Elegy to a Lost Loss
I have a sudden realization that you must be gone
because I’m not crying, or wearing black.
Fear of this intense detachment embraces
me and with fervor I’m suddenly pawing through books,
searching for songs, gazing at pictures
as though these typical activities will lure you back again. I realize
that this is the problem--
I’ve been using you for too long
And now that you’re gone,
what fortitude will my writing have, without you to push me?
I think this relationship is shriveling because of your betrayal--
It’s been three weeks since I’ve cried with any real power
so what did you expect me to do? You were withdrawing,
but you’re a necessity now so I had to resort
to ways of keeping you with me.
It doesn’t seem right, for you to up and leave like this without warning,
because we’ve been so closely tied for so long and it’s your duty to prop me up
but then I wonder was it really without warning? I think you’ve been trying
to tell me, for a long time now, that you had to go
and I resisted despite the drawbacks, because you make me feel whole.
You may be right, but you’ve been such a big part
Of my written life thus far, that I don’t care.
An overabundance of you encompasses me, so where are you now--
I need you most, at this moment, because I’m not ready to step
back in to reality from our most recent rendezvous.
This one--
This one was just too much for me, you know that, and that’s why I’m not ready.
Did I take advantage of you? Is that why you’re leaving me?
I’ll admit there were times when I leaned too heavily, searched for
easy replacements, but what else do I have?
I fear that my writing can only contain fear
and death, because this is all I have experienced
And so, you must stay, because I draw from you.
______
This is the elegy I wrote for this week. Unfortunately, I'm very unhappy with it, because it isn't at all what I set out to do. I really wanted to write about this feeling I understand well--when your grief is withdrawing from you, it seems, because you don't think about it as much as you used to, and the guilt that ensues; I wanted to mix this with the idea that maybe this grief-feeling is dispersing because you've been using it too heavily lately either because you feel you should be sad or for inspirational purposes. I don't like the product and will likely rewite it because this is something I've wanted to write for a few weeks now, but I did find it interesting to write an elegy to an idea rather than to a person. It's surprisingly difficult, but I suggest everyone try it.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
24. The Great Debate: Commercial vs Literary
Why do so many people hate commercial...anything? Fiction, movies, music (I don't actually know if "commercial" is the correct term for movies and music, but I mean it in the same way as it is used for commercial fiction). Why is it that because people like it, you have to hate it be really serious about the subject?
No one can tell me this isn't true (though you can certainly give me a counter if you'd like)--we see it all of the time. "How can you like that book when a bunch of 13 year olds read it?"--"That song was good...until they started playing it on the radio."
How does content change based on where it’s played or who listens to/reads/watches something? We get this a ton now with Twilight; it’s hated because it’s liked. Granted, Twilight is a horribly written book and the Great Twilight Debate encompasses a bit more than that, but you definitely see it…the people that hate the books, having never read a sentence of it, because 1.) He sparkles and 2.) It’s a cultural phenomenon right now.
This has always and will always drive me crazy. I don’t think that literary and commercial fiction can be compared--yes, they exist within the same sphere artistically, no doubt, but they are essentially two very different creatures. It would be like comparing the jingle for McDonald’s commercials to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Are they both musical creations? Absolutely. Are they there to achieve the same purpose? No. So, how do you compare them and decide one is better than the other?
There is no real definition for these two entities (in the sense that no one has laid down official characteristics that get you in to one category or the other), but, basically, I would say you can point to a literary book if you would read it in school, because they wouldn’t be caught dead handing us commercial fiction (understandable, in a sense, but it really gives literary snobs more ground to bash commercial). I can understand separating the two, but why does commercial fiction have to be “bad”? In general, it’s not written as technically well as literary, that’s true--literary writers tend to have more focus on the technique, whereas commercial writers care more about the story itself (currently, anyway). My problem with it, summed up, primarily focuses on this: People enjoy reading commercial fiction; you need something light sometimes, a story you can get lost in, and this often isn’t the case with literary fiction. Commercial fiction can be mindless, but why is that wrong? It’s getting people to read something…and in a culture that is slowly losing it’s grammatical skills, I think this is certainly a benefit.
