So, here goes, spring semester content evaluation:
Best parts-
I liked that, while this class started with assignments which had explicit direction under which we were expected to create, which can help some when mind-blanks come up/to prevent every poem from being written to be about the process of writing a poem, that we also were given the freedom later in the semester/if we rejected the assignments parameters or suggested subject, to implement and further our own types of creativity. I felt that the early-on explications of others work was necessary for students to first hand learn what could be seen behind others works of art/to prepare for what could be read into one's own poetical creations. I'm not one much for formal stuff, so the list of forms I didn't like so much (though I suppose I see their importance in a comprehensively addressed intro to poetry class) as the brief time we spent with the handout telling of the different styles/schools of poetry (how they came about, central tenets, etc).
Worst parts-
There's not much I can complain about here. I wish we would've spent more time learning about the different styles/schools, because I found that to be the most interesting and thought if we'd went over that before we had to do our poetry book reviews, I'd feel that'd be helpful, but other than that...
I guess just I wish we didn't have to read our own poems aloud so much. Though that's more of a structure complaint then one involving content, I suppose.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Writer's Blog 4/13
Damn, lord, they had some crap like this on Marta buses TV for awhile. I watched it hoping for a bit of a better storyline/more trippy affair that poetry could have with image, especially entertaining for the beginning of sometimes long red-eyed bus rides, but it was just about as cheesy, especially after the first watching/once the eyes clearing kicked in. As for which is the cheesiest of these, hmm...
I guess I'd have to say the animated poem by John Ashbery, though it doesn't seem to be eliciting a response nearly such as 'wth?' as when I saw the one on Marta. The other two really aren't that bad in their intent, its just that how can you capture a movement based on spontaneity and events occurring out of freeness and finding happiness through life's randomness, and put it into a movie clip that flows through construction? Of course, then again, I suppose this begs the question on how to capture that at all without some form of construction and still have people get it, but... hmm. It's hard to criticize others doing what they do they love, and I think these all could have been worse/the video under Ferlinghetti was the least cheesy.
I guess I'd have to say the animated poem by John Ashbery, though it doesn't seem to be eliciting a response nearly such as 'wth?' as when I saw the one on Marta. The other two really aren't that bad in their intent, its just that how can you capture a movement based on spontaneity and events occurring out of freeness and finding happiness through life's randomness, and put it into a movie clip that flows through construction? Of course, then again, I suppose this begs the question on how to capture that at all without some form of construction and still have people get it, but... hmm. It's hard to criticize others doing what they do they love, and I think these all could have been worse/the video under Ferlinghetti was the least cheesy.
Writer's Blog 4/8
I want to say this says something distinct about the US's character, but I have little knowledge of foreign hunting to say this is isolated. If nothing else, I guess it's either a sign of perseverance in the face of things going seriously wrong, or ignorance because there's more danger in eating the meat then we admit--it's only a health scare or capitalist success-only time will tell- away (lol).
Also, I'm not sure if we would be having this argument if it were some dude on a private island shooting his heart out of privately owned little creatures, rather then some dude with no privacy shooting what'll probably end up as lost-its-cuteness-roadkill anyway and cooking it in a house that had to be described as containing "sepia tones of an old man's teeth" with "wallpaper as flaky and dry as an old woman's hand" for the story to be the human interest piece that it is.
I'll say one thing, it is less expected that such a thing would happen in Detroit, and while I may not have been born in the south, after living here 14 years I have yet to hear that it is a common enough view to state it as fact this is where "wild critters are considered something of a delicacy" without even the slightest consideration to write, "To some in the south as well as, apparently by this coon hunter here in michigan, some in the north as well." hmm.
Seriously, who wrote this article?! I find the subject of it admirable in many ways, but maybe the author is the statement about the US more then anything else, we grasp at straws to show our ingenuity/hard-working-ness, but then at the same time we allow our prejudices to influence us in subtle ways that undermine our supposed-belief in equal opportunity for all--maybe even I'm guilty of it, with my feeling there must be some kind of sickness associated with eating randomly gotten meat (though that may also be because I don't like meat of any kind...)
Anyways, I'm going to come full circle to say it means a lot of things about the US, and that it's probably more of a good thing that this dude gets to remain doing his thing, as long as its not hurting any person/all information about the kills are honestly given so others can make an honest choice about buying meat/goods from him.
Also, I'm not sure if we would be having this argument if it were some dude on a private island shooting his heart out of privately owned little creatures, rather then some dude with no privacy shooting what'll probably end up as lost-its-cuteness-roadkill anyway and cooking it in a house that had to be described as containing "sepia tones of an old man's teeth" with "wallpaper as flaky and dry as an old woman's hand" for the story to be the human interest piece that it is.
I'll say one thing, it is less expected that such a thing would happen in Detroit, and while I may not have been born in the south, after living here 14 years I have yet to hear that it is a common enough view to state it as fact this is where "wild critters are considered something of a delicacy" without even the slightest consideration to write, "To some in the south as well as, apparently by this coon hunter here in michigan, some in the north as well." hmm.
Seriously, who wrote this article?! I find the subject of it admirable in many ways, but maybe the author is the statement about the US more then anything else, we grasp at straws to show our ingenuity/hard-working-ness, but then at the same time we allow our prejudices to influence us in subtle ways that undermine our supposed-belief in equal opportunity for all--maybe even I'm guilty of it, with my feeling there must be some kind of sickness associated with eating randomly gotten meat (though that may also be because I don't like meat of any kind...)
Anyways, I'm going to come full circle to say it means a lot of things about the US, and that it's probably more of a good thing that this dude gets to remain doing his thing, as long as its not hurting any person/all information about the kills are honestly given so others can make an honest choice about buying meat/goods from him.
Writer's Blog 4/6
People vary in their exact symptoms/ways of dealing with depression--some find it a private battle, keeping quiet or attempting to make logical connections for what is behind the emotion (at the most frustrating time, nothing at all), while others display (self-promote?) their scars as warnings for others following down self-destructive paths or as cries for help (attention?). I jest in these parenthesis, but must admit more honestly, it's a hard thing to judge--everyone deals with things differently, and if it helps her to write about the experience, then I guess its a good thing. Maybe it just bugs me that she is trying to make herself connected to someone who she didn't even know and that she seems so nonchalant about being depressed, as if its expected of her because of her mom's suicide rather than a very unfortunate paralyzing consequence of such--though then again, maybe I am wrapped up as too many others are in our society's notion that feeling ashamed/reticent to emotionally talk over issues--or maybe I just feel that its more a sign of recovery/healthful moving on, if one is far enough removed time wise from bad events in the past to talk of them as matter-of-fact while not blocking it from ones memory, to say this is what happened, rather than having each memory upset more then necessarily called for/have everything relate back to herself and the problem that caused it--though even as I say that, I feel that undermines the true (though sometimes annoying yet hard to stop) self-obsessed character the disease provokes...
As for audiences, they are placed before finished artwork that represents tortured emotions, not before the artist while he/she was experiencing said emotion/situation. Its easy to over-romanticize 'tortured artists' when they are just thrown one in a bunch of all the same, but more difficult to recognize the downside that may interfere with the artists life of depression.
Another big reason as well is probably that most people have never had a true depressive episode, and its hard to formulate enlightening attitudes on stuff one may have little working knowledge of.
Basically, it comes down to people either trying to relate their responses which are 'reasonable' both in measurements of time and severity to those who lose meaning to what reasonable is, which is probably meant sweetly but doesn't give much comfort to someone who feels like their internally dying, or people taking signs of recovery as a reason to say "I told you, just walk it off", which show distrust in the depressed persons rationality in a way that doesn't lend proper notice to how severe it feels inside (like telling a fucking crippled person to get out of their damned wheelchair before proper physical therapy has been done, and then doubting they ever had an injury after its healed), which serves to have the backwards purpose of making the depressed to feel as that the concept of there being a difference in levels of chemicals in ones head really is in one's head (despite science showing otherwise), and is belittling, OR people walk on eggshells around one, trading an honest opinion for that which is agreeable or over-sugarcoated rather then just to the point yet still polite/non-insulting, which is insulting.
Advice for those who feel suicidal isn't much better-usually filled with "You're not alone. Everyone has problems", which misses the point, since it doesn't have to do with feeling like you're the only one who has problems/other people don't deal with the same things, but rather has to do with feeling like one is the only person unable to cope with problems with relative ease the way the rest of the world seems to--certain things may bounce easily off while others don't, and what's always most surprising to me, it can be the little/more internal things which dig in the bigger issues most--Like if it were just big things going wrong, it might be okay, because that presupposes a higher purpose being attached to life, but the little things/boredom/lack of better meaning for everyday existence makes it like, "Man, why the hell even bother with this bullshit when there's nothing day to day to make life worth living?" Not a denial that everyone has to face this, just a feeling of overwhelmedness that one is not better at facing such and an inability to get over the intense negative emotions that can come with trying. Either that or they say, "Do you want a sin on your soul?" which doesn't help those who already feel like the mental disease has tarnished such anyway.
So, maybe the look-at-us depressed people like Linda Sexton/Nicholas Hughes are needed to counterbalance the quieter ones who may channel sadness into quiet acceptance or more creative ventures--if for no other reason then to bring to light the unintended implications of "normal" peoples responses to depression, which tends to hinge on a few different types of comments [either "Oh, I was sad for a whole two weeks when my pet died, I know exactly what you feel like (though its only appropriate for you to experience the emotions no longer than I did, and my sadness didn't stop me from doing either the things that had to be done nor the things wanted to be completed)" or "Why are you happy/able to talk about things/okay today--aren't you supposed to be depressed?!", as if its something integral to being rather than an effect of unfortunate mental temperment being set off by little or big events, depending on ones genes, and/or, "How are you today?" (*wince waiting for blood to splash in face*). This doesn't really help when people learn of truly tortured artists--attitudes mostly being "Well, I'm glad something came out of that whining".
On the other hand, I'm not for a prozac nation. I think certain suffering is the only way to get to the bottom or renewal of things, that when feelings influence thought things can take on a deeper meaning, and that the product of such. I'm just not sure its a good thing when people don't remember the tragic basis of what leads to change--and that it hurts both inner and outer aspects of ones life, sometimes badly enough that it makes one wonder if its worth the amount of turmoil that ones life can turn into just for a fucking piece of art. Its hard not to wish for more practical skills sometime, because while depression most certainly is not limited to artists, at least with practical skills one could throw themselves into a work that paid regularly based on productivity rather than subjectively received creative efforts, but on the other hand, when we do live in an increasingly doped up on prescription pills that will give everyone cancer nation, its also hard to want to have deepness/trueness of emotional reaction to be drugged out so one's nothing more than a robot--and even more frustrating when one doesn't even have that option, due to allergic, physical or other reactions to many drugs out there.
