also, I like this image because it leaves open the possibility that we may never find the one poem which speaks directly to our hearts. With so many bottles at sea, we must cherish the ones that are found, yet continually search for the special one that's addressed directly to us. Moreover, it lets me feel comfortable as I begin my journey into the world of poetry. Though I have little spent little time studying the works of the great poets, it's merely because I haven't reached over the side of the boat to pick them up -- not because they're not meant for me at all. In this one passage, Hirsch has helped me capture the meaning of a community of poets, each of whom tosses something overboard (preferably a poem, not a person) for the one who stands at the shore patiently awaiting its arrival. One more thing: I like the idea of being called out to a poem in the middle of the night, almost to the point of no control. When one finds an activity he or she loves, it's nice to lose your struggles and inhibitions in the process. That is what poetry does for Hirsch. Poems are his blanket on a cold night; his body and mind need the satisfaction of one more line, one more chance for understanding. The poems come to him trapped in a bottle, but they enter his body through his beating heart.
Unfortunately, however, I feel that Hirsch's writing did come down to earth, if only for a moment, a short time later in his opening chapter. My complaints are few and far between (I thoroughly enjoyed the chapter), but he seems to dismiss the conscious reasoning of a poet a bit too quickly for my liking. After spending a copious amount of time explaining the magic and mystery that goes into the creative process, he leaves only a half-page to explain the outward struggle and skill that a poet uses. Edgar Allan Poe writes, "Most writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true purposes seized only in the last moment...the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio" (Hirsch, How to Read a Poem, p. 25). Granted, Poe may be exaggerating in a most extreme fashion, but I truly believe that much great poetry comes from the conscious genius behind the work, at least enough to devote more than one small portion of how poetry is created and read to its importance in the craft. In my opinion, magic may help the poem begin, but the artist must also have some simple concept as to what he or she wants to do with the poem too. That is why authors like Hemingway spend countless hours examining each word they place on the page -- they already have some idea as to what they want to say. Magic, mystery, spirituality, emotion, care -- all these things and more are part of a poem. But so too, in a significant way, is the conscious artist working for the right voice and tone for his or her work. Perhaps this complaint is frivolous, but I like to think that poetry is a process of great care and consideration, much in the same way I think it's both magical and unexplainable.
99 Poems
Charles Baudelaire's poem, "The Albotross," is interesting both for its beauty and its scope. He attempts to define the existence of the poet here on earth:
The Poet's like the monarch of the clouds
Who haunts the tempest, scorns the bows and slings;
Exiled on earth amid the shouting crowds,
He cannot walk, for he has giant's wings. (Baudelaire, "The Albotross," in 99 Poems, p. 20)
But what happens to such a seemingly beautiful and powerful bird? Idle humans (in this sense, I think Baudelaire refers to people who cannot--who just plain do not--want to understand or feel art in any sense or form) destroy and mock it when it lets loose its vulnerability. When the "heavenly" bird (poet) is forced to the ground, not much is left for it to do. On land, with its wings let out, it appears strange and worthless. As Baudelaire writes, "He was so fine: how droll and ugly now!" In particular, I love the last line of the poem: "He [the Poet] cannot walk, for he has giant's wings" (Baudelaire, "The Albotross," in 99 Poems, p. 20). To me, this has a connection to Molly Peacock's fear of tearing the wings off a poem, being a bully to the words. Baudelaire notices the power that a poet possesses when it's appreciated and read (aloud), but in a world without art, the poet remains undefined and expendable. Also, this poem, perhaps in a strange way, reminds me of what happened to Jesus leading up to him being crucified. Jesus was too good and caring to fit into the structured and harsh world in which he lived. So too is the poet (though obviously in a much lesser fashion) when the world ignores his or her message. "The Albotross" had a tremendous impact on me. I don't want to write too much else here, but hopefully we can discuss this work in class.
Take care all.
