Elegy to a Lost Loss
I have a sudden realization that you must be gone
because I’m not crying, or wearing black.
Fear of this intense detachment embraces
me and with fervor I’m suddenly pawing through books,
searching for songs, gazing at pictures
as though these typical activities will lure you back again. I realize
that this is the problem--
I’ve been using you for too long
And now that you’re gone,
what fortitude will my writing have, without you to push me?
I think this relationship is shriveling because of your betrayal--
It’s been three weeks since I’ve cried with any real power
so what did you expect me to do? You were withdrawing,
but you’re a necessity now so I had to resort
to ways of keeping you with me.
It doesn’t seem right, for you to up and leave like this without warning,
because we’ve been so closely tied for so long and it’s your duty to prop me up
but then I wonder was it really without warning? I think you’ve been trying
to tell me, for a long time now, that you had to go
and I resisted despite the drawbacks, because you make me feel whole.
You may be right, but you’ve been such a big part
Of my written life thus far, that I don’t care.
An overabundance of you encompasses me, so where are you now--
I need you most, at this moment, because I’m not ready to step
back in to reality from our most recent rendezvous.
This one--
This one was just too much for me, you know that, and that’s why I’m not ready.
Did I take advantage of you? Is that why you’re leaving me?
I’ll admit there were times when I leaned too heavily, searched for
easy replacements, but what else do I have?
I fear that my writing can only contain fear
and death, because this is all I have experienced
And so, you must stay, because I draw from you.
______
This is the elegy I wrote for this week. Unfortunately, I'm very unhappy with it, because it isn't at all what I set out to do. I really wanted to write about this feeling I understand well--when your grief is withdrawing from you, it seems, because you don't think about it as much as you used to, and the guilt that ensues; I wanted to mix this with the idea that maybe this grief-feeling is dispersing because you've been using it too heavily lately either because you feel you should be sad or for inspirational purposes. I don't like the product and will likely rewite it because this is something I've wanted to write for a few weeks now, but I did find it interesting to write an elegy to an idea rather than to a person. It's surprisingly difficult, but I suggest everyone try it.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
24. The Great Debate: Commercial vs Literary
Why do so many people hate commercial...anything? Fiction, movies, music (I don't actually know if "commercial" is the correct term for movies and music, but I mean it in the same way as it is used for commercial fiction). Why is it that because people like it, you have to hate it be really serious about the subject?
No one can tell me this isn't true (though you can certainly give me a counter if you'd like)--we see it all of the time. "How can you like that book when a bunch of 13 year olds read it?"--"That song was good...until they started playing it on the radio."
How does content change based on where it’s played or who listens to/reads/watches something? We get this a ton now with Twilight; it’s hated because it’s liked. Granted, Twilight is a horribly written book and the Great Twilight Debate encompasses a bit more than that, but you definitely see it…the people that hate the books, having never read a sentence of it, because 1.) He sparkles and 2.) It’s a cultural phenomenon right now.
This has always and will always drive me crazy. I don’t think that literary and commercial fiction can be compared--yes, they exist within the same sphere artistically, no doubt, but they are essentially two very different creatures. It would be like comparing the jingle for McDonald’s commercials to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Are they both musical creations? Absolutely. Are they there to achieve the same purpose? No. So, how do you compare them and decide one is better than the other?
There is no real definition for these two entities (in the sense that no one has laid down official characteristics that get you in to one category or the other), but, basically, I would say you can point to a literary book if you would read it in school, because they wouldn’t be caught dead handing us commercial fiction (understandable, in a sense, but it really gives literary snobs more ground to bash commercial). I can understand separating the two, but why does commercial fiction have to be “bad”? In general, it’s not written as technically well as literary, that’s true--literary writers tend to have more focus on the technique, whereas commercial writers care more about the story itself (currently, anyway). My problem with it, summed up, primarily focuses on this: People enjoy reading commercial fiction; you need something light sometimes, a story you can get lost in, and this often isn’t the case with literary fiction. Commercial fiction can be mindless, but why is that wrong? It’s getting people to read something…and in a culture that is slowly losing it’s grammatical skills, I think this is certainly a benefit.
______________________________
If anyone is interested in this subject, this links to a website with a pretty cool article involving what constitutes which definition:
http://www.mirtamimansary.com/todays-rant/how-to-tell-literary-from-commercial-fiction/
No one can tell me this isn't true (though you can certainly give me a counter if you'd like)--we see it all of the time. "How can you like that book when a bunch of 13 year olds read it?"--"That song was good...until they started playing it on the radio."
How does content change based on where it’s played or who listens to/reads/watches something? We get this a ton now with Twilight; it’s hated because it’s liked. Granted, Twilight is a horribly written book and the Great Twilight Debate encompasses a bit more than that, but you definitely see it…the people that hate the books, having never read a sentence of it, because 1.) He sparkles and 2.) It’s a cultural phenomenon right now.