______________________________
If anyone is interested in this subject, this links to a website with a pretty cool article involving what constitutes which definition:
http://www.mirtamimansary.com/todays-rant/how-to-tell-literary-from-commercial-fiction/
No one can tell me this isn't true (though you can certainly give me a counter if you'd like)--we see it all of the time. "How can you like that book when a bunch of 13 year olds read it?"--"That song was good...until they started playing it on the radio."
How does content change based on where it’s played or who listens to/reads/watches something? We get this a ton now with Twilight; it’s hated because it’s liked. Granted, Twilight is a horribly written book and the Great Twilight Debate encompasses a bit more than that, but you definitely see it…the people that hate the books, having never read a sentence of it, because 1.) He sparkles and 2.) It’s a cultural phenomenon right now.
This has always and will always drive me crazy. I don’t think that literary and commercial fiction can be compared--yes, they exist within the same sphere artistically, no doubt, but they are essentially two very different creatures. It would be like comparing the jingle for McDonald’s commercials to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing. Are they both musical creations? Absolutely. Are they there to achieve the same purpose? No. So, how do you compare them and decide one is better than the other?
There is no real definition for these two entities (in the sense that no one has laid down official characteristics that get you in to one category or the other), but, basically, I would say you can point to a literary book if you would read it in school, because they wouldn’t be caught dead handing us commercial fiction (understandable, in a sense, but it really gives literary snobs more ground to bash commercial). I can understand separating the two, but why does commercial fiction have to be “bad”? In general, it’s not written as technically well as literary, that’s true--literary writers tend to have more focus on the technique, whereas commercial writers care more about the story itself (currently, anyway). My problem with it, summed up, primarily focuses on this: People enjoy reading commercial fiction; you need something light sometimes, a story you can get lost in, and this often isn’t the case with literary fiction. Commercial fiction can be mindless, but why is that wrong? It’s getting people to read something…and in a culture that is slowly losing it’s grammatical skills, I think this is certainly a benefit.
______________________________
If anyone is interested in this subject, this links to a website with a pretty cool article involving what constitutes which definition:
http://www.mirtamimansary.com/todays-rant/how-to-tell-literary-from-commercial-fiction/
Thursday, March 18, 2010
22. We Had Him
After our discussion about elegies, I went in search of one for Michael Jackson. It seemed that this would be pretty easy, considering the point of the elegy is to mourn a communal loss, and this was the most obvious one I was able to think of--and it was easy to find. One of the first search hits was a poem by none other than Maya Angelou. Here is a section from the website I got it from:
______
Here's a transcript of "We Had Him" (I took a best guess at the line breaks--Angelou may have intended them to fall elsewhere):
Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing,
now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips
like a puff of summer wind.
Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace.
Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.
In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time.
No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.
Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love,
and survived and did more than that.
He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style.
We had him whether we know who he was or did not know,
he was ours and we were his.
We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.
His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.
And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.
We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing.
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
The audience responded well to the poem. What do you think?
I find more poignancy in this quote from her book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: "A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."
Michael didn't seem to have a lot of answers, but for all of his faults, he sang a powerful song.
______
I’m incredibly uncertain about how I feel about this poem. Sure, there are some lines that really stand out to me, but I don’t know… with someone like Michael Jackson in particular, paired with a writer as well-known as Angelou, I expected more.
Some sections I liked:
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
And
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
These sections worked well. The first nicely illustrates the feeling of alone and togetherness, which I think we feel regardless for death but particularly for such a far-reaching death as Michael Jackson’s. The second I just enjoyed the feel of--again, it shows how far-reaching he was, and that last line was a nice bow to the song.
The rest fell flat for me. It seems so expected, entirely impersonal to the actual subject of the poem. I’m not exactly entitled to critique someone like Maya Angelou, but it just didn’t work for me. “Dotting embrace,” oceans, clocks that don’t tell time? Someone as controversial, celebrated and showy as Michael Jackson was, I think much more could have been done with the language.
“His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.”
Again… he was natural a character. This description seems highly unrepresentational.
Anyone else have this problem?
______
Here's a transcript of "We Had Him" (I took a best guess at the line breaks--Angelou may have intended them to fall elsewhere):
Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing,
now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips
like a puff of summer wind.
Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace.
Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.
In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time.
No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.
Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love,
and survived and did more than that.
He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style.
We had him whether we know who he was or did not know,
he was ours and we were his.
We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.
His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.
And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.
We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing.
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
The audience responded well to the poem. What do you think?
I find more poignancy in this quote from her book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings: "A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."
Michael didn't seem to have a lot of answers, but for all of his faults, he sang a powerful song.
______
I’m incredibly uncertain about how I feel about this poem. Sure, there are some lines that really stand out to me, but I don’t know… with someone like Michael Jackson in particular, paired with a writer as well-known as Angelou, I expected more.
Some sections I liked:
Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.
Only when we confess our confusion can we remember
that he was a gift to us and we did have him.
And
He gave us all he had been given.
Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.
In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England
We are missing Michael.
But we do know we had him, and we are the world.
These sections worked well. The first nicely illustrates the feeling of alone and togetherness, which I think we feel regardless for death but particularly for such a far-reaching death as Michael Jackson’s. The second I just enjoyed the feel of--again, it shows how far-reaching he was, and that last line was a nice bow to the song.
The rest fell flat for me. It seems so expected, entirely impersonal to the actual subject of the poem. I’m not exactly entitled to critique someone like Maya Angelou, but it just didn’t work for me. “Dotting embrace,” oceans, clocks that don’t tell time? Someone as controversial, celebrated and showy as Michael Jackson was, I think much more could have been done with the language.
“His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.”
Again… he was natural a character. This description seems highly unrepresentational.
Anyone else have this problem?
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!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
10. Best Words, Best Order...Or Something Like That.
Syllabics are my favorite form this week, I think. I love the loose structure of it. Sure, Haikus and sonnets have interesting forms and structure, but they are so structured, they're kind of stifling. Maybe I respect them more, in a sense, because of it, but I can't find myself every find enjoyment in partaking something that obsessed with structure (there is so much irony in that, half of which has to do with how excited I am to try my hand at a villanelle).
Anyways, back to syllabics. In this case, you have an obvious form you have to stick to, but it's up to the poet just what that form is--no one tells you how many syllables to choose. I like that a lot. Not to mention, as my blog title says, I'm a prose person, so sometimes I get bogged down by my lines. Syllabics will help with that because you have to choose your words so carefully. Best words, best order, right?
It's definitely the type of poem I'm trying this week and after that, I might go back and rework a few older poems. There is one I have in mind (three page poem, no joke; but it was very much not single space), where I love the concept and some of the lines, but it just doesn't work...at all. Maybe this will help.
P.S. My favorite poetry form to try from time to time is one that consists of a series of repeating lines. Who else loves the ironyyy?
Anyways, back to syllabics. In this case, you have an obvious form you have to stick to, but it's up to the poet just what that form is--no one tells you how many syllables to choose. I like that a lot. Not to mention, as my blog title says, I'm a prose person, so sometimes I get bogged down by my lines. Syllabics will help with that because you have to choose your words so carefully. Best words, best order, right?
It's definitely the type of poem I'm trying this week and after that, I might go back and rework a few older poems. There is one I have in mind (three page poem, no joke; but it was very much not single space), where I love the concept and some of the lines, but it just doesn't work...at all. Maybe this will help.
P.S. My favorite poetry form to try from time to time is one that consists of a series of repeating lines. Who else loves the ironyyy?
Friday, February 5, 2010
9. Books and Movies and Inspiration...Oh my.
I know I've already said this approximately 15 times on this blog, BUT...
If I was forced to pick a "favorite" book (blah), it would be The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. I'm blissfully in love with this book (do I need anything else?), for its story, for its characters, for its commentary and especially for it's poetic prose and the wide array emotions, all explained beautifully. It's a book I could read, then go back to the first page and read again. I want to put it, as well as a couple of other things, on here this week because it's what inspires my writing and it's what I hope to one day be able to achieve.
