In my introduction at the beginning of the semester, I laid out the things I expected to dominate my poetry in the class: My move from NY to the South; How difficult it is for me to coincide an adoration of my friends here, while missing my best friend in NY so much; My hate-hate- relationship with obsessive compulsive tendencies.
I fully expected my poems to be laden with these themes and though, on several occasions, I started to write about these things, the poems never made it past a couple of stanzas. You all know what my poems ended up being centered around this semester.
I was rocked by the death of my aunt in February. It was expected, because she'd had cancer for over a year and a half, but she moved to GA, finally had her own apartment and then her health deteriorated suddenly, and she was gone in two months.
In a way, I'm glad I focused on this poetry now, because maybe it'll allow me to write other things in the future. Sure, I'll always feel the things that were instilled in my poetry, and sometimes a poem about it will likely surface, but I want to be able to write about things other than death. That wasn't the case this semester and in a sense, I'm really sorry about that, too. I wish I could have shown everyone that I could write about normal things, too. It got a little depressing, I'm sure, to pull out my poem each week and say, "Oh, Jenna's writing about death again! What a surprise!"
Nothing I said about my views on writing (in my introduction) has changed. I still believe you write for yourself first, then edit for other people later. In fact, this class likely strengthened that belief, because of the process of writing and then being workshopped. I loved that. I love editing and if it wasn't for my other classes, I probably could have easily spent hours on each poem I was given to critique. I adore this kind of work.
However, not everything is exactly the same as it was in January. The title of my blog is "Organized Ramblings of a Prosaic Poet." I don't know if, now, I would still classify myself that way... sure, I love prose, I plan on getting significantly better at it so I can utilize that love in the future but... maybe poetry isn't so bad.
It was exhausting to write a poem every week, absolutely. But... I have to admit, I didn't hate it. I didn't love it when this activity was taking place at 1am and I was exhausted, but, even if most of the time I was unhappy with the product, it was nice to be actively producing again.
(Ignore following cliche:) I learned a lot in this class, I'm happy to report. I don't hate forms, like I initially thought I did, and I don't hate writing poetry. I've become a more apt reader by reading every one's work every week and it's further instilled my love of editing. Workshopping was always my favorite day, so long as I wasn't the one being workshopped!
I enjoyed this class a lot, and I'm sorry to see that the workshopping is coming to an end. I hope everyone else enjoyed it, too!
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
30. What to Do... with my Haiku! (haha)
Alright, so the haiku exercise we did for class...
I really want to use it for my final binder. A few times now I've tried to rewrite it into a poem, trying to use some sort of form, if not a strict one, but it just isn't cooperating. There is a lot of superfluous stuff in my original assignment, which I plan on cutting out/re-writing/re-placing, but the problem primarily is figuring out what kind of form to wrestle it into.
My original work:
Jenna Harvie
Haiku practices
closed bedroom door --
her shadow darkens
the crack of light
--Penny Harter
While sitting in class: the Haiku seems rather harmless. It’s a homework assignment, a nicely simple image, but nothing more than a poem in a form you don’t particularly enjoy.
While watching television, a crime series: the Haiku seems like it fits perfectly in that world. It’s a scene in your head and it flashes in to be part of the episode. You have to remind yourself later that you made that part up.
While walking from your car into your house, at night, alone: the Haiku is suddenly very sinister. There’s a person waiting for you, now, hiding just out of sight. You don’t notice the small details that would give away their hiding place. You are afraid. When you get inside, you lock the doors, and wonder if you locked the stalker inside with you.
While sitting in the living room talking to your parents: the Haiku is slightly silly, but still heavy. The “her” is now your sister, standing just around the corner, listening to your conversation. She misunderstands the context and becomes upset. Again, you have to remind yourself this did not really happen.
When playing with your friend’s baby, in her room, with the door slightly open: the Haiku is foreboding. In your mind, your friend watches through the crack and sees how happy you are tickling her beautiful baby girl. She worries why she can’t keep that happy attitude all of the time. Later, she will contemplate walking out and leaving the baby alone, with your smiling face as the goal and guilt in her mind.