Scott
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, February 10, 2000 9:31 AM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: Dylan Thomas Links
Here's a few nice things I found on Dylan Thomas:
http://www.pcug.org.au/~wwhatman/DylanThomas/dylan.html
http://home.earthlink.net/~tenspeed/SimonaSara/dylan.htm
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Studios/6433/BoatHouse.html
http://www.poets.org/LIT/POET/Dthomfst.htm
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 6:39 PM
To: Markwardt, Jeffrey R; Thamert, Mark
Subject: Response to Jeff's Response to Kate: Man, I love Responding to Responses
Jeff,
I enjoyed reading your response to Kate's post, "Must the artist struggle?" I particularly enjoyed the final portion, where you wrote that "we must realize that this struggle is a never ending struggle. Contentment is the end that justifies the means. I would hate to see any artist, including myself, not have the opportunity to reap the benefits of contentment because he or she was too busy struggling." Right on, brother! I've always found it quite ironic that children (myself included) can't wait to grow up and live an adult life, only to find out that life was much easier and interesting as a child. The same is true, though in a somewhat different manner, for art. Although art often springs forth from an intense struggle, it's important that the artist recognize the beauty in his or her own work while he or she is creating it. The process can be as rewarding as the finished product. When a poem, novel, song, or sculpture is complete, the artist should feel a sense of accomplishment and freedom like never before. No doubt, the struggle can seem to last forever, but now and again one must be willing/able to smell the roses of the creative world around them.
Your comments about meeting a poor but happy grandmother struck me as well. A few years ago, my family and I went on a cruise to the Caribbean Islands. It was so interesting to see the way that people lived down there: The parks and sidewalks would be filled with people playing checkers and reading books at noon...during the workweek. Granted, those people likely had jobs too, but the pace of life was much slower than what we're used to here. Sometimes, when taking a test or finishing a paper for class, I'll get extremely worked up thinking about the consequences of my grades and so forth. But it always helps me to remember other people who live happy and productive lives without the glory of a high-paying job or a private-school degree. In fact, the people who are considered "winners" in our society often end up with the most problems. I always have to ask myself, Is it better to be poor and happy or rich and unfulfilled? The answer is simple enough.
Although I too liked Dante's poem about his magic ship, I differed from you a bit in my feelings for the poem. True, it would be nice to "follow Dante's vision to be content with life" as you wrote, but I must question why he can't be content without a magic ship. I don't mean to go overboard with finding happiness in each moment (after all, I often subscribe to the theory that the grass is always greener...) but I sometimes wish that Dante would forget about his ship and concentrate on what this life has to offer. There are too many options available in one's life to assume that a "magic ship" is the only place for happiness. When Dante writes, ...Our time, and each were as content and free / As I believe that thou and I should be, I want him to get focused on the problems of this world -- similar to what Michelangelo does in explaining his difficulties -- and not just wait for a magic ship to take him away. (Of course, this ship could be his one way of explaining the struggles of this world, in which case my problems with this poem are without merit.)
Also, I just want to point out, similar to you, the importance of making time for oneself when the outside world is frantically running from one "crisis" to another. I consciously choose not to fill up every waking minute of my life with activity because I want time to stare at the wall and think. It's strange when I run into people who think that a weekend is measured by how many beers one drank before puking, instead of what he or she was able to learn about the self. I would much rather have a wealth of emotion and love than money or activity. I can't think of how many fulfilling nights I've had just hanging out reading a book or watching a movie alone. At times, this is my one way to find that contentment which we both seek.
Take it easy,
Scott Williams
-----Original Message-----
From: Markwardt, Jeffrey R
Sent: Wednesday, February 09, 2000 12:27 AM
To: Lucas, Katherine M; Thamert, Mark
Subject: RESPONSE TO KATE: Overlooking Contentment
Kate,
I liked the title of your last response: "Must the artist struggle?" Life is full of struggles, and I also believe that everyone must struggle in order to improve whatever they are trying to accomplish. However, I believe that contentment is something that often is overlooked in the process. Living in a capitalistic society, we are never content. We are always struggling on the road to achieve greater heights, better things, more, more, and more. I think that we need to remind ourselves to get off this road once in awhile and spend some quality time with contentment. I remember the spring break service trip that we took together last year to live with the Navajo Indians in Ganado, AZ for a week. We visited an old woman named Martha who had practically nothing, yet she was the happiest grandmother that I have ever met. She was content with life.
During the summers, I especially find time for contentment. I am relaxed, free of most worries, and at peace with myself. I worry what will happen to me after graduation when my future employer runs his or her business on a 9 month working schedule without a 3 month break. I will definitely need to remember to find moments for contentment in my life.
In your response to John you mentioned:
These struggles make the artist never completely satisfied or content, for this contentment, as you said in class, can be harmful to the creative process. These struggles cause the move the artist to keep creating and improving.
