In considering my impressions of John Ashberry, I can’t help ruminating on the creative process. I don’t mean Ashberry’s individual technique -- I’ll get to that. I mean the creative process as a force within any living person. I think of the speaker of “The Instruction Manual” as an open character, whose body can be inhabited by whoever reads the poem. I put myself in. The first person perspective of the poem makes this easy. At the end, the perspective shifts to that of a shared experience.
The objective is to write an instruction manual in time to meet a deadline. The act of writing is referred to in the intro of the poem: “I wish I did not have to write the instruction manual” (2). At the end, the manual stands as the final written product: “I turn my gaze / Back to the instruction manual which has made me dream of Guadalajara” (73-73).
The dream, then, must be what comes during the writing. The process of writing conjures the dream. The dream takes over consciousness. The writer is so focused on experiencing the dream that he doesn’t notice he is documenting the dream with words. “How limited, but how complete withal, has been our experience of Guadalajara!” (69). Notice that the speaker says “our” experience. The creative process can be shared by all.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Ann Sexton "The Room of My Life"
Ann Sexton is a very visual poet--not with the laid-out image of the words, like ee cummings, but by utilizing the power of language to evoke detailed imagery in the mind of the reader. The rhythm of her sentences, as determined by punctuation and line breaks, forces the reader to question the varying potential values of words. For instance, some words could function either as a noun, verb, or both depending upon the spontaneous form they take when spoken through the mouth of the reader.
“The Room of My Life” is a poem that describes household objects in unconventional ways. Sexton presents images--like ashtrays, a typewriter, a black chair--that instantly call forth specific images in my head. When thinking of these words alone I see: a shallow metal bowl with indentations for cigarettes to rest; an antiquated typing machine with white letters on the keys; and a Naugahyde-upholstered dining chair.
In the poem, these very objects take on unexpected roles that skew my original ideas of object purpose. The speaker uses the ashtray to catch tears (4). The keys on the typewriter look at her-- “each an eyeball that is never shut” (7). The chair resembles a dog’s coffin (Or maybe the dog sleeps on the chair, looking lifeless). Instantly new possibilities emerge for every common, ostensibly task-specific object. Each object actually takes on life, becomes a character.
When reading this poem aloud, it sounds to me like the poetic thoughts of a journalist. Taken out of context, the sentences are descriptive but succinct. Look at the sentence enjambed between lines 27 - 29. “Each day I feed the world out there / although birds explode / right and left.” Stretched out, this sentence strikes me as a single complete thought. But Sexton breaks it up into three lines, thus fragmenting it to expand it possibilities. As a reader, I have to pause to think about what it means to feed the world. Then I picture birds exploding. Then I consider direction. After that, I go back to view the sentence as a whole, and my mind fills up with different imagistic interpretations. Does she feed the birds until they burst? Does she plant seeds? Does she live in a chaotic environment in which birds spontaneously combust for no known reason? Do two birds fly off in separate directions after eating something she has given them, then explode in midair on either side of her? So many possibilities are pouring into my brain!
The final sentence of “The Room of My Life” perfectly articulates what occurs in the heads of Sexton’s readers:
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat. (33-35)
All the aforementioned specific objects come alive with possibility. They really do break free of expectations, showing how multi-faceted they can be (shaking up my ideas of potentiality in purpose). And they do it through language, not visual animation. Being that each reader will picture the objects that are at first familiar and individual to his or her experiences, the images are uniquely vivid in unlimited ways.
“The Room of My Life” is a poem that describes household objects in unconventional ways. Sexton presents images--like ashtrays, a typewriter, a black chair--that instantly call forth specific images in my head. When thinking of these words alone I see: a shallow metal bowl with indentations for cigarettes to rest; an antiquated typing machine with white letters on the keys; and a Naugahyde-upholstered dining chair.
In the poem, these very objects take on unexpected roles that skew my original ideas of object purpose. The speaker uses the ashtray to catch tears (4). The keys on the typewriter look at her-- “each an eyeball that is never shut” (7). The chair resembles a dog’s coffin (Or maybe the dog sleeps on the chair, looking lifeless). Instantly new possibilities emerge for every common, ostensibly task-specific object. Each object actually takes on life, becomes a character.
When reading this poem aloud, it sounds to me like the poetic thoughts of a journalist. Taken out of context, the sentences are descriptive but succinct. Look at the sentence enjambed between lines 27 - 29. “Each day I feed the world out there / although birds explode / right and left.” Stretched out, this sentence strikes me as a single complete thought. But Sexton breaks it up into three lines, thus fragmenting it to expand it possibilities. As a reader, I have to pause to think about what it means to feed the world. Then I picture birds exploding. Then I consider direction. After that, I go back to view the sentence as a whole, and my mind fills up with different imagistic interpretations. Does she feed the birds until they burst? Does she plant seeds? Does she live in a chaotic environment in which birds spontaneously combust for no known reason? Do two birds fly off in separate directions after eating something she has given them, then explode in midair on either side of her? So many possibilities are pouring into my brain!