To understand the quotations, you'll have to understand at least a brief context. The book is written in in first person, but through two character's POVs, Henry and Clare...it takes a little while to get used to that, but once you do, it's easy to read. The story, as suggested in the title, is about the romantic relationship between Henry DeTamble (a man with a genetic mutation that causes him to time travel), and Clare Abshire. What's great is that though the book is so rooted in Henry's time traveling, you're able to believe this is a real, everyday kind of thing. As Mrs. Parks would probably say, it's not sensationalized. Henry meets Clare for the first time when he's in his late 20s, but Clare meets Henry when she's a small child (as a result of an older-Henry traveling back in time). At the heart of the story, you really see Clare's loneliness and how it seems she's always waiting for Henry to return. This quote really exemplifies that:
"Sometimes he disappears unobtrusively; I might be walking from the kitchen into the hall and find a pile of clothing on the floor. I might get out of bed in the morning and find the shower running and no one in it. Sometimes it's frightening. I am working in my studio one afternoon when I hear someone moaning outside my door; when I open it I find Henry on his hands and knees, naked, in the hall, bleeding heavily from his head. He opens his eyes, sees me, and vanishes. sometimes I wake up in the night and Henry is gone. In the morning he will tell me where he's been, the way other husbands might tell their wives of a dream they had: "I was in the Selzer Library in the dark, in 1989." Or: "I was chased by a German Shepherd across somebody's backyard and had to climb a tree." Or: "I was standing in the rain near my parents' apartment, listening to my mother sing." I am waiting for Henry to tell me that he has seen me as a child, but so far this hasn't happened. When I was a child I looked forward to seeing Henry. Every visit was an event. Now every absence was a nonevent, a subtraction, an adventure I will hear about when my adventurer materialized at my feet, bleeding or whistling, smiling or shaking. Now I am afraid when he is gone."
The emotion in that, for me, is fantastic. The idea that she was, as a child, so excited to see him (though waiting anxiously for his return, too) but because she had that, she has to lose him now? So sad, but in such a great way.
On another note, a favorite movie (because in this case, the movie is tremendously better than the book). PS I Love You. Again, girly, right? Sure. But it's such concentrated emotion...I love it. Of course, at the moment, I can't find an example of it, but when I do, I'll edit this and put it on. Until then, my favorite quote from that movie is already at the top of my page.
From another movie, though, and I swear I'm almost done... the movie Stranger Than Fiction. Love the very metatextual feel of it, the concept of Writer as God and look at what we do to the people in our texts (because, really, aren't we sort of awful?). From it, this quote:
Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey! I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes. I want to live. I mean, who in their right mind, in a choice between living and pancakes...chooses pancakes?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you paused to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life people led...and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.
I put these on this week, only because they're things that have inspired me, in both poetry and prose. Even if the product hasn't come about yet, I've gotten a specific idea or ideas from each of these.
If I was forced to pick a "favorite" book (blah), it would be The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. I'm blissfully in love with this book (do I need anything else?), for its story, for its characters, for its commentary and especially for it's poetic prose and the wide array emotions, all explained beautifully. It's a book I could read, then go back to the first page and read again. I want to put it, as well as a couple of other things, on here this week because it's what inspires my writing and it's what I hope to one day be able to achieve.
To understand the quotations, you'll have to understand at least a brief context. The book is written in in first person, but through two character's POVs, Henry and Clare...it takes a little while to get used to that, but once you do, it's easy to read. The story, as suggested in the title, is about the romantic relationship between Henry DeTamble (a man with a genetic mutation that causes him to time travel), and Clare Abshire. What's great is that though the book is so rooted in Henry's time traveling, you're able to believe this is a real, everyday kind of thing. As Mrs. Parks would probably say, it's not sensationalized. Henry meets Clare for the first time when he's in his late 20s, but Clare meets Henry when she's a small child (as a result of an older-Henry traveling back in time). At the heart of the story, you really see Clare's loneliness and how it seems she's always waiting for Henry to return. This quote really exemplifies that:
"Sometimes he disappears unobtrusively; I might be walking from the kitchen into the hall and find a pile of clothing on the floor. I might get out of bed in the morning and find the shower running and no one in it. Sometimes it's frightening. I am working in my studio one afternoon when I hear someone moaning outside my door; when I open it I find Henry on his hands and knees, naked, in the hall, bleeding heavily from his head. He opens his eyes, sees me, and vanishes. sometimes I wake up in the night and Henry is gone. In the morning he will tell me where he's been, the way other husbands might tell their wives of a dream they had: "I was in the Selzer Library in the dark, in 1989." Or: "I was chased by a German Shepherd across somebody's backyard and had to climb a tree." Or: "I was standing in the rain near my parents' apartment, listening to my mother sing." I am waiting for Henry to tell me that he has seen me as a child, but so far this hasn't happened. When I was a child I looked forward to seeing Henry. Every visit was an event. Now every absence was a nonevent, a subtraction, an adventure I will hear about when my adventurer materialized at my feet, bleeding or whistling, smiling or shaking. Now I am afraid when he is gone."