When watching television, a comedy: the Haiku is funny. You imagine the door is open rather wide, but a large man in a Hawaiian print shirt still manages to block out all light. Joey and Chandler exchange rude, but funny, remarks at this man’s expense. It is all in your head.
When sitting alone, in your bedroom: the Haiku is a painful reminder of the death you’re still reeling from. You are alone, with a dark shadow that lurks over you always. You try to find the light, but it is snuffed out with every memory, happy or sad.
I tried it already in my own created form (a convoluted but excitingly challenging form that consists of quatrains and tercets, with a rhyme scheme and a series of repeating lines), but it was much too strict for this form. I gave up on stanza three. The same was true of a pantoum.
Should I write this just in stanzas, should I write it freely, is there a form I'm missing that might work? Maybe some level of anaphora?
I'm very open to suggestions, thanks!
I really want to use it for my final binder. A few times now I've tried to rewrite it into a poem, trying to use some sort of form, if not a strict one, but it just isn't cooperating. There is a lot of superfluous stuff in my original assignment, which I plan on cutting out/re-writing/re-placing, but the problem primarily is figuring out what kind of form to wrestle it into.
My original work:
Jenna Harvie
Haiku practices
closed bedroom door --
her shadow darkens
the crack of light
--Penny Harter
While sitting in class: the Haiku seems rather harmless. It’s a homework assignment, a nicely simple image, but nothing more than a poem in a form you don’t particularly enjoy.
While watching television, a crime series: the Haiku seems like it fits perfectly in that world. It’s a scene in your head and it flashes in to be part of the episode. You have to remind yourself later that you made that part up.
While walking from your car into your house, at night, alone: the Haiku is suddenly very sinister. There’s a person waiting for you, now, hiding just out of sight. You don’t notice the small details that would give away their hiding place. You are afraid. When you get inside, you lock the doors, and wonder if you locked the stalker inside with you.
While sitting in the living room talking to your parents: the Haiku is slightly silly, but still heavy. The “her” is now your sister, standing just around the corner, listening to your conversation. She misunderstands the context and becomes upset. Again, you have to remind yourself this did not really happen.
When playing with your friend’s baby, in her room, with the door slightly open: the Haiku is foreboding. In your mind, your friend watches through the crack and sees how happy you are tickling her beautiful baby girl. She worries why she can’t keep that happy attitude all of the time. Later, she will contemplate walking out and leaving the baby alone, with your smiling face as the goal and guilt in her mind.
When watching television, a comedy: the Haiku is funny. You imagine the door is open rather wide, but a large man in a Hawaiian print shirt still manages to block out all light. Joey and Chandler exchange rude, but funny, remarks at this man’s expense. It is all in your head.
When sitting alone, in your bedroom: the Haiku is a painful reminder of the death you’re still reeling from. You are alone, with a dark shadow that lurks over you always. You try to find the light, but it is snuffed out with every memory, happy or sad.
I tried it already in my own created form (a convoluted but excitingly challenging form that consists of quatrains and tercets, with a rhyme scheme and a series of repeating lines), but it was much too strict for this form. I gave up on stanza three. The same was true of a pantoum.
Should I write this just in stanzas, should I write it freely, is there a form I'm missing that might work? Maybe some level of anaphora?
I'm very open to suggestions, thanks!
Thursday, April 8, 2010
29. Marge Piercy
A free entry on a few poems I like by Marge Piercy:
For the Young Who Want To
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Marge Piercy
I think this poem is really true, and something English people can relate to; "What are you going to do with an ENGLISH degree? You gonna teach?"
That last line really drives the rest of the poem home, too--the idea of not having a plaque to hang on the wall, etc.
A beautiful poem on female opression:
A Work of Artific
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creaturesa
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
Marge Piercy
For the Young Who Want To
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Marge Piercy
I think this poem is really true, and something English people can relate to; "What are you going to do with an ENGLISH degree? You gonna teach?"
That last line really drives the rest of the poem home, too--the idea of not having a plaque to hang on the wall, etc.
A beautiful poem on female opression:
A Work of Artific
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creaturesa
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
Marge Piercy
Saturday, April 3, 2010
28. anyone lived in a pretty how town
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
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
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.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
25. A Lost Loss
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.
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.
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?