The final sentence of “The Room of My Life” perfectly articulates what occurs in the heads of Sexton’s readers:
My objects dream and wear new costumes,
compelled to, it seems, by all the words in my hands
and the sea that bangs in my throat. (33-35)
All the aforementioned specific objects come alive with possibility. They really do break free of expectations, showing how multi-faceted they can be (shaking up my ideas of potentiality in purpose). And they do it through language, not visual animation. Being that each reader will picture the objects that are at first familiar and individual to his or her experiences, the images are uniquely vivid in unlimited ways.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
"The Colossus" Sylvia Plath
Maybe I didn’t pick the best day to dive into a Sylvia Plath poem. This morning the sun rose warm and I rose with it. I went for a jog to clear my head. I played fetch with my chirpy Chihuahua. I smiled a handful of times without even knowing it. Then I pulled out my poetry book and read “The Colossus” by Sylvia Plath. Each drawn out, open-throated vowel carried my heart farther into contemplative emotion, flinging it down a tumultuous waterfall, nearly drowning me in melancholy.
Significantly, the poem is written from the perspective of a female. She spends her days cleaning, maintaining, and repairing the colossal monument of her father. Interestingly enough, the monument is a construction of human hands; but it is made with the materials of nature: Acres of weeds make the brow, a hill of black Cyprus and acanthine leaves make the hair, the tongue is a stone pillar. Riding the line distinguishing man-made elements from natural elements, the eyes take shape as tumuli, which are defined as burial grounds. The use of these materials in the creation of the monument calls into question what it takes to create a man, to create a patriarch. Is his colossal position in society predestined by nature, or is his immenseness the result of a long tradition of social significance given to patriarchy?
The female speaker in this poem also brings into question the gendered expectations of a female role. She is tiny in comparison to the male monument. She scales “little ladders with gluepots and pails of Lysol” (11) -- an image of modern domestic servitude -- to keep the monument clean and intact. The depiction of her involvement in keeping the monument whole, combined with lines like “I am none the wiser” (10), shows that the woman is actively involved in upholding the traditions that keep her feeling so insignificant. The speaker cannot see this, of course, but the reader can. Then the reader can look at the still unequal relationship of female as compared with male in modern society. This poem reminds us of the ways in which this inequality is still silently active. Depressing, right? Intellectually stimulating and inspirational, too.
The sadness of “The Colossus,” as derived from the subject matter and reinforced by the slow moving assonance, is overwhelming. As readers, we must ask ourselves if the sadness projected by the speaker of the poem invisibly pervades the lives of other women. How many other females in our society unknowingly dwarf themselves by their own preservation of patriarchal monuments as “pithy and historical as the Roman Forum” (18)?
In contrast with what I have written so far, there is the chance that the speaker is piecing together this broken and soiled monument in order to better understand it, and thus understand herself a little better. It frustrates her that she “shall never get [it] put together entirely,” (1). How can she fully comprehend something--especially if it’s on such a large scale--that just will not come together clearly? With this interpretation, she is like an archeologist on a dig. She tries to contextualize the past by dedicating her life to clarifying the mystery of history. Perhaps she is actually privileged to be so human-sized in comparison to the cold and broken monument. In contrast to it, she has a warmth and curiosity that keep her connected to reality and humanity.
I guess all I’ve discovered is that I have only just begun to discover this poem. My bright day is not ruined, really, because now I am enthralled by the possibilities that lurk inside a single poem. My mind is working. My emotions are triggering. Perhaps diving into a Sylvia Plath poem is the perfect way to continue a great day.
Significantly, the poem is written from the perspective of a female. She spends her days cleaning, maintaining, and repairing the colossal monument of her father. Interestingly enough, the monument is a construction of human hands; but it is made with the materials of nature: Acres of weeds make the brow, a hill of black Cyprus and acanthine leaves make the hair, the tongue is a stone pillar. Riding the line distinguishing man-made elements from natural elements, the eyes take shape as tumuli, which are defined as burial grounds. The use of these materials in the creation of the monument calls into question what it takes to create a man, to create a patriarch. Is his colossal position in society predestined by nature, or is his immenseness the result of a long tradition of social significance given to patriarchy?
The female speaker in this poem also brings into question the gendered expectations of a female role. She is tiny in comparison to the male monument. She scales “little ladders with gluepots and pails of Lysol” (11) -- an image of modern domestic servitude -- to keep the monument clean and intact. The depiction of her involvement in keeping the monument whole, combined with lines like “I am none the wiser” (10), shows that the woman is actively involved in upholding the traditions that keep her feeling so insignificant. The speaker cannot see this, of course, but the reader can. Then the reader can look at the still unequal relationship of female as compared with male in modern society. This poem reminds us of the ways in which this inequality is still silently active. Depressing, right? Intellectually stimulating and inspirational, too.