The emotion in that, for me, is fantastic. The idea that she was, as a child, so excited to see him (though waiting anxiously for his return, too) but because she had that, she has to lose him now? So sad, but in such a great way.
On another note, a favorite movie (because in this case, the movie is tremendously better than the book). PS I Love You. Again, girly, right? Sure. But it's such concentrated emotion...I love it. Of course, at the moment, I can't find an example of it, but when I do, I'll edit this and put it on. Until then, my favorite quote from that movie is already at the top of my page.
From another movie, though, and I swear I'm almost done... the movie Stranger Than Fiction. Love the very metatextual feel of it, the concept of Writer as God and look at what we do to the people in our texts (because, really, aren't we sort of awful?). From it, this quote:
Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey! I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes. I want to live. I mean, who in their right mind, in a choice between living and pancakes...chooses pancakes?
Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you paused to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life people led...and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.
I put these on this week, only because they're things that have inspired me, in both poetry and prose. Even if the product hasn't come about yet, I've gotten a specific idea or ideas from each of these.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
8. Five Steps to Literary Perfection...
WikiHow... http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Haiku-Poem
...A WikiHow on how to write a Haiku poem. Really?
Now, I know you can find just about anything on Wikipedia, and as such can find How-to step-by-steps on Wikihow, but I find the idea that they have instructions on poetry almost...degrading or insulting. To think it's that easy, that you can just give detailed instructions and create.
Lets look at this step by step--see if it's really this easy.
"Understand the way haiku is made. Haiku in Japanese is written in a single vertical line with seventeen sound units or mora (not strictly the same as syllables) in a rhythm of five, seven, and five. In English (a stressed language), the ideas can be expressed with a short line, a long line, and another short line."
Alright, makes sense. It's a form, and like all forms, you have to understand the parameters.
"Choose a season. Many haiku seem to focus on nature, but what they are really focusing on is a seasonal reference (not all of which are necessarily about nature). Japanese poets use a "saijiki" or season word almanac to check the seasonal association for key words that they might use in a haiku (thus the haiku is a seasonal poem, and thus often about nature, but does not have to be about nature if the seasonal reference is about a human activity). The season is important for coming up with words to use in a haiku."
Ah, I see. I just pick a season. There are only four...so, in essence, are all Haikus revolving around one of four basic themes? So for any other poem should I just pick a feeling? I'll just decide I want to write about "Happy" or "Angry"?
"Add a contrast or comparison. Reading most haiku, you'll notice they either present one idea for the first two lines and then switch quickly to something else or do the same with the first line and last two. A Japanese haiku achieves this shift with what is called a "kireji" or cutting word, which cuts the poem into two parts. In English, it is essential for nearly every haiku to have this two-part juxtapositional structure. The idea is to create a leap between the two parts, and to create an intuitive realization from what has been called an 'internal comparison.'"
Use a metaphor--crazy. No one has ever done that in a poem before. So far, all I have to do for poetry-gold is understand 5-7-5, pick a season (out of FOUR), and someone compare said-season to...anything. Alrighty.
"Use primarily objective sensory description. Haiku are based on the five senses. They are about things you can experience, not your interpretation or analysis of those things. To do this effectively, it is good to rely on sensory description, and to use mostly objective rather than subjective words."
Not quite as lame, but still, I think most good poetry does this. Your poem should have good, concrete ideas that LEAD to analysis; not just outright come out with the analysis. This is kind of obvious, when you only have the 5-7-5 form to get your ideas across, too.