I guess the solution is--one can enjoy tortured art, but its disrespectful to forget--the artist really can get hurt in it.
As for audiences, they are placed before finished artwork that represents tortured emotions, not before the artist while he/she was experiencing said emotion/situation. Its easy to over-romanticize 'tortured artists' when they are just thrown one in a bunch of all the same, but more difficult to recognize the downside that may interfere with the artists life of depression.
Another big reason as well is probably that most people have never had a true depressive episode, and its hard to formulate enlightening attitudes on stuff one may have little working knowledge of.
Basically, it comes down to people either trying to relate their responses which are 'reasonable' both in measurements of time and severity to those who lose meaning to what reasonable is, which is probably meant sweetly but doesn't give much comfort to someone who feels like their internally dying, or people taking signs of recovery as a reason to say "I told you, just walk it off", which show distrust in the depressed persons rationality in a way that doesn't lend proper notice to how severe it feels inside (like telling a fucking crippled person to get out of their damned wheelchair before proper physical therapy has been done, and then doubting they ever had an injury after its healed), which serves to have the backwards purpose of making the depressed to feel as that the concept of there being a difference in levels of chemicals in ones head really is in one's head (despite science showing otherwise), and is belittling, OR people walk on eggshells around one, trading an honest opinion for that which is agreeable or over-sugarcoated rather then just to the point yet still polite/non-insulting, which is insulting.
Advice for those who feel suicidal isn't much better-usually filled with "You're not alone. Everyone has problems", which misses the point, since it doesn't have to do with feeling like you're the only one who has problems/other people don't deal with the same things, but rather has to do with feeling like one is the only person unable to cope with problems with relative ease the way the rest of the world seems to--certain things may bounce easily off while others don't, and what's always most surprising to me, it can be the little/more internal things which dig in the bigger issues most--Like if it were just big things going wrong, it might be okay, because that presupposes a higher purpose being attached to life, but the little things/boredom/lack of better meaning for everyday existence makes it like, "Man, why the hell even bother with this bullshit when there's nothing day to day to make life worth living?" Not a denial that everyone has to face this, just a feeling of overwhelmedness that one is not better at facing such and an inability to get over the intense negative emotions that can come with trying. Either that or they say, "Do you want a sin on your soul?" which doesn't help those who already feel like the mental disease has tarnished such anyway.
So, maybe the look-at-us depressed people like Linda Sexton/Nicholas Hughes are needed to counterbalance the quieter ones who may channel sadness into quiet acceptance or more creative ventures--if for no other reason then to bring to light the unintended implications of "normal" peoples responses to depression, which tends to hinge on a few different types of comments [either "Oh, I was sad for a whole two weeks when my pet died, I know exactly what you feel like (though its only appropriate for you to experience the emotions no longer than I did, and my sadness didn't stop me from doing either the things that had to be done nor the things wanted to be completed)" or "Why are you happy/able to talk about things/okay today--aren't you supposed to be depressed?!", as if its something integral to being rather than an effect of unfortunate mental temperment being set off by little or big events, depending on ones genes, and/or, "How are you today?" (*wince waiting for blood to splash in face*). This doesn't really help when people learn of truly tortured artists--attitudes mostly being "Well, I'm glad something came out of that whining".
On the other hand, I'm not for a prozac nation. I think certain suffering is the only way to get to the bottom or renewal of things, that when feelings influence thought things can take on a deeper meaning, and that the product of such. I'm just not sure its a good thing when people don't remember the tragic basis of what leads to change--and that it hurts both inner and outer aspects of ones life, sometimes badly enough that it makes one wonder if its worth the amount of turmoil that ones life can turn into just for a fucking piece of art. Its hard not to wish for more practical skills sometime, because while depression most certainly is not limited to artists, at least with practical skills one could throw themselves into a work that paid regularly based on productivity rather than subjectively received creative efforts, but on the other hand, when we do live in an increasingly doped up on prescription pills that will give everyone cancer nation, its also hard to want to have deepness/trueness of emotional reaction to be drugged out so one's nothing more than a robot--and even more frustrating when one doesn't even have that option, due to allergic, physical or other reactions to many drugs out there.
I guess the solution is--one can enjoy tortured art, but its disrespectful to forget--the artist really can get hurt in it.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Writer's Blog 4/1
so, i've been racking my brain, but... and you can laugh at me for this, surely...
Playing mean tricks isn't nice.
I know that's obvious, but...
When I was like 5 I got suspended b/c some idiot kid poured milk over himself on a dare and then blamed it on me. And when I was in awkward early-middle school, a few boys asked me out on a dare just to laugh at me when I took them seriously. So I guess that just left a bad taste in my mouth for planning out tricks. I understand if someone under pressure does something out-of-character, and on the other hand-- I like playfulness/being playful with my friends. It's just, you can play a trick on someone without the sole purpose being 'to be mean' or to make another suffer unnecessarily.
Tricks I've planned out/played out have been more in a person-opens-up-their-fridge-to-find-their-weed-staring them in the face kind of way, or a lover-thinks-my-place-has-been-broken-into-but-then-finds-something-better kind of way; Never in a someone's-going-to-cry-over-it kind of way.
Beyond that, I guess the meanest tricks "i've" played have been more tricks others have started but that I've been privy to. And generally those have been kind of cliche, like the first/soundest person falling asleep at a party getting covered in chips/food/whatever and written all over (with pens, whip cream, w/e's in hand). I think it was the New Years before last..or maybe the one before that... that we even strung lights over this one dude, lit him up like a christmas tree and took pics without him waking up. It was pretty funny, but... I don't know if that counts as mean, since it's kind of an expected ritual that occurs. Thankfully I sleep pretty light after I've been drinking/if I'm on an unfamiliar couch/chair, though if it were reversed on me, I wouldn't be too taken aback, as long as permanent marker isn't involved/I didn't have anything important to do that day...
Playing mean tricks isn't nice.
I know that's obvious, but...
When I was like 5 I got suspended b/c some idiot kid poured milk over himself on a dare and then blamed it on me. And when I was in awkward early-middle school, a few boys asked me out on a dare just to laugh at me when I took them seriously. So I guess that just left a bad taste in my mouth for planning out tricks. I understand if someone under pressure does something out-of-character, and on the other hand-- I like playfulness/being playful with my friends. It's just, you can play a trick on someone without the sole purpose being 'to be mean' or to make another suffer unnecessarily.
Tricks I've planned out/played out have been more in a person-opens-up-their-fridge-to-find-their-weed-staring them in the face kind of way, or a lover-thinks-my-place-has-been-broken-into-but-then-finds-something-better kind of way; Never in a someone's-going-to-cry-over-it kind of way.
Beyond that, I guess the meanest tricks "i've" played have been more tricks others have started but that I've been privy to. And generally those have been kind of cliche, like the first/soundest person falling asleep at a party getting covered in chips/food/whatever and written all over (with pens, whip cream, w/e's in hand). I think it was the New Years before last..or maybe the one before that... that we even strung lights over this one dude, lit him up like a christmas tree and took pics without him waking up. It was pretty funny, but... I don't know if that counts as mean, since it's kind of an expected ritual that occurs. Thankfully I sleep pretty light after I've been drinking/if I'm on an unfamiliar couch/chair, though if it were reversed on me, I wouldn't be too taken aback, as long as permanent marker isn't involved/I didn't have anything important to do that day...
Writer's Blog 3/30
Part of me thinks it would be a high improvement to our culture if a show like this caught on but... a)I don't think there would be enough people who appreciate this kind of thing enough to vote about it. And b) even if they did, poetry's such a wonderfully subjective thing, it might just further serve to box in definitions of what-poetry-should-be in an 'objective' way, and possibly even turn personal poetry into something way more commercialized then pureness finds necessary. Though, then again, knowing the way the universe ebbs and flows and such, maybe that would cause such a backlash there would be new genres of counterculture poetry to emerge.
But once again, this is probably just fantasy for another possible world with a different past, not something that will likely again emerge here, at least not any time soon. (or at least not in a fashion that will sustain itself rather than get rejected within a few episodes.)
But once again, this is probably just fantasy for another possible world with a different past, not something that will likely again emerge here, at least not any time soon. (or at least not in a fashion that will sustain itself rather than get rejected within a few episodes.)
Writer's Blog/Journal 3/25
No, I don't like that we live in a world where men like Marvin “Popcorn” Sutton are put in places where suicide is necessary to avoid extremely unhappy circumstances. Here this dude is, just trying to pursue his dreams--isn't that 'the American dream'?--of just being a weird dude bootlegging alcohol and enjoying life, but Noooooo, the federal government has to step in (completely over money, the most petty thing to quibble over when he wasn't hurting anyone/he was just some old dude doing his thing) and ruin his party and ultimately cause his suicide. All those conservative politicians, going on about being pro-life, well how about not enforcing stupid laws that make people want to kill themselves when you take their pleasure away?
I'm still somewhat mournful over Hunter Thompson's death--but both of these suicides are understandable, at least. 'Characters' of the world are more likely to deeply feel the heat of oppression on their backs--suicide is the ultimate rejection for this gloomy world full of plots to kill freeness and creativity and force it back into 'acceptable' lines that don't threaten the central structure of society in ways the man hates.
The question always being, how much pain could they tolerate before killing themselves seemed like a better option then dealing with it? And sadly, due to the world we live in, that point has been reached quicker then it could have been if we lived in a more accommodating-to-strangeness type of world.
I guess all we can do is say, hey dude, hope you rest in peace, because those who knew you appreciated all you brought to the world before the world brought the end to you.
I'm still somewhat mournful over Hunter Thompson's death--but both of these suicides are understandable, at least. 'Characters' of the world are more likely to deeply feel the heat of oppression on their backs--suicide is the ultimate rejection for this gloomy world full of plots to kill freeness and creativity and force it back into 'acceptable' lines that don't threaten the central structure of society in ways the man hates.
The question always being, how much pain could they tolerate before killing themselves seemed like a better option then dealing with it? And sadly, due to the world we live in, that point has been reached quicker then it could have been if we lived in a more accommodating-to-strangeness type of world.
I guess all we can do is say, hey dude, hope you rest in peace, because those who knew you appreciated all you brought to the world before the world brought the end to you.
Writer's Blog 3/23
Less Time - Andre Breton
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's
perpendicular.
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's
perpendicular.
Writer's Blog 3/18
Clock-O'-Clay - John Clare
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.
While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o'-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o'-clay.
My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o'-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.
While the forest quakes surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My home rocks as like to fall,
On its pillar green and tall;
When the pattering rain drives by
Clock-o'-clay keeps warm and dry.
Day by day and night by night,
All the week I hide from sight;
In the cowslip pips I lie,
In the rain still warm and dry;
Day and night and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-o'-clay.