The sadness of “The Colossus,” as derived from the subject matter and reinforced by the slow moving assonance, is overwhelming. As readers, we must ask ourselves if the sadness projected by the speaker of the poem invisibly pervades the lives of other women. How many other females in our society unknowingly dwarf themselves by their own preservation of patriarchal monuments as “pithy and historical as the Roman Forum” (18)?
In contrast with what I have written so far, there is the chance that the speaker is piecing together this broken and soiled monument in order to better understand it, and thus understand herself a little better. It frustrates her that she “shall never get [it] put together entirely,” (1). How can she fully comprehend something--especially if it’s on such a large scale--that just will not come together clearly? With this interpretation, she is like an archeologist on a dig. She tries to contextualize the past by dedicating her life to clarifying the mystery of history. Perhaps she is actually privileged to be so human-sized in comparison to the cold and broken monument. In contrast to it, she has a warmth and curiosity that keep her connected to reality and humanity.
I guess all I’ve discovered is that I have only just begun to discover this poem. My bright day is not ruined, really, because now I am enthralled by the possibilities that lurk inside a single poem. My mind is working. My emotions are triggering. Perhaps diving into a Sylvia Plath poem is the perfect way to continue a great day.
[r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r] ee cummings
I don’t know how he does it, but ee cummings always makes my heart bounce around in my ribcage like one of those rubber super-bouncy balls you buy at the entrance of a grocery store. Normally I read poetry out loud because it gets my brain more involved, but I savor cummings’ poetry internally. I really like that poems like “[r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r]” can’t be vocalized. Yet they somehow ring triumphantly in the ears of the soul.
In this poem, cummings uses his typewriter to give animation to a grasshopper. To some, this may look like alphabet soup and punctuation vomit. To me, every character on the page is evocative as hell. This is very difficult for me to explain in words. I’ll keep trying. I keep having giggle fits.
The first line is a scrambling of the word “grasshopper,” with each letter separated by a hyphen. This simulates, to me, a creature hopping from one space to the next, leaving behind clues of its footprints in no particular order. But it gets hoppier! The first line is indented to the right. The second line is more centered. The next two lines are on the left margin. The layout of the poem requires the reader’s eyes to literally hop from one line to the next in order to read it. This is whimsical brilliance--and really fun, too.
Then there is the unusual but evocative use of parentheses. “a)s w(e loo)k” (3). I can see at least two images in this line alone: 1. The body of a grasshopper: the “a” is its head, the “w” and “k” are legs, and the closed parentheses are its body segments. 2. The other image I see is binoculars. Binoculars make a fitting image because the line narrates the act of looking, which can be aided by binoculars. The form is functional to the theme in more than one way.
After line 3, the poem continues in a manner that is difficult for me to discern intellectually. The sentence is broken up in continuation of margin hopping and syntax scrambling. I am confused about what the poem actually says, but the feeling of it is so clear to me. cummings has an absolutely incredible ability to use words--and letters, punctuation, spacing, syntax, typography, or whatever you want to call it--on a heightened emotional level!
What is so fascinating about cummings’ way with words is that the “wordness” doesn’t interfere with the emotional impact. There is visual stimulation in the layout, as well as connotative exaltation in the individual words. A torrent of unnamable feelings is unleashed inside of me when I LOOK at this poem. I can’t tell you if the feelings are a natural part of me, or if they are manufactured by cummings. I don’t care, honestly. It is thrilling just to be swept up in it.
In this poem, cummings uses his typewriter to give animation to a grasshopper. To some, this may look like alphabet soup and punctuation vomit. To me, every character on the page is evocative as hell. This is very difficult for me to explain in words. I’ll keep trying. I keep having giggle fits.
The first line is a scrambling of the word “grasshopper,” with each letter separated by a hyphen. This simulates, to me, a creature hopping from one space to the next, leaving behind clues of its footprints in no particular order. But it gets hoppier! The first line is indented to the right. The second line is more centered. The next two lines are on the left margin. The layout of the poem requires the reader’s eyes to literally hop from one line to the next in order to read it. This is whimsical brilliance--and really fun, too.
Then there is the unusual but evocative use of parentheses. “a)s w(e loo)k” (3). I can see at least two images in this line alone: 1. The body of a grasshopper: the “a” is its head, the “w” and “k” are legs, and the closed parentheses are its body segments. 2. The other image I see is binoculars. Binoculars make a fitting image because the line narrates the act of looking, which can be aided by binoculars. The form is functional to the theme in more than one way.
After line 3, the poem continues in a manner that is difficult for me to discern intellectually. The sentence is broken up in continuation of margin hopping and syntax scrambling. I am confused about what the poem actually says, but the feeling of it is so clear to me. cummings has an absolutely incredible ability to use words--and letters, punctuation, spacing, syntax, typography, or whatever you want to call it--on a heightened emotional level!
What is so fascinating about cummings’ way with words is that the “wordness” doesn’t interfere with the emotional impact. There is visual stimulation in the layout, as well as connotative exaltation in the individual words. A torrent of unnamable feelings is unleashed inside of me when I LOOK at this poem. I can’t tell you if the feelings are a natural part of me, or if they are manufactured by cummings. I don’t care, honestly. It is thrilling just to be swept up in it.