While reading Dante's poem I heard his voice shouting in contrast to this view that contentment is harmful to the creative process. Dante's poem sweeps the reader off one's feet to a place filled with contentment on a magical ship. Even if it is just for a fleeting moment, I want to follow Dante's vision to be content with life: "ąOur time, and each were as content and free / As I believe that thou and I should be" (Alighieri, "Sonnet: Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti," in 99 Poems in Translation, p. 36).
While I agree that we should still value the struggle, we must realize that this struggle is a never ending struggle. Contentment is the end that justifies the means. I would hate to see any artist, including myself, not have the opportunity to reap the benefits of contentment because he or she was too busy struggling. All artists continuously struggle, but the best artists occasionally sidetrack to be content.
Sincerely,
Jeff
-----Original Message-----
From: Lucas, Katherine M
Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 10:08 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: RESPONSE TO JOHN: Must the artist struggle?
Must the Artist Struggle?
John, I liked the question you raised, asking why an artist must struggle with art. You say: "I can never be at one with my art unless I can truly roll up my sleeves and struggle with it. This requires me to seek out that battle between me and my art that I hold so dear." I have experienced similar struggles with my artistic endeavors--especially with my writing--and I don't foresee these struggles going away. I think they are an integral part of the process, the artist always wanting to improve and also sometimes struggling for inspiration. These struggles make the artist never completely satisfied or content, for this contentment, as you said in class, can be harmful to the creative process. These struggles cause the move the artist to keep creating and improving. They create this place which Rilke talks about (and which I highlighted before) in which "for a moment everything intimate and familiar has been taken from us," and "We stand in the midst of a transition, where we cannot remain standing" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, pg. 79).
As I thought about these ideas, I realized that an artist's struggles didn't have to be directly related to her creative process, either. It seems that struggles in life itself, the daily hardships one faces, are also a necessary part of an artist's life. These life struggles are very often the subject about which the author creates. The novel Brave New World expresses this idea well, I think. Forgive me, I don't remember specifics, but the novel takes place in a supposed Utopia, where life is perfect and no one struggles or is unhappy. One character, who has not been programmed well enough to live in this world, is not happy there. He wants to be a writer, to create. Finally, he is allowed to leave, and where he requests to go is a place where the weather is cold and tumultuous, where there can be sickness and where people are aware of death. The character realized that hardships are what gives life depth and what causes us to experience our emotions more fully. Hardships are also what cause us to appreciate times when they're good. It is this depth of emotion and experience that becomes the fuel for an artist's creative process. I think the struggles are really a necessary component. It is this place which Rilke talks about (and which I brought out before) where
Finally on this subject, I was thinking that some people do probably yearn for a life of contentment, without struggle. I began to think that maybe there is something unique about the artist's personality that causes them to live amidst struggle, almost flourish amidst it. Maybe there is something innate about the mind of artists and creators, something that drives them to look at the world, study it, question and explore it, and that maybe these characteristics contribute to an artist's experience of struggles. I think there is something about the creative mind that isn't willing to just accept things as they are even if it'll make life easier for them. They continue to question, to probe. So maybe this is sort of the burden of the artist--to have the qualities of intuitiveness, exploration, etc., one also will realize and understand the not-so-fun things about the world. To not being happy with one's art--to want to continue to improve--to feel a need to keep creating and not really ever feel satisfied, these hardships are somewhat unique to the creative mind. The characteristics I mentioned seem to be both the reason a person becomes an artist and the reason he/she can't be content in life. It's an interesting paradox, I think.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 8:51 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 3 Reply to Jennifer's Post "Random Thoughts": A Small Piece of Heaven
A Small Piece of Heaven
I enjoyed reading Jennifer's post. She has a nice style of writing. I felt the four quotes she selected were all interesting and debatable. Let me say that I understand where Jennifer's coming from when she explains why she's always held off from writing poetry. I feel the same way at times. However, I wonder if other poets, novelists, musicians, etc. once felt the same way as well. I'm guessing that many probably did. Occasionally, it seems as though writing is such a difficult task, especially after reading a great poetic work or novel. But I think it's important to remember that many authors spend years and years trying to get recognized for their work too. No doubt, after receiving one rejection letter after another, an aspiring writer must feel like its time to "leave it to people greater than I to bring a piece of heaven to the world on paper." However, I wonder what the world would be like if Hemingway, Faulkner, and Shakespeare had listened to their inner demons telling them that they have nothing to offer the world. Overcoming those fears of creation is a difficult task -- I have many doubts about my own ability to create -- but I think it's important to keep struggling and dreaming. Maybe Jennifer has no desire to write, and that's fine, but if she does, I'd say keep working away at it -- never give up on your desire.