My home shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped with flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath,
Till I touch the grass beneath;
Here I live, lone clock-o'-clay,
Watching for the time of day.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Writer's Blog 3/16
I liked Matthea Harvey's Shiver & You Have Weather. After reading Perillo it reminds me of that Firebomber poem, except more abstract/different images for message.
Shiver & You Have Weather
by Matthea Harvey
In the aftermath of calculus
your toast fell butter-side down.
Squirrels swarmed the lawns
in flight patterns. The hovercraft
helped the waves along. From
every corner there was perspective.
On the billboards the diamonds
were real, in the stores, only zirconia.
I cc’ed you. I let you know.
Sat down to write the Black Ice Memo.
Dinner would be meager &
reminiscent of next week’s lunch.
So what if I sat on the sectional?
As always I was beside myself.
Shiver & You Have Weather
by Matthea Harvey
In the aftermath of calculus
your toast fell butter-side down.
Squirrels swarmed the lawns
in flight patterns. The hovercraft
helped the waves along. From
every corner there was perspective.
On the billboards the diamonds
were real, in the stores, only zirconia.
I cc’ed you. I let you know.
Sat down to write the Black Ice Memo.
Dinner would be meager &
reminiscent of next week’s lunch.
So what if I sat on the sectional?
As always I was beside myself.
Friday, March 13, 2009
write-what-you-want blog
The All
Experts on the sun have urged us to hurry,
The glow will only emerge briefly as
Night has called the next turn at stealing from the sky
What has only just been returned.
We leave in a rush for the place with
Nothing like the doors we’ve left behind,
Stumbling along paths made from dirt-stone-and-leaf
With as much speed caution will allow.
Darkening sky has once again indiscriminately
Wielded its ax of fire,
Forever impartial to woods suffering,
With a system of justice all its’ own.
Clouds have cried their tears of joy
For the slicing and admonishing that has
Left fallen arrogant trees;
Their roots had gotten stubbornly stuck within static graves,
Allowing to be forgotten healing consequences of inevitable change
And preventing the arising of new purpose in a world made by sacrificial death
Of wood and creature as they fall back into the earth.
Victim to systems both natural and meek
And those false and arrogant as the trees,
We watch as this world sheds its past,
Turning our heads forever upward to clearing skies,
While listening for the growing sound of burbling water
Which was once a light trickle but is
Now a roar happily leaving us deaf to sounds beyond this haven
Which normally make us deaf.
The sun, sent as indiscriminately as the fire ax was;
Melts the hard earths surface,
Dissolving tears from below
And leaving later hours of the day full
With cool scents of fresh rainwater puddles.
Wary voices too artificial
Wish to drift to us from places left behind
With warning admonishments like,
‘Keep looking down or the mud will make you fall.’
They speak out of fear, never having looked around--
Knowing nothing of what we don’t want to miss,
Something glorious we’ve left all words at home for:
Experts on the sun have urged us to hurry,
The glow will only emerge briefly as
Night has called the next turn at stealing from the sky
What has only just been returned.
We leave in a rush for the place with
Nothing like the doors we’ve left behind,
Stumbling along paths made from dirt-stone-and-leaf
With as much speed caution will allow.
Darkening sky has once again indiscriminately
Wielded its ax of fire,
Forever impartial to woods suffering,
With a system of justice all its’ own.
Clouds have cried their tears of joy
For the slicing and admonishing that has
Left fallen arrogant trees;
Their roots had gotten stubbornly stuck within static graves,
Allowing to be forgotten healing consequences of inevitable change
And preventing the arising of new purpose in a world made by sacrificial death
Of wood and creature as they fall back into the earth.
Victim to systems both natural and meek
And those false and arrogant as the trees,
We watch as this world sheds its past,
Turning our heads forever upward to clearing skies,
While listening for the growing sound of burbling water
Which was once a light trickle but is
Now a roar happily leaving us deaf to sounds beyond this haven
Which normally make us deaf.
The sun, sent as indiscriminately as the fire ax was;
Melts the hard earths surface,
Dissolving tears from below
And leaving later hours of the day full
With cool scents of fresh rainwater puddles.
Wary voices too artificial
Wish to drift to us from places left behind
With warning admonishments like,
‘Keep looking down or the mud will make you fall.’
They speak out of fear, never having looked around--
Knowing nothing of what we don’t want to miss,
Something glorious we’ve left all words at home for:
Writers blog 3/11
Reality
The suns glare diminished
Like a poem unfinished
Struggling unnecessarily hard
To only see a very limited part
Chaos we can’t comprehend
Like a beauty that never bends
Eventually we will heed its call
It’s the one thing awaiting us all.
-------------------------------------------
Gump once said,
‘Life is like a box of chocolates’
He may have been able to ‘run forest run’
Over flat surfaces
But from that lacking metaphor
He surely never went hiking-
A pity in a world of pity.
-----------------------------------------------------
Concrete physical objects
Occupying this worldly realm
Is that really all there is?
----------------------------------------------------------
Swirling mysts of creative energy
Have the potential
To manifest in amazing ways
-----------------------------------------------------
A field of darkness
That is nothing-
Adjectivelessness,
formlessness, descriptionless
Am I so full of suchness I can no longer comprehend this?
-----------------------------------------------------
Remember to rejoice
For you have life--
For all we know
This could be the only heaven
For all we know
We could return this world to Zion
-----------------------------------------------------
When words and ritual become mindless
Eat the wafer taste the ghost
Drink the wine blood of the host
Wash myself in the blood of the lamb
Quicker now, I don’t want to be damned.
Or maybe I can just call His name out
And all will be removed about--
It's worth a shot--
I'm not going to be burnt hot
Even though I sin all day long
I will be forgiven for my faith is strong--
I said I'm sorry, true repentance
No need to feel what the words meant
-----------------------------------------------------
Action
You’re going to get mad at me
Because I won’t let you stay in your bubble
But if you follow me
We’ll forge a path out of the rubble
--------------------------------------
Disappointment
Confusion glorified
I stand dismayed;
Peeling away realities mask
Horrifyingly, the feeling never lasts
-------------------------------------
Spiritual mis-mash
I am not one nor the other (nor the other)
I do not want a name
So why must I feel claimed by either (or any)?
It’s not what can be explained
--------------------------------------------
Swirling conciousness,
A system of nothing we can conceive -
Beyond our conception
Or are they all wrong?
Limited comprehension today--
One day, we will know.
------------------------------------
12/14/06
Untitled (- published in old red kimono)
I’ll make a movie of my dreams
Since reality is never what it seems
Paint the background red or blue
I don’t know if color is true
Audition and hire
Only the most inspired liars
Complicate the simpleness
Make the plot a mess
Transform the visions
If for just an instant
To have control of the depiction--
Pretend my dreams will amount to more than fiction
The suns glare diminished
Like a poem unfinished
Struggling unnecessarily hard
To only see a very limited part
Chaos we can’t comprehend
Like a beauty that never bends
Eventually we will heed its call
It’s the one thing awaiting us all.
-------------------------------------------
Gump once said,
‘Life is like a box of chocolates’
He may have been able to ‘run forest run’
Over flat surfaces
But from that lacking metaphor
He surely never went hiking-
A pity in a world of pity.
-----------------------------------------------------
Concrete physical objects
Occupying this worldly realm
Is that really all there is?
----------------------------------------------------------
Swirling mysts of creative energy
Have the potential
To manifest in amazing ways
-----------------------------------------------------
A field of darkness
That is nothing-
Adjectivelessness,
formlessness, descriptionless
Am I so full of suchness I can no longer comprehend this?
-----------------------------------------------------
Remember to rejoice
For you have life--
For all we know
This could be the only heaven
For all we know
We could return this world to Zion
-----------------------------------------------------
When words and ritual become mindless
Eat the wafer taste the ghost
Drink the wine blood of the host
Wash myself in the blood of the lamb
Quicker now, I don’t want to be damned.
Or maybe I can just call His name out
And all will be removed about--
It's worth a shot--
I'm not going to be burnt hot
Even though I sin all day long
I will be forgiven for my faith is strong--
I said I'm sorry, true repentance
No need to feel what the words meant
-----------------------------------------------------
Action
You’re going to get mad at me
Because I won’t let you stay in your bubble
But if you follow me
We’ll forge a path out of the rubble
--------------------------------------
Disappointment
Confusion glorified
I stand dismayed;
Peeling away realities mask
Horrifyingly, the feeling never lasts
-------------------------------------
Spiritual mis-mash
I am not one nor the other (nor the other)
I do not want a name
So why must I feel claimed by either (or any)?
It’s not what can be explained
--------------------------------------------
Swirling conciousness,
A system of nothing we can conceive -
Beyond our conception
Or are they all wrong?
Limited comprehension today--
One day, we will know.
------------------------------------
12/14/06
Untitled (- published in old red kimono)
I’ll make a movie of my dreams
Since reality is never what it seems
Paint the background red or blue
I don’t know if color is true
Audition and hire
Only the most inspired liars
Complicate the simpleness
Make the plot a mess
Transform the visions
If for just an instant
To have control of the depiction--
Pretend my dreams will amount to more than fiction
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Modern day Nazism of the masses
Modern day Nazism of the masses--we may not force people to undergo 'freak-show'ism--but it definitely pays well, and by the rates of reality-show viewers, people aren't exactly objecting on moral ground to what's put on display.
Though a bit stretched in comparison of results/extremity of what's currently happening (though who knows how far it will be taken into the future), our modern western culture/mainstream media has decided that people with dysfunction (IE-drug addicts, drama-ful celebrities stuck in a house together, etc) are worth putting on display--and its not a bad idea to ask why viewers enjoy watching other people idiocy so much--could we unknowingly be being transformed into further disparaging people, so numb to the effects of seeing physical violence, since it seems to pervade our culture, that we're overlooking what we're also becoming numb to and viewing drug addicts/other dyfunctional people to make ourselves feel better about supposed 'normalcy'?
The average veiwer obviously isn't encouraging the harvesting of skulls for holiday desktop presents, nor attempting to sew people together to make conjoined twins (that would take getting off the couch/way too much effort) but, looking at how many reality shows keep popping up, and the weirder content as things go on, sometimes it does seem like no reality show can go far enough to satisfy the picky veiwer. We like our movies bloody and our tv shows full of drama--but at least in horror movies, its supposed to horrify--despite a few people mentally unstable to begin with taking it the wrong way, most people seem to understand that being an evil killer/monster/whatever isn't something that brings glory to the killer so much as empathy for the victim. Reality shows don't seem to offer the same way of thinking--most viewers watch to put themselves, as Jerry Stahl pointed out, in a position to watch the experiment, take glee in the fact that they're not as retarded as the people who go on there--without realizing the decision of those people was probably based on money or desperation for an option that would not be out there if modern viewers weren't showing tv companies that's what they like to see so much.
