I really love the poem below, and I have every since reading it in my 10th grade American Lit class. It's the sound of poem--the way cummings can utilize rhyme in every stanza without it feeling bogged down. He flows through lines so well (though there are a few places I stumble when the rhythm seems suddenly off) and I really admire that. I'm trying to read poems like this, that flow so perfectly and feel like poetry at the very essence of it, and hopefully draw inspiration from the way the lines are laid out. Personally, I'm not a rhymer; I havea a friend that does it fairly well and I'm surprised by that every time I read his work, but it just isn't something I've ever felt the urge to employ.
I make a connection to The Odyssey, too, with the "noone" double-meaning; I love literary connections!
anyone lived in a pretty how town
by E. E. Cummings
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did
Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain
children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more
when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her
someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream
stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)
one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was
all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.
Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
27. An Amputee's Guide to Sex
I've always thought: Nothing major has ever happened to me. I have nothing to write about.
Granted, that may not be true; To put it melodramatically, we all have experiences that other people will never go through, and so, in a way, our life is "big" enough because it is OUR life, and no one elses.
But this idea, that to be a writer you have to experience something, really came up when I went to the Eclectic release party. Other than the student readers, there were two published writers, one of prose and one primarily of poetry. The poet, Jillian Weise, was absolutely fantastic-- she was lively, engaging, read well, her work was interesting. And she's an amputee.
She read from one of her collections, The Amputee's Guide to Sex (who doesn't get caught up with a title like that), and though the poems were simple, explaining things we both all know and all don't understand, they were so grounded in real-life, I was both inspired and intimidated. This woman, I thought, has something to write about. She lives in a world parallel to ours, but totally seperate, too, and uses her words to invite us in to that world for a brief peek. What do I have like that?
As depressing as it can be, I find readings like that to be the most beneficial. She was fantastic, and I celebrate her awesomeness when it comes to writing simply but powerfully. However, it's easy to get lost in their experiences and think, Well, of course she's a good writer...look at that material she has. As though, for writers, the more abnormal you are, the more blessed you are (who knows, this could be very true, but I bring it up just as a general point).
I'll post a poem of hers, below, as well as a couple of links ot get to other poems of hers if you're interested (I like the simplistic storytelling of this one, which is why I chose it, but if anyone is intruiged by reading poems that center more fully on amputee's or amputees and sex, there are a few poem samples by her on the websites I'll link to). Let me know what you think/thought about her!
WAITING ROOM
By Jillian Weise
I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old.
Elizabeth Bishop, In the Waiting Room
We're in a waiting room crayoned
and carved: Toby was here 7-12-87.
There is bubble gum under your chair.
Degas' ballerinas with their feet
over their heads. Look what I can
do, they say to a room full of children
with back braces, broken breast plates.
In the corner, a woman knits sweaters.
She is known as Toby's Mother.
Toby is known as the-kid-with-leukemia.
He will be your roommate in Intensive Care.
He will wake you up, screaming
in the middle of the night and you will wish
he would go ahead and die. The Nelsons,
in the other corner, play chess. They wait
for doctors to explain why their daughter
won't eat. Every conversation is the same:
Have you taken the tubes out? Is she eating?
How much is she eating? Mrs. Nelson brings
homemade white chocolate chip cookies.
They used to be her daughter's favorite.
We like the Nelsons because they feed us.
We like them because they remind us that we
still eat, we're okay.
http://www.softskull.com/detailedbook.php?isbn=1-933368-52-7
http://books.google.com/books?id=gzf5bu6u9xIC&dq=The+Amputee's+Guide+to+Sex&printsec=frontcover&source=bn&hl=en&ei=Vc22S6L1C4fu9gT8l-TqAw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=4&ved=0CBcQ6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=&f=false
Granted, that may not be true; To put it melodramatically, we all have experiences that other people will never go through, and so, in a way, our life is "big" enough because it is OUR life, and no one elses.
But this idea, that to be a writer you have to experience something, really came up when I went to the Eclectic release party. Other than the student readers, there were two published writers, one of prose and one primarily of poetry. The poet, Jillian Weise, was absolutely fantastic-- she was lively, engaging, read well, her work was interesting. And she's an amputee.
She read from one of her collections, The Amputee's Guide to Sex (who doesn't get caught up with a title like that), and though the poems were simple, explaining things we both all know and all don't understand, they were so grounded in real-life, I was both inspired and intimidated. This woman, I thought, has something to write about. She lives in a world parallel to ours, but totally seperate, too, and uses her words to invite us in to that world for a brief peek. What do I have like that?
As depressing as it can be, I find readings like that to be the most beneficial. She was fantastic, and I celebrate her awesomeness when it comes to writing simply but powerfully. However, it's easy to get lost in their experiences and think, Well, of course she's a good writer...look at that material she has. As though, for writers, the more abnormal you are, the more blessed you are (who knows, this could be very true, but I bring it up just as a general point).
I'll post a poem of hers, below, as well as a couple of links ot get to other poems of hers if you're interested (I like the simplistic storytelling of this one, which is why I chose it, but if anyone is intruiged by reading poems that center more fully on amputee's or amputees and sex, there are a few poem samples by her on the websites I'll link to). Let me know what you think/thought about her!
WAITING ROOM
By Jillian Weise
I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old.