"Like any other art, haiku takes practice. Basho said that each haiku should be a thousand times on the tongue. It is also important to read good haiku, and not just translations from the Japanese but the best literary haiku being written in English. To learn haiku properly, it is important to take it beyond the superficial or even sometimes incorrect ways it has been taught in most grade schools. It is important to distinguish between pseudo-haiku that says whatever it wants in a 5-7-5 syllable pattern and literary haiku that adheres to the use of season words, a two-part juxtapositional structure, and primarily objective sensory imagery."
Practice makes perfect!? WHAT?
Ugh. This just makes me angry. The point is, even with a literary form as simple and unmoving at the Haiku, no five step program is going to create something substantial. Art is not an algebraic formula, and no one will be able to say X+Y+Z with a dash of R= Poetry Bliss. It just doesn't happen that way. And if it does, something is wrong.
...A WikiHow on how to write a Haiku poem. Really?
Now, I know you can find just about anything on Wikipedia, and as such can find How-to step-by-steps on Wikihow, but I find the idea that they have instructions on poetry almost...degrading or insulting. To think it's that easy, that you can just give detailed instructions and create.
Lets look at this step by step--see if it's really this easy.
"Understand the way haiku is made. Haiku in Japanese is written in a single vertical line with seventeen sound units or mora (not strictly the same as syllables) in a rhythm of five, seven, and five. In English (a stressed language), the ideas can be expressed with a short line, a long line, and another short line."
Alright, makes sense. It's a form, and like all forms, you have to understand the parameters.
"Choose a season. Many haiku seem to focus on nature, but what they are really focusing on is a seasonal reference (not all of which are necessarily about nature). Japanese poets use a "saijiki" or season word almanac to check the seasonal association for key words that they might use in a haiku (thus the haiku is a seasonal poem, and thus often about nature, but does not have to be about nature if the seasonal reference is about a human activity). The season is important for coming up with words to use in a haiku."
Ah, I see. I just pick a season. There are only four...so, in essence, are all Haikus revolving around one of four basic themes? So for any other poem should I just pick a feeling? I'll just decide I want to write about "Happy" or "Angry"?
"Add a contrast or comparison. Reading most haiku, you'll notice they either present one idea for the first two lines and then switch quickly to something else or do the same with the first line and last two. A Japanese haiku achieves this shift with what is called a "kireji" or cutting word, which cuts the poem into two parts. In English, it is essential for nearly every haiku to have this two-part juxtapositional structure. The idea is to create a leap between the two parts, and to create an intuitive realization from what has been called an 'internal comparison.'"
Use a metaphor--crazy. No one has ever done that in a poem before. So far, all I have to do for poetry-gold is understand 5-7-5, pick a season (out of FOUR), and someone compare said-season to...anything. Alrighty.
"Use primarily objective sensory description. Haiku are based on the five senses. They are about things you can experience, not your interpretation or analysis of those things. To do this effectively, it is good to rely on sensory description, and to use mostly objective rather than subjective words."
Not quite as lame, but still, I think most good poetry does this. Your poem should have good, concrete ideas that LEAD to analysis; not just outright come out with the analysis. This is kind of obvious, when you only have the 5-7-5 form to get your ideas across, too.
"Like any other art, haiku takes practice. Basho said that each haiku should be a thousand times on the tongue. It is also important to read good haiku, and not just translations from the Japanese but the best literary haiku being written in English. To learn haiku properly, it is important to take it beyond the superficial or even sometimes incorrect ways it has been taught in most grade schools. It is important to distinguish between pseudo-haiku that says whatever it wants in a 5-7-5 syllable pattern and literary haiku that adheres to the use of season words, a two-part juxtapositional structure, and primarily objective sensory imagery."
Practice makes perfect!? WHAT?
Ugh. This just makes me angry. The point is, even with a literary form as simple and unmoving at the Haiku, no five step program is going to create something substantial. Art is not an algebraic formula, and no one will be able to say X+Y+Z with a dash of R= Poetry Bliss. It just doesn't happen that way. And if it does, something is wrong.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
7. How(e) I Relate to Eve
Part of Eve's Discussion
It was like the moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand, and flies, just before it flies, the moment the river seems to still and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop, very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say, it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only all the time.
This is one of those things that I read and just keep thinking "I. Wish. I. Wrote. This." That doesn't happen often--usually I can enjoy a piece from afar, applauding a writer's talent and wondering 'What can I selfishly take from this?'-- but occasionally I want to be 100% selfish. I want it to be mine.