An argument can be made to say we use our reality shows to distract Americans from the real harsh things going on, and another could be made that watching reality shows doesn't make people akin to the Nazi scientists or perpetrators of other more recent world atrocities or personal killing sprees, but its not completely worth throwing out that this is our way of getting out some kind of supposedly-innate (though I'd like to argue, largely culture-inspired) impulse to use others misery to feed into our own egos and play the 'mad scientist' role (without having to actually do anything but get up to turn the TV on, so we don't feel as bad as if we're the ones cutting into the skin of the whichever people are currently considered less).
We live in a society that creates and enjoys drama, stressing that ends justifying means and placing emphasis on the horror of people who enjoy others unwanted physical suffering while ignoring/making a show out of others emotional suffering (why we moved from the guillotine/public executions to the more private torture of locking people in confined, ultra controlled quarters and why, as Stahl brings up, people like watching reality tv because of the position it puts them in).
Though a bit stretched in comparison of results/extremity of what's currently happening (though who knows how far it will be taken into the future), our modern western culture/mainstream media has decided that people with dysfunction (IE-drug addicts, drama-ful celebrities stuck in a house together, etc) are worth putting on display--and its not a bad idea to ask why viewers enjoy watching other people idiocy so much--could we unknowingly be being transformed into further disparaging people, so numb to the effects of seeing physical violence, since it seems to pervade our culture, that we're overlooking what we're also becoming numb to and viewing drug addicts/other dyfunctional people to make ourselves feel better about supposed 'normalcy'?
The average veiwer obviously isn't encouraging the harvesting of skulls for holiday desktop presents, nor attempting to sew people together to make conjoined twins (that would take getting off the couch/way too much effort) but, looking at how many reality shows keep popping up, and the weirder content as things go on, sometimes it does seem like no reality show can go far enough to satisfy the picky veiwer. We like our movies bloody and our tv shows full of drama--but at least in horror movies, its supposed to horrify--despite a few people mentally unstable to begin with taking it the wrong way, most people seem to understand that being an evil killer/monster/whatever isn't something that brings glory to the killer so much as empathy for the victim. Reality shows don't seem to offer the same way of thinking--most viewers watch to put themselves, as Jerry Stahl pointed out, in a position to watch the experiment, take glee in the fact that they're not as retarded as the people who go on there--without realizing the decision of those people was probably based on money or desperation for an option that would not be out there if modern viewers weren't showing tv companies that's what they like to see so much.
An argument can be made to say we use our reality shows to distract Americans from the real harsh things going on, and another could be made that watching reality shows doesn't make people akin to the Nazi scientists or perpetrators of other more recent world atrocities or personal killing sprees, but its not completely worth throwing out that this is our way of getting out some kind of supposedly-innate (though I'd like to argue, largely culture-inspired) impulse to use others misery to feed into our own egos and play the 'mad scientist' role (without having to actually do anything but get up to turn the TV on, so we don't feel as bad as if we're the ones cutting into the skin of the whichever people are currently considered less).
We live in a society that creates and enjoys drama, stressing that ends justifying means and placing emphasis on the horror of people who enjoy others unwanted physical suffering while ignoring/making a show out of others emotional suffering (why we moved from the guillotine/public executions to the more private torture of locking people in confined, ultra controlled quarters and why, as Stahl brings up, people like watching reality tv because of the position it puts them in).
There’s the possibility that this kind of cultural infusions/brainwashing is going to make art nothing more than shock and awe, with a more heavy emphasis on its commercial value/selling points than actual criteria for good art based on other values that have less to do with mainstream; there's also possibility that this 'shock and awe' is going to lessen the average persons ability to feel sensitivity towards others real problems rather than making entertainment out of them.
We may have not reached the censorship of 1984 (thank fucking god) but we are a far cry from not being at least partially brainwashed.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Enjoyment of poetry
I do enjoy poetry, but the problem is, with the exception to inspirational poetry (which I find very enjoyable/moreso than personal poetry), 'enjoy' is a bit too happy of a word to apply; mostly its more of the way one is drawn into tragedy, like reading a novel evoking feelings of desolation or watching a tearful movie more than once. Poetry aims at hitting emotions and states of being that cannot be accurately described in language limited to mere straightforwardness; takes me out of blunt analysis's (sp?) and places it into that which is more subtle, more elusive, and more satisfyingly accurate for things that, for eternity, no matter how hard we wish, will remain unsatisfyingly unprecise--or, depending on the poem, that which is knowable having been expressed more precisely or being turned on its head. It inspires on a different level, something psychological, philosophical, religious--without actually necessitating direct involvement with any of those 3 or other categories one would like to apply...
I will admit though, I'm not sure if I like what most poets consider good poetry--I've heard a million poets disparage Eliots' "The Wasteland" as trash; Jewel's 'A Night Without Armor' as merely okay-for-a-celeb; Robert Frost (say what you will but he had like...5? good ones... ok. maybe I agree a little there.); and any poems that shed a somewhat more positive light on love than most 'real' poets give to the subject, all things I've found at least somewhat lovely.
Maybe the bad taste was drilled into me early- The first book of poems I read that weren't written for kids/nursery rhymes/part of a Jewish prayer book (which, as a funny side note, I for years mistook to be the old testament of the bible), was Rod Mckuen's "With Love". I think I found it around when I was about 7/right after I'd moved to GA, in a pile of things belonging to the houses' previous owners my mom had cleaned out from the attic. Some of the poems do have happier edges, and I don't find it corny (though I'm sure there probably is some love poetry I would find corny [ie-anything resembling 95 % of 'pop' music], I think its nice hearing people celebrate having love rather than wanting it).
This spawned curiosity of more poetry when I was finally allowed to use the internet by myself (9/10ish)--which I found in poetry.com. Not realizing they probably accept most of what's submitted to them (since published people tend to want to buy the book their published in, and a few extra copies for relatives as well...), I started both reading thier apparently-debatably-good poetry as well as writing/submitting my own... 2 got published, one of which I got the book it was in, but then I started thinking of the probability of it being kind of scammy. Jewel was next; I always loved her music, pre-mtv days, and I remember loving a lot of her poems too, though I've since lost the book to see if that's still in my taste/don't remember much of what the subject was... (I was kind of 12 at the time...)
I continued writing poetry for a couple of years, but by the time I was in high school, things changed. Early on, increased drinking suppressed the sadness and the ability to evaluate how I was living life necessary for poetic thinking--and when I had to quit drinking, after the second round of alcohol poisoning within months of the first, there were other harder things to take its place. Being the definition of young and stupid, I moved from poetry to working on a really horrible 'novel' full of drug stories that didn't focus exactly on on particular characters but had certain points when some characters met the others... basically, it was a very confusing at one point 200-300 page pile of crap (and after I eliminated 'double stories'-ones which were mainly the same as the other pages but had been edited slightly or took the plot different places, it got down to 120. and then 72. and then 42. and as of recently, 0, because I don't see myself being anywhere close to the state of mind I was in when I wrote it...)
So, that killed a few years of possible poetry until I graduated high school. Long story short, a lot of things happened after I graduated that changed things (As I suppose probably happens with everyone around that time). I've been in some form of school since I was 2; that was gone. I filled the empty homework time by retreating to my old love, reading novels, and to something I had picked up in my scarce free time in high school, reading books on different religious faiths (in particular, I re-read John Snellings "The Buddhist Handbook" and the gospels of the bible alot...). This inspired a renewed interest in poetry.
Also about that time, I was losing faith in a relationship that had been there for 3 years; it had to disappear, for happiness true-to-oneself sake, but I still cared for his well-being, and it made me sadder than I could put into non-poetic words to have to end it. Renewance number two.
Working at Toys R Us didn't give me anything intelligent to think about on my off time, but it did show me why I hate working the only type of crappy jobs available to those without college degrees/special skills. Renewance number three, this one in bitter-angry-hate-the-system type of way.
Finally, after re-reading Kerouac's "On the Road" a couple years back/around this same time, I decided to check out "The Dharma Bums". The poetry in it is very zen, simple but indicative of reality in a beautiful way.
The poetry I enjoy writing these days tends to be on the shorter side/around 6-8 lines. Last year, amongst more relationship/financial problems, I retreated into longer emotion-driven poetry, and occasionally it does still pop up, especially once i hit despair over things going on in the general world as well as in my own life, but generally, the focus is more on spiritual issues and/or 'beyond'-statements about reality observed.
Admittedly, when it comes to wanting to achieve some sort of level of professional/good-enough-to-be-published writing, my focus is more on fiction. I don't know if its because I was exposed to so much more of that than poetry growing up, or if its just an innate-thick-brainedness that makes 'bad' poetry enjoyable and 'good' poetry sometimes confusing as hell... Or maybe, even though I fully recognize poetry to have the ability to have false narrators/played with the technique when I was young, I like being able to divide the activities I do to have purpose sacred onto itself, rather than everything just having the same purpose--
In my mind, fictional stories require one to put themselves in a mostly-if-not-completely different persona while poetry, at least when I write it, is meant to be something personal or impersonally inspirational. In both types of writing, one is showing the audience a certain effect without entirely leaving it up to direct statements.
I like leaving it at fiction when it comes to being someone else--its enjoyable to be completely out of ones element/own way of thinking sometimes (though often this doesn't come into play until after editing process), but poetry provides the other half of necessity-the need to be ones self/have a way to work things out without going into a rant-rave-straight-up-complaining-style (more simply, emotions without being emo).
Anyways, you get the point. I enjoy poetry because 90% of the time, writing it involves dropping the pretense/being 'true' in a more ultimate sense of the word, yet keeping a way to disguise the subject matter enough to allow some skillful ambiguity which can allow anyone reading it to make it their own/relatable OR which, when straightforward enough, brings people to some form of awareness previously neglected before.
I will admit though, I'm not sure if I like what most poets consider good poetry--I've heard a million poets disparage Eliots' "The Wasteland" as trash; Jewel's 'A Night Without Armor' as merely okay-for-a-celeb; Robert Frost (say what you will but he had like...5? good ones... ok. maybe I agree a little there.); and any poems that shed a somewhat more positive light on love than most 'real' poets give to the subject, all things I've found at least somewhat lovely.
Maybe the bad taste was drilled into me early- The first book of poems I read that weren't written for kids/nursery rhymes/part of a Jewish prayer book (which, as a funny side note, I for years mistook to be the old testament of the bible), was Rod Mckuen's "With Love". I think I found it around when I was about 7/right after I'd moved to GA, in a pile of things belonging to the houses' previous owners my mom had cleaned out from the attic. Some of the poems do have happier edges, and I don't find it corny (though I'm sure there probably is some love poetry I would find corny [ie-anything resembling 95 % of 'pop' music], I think its nice hearing people celebrate having love rather than wanting it).