Saturday, March 6, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, March 5, 2010
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?
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?
Thursday, March 4, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, February 27, 2010
18. Forms, Forms and More Forms
I'm interested to know how everyone is feeling about the forms we've been using lately.
We've covered different types of stanzas, sonnets, syllabics, sestinas, pantoums, ghazals, anaphora (technique, but whatever). I'm guessing I'm not the only one that is writing in forms you never thought you would...and sometimes actually half-not-hating the result!
Do you find that forms help or impede your writing abilities? Do they "expand your horizons"...or do they feel constricting?
I think I can understand both sides. On the one hand, sometimes there is a poem I really want to write, but I know it won't work in the form I've been assigned. In this case, my thought process is "Well, I need to finish this one for school, so that one can wait" and it gets pushed aside, the idea scribbled into a notebook, and hopefully will be pulled back out one day, but there's not guarantee.
On the other hand, however, I can see why it's beneficial. Aren't we creating images we never thought we would--particularly with recent lessons? I felt that way with the syllabic; I ended up writing lines I didn't anticipate producing because they had to be short and to the point.
Opinions?
We've covered different types of stanzas, sonnets, syllabics, sestinas, pantoums, ghazals, anaphora (technique, but whatever). I'm guessing I'm not the only one that is writing in forms you never thought you would...and sometimes actually half-not-hating the result!
Do you find that forms help or impede your writing abilities? Do they "expand your horizons"...or do they feel constricting?
I think I can understand both sides. On the one hand, sometimes there is a poem I really want to write, but I know it won't work in the form I've been assigned. In this case, my thought process is "Well, I need to finish this one for school, so that one can wait" and it gets pushed aside, the idea scribbled into a notebook, and hopefully will be pulled back out one day, but there's not guarantee.
On the other hand, however, I can see why it's beneficial. Aren't we creating images we never thought we would--particularly with recent lessons? I felt that way with the syllabic; I ended up writing lines I didn't anticipate producing because they had to be short and to the point.
Opinions?
Friday, February 26, 2010
17. Ghazals, Pt. 2.
I've already done an entry on Ghazals, but after having read some, and more importantly heard one--I might need to revise my previous "It could be cool" idea.
I love the concept behind it, but there are some things that just become too distracting in poetry, and I think that constant repetition is one of them. In the example I heard read aloud, the word was "erosion"...there are only so many times you can hear that before it gets a little redundent. Part of it is I have a lot more trouble comprehending poetry when I don't have a copy of it in front of me, but sometimes it gets to a point where you start to think "Wow, when is this going to end?" The anaphora example with the horses was another one of those, like we talked about in class.
I just think it's important you keep your reader's attention (maybe that's obvious, but it's true), and though using the same word in new and interesting ways is possible, I haven't really found a Ghazal yet that I've enjoyed. They just become redundent.
Separation from companions is unwise
Treading the path without light is unwise
If the throne and scepter have been your prize
Descent from prince to pauper is unwise.
For Beloved, the you in you is disguise
To focus on the you in you is unwise.
If once to heavenly abundance you rise
Desperation and impotence is unwise.
Hear the thief’s greedy and fearful cries
Fraudulent deception too is unwise.
Able-body, chains & shackles unties
Idleness of such a body is unwise.
Your foothold gone, your soul freely flies
Wingless & featherless flight is unwise;
Given wings, reach only for Godly skies
Flying away from God’s Will is unwise.
To you, phoenix, demise is mere lies
Phoenix running from fire is unwise.
I can appreciate elements of this... the different situations set up before "unwise," the fact that the actual lines keep my attention...until I reach the end. Because I know what word is coming. I like line breaks because you go to the next line and see a word that you didn't expcet; this is the exact opposite of that. And then, with this one, there's so much rhyme! It's just a big example of "expected" for me.
We all have forms we don't like...I guess this one is mine.
I love the concept behind it, but there are some things that just become too distracting in poetry, and I think that constant repetition is one of them. In the example I heard read aloud, the word was "erosion"...there are only so many times you can hear that before it gets a little redundent. Part of it is I have a lot more trouble comprehending poetry when I don't have a copy of it in front of me, but sometimes it gets to a point where you start to think "Wow, when is this going to end?" The anaphora example with the horses was another one of those, like we talked about in class.