"Sylvester's Dying Bed" Langston Hughes
I wonder if “Sylvester’s Dying Bed,” by Langston Hughes, is written in dialogue with Emily Dickinson’s poem 465--which begins “I heard a Fly buzz--when I died--”.
Hughes’ poem is his own. It is written in Southern African-American vernacular, as are most of his other pieces. Like Dickinson’s 465, “Sylvester” deals with death. The circumstances, however, are quite different. Whereas Dickinson’s speaker feels isolated and powerless, Sylvester is surrounded by “a hundred pretty mamas” (7). He is actually in a self-assured state of mind: “But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester, / Yes, sir! Long as life do last!” (21-22). Sylvester does not seem afraid of death. Instead, he accepts it as a part of a necessary cycle, which he compares to the slow flow of the River Jordan (19).
Whereas Dickinson speaks of stillness and the color blue, Hughes puts Sylvester in motion amid darker colors. In line 25, Sylvester reaches up to hug the “Black gals” (13) and “Brown-skins” (15).
The ending of “Sylvester’s Dying Bed” is the blaring siren that calls me to associate it with Dickinson’s poem. “And I reaches up to hug ’em-- / When de Lawd put out de light. / / Then everything was darkness. / In a great…big…night.” (25-28).
The dash connecting line 25 to line 26 is indicative of Dickinson’s poetic technique. In both poems, something comes between the speaker and the light. Dickinson’s has the buzz; Hughes’ has “de Lawd.” The last line of Dickinson’s is slowed down by longer vowels; Hughes’ is slowed by ellipses. Both leave the reader feeling uncertain about what lies beyond death.
The similarities between the two poems are remarkable.
Hughes’ poem is his own. It is written in Southern African-American vernacular, as are most of his other pieces. Like Dickinson’s 465, “Sylvester” deals with death. The circumstances, however, are quite different. Whereas Dickinson’s speaker feels isolated and powerless, Sylvester is surrounded by “a hundred pretty mamas” (7). He is actually in a self-assured state of mind: “But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester, / Yes, sir! Long as life do last!” (21-22). Sylvester does not seem afraid of death. Instead, he accepts it as a part of a necessary cycle, which he compares to the slow flow of the River Jordan (19).
Whereas Dickinson speaks of stillness and the color blue, Hughes puts Sylvester in motion amid darker colors. In line 25, Sylvester reaches up to hug the “Black gals” (13) and “Brown-skins” (15).
The ending of “Sylvester’s Dying Bed” is the blaring siren that calls me to associate it with Dickinson’s poem. “And I reaches up to hug ’em-- / When de Lawd put out de light. / / Then everything was darkness. / In a great…big…night.” (25-28).
The dash connecting line 25 to line 26 is indicative of Dickinson’s poetic technique. In both poems, something comes between the speaker and the light. Dickinson’s has the buzz; Hughes’ has “de Lawd.” The last line of Dickinson’s is slowed down by longer vowels; Hughes’ is slowed by ellipses. Both leave the reader feeling uncertain about what lies beyond death.
The similarities between the two poems are remarkable.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Marianne Moore "To a Steam Roller"
Marianne Moore’s “To a Steam Roller” has an interesting structure. It consists of three stanzas, each with four lines. Lines one and two of each stanza begin at the same margin, but each stanza’s second line reaches farther right than the first. The third line of each stanza has a slightly indented margin. In stanzas one and three, the third line stretches farther toward the right margin than the lines before it; but the third line of the second stanza is just shy in length to the line above it. The fourth line of each stanza is indented farthest from the left margin. Once again, the first and third stanzas boast their lines in ordered succession towards the right hand margin, but the fourth line of the second stanza ends just before it is able to outstretch the second line.
Rather than looking flatted, as if run over by a steam roller, each stanza looks like its lines have been stacked on top of each other by a forklift. The title floats above the poem, directly in the center of the page. Perhaps the stanzaic structure of the poem is a perfect gift for a steam roller. It would be very tempting for a steam roller to come along and flatten each line into conformity. The title, then, is perhaps like the designation tag on a Christmas present. This gift is for you, steam roller!
As for the content of “To a Steam Roller,” I am reminded of Wallace Stevens’ “The Snow Man.” Lines seven through ten elicit this reaction: “Were not ‘impersonal judgment in aesthetic / matters, a metaphysical impossibility,’ you / / might fairly achieve / it.” This makes me think of Stevens’ challenge to clear the mind of all distractions to achieve an open state of nothingness. It is interesting that a cold, impersonal interpretation of a poem might yield more insight into its meaning that the passionate, empathic understanding of a poem might leave behind. Truth lies in objectivity, but Moore presents a quote that says impersonal objectivity is impossible.
Then there is a shift in the tone of the poem that seems to celebrate this impossibility. To the object that is capable of “impersonal judgment” the speaker warns that “As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive / of one’s attending upon you,” (10-11). The word “butterfly” is specific in its thingness. It brings a concrete image with connotations of beauty--“aesthetic / matters”-- and freedom in its graceful ability to fly. A steam roller can not possibly understand the thingness of a butterfly, but a human certainly can.