I feel like I could talk about this poem forever, but I'll narrow my love down to a few points.
First, I find it difficult to call this a poem--does anyone know if that's what it's "classified" as (wow, hate using that word in this context)? But because it's in a book of poetry, I'll call it that. The drastic shift from typical stanzas and line breaks is sudden (though at the beginning of the work) and we all know anything sudden draws your attention to it. The first time I read it, I didn't really read it, though. I quickly looked over it, then moved on to poems-proper. Now that I have, of course, it's my favorite.
The images and ideas, of course, are fantastic and though I may never have had a bird eat out of my hand, nor decline eating out of my hand, it's relatable. The way the ideas string together is my absolute favorite part, though--that she can use commas rather than any other punctuation mark and you can still read it logically, connecting the points together in a way that you otherwise wouldn't. It sets a fantastic rhythm, and I kind of obsess over rhythm.
The way this is written really reminds me of one of my favorite authors of all time, Audrey Niffenegger. I don't know if I can say she's a favorite author, because I've only read one of her books so far, but even though upon first glance at the plot the book seems like a sensationalized love story, it's not. Her writing style is absolutely gorgeous--expected images in a new way and long, drawn out lines, like in this poem. A quote from The Time Traveler's Wife can be found at the bottom of my Blog. So, of course, I liked that.
The title, too. As usual, I read the title but don't really think about it until I read through it, then I look back at it. It strikes me that the title is "PART of Eve's Discussion"...who else wants to know what happens before and after this??? Especially if it's written this way!
And last but not certainly not least, I'm relating to this poem big time right now. I have some hard-time stuff going on at home, and even if it's not what this poem is "about" (ew), it's exactly how I feel at the moment. Is that now the best thing--when you can read a poem and get lost for a while, forgetting everything going on in real life?
Friday, January 29, 2010
6. She Wore Only Long Sleeved Shirts
As me free entry this week, I'm going to post the poem I submitted for the first round of work shopping. Of course, I've already gotten everyone's comments and I've read over them several times. We all can't get orally-workshopped every week, though, and I ended up actually kind of liking this one, the problem is...I apparently didn't get across what I intended to. For anyone that is willing to, I'd really like for you guys to read over it one more time, then read my explanation of what it was SUPPOSED to be about, reread the poem, and help me out on what to add or remove to make that more apparent.
(Ignore the "___", indenting doesn't take on the blog, so I needed to get a bit inventive.)
______________________________________________________
She Wore Only Long Sleeved Shirts
Every morning she put on a long sleeved shirt
and always took a pen.
___Because Dave was still talking to her
___about his wife; Because Renee, the adrenaline-obsessed
___secretary could do something unexpected.
Every afternoon she hid from nonfiction dialogue
and prayed for fictional pain.
___Tales of desperation and death
___with life and loss and truth scratched
___their places into her wrists and then held on like 4-D tourniquets.
Every day she missed someone calling her attention
until she had no name.
___But--potential exotic names slashed
___vertically up her wrists, vaguely attached to lovely notions:
___loneliness, betrayal, envy.
Every night she scrubbed those arms no one saw until they bled,
raw and clean and smooth.
___She started over
___in a world where spring air
___got to taste like kiwi pear chamomile tea.
But she'd never had kiwi pear chamomile tea
Or connected notion to product.
Fictional pain became too 4-D
And Dave and Renee were too selfish to care.
And when she died the only writing she was commemorated by
was a reminder that she should rest in peace.
______________________________________________________
Alright. So, I think this is a perfect example for how a writer can totally, completely understand one of their ideas and THINK they present it clearly, but the connection ends up only existing in their head. That's apparently what happened here, because I still understand this poem as what I meant for it to be, though I can certainly understand all of the connections everyone made in workshop.
It's supposed to be about a writer. She writes ideas for stories (plot lines, character names, etc.) on her arms, but wears a long sleeved shirt so no one can see--so she can try to still fit in with "normal" people (of course all of this was also supposed to be an obvious connection to suicide, also).
Yes, of course there is a connection to cutting and suicide (I was feeling particularly frustrated with writing that night), but it's meant to ask the question "Is what we do worth it? Why do we slave over something insubstantial? Does it even matter?"