I just think it's important you keep your reader's attention (maybe that's obvious, but it's true), and though using the same word in new and interesting ways is possible, I haven't really found a Ghazal yet that I've enjoyed. They just become redundent.
Separation from companions is unwise
Treading the path without light is unwise
If the throne and scepter have been your prize
Descent from prince to pauper is unwise.
For Beloved, the you in you is disguise
To focus on the you in you is unwise.
If once to heavenly abundance you rise
Desperation and impotence is unwise.
Hear the thief’s greedy and fearful cries
Fraudulent deception too is unwise.
Able-body, chains & shackles unties
Idleness of such a body is unwise.
Your foothold gone, your soul freely flies
Wingless & featherless flight is unwise;
Given wings, reach only for Godly skies
Flying away from God’s Will is unwise.
To you, phoenix, demise is mere lies
Phoenix running from fire is unwise.
I can appreciate elements of this... the different situations set up before "unwise," the fact that the actual lines keep my attention...until I reach the end. Because I know what word is coming. I like line breaks because you go to the next line and see a word that you didn't expcet; this is the exact opposite of that. And then, with this one, there's so much rhyme! It's just a big example of "expected" for me.
We all have forms we don't like...I guess this one is mine.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
16. Baby Pants
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?
This is a poem I just happen to really like (although if I had my way, I'd probably change some line breaks and wrestle it in to some stanzas). I don't know why, but I can relate to it, not in the baby-family sense, but in other ways...very grass-is-always-greener even when you can see the downfall of that otherside, ya know? It probably helps that I'm half-in love with the poet, too.
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?
This is a poem I just happen to really like (although if I had my way, I'd probably change some line breaks and wrestle it in to some stanzas). I don't know why, but I can relate to it, not in the baby-family sense, but in other ways...very grass-is-always-greener even when you can see the downfall of that otherside, ya know? It probably helps that I'm half-in love with the poet, too.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
15. Ghazals...
"The ghazal is a poetic form consisting of rhyming couplets and a refrain, with each line sharing the same meter. A ghazal may be understood as a poetic expression of both the pain of loss or separation and the beauty of love in spite of that pain. The form is ancient, originating in 6th century pre-Islamic Arabic verse."
Before reading the packet for this coming week, I decided to do a little bit of research on the Ghazal, because it was the first form we'd mentioned this semester that I had never heard of. Now I'm looking forward to finding out the mechanics of it, just because of the subject it's usually written on.
I think loss mixed with beauty is an interesting topic--because you don't just have to write on acceptance of loss, but rather on why the loss can be beneficial to you. I don't know, I just find that interesting. I'm not committing myself to the form or anything, but it doesn't seem like something I'd be totally against. The only thing I'm not so sure on? I read, also, that if it's a strict Ghazal, there is no enjambment allowed! I love enjambment (although I've gotten several comments on poems for class where people want to know why I broke the line where I did?)!
Keep in mind this information is from Wiki, because it was just quick research, but still, it's interesting preliminary work.
P. S. Found a Blog dedicated just to Ghazals, if anyone is interested in the form... http://ghazalville.blogspot.com/
Before reading the packet for this coming week, I decided to do a little bit of research on the Ghazal, because it was the first form we'd mentioned this semester that I had never heard of. Now I'm looking forward to finding out the mechanics of it, just because of the subject it's usually written on.
I think loss mixed with beauty is an interesting topic--because you don't just have to write on acceptance of loss, but rather on why the loss can be beneficial to you. I don't know, I just find that interesting. I'm not committing myself to the form or anything, but it doesn't seem like something I'd be totally against. The only thing I'm not so sure on? I read, also, that if it's a strict Ghazal, there is no enjambment allowed! I love enjambment (although I've gotten several comments on poems for class where people want to know why I broke the line where I did?)!
Keep in mind this information is from Wiki, because it was just quick research, but still, it's interesting preliminary work.
P. S. Found a Blog dedicated just to Ghazals, if anyone is interested in the form... http://ghazalville.blogspot.com/
Friday, February 19, 2010
14. Grapes, Song Lyrics and Moths: Billy Collins "Japan" and why it's mostly awesome
Japan by Billy Collins
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.