This has always and will always drive me crazy. I don’t think that literary and commercial fiction can be compared--yes, they exist within the same sphere artistically, no doubt, but they are essentially two very different creatures. It would be like comparing the jingle for McDonald’s commercials to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Are they both musical creations? Absolutely. Are they there to achieve the same purpose? No. So, how do you compare them and decide one is better than the other?
There is no real definition for these two entities (in the sense that no one has laid down official characteristics that get you in to one category or the other), but, basically, I would say you can point to a literary book if you would read it in school, because they wouldn’t be caught dead handing us commercial fiction (understandable, in a sense, but it really gives literary snobs more ground to bash commercial). I can understand separating the two, but why does commercial fiction have to be “bad”? In general, it’s not written as technically well as literary, that’s true--literary writers tend to have more focus on the technique, whereas commercial writers care more about the story itself (currently, anyway). My problem with it, summed up, primarily focuses on this: People enjoy reading commercial fiction; you need something light sometimes, a story you can get lost in, and this often isn’t the case with literary fiction. Commercial fiction can be mindless, but why is that wrong? It’s getting people to read something…and in a culture that is slowly losing it’s grammatical skills, I think this is certainly a benefit.
______________________________
If anyone is interested in this subject, this links to a website with a pretty cool article involving what constitutes which definition:
http://www.mirtamimansary.com/todays-rant/how-to-tell-literary-from-commercial-fiction/
Thursday, March 18, 2010
22. We Had Him
After our discussion about elegies, I went in search of one for Michael Jackson. It seemed that this would be pretty easy, considering the point of the elegy is to mourn a communal loss, and this was the most obvious one I was able to think of--and it was easy to find. One of the first search hits was a poem by none other than Maya Angelou. Here is a section from the website I got it from:
______
Here's a transcript of "We Had Him" (I took a best guess at the line breaks--Angelou may have intended them to fall elsewhere):
Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing,
now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips
like a puff of summer wind.
Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace.
Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.
In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time.
No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.
Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love,
and survived and did more than that.
He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style.
We had him whether we know who he was or did not know,
he was ours and we were his.
We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.
His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.
And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.
We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing.
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
The audience responded well to the poem. What do you think?
I find more poignancy in this quote from her book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: "A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."
Michael didn't seem to have a lot of answers, but for all of his faults, he sang a powerful song.
______
I’m incredibly uncertain about how I feel about this poem. Sure, there are some lines that really stand out to me, but I don’t know… with someone like Michael Jackson in particular, paired with a writer as well-known as Angelou, I expected more.
Some sections I liked:
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
And
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
These sections worked well. The first nicely illustrates the feeling of alone and togetherness, which I think we feel regardless for death but particularly for such a far-reaching death as Michael Jackson’s. The second I just enjoyed the feel of--again, it shows how far-reaching he was, and that last line was a nice bow to the song.
The rest fell flat for me. It seems so expected, entirely impersonal to the actual subject of the poem. I’m not exactly entitled to critique someone like Maya Angelou, but it just didn’t work for me. “Dotting embrace,” oceans, clocks that don’t tell time? Someone as controversial, celebrated and showy as Michael Jackson was, I think much more could have been done with the language.
“His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.”
Again… he was natural a character. This description seems highly unrepresentational.
Anyone else have this problem?
______
Here's a transcript of "We Had Him" (I took a best guess at the line breaks--Angelou may have intended them to fall elsewhere):
Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing,
now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips
like a puff of summer wind.
Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace.
Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.
In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time.
No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.
Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love,
and survived and did more than that.
He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style.
We had him whether we know who he was or did not know,
he was ours and we were his.
We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.
His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.
And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.
We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing.
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
The audience responded well to the poem. What do you think?
I find more poignancy in this quote from her book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: "A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."
Michael didn't seem to have a lot of answers, but for all of his faults, he sang a powerful song.
______
I’m incredibly uncertain about how I feel about this poem. Sure, there are some lines that really stand out to me, but I don’t know… with someone like Michael Jackson in particular, paired with a writer as well-known as Angelou, I expected more.
Some sections I liked:
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
And
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
These sections worked well. The first nicely illustrates the feeling of alone and togetherness, which I think we feel regardless for death but particularly for such a far-reaching death as Michael Jackson’s. The second I just enjoyed the feel of--again, it shows how far-reaching he was, and that last line was a nice bow to the song.
The rest fell flat for me. It seems so expected, entirely impersonal to the actual subject of the poem. I’m not exactly entitled to critique someone like Maya Angelou, but it just didn’t work for me. “Dotting embrace,” oceans, clocks that don’t tell time? Someone as controversial, celebrated and showy as Michael Jackson was, I think much more could have been done with the language.
“His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.”
Again… he was natural a character. This description seems highly unrepresentational.
Anyone else have this problem?
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