The steam roller lacks “half wit” (3). It has a useful function, but it lacks appreciation for its task and for the subjects it flattens. “Sparkling chips of rock,” (5) which bring a glittering image to the mind of a human, “are crushed down to the level of the parent block” (6) by the unsympathetic steam roller.
Perhaps the challenge, then, is not to clear the mind to achieve a state of nothingness. Rather, it is to resist that state of “impersonal judgment,” which reduces the personness of a person until he or she has only the “half wit” of a machine.
Rather than looking flatted, as if run over by a steam roller, each stanza looks like its lines have been stacked on top of each other by a forklift. The title floats above the poem, directly in the center of the page. Perhaps the stanzaic structure of the poem is a perfect gift for a steam roller. It would be very tempting for a steam roller to come along and flatten each line into conformity. The title, then, is perhaps like the designation tag on a Christmas present. This gift is for you, steam roller!
As for the content of “To a Steam Roller,” I am reminded of Wallace Stevens’ “The Snow Man.” Lines seven through ten elicit this reaction: “Were not ‘impersonal judgment in aesthetic / matters, a metaphysical impossibility,’ you / / might fairly achieve / it.” This makes me think of Stevens’ challenge to clear the mind of all distractions to achieve an open state of nothingness. It is interesting that a cold, impersonal interpretation of a poem might yield more insight into its meaning that the passionate, empathic understanding of a poem might leave behind. Truth lies in objectivity, but Moore presents a quote that says impersonal objectivity is impossible.
Then there is a shift in the tone of the poem that seems to celebrate this impossibility. To the object that is capable of “impersonal judgment” the speaker warns that “As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive / of one’s attending upon you,” (10-11). The word “butterfly” is specific in its thingness. It brings a concrete image with connotations of beauty--“aesthetic / matters”-- and freedom in its graceful ability to fly. A steam roller can not possibly understand the thingness of a butterfly, but a human certainly can.
The steam roller lacks “half wit” (3). It has a useful function, but it lacks appreciation for its task and for the subjects it flattens. “Sparkling chips of rock,” (5) which bring a glittering image to the mind of a human, “are crushed down to the level of the parent block” (6) by the unsympathetic steam roller.
Perhaps the challenge, then, is not to clear the mind to achieve a state of nothingness. Rather, it is to resist that state of “impersonal judgment,” which reduces the personness of a person until he or she has only the “half wit” of a machine.
Robert Frost "Birches"
“Birches,” by Robert Frost is a single-stanza poem of 59 lines. Unlike many of his other poems, “Birches” has no discernable rhyme scheme. Instead, it takes on the rhythm of New England-style speech. “Birches” looks more like prose than many of Frost’s other poems, but its compactness and its blurring of chronology keep it bound in the genre of poetry.
The speaker of “Birches” seems to be an aging man looking out on the wooded area that has been an extension of his home for all his life. He reminisces about his childhood, which was filled with the adventures he made for himself in the solitude of the woods. He would climb birch trees until they got weak at the top and dipped him back down to the ground. “So was I once myself a swinger of birches” (41). The catalyst that reminds the speaker of his childhood is the image of the birch trees bent down with heavy ice after a winter storm. “I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. / But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay / As ice-storms do…” (3-5).
In the description of arched birch trees, the speaker loses himself momentarily at line 19. The arched trees conjure an unusual association in his mind to “…girls on hands and knees that throw their hair / Before them over their heads to dry in the sun” (19-20). Then he abruptly snaps himself out from the spell of that mental picture: “But I was going to say when Truth broke in” (21). What happens here? Perhaps “Truth” is a peaceful memory specific to his childhood that brings him pain in his old age. Perhaps his heart aches for the memory of his childhood friend. The image of her drying her hair in the sun could be a vivid flash of clear memory among the murkiness of memories gone dark with time. Maybe, knowing a bit about Frost’s history of tragic losses in the family, the girl is his own daughter. The memory, then, is a happy recollection of childhood innocence that quickly turns sour when “Truth” reminds him that she has since perished.
The tension of “Birches” is created by the warmth of memory conflicting with the reality of old age and winter. “So was I once myself a swinger of birches. / And so I dream of going back to be.” says the speaker in lines 41 and 42. The periods in these lines are significant. They signal the finality of experience. The speaker once swung on birches--period. He will not swing on them anymore. He dreams of swinging them again--period. All he can do is dream. The reality is that he is “weary of considerations / And life is too much like a pathless wood” (43-44). He escapes the pressure of an uncertain future by dreaming about happier times. His face “burns and tickles with cobwebs / Broken across it,” (45-46). This image evokes both the struggle of a boy tearing through physical obstacles, and a figurative portrayal of an old man with wrinkles on his face.