When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.
And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,
and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.
I absolutely love this poem and I really enjoyed doing the Haiku practice for class…can’t wait to try and work it into a poem sort of like this one.
This poem is great because it really explains how I think a lot of us feel about poetry and I know it illustrates perfectly my opinion: That your poem is to be given to the reader to be reader and be interpreted by their own life-lenses. Every person will read it differently, and every reading, as suggested above, may be different.
I was surprised by the stanza:
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
Though the image is nice, I’m not sure how I feel about the meaning behind it. The idea that it’s “perfect” was the first thing that struck me--sometimes don’t you have a reading of a poem that isn’t entirely perfect? That leaves you feeling some heightened emotion you’d rather not feel? So there’s that, but I’m also not sure about the analogy of a grape. Grapes basically taste exactly the same each time you eat them, and in this case he’s eating the SAME grape…I don’t know how well that lends to the message of getting something new from the poem each time. I think I understand what he meant--the grape is the poem, and he’s just explaining that he’s reading it over and over and it’s the same poem--but I would have liked to see some foreshadowing of the array of meanings he’ll eventually get from it, later in the poem.
I love the images of him walking through the house and talking to the dog, and I particularly enjoyed this stanza:
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
Not only is the rhythm here great, but he says a lot with such a simplified idea--something all of us can relate to with songs, right? When it’s in your head and you’re not sure you want it to be. You wake up singing it to yourself, not sure when you started, and then you’re singing it to yourself in the kitchen until someone reminds you to stop? This packs all of that in to just three lines, without actually coming out and saying it.
And last but not least, because I have to narrow the things I like about this down so I don’t end up writing this blog post all night, I love the sudden shift in the middle and how he showed that by a change in stanzas. Just by having a couplet in the middle rather than a tercet, he tells the reader: Hey, I’m going to talk about something else now, something more metaphorical, but it’s okay, because I warned you about it right here. I think that’s great. The ending image, of a moth as a hinge hovering over the bed, is something that will stay with me for a long time.
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.
When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.
And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,
and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.
I absolutely love this poem and I really enjoyed doing the Haiku practice for class…can’t wait to try and work it into a poem sort of like this one.
This poem is great because it really explains how I think a lot of us feel about poetry and I know it illustrates perfectly my opinion: That your poem is to be given to the reader to be reader and be interpreted by their own life-lenses. Every person will read it differently, and every reading, as suggested above, may be different.
I was surprised by the stanza:
It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
Though the image is nice, I’m not sure how I feel about the meaning behind it. The idea that it’s “perfect” was the first thing that struck me--sometimes don’t you have a reading of a poem that isn’t entirely perfect? That leaves you feeling some heightened emotion you’d rather not feel? So there’s that, but I’m also not sure about the analogy of a grape. Grapes basically taste exactly the same each time you eat them, and in this case he’s eating the SAME grape…I don’t know how well that lends to the message of getting something new from the poem each time. I think I understand what he meant--the grape is the poem, and he’s just explaining that he’s reading it over and over and it’s the same poem--but I would have liked to see some foreshadowing of the array of meanings he’ll eventually get from it, later in the poem.
I love the images of him walking through the house and talking to the dog, and I particularly enjoyed this stanza:
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
Not only is the rhythm here great, but he says a lot with such a simplified idea--something all of us can relate to with songs, right? When it’s in your head and you’re not sure you want it to be. You wake up singing it to yourself, not sure when you started, and then you’re singing it to yourself in the kitchen until someone reminds you to stop? This packs all of that in to just three lines, without actually coming out and saying it.
And last but not least, because I have to narrow the things I like about this down so I don’t end up writing this blog post all night, I love the sudden shift in the middle and how he showed that by a change in stanzas. Just by having a couplet in the middle rather than a tercet, he tells the reader: Hey, I’m going to talk about something else now, something more metaphorical, but it’s okay, because I warned you about it right here. I think that’s great. The ending image, of a moth as a hinge hovering over the bed, is something that will stay with me for a long time.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
13. Snoring Sonnets?
I personally find love poems kind of snore-inducing. Not all love poems, of course, but most. In the eighth grade I had to do a group poetry project and when I told my group (of fellow girls) that I preferred poems about sadness and death, they all had looks on their faces like that wanted to go out and buy me a truck load of romantic comedies and subscription to Seventeen magazine. Sure, I like those things, too, but there are only so many times I can read grandiose lines like "I fell into the liquid aqua of her eyes, brushed fingers over the roses in her pearly skin."