This spawned curiosity of more poetry when I was finally allowed to use the internet by myself (9/10ish)--which I found in poetry.com. Not realizing they probably accept most of what's submitted to them (since published people tend to want to buy the book their published in, and a few extra copies for relatives as well...), I started both reading thier apparently-debatably-good poetry as well as writing/submitting my own... 2 got published, one of which I got the book it was in, but then I started thinking of the probability of it being kind of scammy. Jewel was next; I always loved her music, pre-mtv days, and I remember loving a lot of her poems too, though I've since lost the book to see if that's still in my taste/don't remember much of what the subject was... (I was kind of 12 at the time...)
I continued writing poetry for a couple of years, but by the time I was in high school, things changed. Early on, increased drinking suppressed the sadness and the ability to evaluate how I was living life necessary for poetic thinking--and when I had to quit drinking, after the second round of alcohol poisoning within months of the first, there were other harder things to take its place. Being the definition of young and stupid, I moved from poetry to working on a really horrible 'novel' full of drug stories that didn't focus exactly on on particular characters but had certain points when some characters met the others... basically, it was a very confusing at one point 200-300 page pile of crap (and after I eliminated 'double stories'-ones which were mainly the same as the other pages but had been edited slightly or took the plot different places, it got down to 120. and then 72. and then 42. and as of recently, 0, because I don't see myself being anywhere close to the state of mind I was in when I wrote it...)
So, that killed a few years of possible poetry until I graduated high school. Long story short, a lot of things happened after I graduated that changed things (As I suppose probably happens with everyone around that time). I've been in some form of school since I was 2; that was gone. I filled the empty homework time by retreating to my old love, reading novels, and to something I had picked up in my scarce free time in high school, reading books on different religious faiths (in particular, I re-read John Snellings "The Buddhist Handbook" and the gospels of the bible alot...). This inspired a renewed interest in poetry.
Also about that time, I was losing faith in a relationship that had been there for 3 years; it had to disappear, for happiness true-to-oneself sake, but I still cared for his well-being, and it made me sadder than I could put into non-poetic words to have to end it. Renewance number two.
Working at Toys R Us didn't give me anything intelligent to think about on my off time, but it did show me why I hate working the only type of crappy jobs available to those without college degrees/special skills. Renewance number three, this one in bitter-angry-hate-the-system type of way.
Finally, after re-reading Kerouac's "On the Road" a couple years back/around this same time, I decided to check out "The Dharma Bums". The poetry in it is very zen, simple but indicative of reality in a beautiful way.
The poetry I enjoy writing these days tends to be on the shorter side/around 6-8 lines. Last year, amongst more relationship/financial problems, I retreated into longer emotion-driven poetry, and occasionally it does still pop up, especially once i hit despair over things going on in the general world as well as in my own life, but generally, the focus is more on spiritual issues and/or 'beyond'-statements about reality observed.
Admittedly, when it comes to wanting to achieve some sort of level of professional/good-enough-to-be-published writing, my focus is more on fiction. I don't know if its because I was exposed to so much more of that than poetry growing up, or if its just an innate-thick-brainedness that makes 'bad' poetry enjoyable and 'good' poetry sometimes confusing as hell... Or maybe, even though I fully recognize poetry to have the ability to have false narrators/played with the technique when I was young, I like being able to divide the activities I do to have purpose sacred onto itself, rather than everything just having the same purpose--
In my mind, fictional stories require one to put themselves in a mostly-if-not-completely different persona while poetry, at least when I write it, is meant to be something personal or impersonally inspirational. In both types of writing, one is showing the audience a certain effect without entirely leaving it up to direct statements.
I like leaving it at fiction when it comes to being someone else--its enjoyable to be completely out of ones element/own way of thinking sometimes (though often this doesn't come into play until after editing process), but poetry provides the other half of necessity-the need to be ones self/have a way to work things out without going into a rant-rave-straight-up-complaining-style (more simply, emotions without being emo).
Anyways, you get the point. I enjoy poetry because 90% of the time, writing it involves dropping the pretense/being 'true' in a more ultimate sense of the word, yet keeping a way to disguise the subject matter enough to allow some skillful ambiguity which can allow anyone reading it to make it their own/relatable OR which, when straightforward enough, brings people to some form of awareness previously neglected before.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Eurydice & Orpheus by Mark Iwin
Though all mythology is fairly interesting, I can' t claim much knowledge/study into it. So, admittedly, I had to google up the names. Upon seeing a brief retelling of the story, I instantly recognized the tale, if not the specifics.
When I clicked on the link for this poem, I expected it to go more in detail about the events in the story/be the 'whole' story. (Basically, a man faces the world of the dead to find his departed love, but disobeys the rules of getting her out by looking at her before they've reached the light of the upper/our world.)
I think in the poems narrow focus on just his craving for his love, how he couldn't not look/speak her name being that close, finally having her back after waiting so long... it worked very well, actually exceeding my first expectations.
I love the way it starts, with the comparison of his wish to turn his head the seed, in his mind, of all the things seeing her will bring, his uncertainty that if he looks back she'll even be there...and what the seed turns into, the beginning of his downfall. It fits in easily that he is trying to tell himself to wait, to remove the insecurity/have faith it'll happen...which is the hardest thing to do when singing loves name is the thing one has to avoid, even though he knows that "every time we speak we stun the word". The build up is well played out too--the reader can feel it as the wise logical words of wait start to fail for him as he becomes more and more enraptured in the humming-almost-speaking auditory feeling of her name on his lips. What lover could be that strong? --And then, the 'dismantling sound' it made when it actually came out, when he actually gave in and turned his head--to find how terrible it is, to free himself of the self-control trapping him away from his desire, and then have his desire turned away from him just for him having been so bold. A crushing defeat, to be 'watching, no longer waiting'--the thing he's wanted all along finally in front of him--to just disappear, 'like a shovel' (a second death, though this retelling doesn't go into detail of the first...)
When I clicked on the link for this poem, I expected it to go more in detail about the events in the story/be the 'whole' story. (Basically, a man faces the world of the dead to find his departed love, but disobeys the rules of getting her out by looking at her before they've reached the light of the upper/our world.)
I think in the poems narrow focus on just his craving for his love, how he couldn't not look/speak her name being that close, finally having her back after waiting so long... it worked very well, actually exceeding my first expectations.
I love the way it starts, with the comparison of his wish to turn his head the seed, in his mind, of all the things seeing her will bring, his uncertainty that if he looks back she'll even be there...and what the seed turns into, the beginning of his downfall. It fits in easily that he is trying to tell himself to wait, to remove the insecurity/have faith it'll happen...which is the hardest thing to do when singing loves name is the thing one has to avoid, even though he knows that "every time we speak we stun the word". The build up is well played out too--the reader can feel it as the wise logical words of wait start to fail for him as he becomes more and more enraptured in the humming-almost-speaking auditory feeling of her name on his lips. What lover could be that strong? --And then, the 'dismantling sound' it made when it actually came out, when he actually gave in and turned his head--to find how terrible it is, to free himself of the self-control trapping him away from his desire, and then have his desire turned away from him just for him having been so bold. A crushing defeat, to be 'watching, no longer waiting'--the thing he's wanted all along finally in front of him--to just disappear, 'like a shovel' (a second death, though this retelling doesn't go into detail of the first...)
Eurydice & Orpheus by Mark Iwin
Long her darkness there, his turning head
a seed, his longing the imagined foliage not
come, his uncertainty the yellow
leaves. "The here is her," he said, over and overwithout turning round. Wait he kept
thinking, and he waited in that waiting
and knew every time we speak we stun
the word, so he hummed, but the humminggrew, each bee'd syllable toward
a name, and as he turned
almost surprised to read its sign—Eurydice
Eurydice—now the radio of his voice
dismantling sound. How terrible and free
he stood, watching, no longer
waiting, then she picked her beauty up
like a shovel and was gone.Copyright © 2009 Mark Iwin All rights reserved
from Tall If
Western Michigan University
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Writer's Blog 2/16
I think the articles' saying something along the lines of "Don't avoid unconventional/taboo ways of expression if it encourages the making of something new" (the shit part) but I then I also think it could be totally making fun of that (since it brings up parodies right before...) or that maybe its making fun of what poetry is and saying we need to shit on those old definitions to allow poetry to expand into a less definable, more inclusive concept, though what the terms of such still remain unclear...
Then it goes onto manifestos, which there are many of in the world and almost always stand to be at conflict when one feels their manifesto to be the 'only truth'. Once again, I think this is making fun of this concept that there can be only one or that it could just be saying that we all need to make a manifesto to bind us to a new personalized/subjective definition of poetry...
But since I'm obviously unsure, forgive me if I'm totally off base...
Then it goes onto manifestos, which there are many of in the world and almost always stand to be at conflict when one feels their manifesto to be the 'only truth'. Once again, I think this is making fun of this concept that there can be only one or that it could just be saying that we all need to make a manifesto to bind us to a new personalized/subjective definition of poetry...
But since I'm obviously unsure, forgive me if I'm totally off base...
Writer's Blog 2/11
So, for this first half of the semester in my fiction class, we have to do these creative exercises that are all mostly between 200-650 words. But I have a tendency to overwrite (to between 1100-2000). And then I have to downsize.
And my teacher had some good suggestions on how to eliminate stuff. But its methodical/could take forever, so I have to eye it up sometimes. And then, somehow…eek.
My last exercise was on an ‘absent’ character, that is, other characters had to give an impression of a character who does not appear in the story through dialogue, body language, communication, thoughts, etc. I originally wrote 1400 words. It had to be 400 words. It began as a story of mourning, a return to a gravesite on the dead friends birthday and the reactions it elicited more with the other characters and a certain amount of interpersonal conflicts between them and I was contemplating the possibility of making it trippy so the characters somehow had the experience of blinking in one place to find themselves in another of the past that infiltrates/confuses the present. It ended, after being edited, into being not much more then a lame cliché drug story, with people reminiscing about experiences of doing drugs and encountering police and gangs with said dead person--something that may be made interesting in a present tense if countered with some other kind of underlying/additional plot but in retrospect is just…dull, overdone, heard a million times, reminiscent in itself of a naïve time years ago when getting high was the most exciting thing rather than the same old thing that helps enhance more interesting/unique experiences that life has to offer…
And my teacher had some good suggestions on how to eliminate stuff. But its methodical/could take forever, so I have to eye it up sometimes. And then, somehow…eek.