What puzzles me the most in “Birches” begins on line 52: “Earth’s the right place for love: / I don’t know where it is likely to go better” (52-53). Love is not mentioned until this point, which is so close to the end of the poem. Perhaps this gives the context for which the speaker has included all the information up to this point. Is the reader now supposed to say, “Oh! He is saying all this with love in his heart!?” Maybe the speaker wants to briefly get away from the environment where love exists, so dreams of climbing “’till the tree could bear no more, / But dipped its top and set me down again. / That would be good both going and coming back” (56-58). Perhaps he needs to get a higher perspective on love, then come back down to Earth and proceed with what he has learned. He needs to take a break from considerations that make him weary, rethink what love is, then return to continue refreshed on his journey in the pathless wood.
In “Birches,” the landscape is as psychological as it is natural. The body, the mind, and the soul should work together as the parts of a single compass to guide a person through life’s journey. It is possible that the cycle of climbing a birch tree and being set back down on earth represents the wish to reunify the mind, body, and soul.
The speaker of “Birches” seems to be an aging man looking out on the wooded area that has been an extension of his home for all his life. He reminisces about his childhood, which was filled with the adventures he made for himself in the solitude of the woods. He would climb birch trees until they got weak at the top and dipped him back down to the ground. “So was I once myself a swinger of birches” (41). The catalyst that reminds the speaker of his childhood is the image of the birch trees bent down with heavy ice after a winter storm. “I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. / But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay / As ice-storms do…” (3-5).
In the description of arched birch trees, the speaker loses himself momentarily at line 19. The arched trees conjure an unusual association in his mind to “…girls on hands and knees that throw their hair / Before them over their heads to dry in the sun” (19-20). Then he abruptly snaps himself out from the spell of that mental picture: “But I was going to say when Truth broke in” (21). What happens here? Perhaps “Truth” is a peaceful memory specific to his childhood that brings him pain in his old age. Perhaps his heart aches for the memory of his childhood friend. The image of her drying her hair in the sun could be a vivid flash of clear memory among the murkiness of memories gone dark with time. Maybe, knowing a bit about Frost’s history of tragic losses in the family, the girl is his own daughter. The memory, then, is a happy recollection of childhood innocence that quickly turns sour when “Truth” reminds him that she has since perished.
The tension of “Birches” is created by the warmth of memory conflicting with the reality of old age and winter. “So was I once myself a swinger of birches. / And so I dream of going back to be.” says the speaker in lines 41 and 42. The periods in these lines are significant. They signal the finality of experience. The speaker once swung on birches--period. He will not swing on them anymore. He dreams of swinging them again--period. All he can do is dream. The reality is that he is “weary of considerations / And life is too much like a pathless wood” (43-44). He escapes the pressure of an uncertain future by dreaming about happier times. His face “burns and tickles with cobwebs / Broken across it,” (45-46). This image evokes both the struggle of a boy tearing through physical obstacles, and a figurative portrayal of an old man with wrinkles on his face.
What puzzles me the most in “Birches” begins on line 52: “Earth’s the right place for love: / I don’t know where it is likely to go better” (52-53). Love is not mentioned until this point, which is so close to the end of the poem. Perhaps this gives the context for which the speaker has included all the information up to this point. Is the reader now supposed to say, “Oh! He is saying all this with love in his heart!?” Maybe the speaker wants to briefly get away from the environment where love exists, so dreams of climbing “’till the tree could bear no more, / But dipped its top and set me down again. / That would be good both going and coming back” (56-58). Perhaps he needs to get a higher perspective on love, then come back down to Earth and proceed with what he has learned. He needs to take a break from considerations that make him weary, rethink what love is, then return to continue refreshed on his journey in the pathless wood.
In “Birches,” the landscape is as psychological as it is natural. The body, the mind, and the soul should work together as the parts of a single compass to guide a person through life’s journey. It is possible that the cycle of climbing a birch tree and being set back down on earth represents the wish to reunify the mind, body, and soul.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
"A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts," by Wallace Stevens
I keep reading “A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts” by Wallace Stevens. I keep reading it because every run-through brings a completely different understanding from the last. I read it and take notes. Then I read it again, throw out my complete set of previous notes which has become worthless, take new notes, then end up throwing out that garbage, too. I am extremely frustrated. I keep feeling things that cannot even begin to be described by words. Weird feelings. Some kind of warm discomfort. I want to think this is about death, but in this poem death does not seem very separate from life.
Here is what I think. I think I think it, anyway.
I think the speaker is the spirit of the rabbit, looking down on its own departed body and remembering the events that led to its murder. The moon shines on the bloodied carcass. The memory of the day lingers with the spirit: It was a peaceful, sunny day in August. The rabbit was enjoying the warmth and energy of the sun. He was at peace with himself and his environment as he basked in the glow and let his mind rest. He did not know that a cat was going to maul him to death.
I have so many questions that I cannot answer. What is “The difficulty to think at the end of day?” Does that say that the rabbit cannot think anymore because he is dead? He could think earlier in the day when he was alive; but now he’s dead so cannot think.