I can easily relate to Jennifer when she writes that "I've often paged through books of famous quotes and books of poetry collections, searching for the one thought or idea that best describes my emotions at the time." That's exactly what I love about literature. I love feeling a deep connection with a particular author or work. Often, I find myself coping with difficult situations by thinking about something I've read in a novel or poem or lyric; that way, I know that other people have been in similar situations and their expressions help me to work out my own thoughts. If I find a famous quote that's really inspiring, it may stick with me and light my path for the rest of the day. It sounds strange but it's true. I think Jennifer has probably had similar experiences. To me, Jennifer sums up the power of the written word best when she writes: "I don't think one ever really understands an opinion or expression until he or she puts it down on paper, rolling the idea over and over in his or her mind, until the thought becomes clear as crystal." In a sense, this refers back to my earlier comments about following a dream. If a person never explores the unwritten storylines of the mind, great works of literature will remain unseen. To me, that's one of the greatest tragedies of all, and an important reason to try to bring one's own piece of heaven to the world on paper.
Have a great day all.
The old law about "an eye for an eye" leaves everybody blind"
- Martin Luther King, Jr.
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Monday, February 07, 2000 8:00 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 4 Buonarroti, Khlebnikov // Heavenly Sacrifice
Heavenly Sacrifice
Michelangelo Buonarroti's poem, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel" is quite interesting (99 Poems, p. 76). Often, when looking at a beautiful work of art, I discard all of the hard labor and emotion pain that produces such a masterpiece. Well, Michelangelo does not want his friend (?) Giovanni to forget what the painting has cost him, both physically and psychologically:
my beard turns up to heaven; my nape falls in,
fixed on my spine: my breast-bone visibly
grows like a harp: a rich embroidery
bedews my face from brush-drops thick and thin. (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems, p. 76)
Michelangelo uses such vivid imagery. A breast-bone growing like a harp is an awfully painful image, yet apt. A harp is an instrument of great sound. Michelangelo's instrument is his body and the many things he can produce with it. There is a connection here. Also, when he speaks of his beard turning up toward heaven, I can't help but picture him looking up at his unfinished work and thinking "Oh boy, what did I get myself into now"? I've never seen the Sistine Chapel, though I would like to very much. From what I've heard, it is simply amazing. Have you seen it Fr. Mark?
I found an interesting link on the web that tells the story behind the work:
http://www.michelangelo.com/buon/bio-index2.html
I also think Michelangelo does well in relating his fears about future artistic endeavors:
crosswise I strain me like a Syrian bow:
whence false and quaint, I know,
must be the fruit of squinting brain and eye;
for ill can aim the gun that bends awry. (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems, p. 76)
He seems to fear the consequences of giving so much of himself for one piece of art. If he loses his vision or control over his hands, what future can he possibly have? In a sense, Michelangelo fears becoming a prisoner of his own body. In the end, though, does he feel satisfied with his work? I don't fully understand why he tells Giovanni to "succour my dead pictures and my fame / since foul I fare and painting is my shame" (Buonarroti, "On the Painting of the Sistine Chapel," in 99 Poems, p. 76). Surely he was happy with his work, wasn't he? Perhaps this poem was written soon after he finished, wherein he still feels the effects of the work but hasn't had the time to reap its benefits. No doubt, such an undertaking destroys mind and body for a period of time, but you would think (or at least hope) that Michelangelo could see the beauty in his own art. There is too much sadness in this poem for me to feel completely comfortable with it. If I ran into Michelangelo on the street, I would give him some milk and cookies and then say, "Hey, let me show you what you've just accomplished. You've personally changed the concept of Western painting for centuries to come." But, barring a miracle or some strange drug-induced frenzy, no such thing will happen.