My last exercise was on an ‘absent’ character, that is, other characters had to give an impression of a character who does not appear in the story through dialogue, body language, communication, thoughts, etc. I originally wrote 1400 words. It had to be 400 words. It began as a story of mourning, a return to a gravesite on the dead friends birthday and the reactions it elicited more with the other characters and a certain amount of interpersonal conflicts between them and I was contemplating the possibility of making it trippy so the characters somehow had the experience of blinking in one place to find themselves in another of the past that infiltrates/confuses the present. It ended, after being edited, into being not much more then a lame cliché drug story, with people reminiscing about experiences of doing drugs and encountering police and gangs with said dead person--something that may be made interesting in a present tense if countered with some other kind of underlying/additional plot but in retrospect is just…dull, overdone, heard a million times, reminiscent in itself of a naïve time years ago when getting high was the most exciting thing rather than the same old thing that helps enhance more interesting/unique experiences that life has to offer…
Writer's Blog 2/9
Originally was just going to review a book of poetry I was familiar with, but since we can't do compilations of various poets (for reasoning I can't quibble with), that category may apply to only a few choices (Jewel, Rod McKuen, Shel Silverstein).
Decision - (thanks to James's help): Lucia Perillo's Dangerous Life
Decision - (thanks to James's help): Lucia Perillo's Dangerous Life
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Writer's Blog 2/4
In attempts to avoid begging the question what 'weird' should mean here, I'm going to assume it to apply to occurences which are both not of a 'common' everyday nature and which are controversial due to partial or complete inability of one to fully explain the inner workings of what happens during the event (though I'm forced for conveniences' sake to ignore the hesitancy this begs, since one who believes in God or science may use either to explain away what otherwise would be magical or 'weird' occurences...)
Thinking this over for the past few days, I worry the weird things that have happened in my life beg the same question as above, fitting too narrowly into my worldview (meaning I can explain it based on my beliefs, so even if others might not share the same worldview or think of my explanation as reasonable, in my subjective realm I don't think it would fit the criteria of 'weird'ness this assignment commands) or delving too far into more personal spiritual experiences that don't beg broadcasting...
I suppose I just feel most things (I want to say everything but feel thats too absolute) have explanations, even if at times they are not objectively agreed on by everyone what the explanation is. So, here's my thing. Its more of a strange occurence, but I think it fits the general connotaional definition I feel is appropriate for 'weird'.
[ghost/near death/strange sight occurances (that have happened to too many other people for there, in my conclusion, not to be some reasonable explanation, though it may not be an empirical one) aside-]
Its happened on multiple occasions. I'll be walking along, getting distracted by natures beauty or the cities varying sights, and--right in the middle of putting my foot down--I'll snap out of it just in time to catch my foot before it crushes a small dead creature that somehow has found its way into the middle of the paths that people walk all day long and somehow have themselves managed to avoid--and each time I've jumped away with a "What the hell?" feeling. I've almost crushed slugs, snails, birds and once, feeling like the scariest simple should've-been-less-dramatic-event I've gone through, a dead cat that made me jump a good ten feet and had me shaken the rest of the day. And it always goes like that. no real reason that I can see, but its happened a good 7-9 (slight loss of count) times, and every time I've avoided actually stepping on the animal from sometime between right-before-the-step up to right-before-the-crushing-landing-of-foot-weight (thankfully missed. who wants dead raw animal on their boot? eww.)
Thinking this over for the past few days, I worry the weird things that have happened in my life beg the same question as above, fitting too narrowly into my worldview (meaning I can explain it based on my beliefs, so even if others might not share the same worldview or think of my explanation as reasonable, in my subjective realm I don't think it would fit the criteria of 'weird'ness this assignment commands) or delving too far into more personal spiritual experiences that don't beg broadcasting...
I suppose I just feel most things (I want to say everything but feel thats too absolute) have explanations, even if at times they are not objectively agreed on by everyone what the explanation is. So, here's my thing. Its more of a strange occurence, but I think it fits the general connotaional definition I feel is appropriate for 'weird'.
[ghost/near death/strange sight occurances (that have happened to too many other people for there, in my conclusion, not to be some reasonable explanation, though it may not be an empirical one) aside-]
Its happened on multiple occasions. I'll be walking along, getting distracted by natures beauty or the cities varying sights, and--right in the middle of putting my foot down--I'll snap out of it just in time to catch my foot before it crushes a small dead creature that somehow has found its way into the middle of the paths that people walk all day long and somehow have themselves managed to avoid--and each time I've jumped away with a "What the hell?" feeling. I've almost crushed slugs, snails, birds and once, feeling like the scariest simple should've-been-less-dramatic-event I've gone through, a dead cat that made me jump a good ten feet and had me shaken the rest of the day. And it always goes like that. no real reason that I can see, but its happened a good 7-9 (slight loss of count) times, and every time I've avoided actually stepping on the animal from sometime between right-before-the-step up to right-before-the-crushing-landing-of-foot-weight (thankfully missed. who wants dead raw animal on their boot? eww.)
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Instrumental Poetry
Instrumental music (no lyrics) which comes the closest to evoking the idea/feeling of poetry: Miles Davis - Bitches Brew
Writer's Blog 1/28
Quelling ADD can be as simple sometimes as being able to focus on someones eyes as they talk. The way they scan and focus, light up or dim away in context with what their saying--the way the forhead scrunches and swells, cheeks puffing up like balloons or relaxing the face lengthwise, the chin stretching from side to side--the way hands like to clammer about in the air, toes tapping, legs twisting and stretching... Words can materialize themselves through body language (unless the muscles are frozen).
Poetry words=body language of the universe?
The abstract border where words and emotions meet?
The interweaving of fibers of physical quality with fibers of emotional quality in a way that allows the recreation of the experience on a subtler, more subconscious level of another persons psyche?
The invocation of an emotion through even the most seemingly mundane events depicted (and at the most, the invocation of an emotion through the most spectacularly intense events as well)?
A way to sketch a scene clear enough to have form but ambiguous enough to lack set/objective definition?
Maybe this is one of the many things which would remain better undefined.
Todays news, past tense
Its the Afghan Militia, armed to the teeth, our soldiers delivered their guns on time, gave proper training, we're waiting for them to kill each other--or what's left of us.
Because lava engulfed Alaska
Fire and water swallowed California
And Florida
And the Tokyo hospitals were so full injured victims were turned away
To their deaths.
Attention
We need flying Mynah birds like in Huxley's Island constantly chirping us to pay attention, to remember that we are not where we were yesterday nor have we yet reached where we may be in the sea of potential tomorrows but in the now, even if in the now just means stuck in a messy room with dull walls brightened only by the sun hitting the perfect angle in the sky to pour its warm stream of light through the small window, the faint smell of burnt green goodness lingering in the air. Poetry/lyrical depictions in fiction remind one of small but important details such as this, reminds one not to leave 'now' empty with distracted thoughts. These details reside in the present, not just as something that will serve as a pleasant memory later but as something meant to be a pleasant experience now because even in the most dull boring time there are still things around worth noting, whether they be pleasant or ugly or plain, that--like poetry--can remind one what existence is about, in a way that may be happy or sad or simply observant but is always immersed in the surrounding, aware both of the hard uncomfortable seat under ones ass and the lovely reflections of light glimmering off hair that's fallen into the warmed face, of both the startling loud noise of the train blowing its harsh horn, the sweet soft burbling of water in a nearby stream, and the in between noise of leaves rustling and crackling as a squirrel darts through.
Poetry words=body language of the universe?
The abstract border where words and emotions meet?
The interweaving of fibers of physical quality with fibers of emotional quality in a way that allows the recreation of the experience on a subtler, more subconscious level of another persons psyche?
The invocation of an emotion through even the most seemingly mundane events depicted (and at the most, the invocation of an emotion through the most spectacularly intense events as well)?
A way to sketch a scene clear enough to have form but ambiguous enough to lack set/objective definition?
Maybe this is one of the many things which would remain better undefined.
Todays news, past tense
Its the Afghan Militia, armed to the teeth, our soldiers delivered their guns on time, gave proper training, we're waiting for them to kill each other--or what's left of us.
Because lava engulfed Alaska
Fire and water swallowed California
And Florida
And the Tokyo hospitals were so full injured victims were turned away
To their deaths.
Attention
We need flying Mynah birds like in Huxley's Island constantly chirping us to pay attention, to remember that we are not where we were yesterday nor have we yet reached where we may be in the sea of potential tomorrows but in the now, even if in the now just means stuck in a messy room with dull walls brightened only by the sun hitting the perfect angle in the sky to pour its warm stream of light through the small window, the faint smell of burnt green goodness lingering in the air. Poetry/lyrical depictions in fiction remind one of small but important details such as this, reminds one not to leave 'now' empty with distracted thoughts. These details reside in the present, not just as something that will serve as a pleasant memory later but as something meant to be a pleasant experience now because even in the most dull boring time there are still things around worth noting, whether they be pleasant or ugly or plain, that--like poetry--can remind one what existence is about, in a way that may be happy or sad or simply observant but is always immersed in the surrounding, aware both of the hard uncomfortable seat under ones ass and the lovely reflections of light glimmering off hair that's fallen into the warmed face, of both the startling loud noise of the train blowing its harsh horn, the sweet soft burbling of water in a nearby stream, and the in between noise of leaves rustling and crackling as a squirrel darts through.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Explication of Anne Sexton's "Her Kind"
Anne Sexton's "Her Kind" tells the story of a woman progressing through 3 different situations of alienation, each provoking a different emotion (maybe 3 different women?). The poem seems to be about a 'witch' who then moves into a cave and eventually is so outcast/the people are so scared of they burn her/send her to the gallows, but whether it was meant literally or metaphorically may be another matter-it could be just about a woman who is first an outcast/the subject of gossip in society, then an alienated-from-society woman living in a cave in the woods, and finally the subject of an execution.
In the first stanza she talks of being a 'witch' possessed by bravery and dreaming 'evil' things, but it makes me wonder if this isn't some kind of irony-
When talking about being some 'kind' of thing, who decides what 'her kind' is like but the crowd? It feels like she's relaying an outside image of 'her kind' more then actually casting herself in guilty admission in this stanza, though that's possible as well.
In the second stanza she seems to be talking of removing herself to a sanctuary of a 'cave', and whether this is literal or metaphorical it definately takes on the connotation of her making someplace removed from society her home, though once again this is one of those things that could also be read as her being kicked out of society and then still gossiped about with fantastical tales about feeding worms and elves.
The last stanza is the execution scene--she is brought through the streets still waving her bare arms at the villagers and once again bringing up bravery (or at least the lack of fear), this time in matters of dying, seems to still express a you-can't-touch-me/proud sort of emotion.
Either that or she too believes she's guilty and deserves death...
This is one of those poems that seems to be able to be read either way...
The speaker is a woman set to be on the outside of the situation, an onlooker who sympathizes with/has been through the same stuff as the woman actually going through the trial and tribulation, or perhaps the woman herself speaking in 3rd point of view, except she had to phrase it this way since its impossible to speak through the grave with 1st person pov. I'm not sure who the speaker is talking to--maybe herself; it seems like a private admission.