Elizabeth Bishop, In the Waiting Room
We're in a waiting room crayoned
and carved: Toby was here 7-12-87.
There is bubble gum under your chair.
Degas' ballerinas with their feet
over their heads. Look what I can
do, they say to a room full of children
with back braces, broken breast plates.
In the corner, a woman knits sweaters.
She is known as Toby's Mother.
Toby is known as the-kid-with-leukemia.
He will be your roommate in Intensive Care.
He will wake you up, screaming
in the middle of the night and you will wish
he would go ahead and die. The Nelsons,
in the other corner, play chess. They wait
for doctors to explain why their daughter
won't eat. Every conversation is the same:
Have you taken the tubes out? Is she eating?
How much is she eating? Mrs. Nelson brings
homemade white chocolate chip cookies.
They used to be her daughter's favorite.
We like the Nelsons because they feed us.
We like them because they remind us that we
still eat, we're okay.
http://www.softskull.com/detailedbook.php?isbn=1-933368-52-7
http://books.google.com/books?id=gzf5bu6u9xIC&dq=The+Amputee's+Guide+to+Sex&printsec=frontcover&source=bn&hl=en&ei=Vc22S6L1C4fu9gT8l-TqAw&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=4&ved=0CBcQ6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=&f=false
Thursday, April 1, 2010
26. The Onion, Memory
So, for my part of the presentation we're doing on Tuesday, I'm focusing on the Martian School of Poetry. It's a pretty cool form (though I guess it's not a form, but rather a thematic choice, maybe?), where the poet disassociates himself from the object and explains it through unfamiliar eyes. Defamiliarization, it's called. I was unable to find a full poem but Reid, but Raine's A Martian Sends a Postcard Home is really great and I could talk about it all day, so I put that in there. I did want to give another example, though; it's one that I didn't put in the packet because I have trouble understanding it, so I certainly can't help lead discussion on it. Here it is, below. It's called "The Onion, Memory" and again, it's by Craig Raine. Let me know what you think! (And don't judge Martian poetry solely on this example...I'm admitting it's obscure-ish).
The Onion, Memory
Craig Raine
Divorced, but friends again at last,
we walk old ground together
in bright blue uncomplicated weather.
We laugh and pause
to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs,
prehistoric, crenelated, cast
between the tractor ruts in mud.
On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks,
swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier,
defies the corporation spears--
a single rank around the bole,
rusty with blood.
Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance
A gust--the old flag blazes on its pole.
In the village bakery
the pastry babies pass
from milky slump to crusty cadaver,
from crib to coffin--without palaver.
All's over in a flash,
too silently...
Tonight the arum lilies fold
back napkins monogrammed in gold,
crisp and laundered fresh.
Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly,
reveal the crimson flower-flesh
inside their emerald armor plate.
The uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye.
The candles palpitate.
The Oistrakhs bow and scrape
in evening dress, on Emi-tape.
Outside the trees are bending over backwards
to please the wind : the shining sword
grass flattens on its belly.
The white-thorn's frillies offer no resistance.
In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly
strives to keep a sense of balance.
I slice up the onions. You sew up a dress.
This is the quiet echo--flesh--
white muscle on white muscle,
intimately folded skin,
finished with a satin rustle.
One button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread.
It is the onion, memory,
that makes me cry.
Because there's everything and nothing to be said,
the clock with hands held up before its face,
stammers softly on, trying to complete a phrase--
while we, together and apart,
repeat unfinished festures got by heart.
And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line--
headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.
The Onion, Memory
Craig Raine
Divorced, but friends again at last,
we walk old ground together
in bright blue uncomplicated weather.
We laugh and pause
to hack to bits these tiny dinosaurs,
prehistoric, crenelated, cast
between the tractor ruts in mud.
On the green, a junior Douglas Fairbanks,
swinging on the chestnut's unlit chandelier,
defies the corporation spears--
a single rank around the bole,
rusty with blood.
Green, tacky phalluses curve up, romance
A gust--the old flag blazes on its pole.
In the village bakery
the pastry babies pass
from milky slump to crusty cadaver,
from crib to coffin--without palaver.
All's over in a flash,
too silently...
Tonight the arum lilies fold
back napkins monogrammed in gold,
crisp and laundered fresh.
Those crustaceous gladioli, on the sly,
reveal the crimson flower-flesh
inside their emerald armor plate.
The uncooked herrings blink a tearful eye.
The candles palpitate.
The Oistrakhs bow and scrape
in evening dress, on Emi-tape.
Outside the trees are bending over backwards
to please the wind : the shining sword
grass flattens on its belly.
The white-thorn's frillies offer no resistance.
In the fridge, a heart-shaped jelly
strives to keep a sense of balance.
I slice up the onions. You sew up a dress.
This is the quiet echo--flesh--
white muscle on white muscle,
intimately folded skin,
finished with a satin rustle.
One button only to undo, sewn up with shabby thread.
It is the onion, memory,
that makes me cry.
Because there's everything and nothing to be said,
the clock with hands held up before its face,
stammers softly on, trying to complete a phrase--
while we, together and apart,
repeat unfinished festures got by heart.
And afterwards, I blunder with the washing on the line--
headless torsos, faceless lovers, friends of mine.
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