ZzzZzzZzzZzz.
Maybe it's because I just don't really relate to it, I don't know, but it has to be the reason I generally shy away from sonnets. I find their subject matter...flat. Again, NOT always, but often, particularly with older poems.
The point of all of that introduction was to highlight the reasons I DO like Shakespeare's Sonnet 130.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
I love a writer that can make fun of himself (or herself!), and Shakespeare certainly does that here. I know we talked about it in class, but I just wanted to point out that this was my favorite of that packet just because it was such an anti-love love poem. Sure, the female in me should maybe be offended that he looks at her this way, and I would much rather have a guy write something like Sonnet 18 for me...but I appreciate the edge to 130.
ZzzZzzZzzZzz.
Maybe it's because I just don't really relate to it, I don't know, but it has to be the reason I generally shy away from sonnets. I find their subject matter...flat. Again, NOT always, but often, particularly with older poems.
The point of all of that introduction was to highlight the reasons I DO like Shakespeare's Sonnet 130.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
I love a writer that can make fun of himself (or herself!), and Shakespeare certainly does that here. I know we talked about it in class, but I just wanted to point out that this was my favorite of that packet just because it was such an anti-love love poem. Sure, the female in me should maybe be offended that he looks at her this way, and I would much rather have a guy write something like Sonnet 18 for me...but I appreciate the edge to 130.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
12. You'll Be Much Delighted With This Story
I decided to write a poem using random lines pulled from books. Rather than use just one poetry anthology, though, I drew three very different books from my bookshelf:
A collection of poems called Four Centuries of Great Love Poems
A romance novel by Christina Skye titled Going Overboard
When the Messenger is Hot, by Elizabeth Crane. A collection of nonfiction short stories detailing the mishaps of Crane’s modern love life.
I wanted to at least have some continuity, so I intentionally got three books centering around love. Here are the lines I pulled:
_________________________________
Shall be so much delighted with thy story
But she had always believed in guarding her privacy
Unresolved issues with her mother
To strike you down? And what of all those hot
If discretion had a human face
What if I have a terrible accident and kill my dying mother?
Know that love is a careless child
Feeling as if something deep inside of her had torn free and lay bleeding.
You realize you had measured age in quarter-years since you were eleven
Now I am haunted by that taste! that sound!
Waving balloons, party hats and drinks with little paper umbrellas
And I felt very close to nature that way
Of womenkind such indeed is the love
Body rigid, gown traced by cold moonlight
The elevator man came back the next day.
All the comforts of home.
And there’s something shiny with my name on it, but there’s still no me.
That long preserved virginity
Starting to sob while reading Curious George
You’re selling dreams and capturing beauty.
_________________________________
So then I just started writing. I picked lines I liked, fit them together and soon enough a poem started to reveal itself to me. After that I just had to change a few things around to make it make sense and continue writing. I realized I was doing quatrains and just made it into a loose sonnet form--very loose. Here it is:
You’ll Be Much Delighted With This Story
You realize you’ve measured your age in quarter-years since you were eleven.
Starting to sob while reading Curious George,
Waving party hats and balloons and drinks with little paper umbrellas,
You wonder if you’re selling dreams or stealing beauty.
You have always believed in guarding your privacy--
That long-preserved virginity--
And felt oddly close to nature that way.
Nothing inside was ever torn free and left bleeding.
But now you are haunted by a shapeless taste, an undefined sound.
Now you know that love is a careless child;
That the elevator man will not always come back the next day.
Can discretion have a human face?
For women, such indeed is love--
It strikes you down. And what of all those hot
Rigid bodies, gowns traced by the cold moonlight?
But you had always believed in guarding your privacy.
You realize you’ve measured your age in quarter-years since you ever eleven.
And there’s something shiny with your name on, but there is still nothing.