I was also struck by Velimir Khlebnikov's work, "We chant and enchant" (99 Poems, p. 56). I would be really interested to find out what this poem sounds like in its original text. Although it's a bit of a tongue-twister, I really like how the words flow together:
You charming enchanter,
Cast out her enchantment,
Uncast it, uncant it,
Discast it, discant it
Descant: Decant! Recant! (Khlebnikov, "We chant and enchant," in 99 Poems, p. 56)
The first time I read this poem, I had no idea what was going on, mind you, but I think I'm getting a somewhat clearer picture now. I can't tell you exactly who's enchanting or ranting or encanting, but I can tell you why he can't uncant and she can't uncant. (It's pretty obvious to me now.) He can't uncant and she can't uncant because ranting chanting, no recanting, discant, descant. Duh. Any questions?
Take care all,
Scott Williams
"How does it feel"? - Bob Dylan
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Thursday, February 03, 2000 6:23 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 2 Peacock, Thomas, Eskimo // Unknown Human Emotion
Unknown Human Emotion
I have spent countless hours pondering these questions: Why does God allow pain in the world? Why are we able to feel lonely, hurt, and abandoned? Unfortunately, I have no concrete answers. But I do know where to search for better understanding. Molly Peacock does too: "To learn about something hair-trigged and complex, complete with its own structures and therefore its own ways of knowing and conveying, is to illumine the paths of existence itself. Communing with these poems collected over years, each continuing to exhibit vitality as I look at its body...with greater consciousness and greater regard, fires in me a respect for the conscious act of living" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 11). Art allows me to connect with people who appear much different than myself. After all, on the surface, I have little in common with Toni Morrison, Ralph Ellison, and Langston Hughes. These people live (or lived) in a world much different than my own. Or do (did) they? If we listen carefully to the words of Molly Peacock, we may have found a new way to understand our existence. It is called poetry. Perhaps if I read the great poets of the world I can come to grips with my unknown human emotion. Perhaps I will find that much of human existence is the same. We all must eat, breathe, and die. And we all must suffer. I can think of no other form of expression that communicates the pain (and joy!) of life than art. That is why I took this course, and that is why I can admire Peacock's work: She has found a way to explore the many questions of the world. Through her shared passion for poetry, I realized that more is on included in a poem than I ever suspected. I too have looked at poetry and not understood what I was reading. Or, as Peacock writes, "Sometimes I feel we are restoring those wings torn from poems by bullies with low tolerance for ambiguity - the bullies perhaps we ourselves once were" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 17). I was once a bully (or perhaps I still am). But I do not want to be a bully anymore. I want to feel the words!
I enjoy the way Peacock explains the foundation of a poem: "Poetry is really the fusion of three arts: music, storytelling, and painting. The line displays the poem's music, the sentence displays its thoughts, and the image displays the vision of the poet" (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 19). After reading this, I looked at one of Peacock's talismans, "Let Evening Come," by Jane Kenyon (on page 25). I really felt I could grasp the content better. It paints a beautiful picture with words, but it also contains thoughts (a message) and music as well. I do not know whether Peacock's foundation will work for all poems, but it really does seem like something worth remembering. Poetry is difficult to explain to someone else, but I think every poem has a unique sound, story, and visual. Not only that, each reader can enjoy his or her own interpretation. That said, I can see why Peacock enjoys returning to her favorite poems again and again. A fresh reading has a new sound and a new visual. Meanwhile, the story is given a new explanation.
Rag and Bone
The poem by Dylan Thomas is fascinating.
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labor by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart. (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art," in Rag and Bone, p. 167)
For one thing, it has great music. Thomas seems to say that his labor can connect with a heart better than a physical presence can. The "lovers lie abed / With all their griefs in their arms" -- notice that lovers (most likely embracing) hold "grief" in their arms; but Thomas wants no money or fame, merely the "secret heart" of his audience (Thomas, "In My Craft or Sullen Art"). I also find it interesting that Thomas works while lovers lie. Poetry has left him alone at night, but he absolutely must share his art with others -- that is how he can connect with lovers best. Hopefully this poem will come up in class tomorrow, as I'm interested to see what everyone else took from Thomas' work.
The poem entitled "Magic Words" grabbed me immediately. It reminded me of Peacock's book, where she writes, "Each time any of us reads a favorite poem, it conjures a special sorcery of second sight, and third, and fourth, until understanding is so profound that we are returned to a state before we even had language - a prelinguistic place (Peacock, How to Read a Poem, p. 3). (Yes, that excerpt also appeared in the Great Poets course description.) The author, Eskimo, seems to convey a similar message, this time about a group of magic words: "Sometimes they were people / and sometimes animals / and there was no difference. / All spoke the same language" (Eskimo, "Magic Words," (in Rag and Bone, p 160). Peacock must feel that Eskimo is talking about poetry. Maybe he is. Maybe he is not. All I know is that Eskimo writes well.
