21. Symposium and Cliches

Paul Muldoon
Symposium

You can bring a horse to water but you can't make it hold
its nose to the grindstone and hunt with the hounds.
Every dog has a stitch in time. Two heads? You've been sold
one good turn. One good turn deserves a bird in the hand.

A bird in the hand is better than no bread.
To have your cake is to pay Paul.
Make hay while you can still hit the nail on the head.
For want of a nail the sky might fall.

People in glass houses can't see the wood
for the new broom. Rome wasn't built between two stools.
Empty vessels wait for no man.

A hair of the dog is a friend indeed.
There's no fool like the fool
who's shot his bolt. There's no smoke after the horse is gone.


from The New Yorker , October 2, 1995



I really enjoyed this poem from the packet. It was just kind of fun, right? I like how quickly you are pulled through it because the sayings are so comfortable, but I also don't know many of them, so I have some trouble comprehending the intent behind it. Despite that, though, I can really feel the sarcastic attitude radiating off of these lines. I get really sick of seeing obvious cliches in poems, and sayings such as the ones above aren't any better. I respect a poet that is able to use so many in a concntrated area, intentionally, and pull it off nicely. Both semesters that I have had Professor Parks she tried to get a number of us to write something with the prompt that related to making cliches real or answering the question, "What would the world be like if all cliched sayings weren't just sayings?" I've yet to succumb to the suggetion, but Paul Muldoon did a nice job of it.

20. Negotiating with the Dead

"[...]Writing itself being, above all, a reaction to the fear of death. Despite all of the remarks about enduring fame and leaving a name behind them that are strewn about in the letters and poems of writers, I had not thought much about writing per se as being a reaction to the fear of death-- but once you've got hold of an idea, the proofs of it tend to proliferate." -- Margaret Atwood, Negotiating with the Dead

I've mentioned a couple of times Margaret Atwood and her "fear of death" writing theory. I think it's worth some time discussing.

Is it true? I don't know. But it certainly is understandable. I don't think that a 13 year old writing stories in her room is necessarily reacting to a fear of death, but then again, who do we really consider "a writer"? (A question for another blog, I'm sure.) As we get older, though (because wisdom always comes with age and nothing else, doesn't it?), and our writing becomes more developed, I think this could inadvertently be true, in a sense. Maybe not the only reason for writing, but a contributing factor for many, to be sure.

In a sense, (good) writing leads to immortality. If you're published, there is a record of you out there even after yourself and every person that's ever seen you is gone. It's a way to give yourself a definitive place in the grand scheme of things. There's some quote out there, that I can't remember the exact wording of nor the speaker, of course, that says something like, "If I found out I had five minutes to live, I'd write a little faster." I think that really captures the spirit of it, doesn't it?

This also relates to Plato/Socrotes/Diotima's idea of immortality through either physical birth or the birth of ideas. According to his Symposium, you either achieve immortality by (the inferior way of) having children with a woman, or (the superior way of) giving "birth" to a Truth, an idea, with another man. Luckily, we've progressed past some of that, but I think the idea stands true.

Thoughts, opinions? Is this why you write? Do you think there is any truth to it? Does anyone else adore Margaret Atwood?

19. Trying on Some "Baby Pants"

A few re-workings of last week's free entry poem.
The original:

Baby Pants
by Misha Collins
The Columbia Poetry Review #21, 2008 Edition.

This morning I drive across town for a friend
To Justin’s house on a Saturday at 9.
His wife yells from under wet hair
Belt unbuckled
“Justin!”
He’s down in the office
And I sit—collapse on the new couch
Custom made, brown and squarer than a couch should be.
Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection.
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now.
Can’t put them on, but knows
They go
On his baby legs.
And there I am
With my friend’s family
On a weekend morning.
The mother holds an envelope
In her teeth
Hoists and struggles
To pant her boy.
I’m slouching and hot in my vest
My blue, down vest.
Thinking today was colder than it is.
Forgetting that fall in California
Is like summer back home.
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys
The smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk
What have I missed?


Basically a syllabic, I guess. Most lines have five, but I didn't want to change the actual poem too much, and didn't want to seperate words, so some are four or six. Some much-needed punctuation as well as being wrangled into quatrains:

Baby Pants
by Misha Collins
The Columbia Poetry Review #21, 2008 Edition.

This morning I drive
across town for a
friend. To Justin’s house
on a Saturday

at nine. His wife yells,
from under wet hair,
belt unbuckled, “Justin!”
He’s down in the

office. And I sit—
collapse on the new
Couch--custom made, brown
and squarer than a

couch should be. Justin’s
baby produces
baby pants for my
inspection. I am

impressed, he can
find his own pants now;
Can’t put them on, but
knows they go on his

baby legs. And there
I am, with my friend’s
Family, on a
weekend morning, the

mother holds an
envelope in her
teeth, hoists and struggles
to pant her boy. I’m

slouching and hot in
my vest, my blue, down
vest; thinking today
was colder than it

is; forgetting that
fall in California
is like summer back
home. Plastic diapers

pack the thighs of tiny
Corduroys, the smell
of Cheerios bloated
and floating in milk.

What have I missed?

And my favorite. Added punctuation and removed/changed some words or line structure. Tercets happened to work well, so I ended up going with that. Did line breaks as I thought they were needed, emphasizing particular words or images in the poem:

Baby Pants
by Misha Collins
The Columbia Poetry Review #21, 2008 Edition.

This morning I drive across town
for a friend: To Justin’s house, on a Saturday, at nine.
His wife yells, from under wet hair, belt unbuckled.

He’s down in the office and I sit—
Collapse— on the new couch;
Custom made, brown, and squarer than a couch should be.

Justin’s baby produces baby pants for my inspection—
I’m impressed, he can find his own pants now—
He can’t put them on, but he knows

they go on his baby legs.
and there I am,
with my friend’s family,

on a weekend morning.
The mother holds an envelope
In her teeth

while she hoists and struggles
to pant her boy.
I’m slouching and hot in my vest--

my blue, down vest--
Thinking today was colder than it is.
Forgetting that fall in California

is like summer back home.
Plastic diapers pack the thighs of tiny corduroys.
There is the smell of Cheerios bloated and floating in milk.

What have I missed?