_________________________________
After that, I tried to force it into a syllabic. It’s seven syllables per line (though admittedly eight on a few). Here it is:
You’ll Be Much Delighted With This Story
You realize you’ve measured your
age in quarter-years since ten.
Starting to sob while you
Are reading Curious George,
Waving party hats, holding
balloons and drinks with little
umbrellas, tropic names.
You wonder if you’re selling
dreams or stealing beauty.
You had always believed in
guarding your privacy--That
long-preserved virginity--
And felt oddly close to all
nature that way. Nothing was
ever torn free and left bleeding.
But now you are haunted by
a shapeless taste, an undefined
sound. Now you know that love is
A careless child and the
elevator man will not
always come back the next day.
Can discretion have a face?
For women, such indeed is
love-- It strikes you down. And what
of all of those hot, rigid
bodies, gowns traced by the cold
moonlight? But you had always
Clung to guarded privacy.
You realize you’ve measured your
age in quarter-years since ten.
And there’s something shiny with
your name on it, but still nothing.
I much prefer the first one to the syllabic. It felt very forced, where as the first syllabic I wrote for class did not, and I ended up having to throw in useless words and cut other important ones; not to mention the very random stanza lengths. I really liked the process, though, and will probably try it again with the other lines I got this time (how can I pass up “unresolved issues with her mother” next to “What if I have an accident and kill my dying mother?). Maybe a pantoum?
A collection of poems called Four Centuries of Great Love Poems
A romance novel by Christina Skye titled Going Overboard
When the Messenger is Hot, by Elizabeth Crane. A collection of nonfiction short stories detailing the mishaps of Crane’s modern love life.
I wanted to at least have some continuity, so I intentionally got three books centering around love. Here are the lines I pulled:
_________________________________
Shall be so much delighted with thy story
But she had always believed in guarding her privacy
Unresolved issues with her mother
To strike you down? And what of all those hot
If discretion had a human face
What if I have a terrible accident and kill my dying mother?
Know that love is a careless child
Feeling as if something deep inside of her had torn free and lay bleeding.
You realize you had measured age in quarter-years since you were eleven
Now I am haunted by that taste! that sound!
Waving balloons, party hats and drinks with little paper umbrellas
And I felt very close to nature that way
Of womenkind such indeed is the love
Body rigid, gown traced by cold moonlight
The elevator man came back the next day.
All the comforts of home.
And there’s something shiny with my name on it, but there’s still no me.
That long preserved virginity
Starting to sob while reading Curious George
You’re selling dreams and capturing beauty.
_________________________________
So then I just started writing. I picked lines I liked, fit them together and soon enough a poem started to reveal itself to me. After that I just had to change a few things around to make it make sense and continue writing. I realized I was doing quatrains and just made it into a loose sonnet form--very loose. Here it is:
You’ll Be Much Delighted With This Story
You realize you’ve measured your age in quarter-years since you were eleven.
Starting to sob while reading Curious George,
Waving party hats and balloons and drinks with little paper umbrellas,
You wonder if you’re selling dreams or stealing beauty.
You have always believed in guarding your privacy--
That long-preserved virginity--
And felt oddly close to nature that way.
Nothing inside was ever torn free and left bleeding.
But now you are haunted by a shapeless taste, an undefined sound.
Now you know that love is a careless child;
That the elevator man will not always come back the next day.
Can discretion have a human face?
For women, such indeed is love--
It strikes you down. And what of all those hot
Rigid bodies, gowns traced by the cold moonlight?
But you had always believed in guarding your privacy.
You realize you’ve measured your age in quarter-years since you ever eleven.
And there’s something shiny with your name on, but there is still nothing.
_________________________________
After that, I tried to force it into a syllabic. It’s seven syllables per line (though admittedly eight on a few). Here it is:
You’ll Be Much Delighted With This Story
You realize you’ve measured your
age in quarter-years since ten.
Starting to sob while you
Are reading Curious George,
Waving party hats, holding
balloons and drinks with little
umbrellas, tropic names.
You wonder if you’re selling
dreams or stealing beauty.
You had always believed in
guarding your privacy--That
long-preserved virginity--
And felt oddly close to all
nature that way. Nothing was
ever torn free and left bleeding.