"Easy writing makes bad reading" - Ernest Hemingway
Take care all,
Scott Williams
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 10:14 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: rilke on the web
Fr. Mark,
I don't know whether you're interested or not, but I was just surfing on the New York Times web and I saw this review and first chapter of a new book out about Rilke and the problems that exist in trying to translate his work.
Take care,
Scott Williams
http://www.nytimes.com/books/00/01/30/reviews/000130.30mendelt.html
From: Williams, Scott G
Sent: Tuesday, February 01, 2000 10:07 PM
To: Thamert, Mark
Subject: 1 Rilke // The Art of Self
The Art of Self
Where does one look to find the hidden art of the world? Surely only those who have lived fascinating lives can tell a great story, compose a beautiful song, or paint a glorious picture, right? Wrong. According to Rilke, "If your everyday life appears to be unworthy subject matter, do not complain to life. Complain to yourself. Lament that you are not poet enough to call up its wealth. For the creative artist there is no poverty - nothing is insignificant or unimportant" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p. 10.). The "sunken sensations of a distant past" will suffice for inspiration, but only if an aspiring artist MUST share his or her art with the world (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p. 10). Any layman can attempt to become a writer, a composer, or a painter, yet only the greatest of these MUST partake in such activities. If the true source of creation is found at the deepest level of our being, then we, both students and teachers of poetry, must look inward to find our inspiration. If true art is found, we must be willing to "bear its burden" and share it with others, no matter what the cost (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p.11). Rilke wants Mr. Kappus to recognize that a subject for a poem can be found anywhere; the deepest desire and need for poetry, however, is not so easily discovered. Mr. Kappus must find out whether he needs to write. The fact he wants to write is simply not enough.
Rilke seems to enjoy inner conflict. He writes, "People have, with the help of so many conventions, resolved everything the easy way, on the easiest side of easy. But it is clear that we must embrace struggle. Every living thing conforms to it" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p.64.). Rilke recognizes that suffering and alienation cause us to reflect on life and examine the role we play in society. How do we relate to others? How does art relate to the world? Often, the answers to these questions can be found at the same time: when one is feeling lonely and struggling to cope with life. I frequently use art (music, books, movies, etc.) to connect - both physically and emotionally - with friends and family. Yet I also use similar diversions for comfort when I feel sad and depressed. This is what makes art important: It is there for us in good times and bad, like a family member or a pet. Rilke appears to be explaining that if we reject the easy (and shallow) path in life, we will be rewarded in the end. No great thing, whether it is a work of art or a newborn child, can come into existence without a struggle.
Of course, one cannot overcome obstacles without patience. Rilke writes, "To be an artist means not to compute or count; it means to ripen as the tree, which does not force its sap, but stands unshaken in the storms of spring with no fear that summer might not follow. It will come regardless. But it comes only to those who live as though eternity stretches before them, carefree, silent, and endless" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p. 26). If we allow ourselves to be immersed in the quick pace of the modern world, leaving little time for inward contemplation, art will suffer. We must allow our minds to have energy, space, and freedom. Clocks and the deadlines that accompany them have no place in the process of creation. Rilke knows we must always take time to live, breathe, and feel the art that exists in the world. People grow naturally and individually over the course of time. This does not mean we must reject the world around us, but we must always recognize that life is more than what appears before our eyes.
In order to live a complete and contemplative life, Rilke wants us to come to terms with the world as it is: "We must accept our existence to the greatest extent possible; everything, the unprecedented also, needs to be accepted. That is basically the only case of courage required of us: to be courageous in the face of the strangest, the most whimsical and unexplainable thing that we could encounter" (Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, p. 82). If we accept the world, we are able to truly feel that of which it is composed: the many different things that motivate and alienate humankind. To reject the pain of life is to reject a portion of our being. In my opinion, Rilke, though he may receive tremendous satisfaction from his poetry, really enjoys the process more than the reward. For him, the process of creation is the means by which to accept the world to the greatest extent possible, for it is on the written page where he makes sense of the tragedies and triumphs of human life.
Scott Williams