Once again, the attitude is either between pride of being 'her kind' to indignation at having to be called 'her kind' with all the outside stipulations of gossipers attached to it OR guilt at having been 'her kind' to understanding why she had to die, though i'd like to vote on the former/my first reading through's interpretation due to phrases such as how she was 'braver at night' and she didn't seem to mind to be 'possessed' or 'dreaming of evil' (what if this is just a statement of it could've been she was dreaming of escaping old school women limitations rather then actually causing evil?) and how she talks of not doing evil things in the second stanza and her usage of the word "misunderstood" rather than "evil" when showing the actual close-up examples of what made others think her a 'witch'.
A somber tone of voice seems appropriate for reading through all of this, maybe a little bolder at the beginning of the stanzas "I have gone out"; "I have found"; "I have ridden"and then somber at the end.
Regarding the structure of the poem, I think the poet knew that having all similarly lengthed stanzas that used repetition at the ending was effective at giving an ultimate sense of connection throughout the poem. The poem seems to develop chronologically, if its given its about one woman instead of three. It moves from ironic self-ridicule/mocking of others ridicule to a "Live proud of what you are, die proud of what you are" attitude.
There are 21 sentences in the poem (3 sets of 7), there are some simple sentences, some complicated. Some of the verbs are placed in front of the nouns ('dreaming evil') because evil dreaming makes it seem like the dreaming is evil instead of she is dreaming of evil things/evil things up.
There are commas, semi-colons and periods in the poem, the punctuation does not always coincide with the end of the poetic line, though it does sometimes. The punctuation in the middle of the line seems to be in order to make the poem flow more naturally. The title is repeated throughout the poem and is made for people to really re-think what is meant when she says "Her Kind"/what her intention is with the poem.
The language seems simple but descriptive. The first stanza leaves a creepy feeling, her 'haunting the black air' and going amongst the houses at night, someone with 12 fingers whose not quite a woman...the 2nd stanza leaves a comfortable feeling though, homey, with her 'warm caves in the woods' with all the trinkets she fills it with, feeding the 'worms/elves' reminds one of how someone would feed a family, 'whining, rearraging the disalligned" resembling housework. Like she wants to make a house, but her own way. The third stanza's mood is one somewhere near indignation, like its an injustice for her to die; this is especially shown through the depiction of her riding through the streets and burning/her ribs cracking. The end of the stanza also holds another mood though-one the audience is seeming to be given to respect, that she wouldn't let them have the satisfaction of shaming her with thier mislabeling of her person/character/judgemental attitudes towards her life, even in death.
The allusion in this poem would be to witch trials that have taken place over the century against odd or adultrous women who first were outcast and later burnt by fear-filled villagers unwilling to attempt to begin to understand a different point of view/accept a different lifestyle.
Using this allusion and all the figurative language that goes with it intensifies the effect of the poem deeply, putting set concrete events to frame a situation that may be very different then the exact one put down.
Its not a rhyming poem, the effect is satisfying, the tonal effect of the rhythym here is that it seems to go from quiet/less effective to powerful matter-of-fact-speaking.
The poem creates a 'no-shame' mood on the reader, the technical elements helped the poet create this effect by allowing her to bring three subsequent situations of alienation/typecasting by others together to show the damage it can bring--and that it doesn't work, because even in death the others fail to kill her spirit (and, as a warning to future witch hunters-why do something pointless when they won't let you the satisfaction?)
In the first stanza she talks of being a 'witch' possessed by bravery and dreaming 'evil' things, but it makes me wonder if this isn't some kind of irony-
When talking about being some 'kind' of thing, who decides what 'her kind' is like but the crowd? It feels like she's relaying an outside image of 'her kind' more then actually casting herself in guilty admission in this stanza, though that's possible as well.
In the second stanza she seems to be talking of removing herself to a sanctuary of a 'cave', and whether this is literal or metaphorical it definately takes on the connotation of her making someplace removed from society her home, though once again this is one of those things that could also be read as her being kicked out of society and then still gossiped about with fantastical tales about feeding worms and elves.
The last stanza is the execution scene--she is brought through the streets still waving her bare arms at the villagers and once again bringing up bravery (or at least the lack of fear), this time in matters of dying, seems to still express a you-can't-touch-me/proud sort of emotion.
Either that or she too believes she's guilty and deserves death...
This is one of those poems that seems to be able to be read either way...
The speaker is a woman set to be on the outside of the situation, an onlooker who sympathizes with/has been through the same stuff as the woman actually going through the trial and tribulation, or perhaps the woman herself speaking in 3rd point of view, except she had to phrase it this way since its impossible to speak through the grave with 1st person pov. I'm not sure who the speaker is talking to--maybe herself; it seems like a private admission.
Once again, the attitude is either between pride of being 'her kind' to indignation at having to be called 'her kind' with all the outside stipulations of gossipers attached to it OR guilt at having been 'her kind' to understanding why she had to die, though i'd like to vote on the former/my first reading through's interpretation due to phrases such as how she was 'braver at night' and she didn't seem to mind to be 'possessed' or 'dreaming of evil' (what if this is just a statement of it could've been she was dreaming of escaping old school women limitations rather then actually causing evil?) and how she talks of not doing evil things in the second stanza and her usage of the word "misunderstood" rather than "evil" when showing the actual close-up examples of what made others think her a 'witch'.
A somber tone of voice seems appropriate for reading through all of this, maybe a little bolder at the beginning of the stanzas "I have gone out"; "I have found"; "I have ridden"and then somber at the end.
Regarding the structure of the poem, I think the poet knew that having all similarly lengthed stanzas that used repetition at the ending was effective at giving an ultimate sense of connection throughout the poem. The poem seems to develop chronologically, if its given its about one woman instead of three. It moves from ironic self-ridicule/mocking of others ridicule to a "Live proud of what you are, die proud of what you are" attitude.
There are 21 sentences in the poem (3 sets of 7), there are some simple sentences, some complicated. Some of the verbs are placed in front of the nouns ('dreaming evil') because evil dreaming makes it seem like the dreaming is evil instead of she is dreaming of evil things/evil things up.
There are commas, semi-colons and periods in the poem, the punctuation does not always coincide with the end of the poetic line, though it does sometimes. The punctuation in the middle of the line seems to be in order to make the poem flow more naturally. The title is repeated throughout the poem and is made for people to really re-think what is meant when she says "Her Kind"/what her intention is with the poem.
The language seems simple but descriptive. The first stanza leaves a creepy feeling, her 'haunting the black air' and going amongst the houses at night, someone with 12 fingers whose not quite a woman...the 2nd stanza leaves a comfortable feeling though, homey, with her 'warm caves in the woods' with all the trinkets she fills it with, feeding the 'worms/elves' reminds one of how someone would feed a family, 'whining, rearraging the disalligned" resembling housework. Like she wants to make a house, but her own way. The third stanza's mood is one somewhere near indignation, like its an injustice for her to die; this is especially shown through the depiction of her riding through the streets and burning/her ribs cracking. The end of the stanza also holds another mood though-one the audience is seeming to be given to respect, that she wouldn't let them have the satisfaction of shaming her with thier mislabeling of her person/character/judgemental attitudes towards her life, even in death.
The allusion in this poem would be to witch trials that have taken place over the century against odd or adultrous women who first were outcast and later burnt by fear-filled villagers unwilling to attempt to begin to understand a different point of view/accept a different lifestyle.
Using this allusion and all the figurative language that goes with it intensifies the effect of the poem deeply, putting set concrete events to frame a situation that may be very different then the exact one put down.
Its not a rhyming poem, the effect is satisfying, the tonal effect of the rhythym here is that it seems to go from quiet/less effective to powerful matter-of-fact-speaking.
The poem creates a 'no-shame' mood on the reader, the technical elements helped the poet create this effect by allowing her to bring three subsequent situations of alienation/typecasting by others together to show the damage it can bring--and that it doesn't work, because even in death the others fail to kill her spirit (and, as a warning to future witch hunters-why do something pointless when they won't let you the satisfaction?)
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Explication of Etheridge Knights' "Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane"
Explication of Poem -
Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane -Etheridge Knight
This poem is a narrative tale about the members of a prison waiting to find out how the lobotomy of the toughest prisoner, “Hard Rock” has gone, and subsequently about how the lobotomy causes Hard Rock to lose his hero status in the emotional reaction of despair the other prisoners exhibit. The speaker is another prisoner, talking for the group of other prisoners who were more physically unable and/or less courageous then “Hard Rock”. He is talking as if he is telling a story to someone unfamiliar with the prison system/an outsider to the situation. The speaker has a mix of nostalgia and despair in his voice and his attitude toward the poems subject/Hard Rock is one of pity--both for himself and the other prisoners. The voice is somewhat reliable for his own feelings but the other prisoners may not share his opinion on the lobotomy, though the events seem straight forward if the emotions aren’t. The whole last paragraph of the poem reaffirms this idea. The freestyle of the poem allows a conforming of the form to whatever is necessary for the momentary emotion of each line. The poem develops in a way where the audience is more in on whats going to happen then the people within the story are made to have, a successful recreating of an event without giving oneself underserved credit of more knowledge then one actually had when the events were occurring. It moves from curiosity/wonderment at whether they really could break such a tough dude with one procedure or if they were bluffing and maybe there wasn’t anything that bad that could happen if they pushed as far as Hard Rock--to despair at finding out there was a way to steal the life out someone too dangerous or aggressive or a problem or loud or the slightest bit annoying, and to crushedness from realizing their dreams are hopeless.
There are about 42 sentences in the poem, mainly complicated, verb-nouns seem normal, some enjambement, some end stopped lines, title briefly explains situation going on
There is definitely colloquial prison language in the poem, know the meanings of all of them, no allusions I see, mood/attitude associated=fear of lobotomy/wonder at the possible even more inhumane uses lobotomy can be put to.. The imagery of how tough Hard Rock was before the lobotomy to how long it took him to remember his name/his passivity afterwards largely contributed to the sound of the poem.
Not too much rhyming/irregular occurrence, the effect of this as well as the tonal effect of the rhythm here adds to the authentic feeling,
The poem creates a contemplative mood and is achieved by listing surface events that have emotions behind them.
Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane -Etheridge Knight
This poem is a narrative tale about the members of a prison waiting to find out how the lobotomy of the toughest prisoner, “Hard Rock” has gone, and subsequently about how the lobotomy causes Hard Rock to lose his hero status in the emotional reaction of despair the other prisoners exhibit. The speaker is another prisoner, talking for the group of other prisoners who were more physically unable and/or less courageous then “Hard Rock”. He is talking as if he is telling a story to someone unfamiliar with the prison system/an outsider to the situation. The speaker has a mix of nostalgia and despair in his voice and his attitude toward the poems subject/Hard Rock is one of pity--both for himself and the other prisoners. The voice is somewhat reliable for his own feelings but the other prisoners may not share his opinion on the lobotomy, though the events seem straight forward if the emotions aren’t. The whole last paragraph of the poem reaffirms this idea. The freestyle of the poem allows a conforming of the form to whatever is necessary for the momentary emotion of each line. The poem develops in a way where the audience is more in on whats going to happen then the people within the story are made to have, a successful recreating of an event without giving oneself underserved credit of more knowledge then one actually had when the events were occurring. It moves from curiosity/wonderment at whether they really could break such a tough dude with one procedure or if they were bluffing and maybe there wasn’t anything that bad that could happen if they pushed as far as Hard Rock--to despair at finding out there was a way to steal the life out someone too dangerous or aggressive or a problem or loud or the slightest bit annoying, and to crushedness from realizing their dreams are hopeless.
There are about 42 sentences in the poem, mainly complicated, verb-nouns seem normal, some enjambement, some end stopped lines, title briefly explains situation going on
There is definitely colloquial prison language in the poem, know the meanings of all of them, no allusions I see, mood/attitude associated=fear of lobotomy/wonder at the possible even more inhumane uses lobotomy can be put to.. The imagery of how tough Hard Rock was before the lobotomy to how long it took him to remember his name/his passivity afterwards largely contributed to the sound of the poem.
Not too much rhyming/irregular occurrence, the effect of this as well as the tonal effect of the rhythm here adds to the authentic feeling,
The poem creates a contemplative mood and is achieved by listing surface events that have emotions behind them.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Writers Journal 1/21
Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
'Tis the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
-Emily Dickenson
The majority is who determines who is sane and who is not, and oftentimes this has been done by assessing the degree in which one assimilates themselves to cultural norms/mainstream attitudes of the day. The unstated problem/logical conclusion of this poem is that by condescendenly excluding voices of 'madness' from being heard we are denying possibility of acquiring the wisdom those voices may hold. These are probably overused/cliche, but they work: How mad was the guy who first said the earth was round? or the sun was at the universe's center?
Possibilities can only exist if there is some chance for them to become actualities--otherwise they 'aren't possible' and should be stored away in the category of 'idea' or at most 'fantasy'. While it is easy to fall into paranoia about the excessive transformation of irresponsible, different or 'mad' fantasies into reality we forget that it is good to be just as wary about shutting out divinest sense its easier to label as 'madness'.
That being said, possibilities can be endless--people can create new meaning for things, and there are certain things beyond average sense/logic that can come in as madness (ie-creativity, passion, divine experience) that really come from the realm of empirically unverifiable concepts that people have to use another kind of sense to explore the possibilities of the focus's actual existence.
To think that life ever stops bringing new lessons is limiting. What is the goal but to reach the limitless by use of any of the limited means we have available to use? Tasting the limitless can be invigorating or depressing, sometimes both--one feels (universal) Love and Eternity, and then the limited grabs one back to remind one that in this lifetime, on this plane, we are still trapped in our bodies, still on the physical plane--for a reason, presumably to some anyway--and by refusing to attach oneself from both the world's pleasures and also from too far retracting from the world one can avoid both extremes-one of mistakenly thinking material/pleasure-giving things make one happier & therefore excluding possibility that there can be something beyond the external that could be beneficial to ones development as a person and the other of mistakenly feeling superior because of attachment to austerities/formed never-re-questioned habits & therefore excluding possibilities of keeping in touch with this gift/curse of imperfect humanity that causes us to embrace unusual (to the participant) interest or experiences despite the fact that at times it may go against average logic, indeed we reshape logic over time to be more sympathetic to both sides of arguments and get free of preconcieved conception in favor of redefined or newly created ideas, and maybe one day we'll go back beyond strictly categorized words we want to have meaning and transform the world into something closer to being, just living.
And, back to Emily Dickinson, who lived somewhat more removed from the world, and my wondering if she ever considered, upon writing this the consequences if people hadn't over the years at least in some number, at some points, recognized the divinest sense in madness on a grander scale, instead putting 'dangerous' people on a chain, as her poem states (and the consequences of the witch-idea hunts/claims of heresy there have been...)
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
'Tis the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.
-Emily Dickenson
The majority is who determines who is sane and who is not, and oftentimes this has been done by assessing the degree in which one assimilates themselves to cultural norms/mainstream attitudes of the day. The unstated problem/logical conclusion of this poem is that by condescendenly excluding voices of 'madness' from being heard we are denying possibility of acquiring the wisdom those voices may hold. These are probably overused/cliche, but they work: How mad was the guy who first said the earth was round? or the sun was at the universe's center?
Possibilities can only exist if there is some chance for them to become actualities--otherwise they 'aren't possible' and should be stored away in the category of 'idea' or at most 'fantasy'. While it is easy to fall into paranoia about the excessive transformation of irresponsible, different or 'mad' fantasies into reality we forget that it is good to be just as wary about shutting out divinest sense its easier to label as 'madness'.
That being said, possibilities can be endless--people can create new meaning for things, and there are certain things beyond average sense/logic that can come in as madness (ie-creativity, passion, divine experience) that really come from the realm of empirically unverifiable concepts that people have to use another kind of sense to explore the possibilities of the focus's actual existence.
To think that life ever stops bringing new lessons is limiting. What is the goal but to reach the limitless by use of any of the limited means we have available to use? Tasting the limitless can be invigorating or depressing, sometimes both--one feels (universal) Love and Eternity, and then the limited grabs one back to remind one that in this lifetime, on this plane, we are still trapped in our bodies, still on the physical plane--for a reason, presumably to some anyway--and by refusing to attach oneself from both the world's pleasures and also from too far retracting from the world one can avoid both extremes-one of mistakenly thinking material/pleasure-giving things make one happier & therefore excluding possibility that there can be something beyond the external that could be beneficial to ones development as a person and the other of mistakenly feeling superior because of attachment to austerities/formed never-re-questioned habits & therefore excluding possibilities of keeping in touch with this gift/curse of imperfect humanity that causes us to embrace unusual (to the participant) interest or experiences despite the fact that at times it may go against average logic, indeed we reshape logic over time to be more sympathetic to both sides of arguments and get free of preconcieved conception in favor of redefined or newly created ideas, and maybe one day we'll go back beyond strictly categorized words we want to have meaning and transform the world into something closer to being, just living.
And, back to Emily Dickinson, who lived somewhat more removed from the world, and my wondering if she ever considered, upon writing this the consequences if people hadn't over the years at least in some number, at some points, recognized the divinest sense in madness on a grander scale, instead putting 'dangerous' people on a chain, as her poem states (and the consequences of the witch-idea hunts/claims of heresy there have been...)
Monday, January 19, 2009
Writers Journal 1/14
For some, the night can never be dark enough.
Past sins and good deeds alike are evenly ironed over with the deepest part of the shadow and there is no need in the dark to find whats hiding, no need to recreate it in a more presentable way, no worries of compromising the integrity of the dark nor having to successfully scratch through the lit surface to the depth behind it. One can just sit there, breathing in the strong feeling that the blankets of blackness invokes, letting oneself be soothed by the feeling of being enveloped in darkness's solace--that place where peace, tranquility, and evenness meet, the place where there is no like or dislike just pure quiet energy that burbles under calm surfaces ready to change whatever it touches. It can serve as a hiding spot, the place where no one can see tears that fall or hearts that bleed, but it also can be a sanctuary for one to eliminate the distractions of the world of beings and allow focus to be brought on being, both submission to divine being (note, not 'a divine being'), the suffering of other beings, and the ability for one being to learn to just be, to enjoy all the world has to offer without despairing over or neglecting the first two concerns.
The night's blank slate and dark absolution from judgment offers creativity opportunity to flourish unhinged, for fiction authors and poets to either depart from, enhance, and/or change the perception of physical truths in this world so they appear in ways that are extra fraught with double meanings, egotistical claims at acquired knowledge diminished by a less narcissistic attempt to subtly hint at that which cannot completely be recreated or replaced by the words people attempt to pin onto them but can at best be shown through creative, figurative, metaphors and less agressive/obtrusive (or sometimes more...) rhymes and statements.
Past sins and good deeds alike are evenly ironed over with the deepest part of the shadow and there is no need in the dark to find whats hiding, no need to recreate it in a more presentable way, no worries of compromising the integrity of the dark nor having to successfully scratch through the lit surface to the depth behind it. One can just sit there, breathing in the strong feeling that the blankets of blackness invokes, letting oneself be soothed by the feeling of being enveloped in darkness's solace--that place where peace, tranquility, and evenness meet, the place where there is no like or dislike just pure quiet energy that burbles under calm surfaces ready to change whatever it touches. It can serve as a hiding spot, the place where no one can see tears that fall or hearts that bleed, but it also can be a sanctuary for one to eliminate the distractions of the world of beings and allow focus to be brought on being, both submission to divine being (note, not 'a divine being'), the suffering of other beings, and the ability for one being to learn to just be, to enjoy all the world has to offer without despairing over or neglecting the first two concerns.
The night's blank slate and dark absolution from judgment offers creativity opportunity to flourish unhinged, for fiction authors and poets to either depart from, enhance, and/or change the perception of physical truths in this world so they appear in ways that are extra fraught with double meanings, egotistical claims at acquired knowledge diminished by a less narcissistic attempt to subtly hint at that which cannot completely be recreated or replaced by the words people attempt to pin onto them but can at best be shown through creative, figurative, metaphors and less agressive/obtrusive (or sometimes more...) rhymes and statements.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Writers Journal 1/12
Zombies, Beatles and Temptations crowd around, causing the floor to pulse, and small and strong limbs to shake and swirl--once, again, three times round,
happy to imitate the ignored circular path of clock hands that like to think they matter.
On and on it goes, no concern for their movement along the usual circular path at the usual snails pace--
There is no place for time in this land of energy, and lights, the cushion is not there for time to crash down during the slow-pulsed intervals-- its there to temper and add to the significance of the emotional movement of people's motion, melody, laughter, bright colorful shines illuminating atmospherically dimmed room which are all swirling together.
Mother and daughter dance around the joyful sound of laughter; it rings out, reaching far enough corners to echo back over a lifetime.
happy to imitate the ignored circular path of clock hands that like to think they matter.
On and on it goes, no concern for their movement along the usual circular path at the usual snails pace--
There is no place for time in this land of energy, and lights, the cushion is not there for time to crash down during the slow-pulsed intervals-- its there to temper and add to the significance of the emotional movement of people's motion, melody, laughter, bright colorful shines illuminating atmospherically dimmed room which are all swirling together.
Mother and daughter dance around the joyful sound of laughter; it rings out, reaching far enough corners to echo back over a lifetime.
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