But now you are haunted by
a shapeless taste, an undefined
sound. Now you know that love is
A careless child and the
elevator man will not
always come back the next day.
Can discretion have a face?
For women, such indeed is
love-- It strikes you down. And what
of all of those hot, rigid
bodies, gowns traced by the cold
moonlight? But you had always
Clung to guarded privacy.
You realize you’ve measured your
age in quarter-years since ten.
And there’s something shiny with
your name on it, but still nothing.
I much prefer the first one to the syllabic. It felt very forced, where as the first syllabic I wrote for class did not, and I ended up having to throw in useless words and cut other important ones; not to mention the very random stanza lengths. I really liked the process, though, and will probably try it again with the other lines I got this time (how can I pass up “unresolved issues with her mother” next to “What if I have an accident and kill my dying mother?). Maybe a pantoum?
Friday, February 12, 2010
11. The Shape of Content
Obsessive Compulsive
As inevitable as a clock’s tick, my hand slips back as I count.
One, skip one, three, four.
tick, Tick, tick, tick.
Why can’t I be normal?
One, skip one, three, four.
It is compulsive. It is repulsive.
Why can’t this be normal?
I try so hard.
It is repulsively compulsive though,
and each time my hand and mind combat. But it continues.:
One, skip one, three, four
I try so hard--
My hand and mind combat. Will it continue?
My hand jerkily falters.
One--two--three, four.
I hold still so I won’t be this way.
But my hand begins to falter.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I can’t hold still. I can’t be this way.
As inevitable as a clock’s tick, my hand slips back. And I re-count.
I think I can already feel how much 3200 has changed my ideas about poetry and myself as a poet. I still say I'm not, and I don't know why, because I don't hate it anymore, but I stand by that idea. Regardless, I can already look at past poems, just from the last couple of semesters, and compare them to poems of the last few weeks and see/hear a difference. I don't know if my readers totally see the depth I do, but that's the next step.
I say that because of the above poem. I wrote it for a class last year and at the time really like the outcome. I thought that for only my first or second try at a pantoum it wasn't so bad. I guess I still believe that, considering it was also about the fourth poem I'd written in the past six years, but now I can look at it and think "Ah, I should have done that."
Other than the obviously horrific and unoriginal title, I notice several places with opportunities to make the lines so much stronger and so less cliched. But what I still enjoy about this particular piece is the subject in relation to the form. What better subject matter is there, for a rigid form such as a pantoum, than being bound by OCD?
I'm looking forward to editing this into a better state as well as trying another pantoum this weekend!
As inevitable as a clock’s tick, my hand slips back as I count.
One, skip one, three, four.
tick, Tick, tick, tick.
Why can’t I be normal?
One, skip one, three, four.
It is compulsive. It is repulsive.
Why can’t this be normal?
I try so hard.
It is repulsively compulsive though,
and each time my hand and mind combat. But it continues.:
One, skip one, three, four
I try so hard--
My hand and mind combat. Will it continue?
My hand jerkily falters.
One--two--three, four.
I hold still so I won’t be this way.
But my hand begins to falter.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I can’t hold still. I can’t be this way.
As inevitable as a clock’s tick, my hand slips back. And I re-count.
I think I can already feel how much 3200 has changed my ideas about poetry and myself as a poet. I still say I'm not, and I don't know why, because I don't hate it anymore, but I stand by that idea. Regardless, I can already look at past poems, just from the last couple of semesters, and compare them to poems of the last few weeks and see/hear a difference. I don't know if my readers totally see the depth I do, but that's the next step.
I say that because of the above poem. I wrote it for a class last year and at the time really like the outcome. I thought that for only my first or second try at a pantoum it wasn't so bad. I guess I still believe that, considering it was also about the fourth poem I'd written in the past six years, but now I can look at it and think "Ah, I should have done that."
Other than the obviously horrific and unoriginal title, I notice several places with opportunities to make the lines so much stronger and so less cliched. But what I still enjoy about this particular piece is the subject in relation to the form. What better subject matter is there, for a rigid form such as a pantoum, than being bound by OCD?
I'm looking forward to editing this into a better state as well as trying another pantoum this weekend!
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