Honestly, I was worried the suicide aspect wouldn't play up enough (although upon rereading it is more apparent than I realized), and was expecting everyone to understand that it was about a writer, but I don't think anyone really did. Very much the fault of myself and not the reader, of course!
So, basically, my question is: What should I add or detract, what images should I play up or details should I put in to make this more obvious, to make my point actually come across?
And I encourage everyone to do this, if you have a poem you want more feedback on that you weren't able to get on your off-week of workshopping!
(Ignore the "___", indenting doesn't take on the blog, so I needed to get a bit inventive.)
______________________________________________________
She Wore Only Long Sleeved Shirts
Every morning she put on a long sleeved shirt
and always took a pen.
___Because Dave was still talking to her
___about his wife; Because Renee, the adrenaline-obsessed
___secretary could do something unexpected.
Every afternoon she hid from nonfiction dialogue
and prayed for fictional pain.
___Tales of desperation and death
___with life and loss and truth scratched
___their places into her wrists and then held on like 4-D tourniquets.
Every day she missed someone calling her attention
until she had no name.
___But--potential exotic names slashed
___vertically up her wrists, vaguely attached to lovely notions:
___loneliness, betrayal, envy.
Every night she scrubbed those arms no one saw until they bled,
raw and clean and smooth.
___She started over
___in a world where spring air
___got to taste like kiwi pear chamomile tea.
But she'd never had kiwi pear chamomile tea
Or connected notion to product.
Fictional pain became too 4-D
And Dave and Renee were too selfish to care.
And when she died the only writing she was commemorated by
was a reminder that she should rest in peace.
______________________________________________________
Alright. So, I think this is a perfect example for how a writer can totally, completely understand one of their ideas and THINK they present it clearly, but the connection ends up only existing in their head. That's apparently what happened here, because I still understand this poem as what I meant for it to be, though I can certainly understand all of the connections everyone made in workshop.
It's supposed to be about a writer. She writes ideas for stories (plot lines, character names, etc.) on her arms, but wears a long sleeved shirt so no one can see--so she can try to still fit in with "normal" people (of course all of this was also supposed to be an obvious connection to suicide, also).
- Dave and Renee are characters.
- She's too obsessed with fictional things (fake characters, big themes like desperation and loss and life, obscure but beautiful descriptions, like a spring air that gets to taste like kiwi pear chamomile tea) to really live in the real world (which relates to "Every day she missed someone calling her attention/until she had no name.")
- Despite this, she washes her arms off every night and starts over and when she dies, she's produced nothing.
Yes, of course there is a connection to cutting and suicide (I was feeling particularly frustrated with writing that night), but it's meant to ask the question "Is what we do worth it? Why do we slave over something insubstantial? Does it even matter?"
Honestly, I was worried the suicide aspect wouldn't play up enough (although upon rereading it is more apparent than I realized), and was expecting everyone to understand that it was about a writer, but I don't think anyone really did. Very much the fault of myself and not the reader, of course!
So, basically, my question is: What should I add or detract, what images should I play up or details should I put in to make this more obvious, to make my point actually come across?
And I encourage everyone to do this, if you have a poem you want more feedback on that you weren't able to get on your off-week of workshopping!
Sunday, January 24, 2010
5. One-Liners are not Heroic
I don't know if I can say I have a favorite type of stanza, or anything like that. I was...confused by the concept of a one-line poem. I guess it takes a lot of effort and talent to convey something in one line, where every single syllable counts, but I also don't feel that you can say a lot in one line. At least, nothing substantial? I guess I just feel that you need a couple of stanzas (or, rather, several lines considering a single stanza is acceptable). Of course, nothing is as dreaded as the prose poem I dislike so much!
If I have to pick a type, I'm most interested in the potential of heroic couplets. In the stanza packet we read it says, "it was a form in which a high subject matter could be written." I think you could play with that idea a lot, through irony or some other means. On nationhumanitiescenter.org it says: "What happens in poems has a lot to do with what is going on in a particular society at a particular time." That fits, too...how 21st century is it to take something nearly perfected in the past, something so classic, and pick it up and turn it on its head while keeping the essence of it? I don't know, but I just love the entire concept behind that.
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