Maybe the speaker is not the rabbit, but merely speaks for the rabbit. The speaker is some omniscient being that is able to relate in human terms how the rabbit felt. In the grass, with the sun shining on him, the rabbit was complete. He was not only himself, he was part of the world. The environment around him existed with him. He existed with the environment. The world cannot exist as separate from the rabbit, just as the rabbit cannot be separated from the earth.
He dies. He is killed. But he does not leave the earth. He actually grows into the night. His essence evaporates from his body and mixes with the air, the wind, the moon, space. “A self that touches all edges,” (18).
What is the fur-light? What is the rabbit-light? Maybe that is an extension of the essence of the rabbit.
Oh, I also have this idea that the rabbit fell from a tree. The passage starting on line 14 says, “And east rushes west and west rushes down,/ No matter. The grass is full/ / And full of yourself.” (14-16). From the perspective of the cat, the rabbit-light is the obfuscation of the sun by the rabbit sitting high in the tree. From the perspective of the rabbit, west rushes down as he falls from the tree. As he collides with the ground, there is no matter. His body changes from solid matter to bloody liquid in the collision. And perhaps “No matter” also refers to the insignificance of his death, because he still is part of the earth. The grass is full of the rabbit because his blood covers the blades in a wide circumference spanning from the point of impact. The cat, at this time, is red because he is covered in blood, too.
Then the essence of the rabbit soars up higher than the body of the rabbit was able to reach in the tree. The new perspective of the spirit of the rabbit is able to look into the mind of the cat, which was referred to in line five as a “green mind.” From the eyes of the spirit’s expansive presence, “the little green cat is a bug in the grass.” (24).
I have said all of this, but it still does not feel true. I do not know what Wallace Stevens was going for here. I have learned something from tracing my own thoughts, but I’m not sure it is what the poet intended. Is Stevens pulling a prank on me with this thing? Collectively, I have spent a good portion of time on this poem and I do not feel any closer to getting to the meat of it.
Here is what I think. I think I think it, anyway.
I think the speaker is the spirit of the rabbit, looking down on its own departed body and remembering the events that led to its murder. The moon shines on the bloodied carcass. The memory of the day lingers with the spirit: It was a peaceful, sunny day in August. The rabbit was enjoying the warmth and energy of the sun. He was at peace with himself and his environment as he basked in the glow and let his mind rest. He did not know that a cat was going to maul him to death.
I have so many questions that I cannot answer. What is “The difficulty to think at the end of day?” Does that say that the rabbit cannot think anymore because he is dead? He could think earlier in the day when he was alive; but now he’s dead so cannot think.
Maybe the speaker is not the rabbit, but merely speaks for the rabbit. The speaker is some omniscient being that is able to relate in human terms how the rabbit felt. In the grass, with the sun shining on him, the rabbit was complete. He was not only himself, he was part of the world. The environment around him existed with him. He existed with the environment. The world cannot exist as separate from the rabbit, just as the rabbit cannot be separated from the earth.
He dies. He is killed. But he does not leave the earth. He actually grows into the night. His essence evaporates from his body and mixes with the air, the wind, the moon, space. “A self that touches all edges,” (18).
What is the fur-light? What is the rabbit-light? Maybe that is an extension of the essence of the rabbit.
Oh, I also have this idea that the rabbit fell from a tree. The passage starting on line 14 says, “And east rushes west and west rushes down,/ No matter. The grass is full/ / And full of yourself.” (14-16). From the perspective of the cat, the rabbit-light is the obfuscation of the sun by the rabbit sitting high in the tree. From the perspective of the rabbit, west rushes down as he falls from the tree. As he collides with the ground, there is no matter. His body changes from solid matter to bloody liquid in the collision. And perhaps “No matter” also refers to the insignificance of his death, because he still is part of the earth. The grass is full of the rabbit because his blood covers the blades in a wide circumference spanning from the point of impact. The cat, at this time, is red because he is covered in blood, too.
Then the essence of the rabbit soars up higher than the body of the rabbit was able to reach in the tree. The new perspective of the spirit of the rabbit is able to look into the mind of the cat, which was referred to in line five as a “green mind.” From the eyes of the spirit’s expansive presence, “the little green cat is a bug in the grass.” (24).
I have said all of this, but it still does not feel true. I do not know what Wallace Stevens was going for here. I have learned something from tracing my own thoughts, but I’m not sure it is what the poet intended. Is Stevens pulling a prank on me with this thing? Collectively, I have spent a good portion of time on this poem and I do not feel any closer to getting to the meat of it.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
W. C. Williams "Paterson"
William Carlos Williams’ poem, “Paterson” begins with a quote that questions how the search for “Rigor of beauty” can ever be successful when the mind is stuck in “remonstrance.” In order to more clearly understand the intention of the quote, I looked up the words “Rigor” and “remonstrance.” The most encompassing definition I could find for “rigor” is “severity.” “Remonstrance” means to protest or object. With these definitions in mind, I interpret the quote to say, in my own words: A distinct understanding of beauty is the quest presented to the speaker. But how will any beauty be found when our minds--perhaps logical or rational or conventional thought processes--prevent us from being open enough to discover this organic kind of beauty?
The rest of the poem is an attempt to answer this question. The answer is not direct, though. It involves tracing the thought processes of the speaker: watching what happens in his head as he attempts to come up with an answer. I like to imagine that the dogs of the first stanza are meant to represent the speaker’s brain cells and receptors. At the initiation of the thought, a whole bunch of brain cells shoot out in the canals of the mind, chasing after any evidence in the landscape of the brain that would help them to answer the posed question. This is like the pack of dogs chasing the rabbit. Of course, at least one brain cell lags behind like the lame dog to scan the familiar area and find “a musty bone.” Perhaps the bone has been dug up and buried countless times before. It is so useless and harmful a distraction that its malnutrition handicaps the dog. It is “soured,/ is lost in the flux and the mind,/ distracted, floats off[…]” (32-34). It is the stale bone of ignorance.
In lines 28-30, the speaker says “In ignorance/ a certain knowledge and knowledge,/ undispersed, its own undoing.” In my own words, I interpret that to say: One’s certainty in the truth of one’s knowledge is an indication of one’s ignorance. The potential for supreme knowledge and truth goes unrealized, and perhaps is lost forever, when the mind is clouded with this unwarranted certainty. “Minds like beds always made up/ (more stony than a shore)/ unwilling or unable.” (51-53).
In my imagination, one of the speaker’s brain cells has journeyed farther than the others, and has encountered unfamiliar territory in the mind. The brain cell floats in a small submarine, rolling up and down on the river of thought, still searching valiantly for an answer to the question. The last four stanzas signal a shift in the direction of the poem. The submarine suddenly surfaces. It is “lifted as air, boated, multicolored[…]” (56). The journey has paid off. The brain cell has found a place where knowledge, “from mathematics to particulars--” (58) replenishes itself, “regathered into a river that flows” (60). This is an area not yet touched by ignorance. The very possibility of its existence relies on the fact that it can only be accessed on the journey away from ignorance.
At the end, the speaker’s quest has taken him to the beauty that has been “[…]locked in the mind past all remonstrance” (1).
The rest of the poem is an attempt to answer this question. The answer is not direct, though. It involves tracing the thought processes of the speaker: watching what happens in his head as he attempts to come up with an answer. I like to imagine that the dogs of the first stanza are meant to represent the speaker’s brain cells and receptors. At the initiation of the thought, a whole bunch of brain cells shoot out in the canals of the mind, chasing after any evidence in the landscape of the brain that would help them to answer the posed question. This is like the pack of dogs chasing the rabbit. Of course, at least one brain cell lags behind like the lame dog to scan the familiar area and find “a musty bone.” Perhaps the bone has been dug up and buried countless times before. It is so useless and harmful a distraction that its malnutrition handicaps the dog. It is “soured,/ is lost in the flux and the mind,/ distracted, floats off[…]” (32-34). It is the stale bone of ignorance.
In lines 28-30, the speaker says “In ignorance/ a certain knowledge and knowledge,/ undispersed, its own undoing.” In my own words, I interpret that to say: One’s certainty in the truth of one’s knowledge is an indication of one’s ignorance. The potential for supreme knowledge and truth goes unrealized, and perhaps is lost forever, when the mind is clouded with this unwarranted certainty. “Minds like beds always made up/ (more stony than a shore)/ unwilling or unable.” (51-53).
In my imagination, one of the speaker’s brain cells has journeyed farther than the others, and has encountered unfamiliar territory in the mind. The brain cell floats in a small submarine, rolling up and down on the river of thought, still searching valiantly for an answer to the question. The last four stanzas signal a shift in the direction of the poem. The submarine suddenly surfaces. It is “lifted as air, boated, multicolored[…]” (56). The journey has paid off. The brain cell has found a place where knowledge, “from mathematics to particulars--” (58) replenishes itself, “regathered into a river that flows” (60). This is an area not yet touched by ignorance. The very possibility of its existence relies on the fact that it can only be accessed on the journey away from ignorance.
At the end, the speaker’s quest has taken him to the beauty that has been “[…]locked in the mind past all remonstrance” (1).
Emily Dickinson 280
The first time I read Emily Dickinson’s poem 280, I visualized the speaker to be pressing her ear to wooden floorboards, straining to listen in on the funeral taking place in the room beneath her. All of her concentration goes into the act of listening. She feels every vibration from the scene below. The mourners tread to and fro; the rhythms of the eulogist’s speech beat against the ceiling like a drum; the coffin creaks as the pallbearers carry it away to the burial ground. Her ear presses the floor so hard that a plank breaks under the pressure, and she falls through the barrier that separates her from the funeral: “And I dropped down, and down--” (18).
I thought the poem might be about clearing all distractions from consciousness except for the important bodily senses. Lines 19 and 20, “And hit a World, at every plunge,/ And finished knowing--then--” bring to mind the vast amounts of knowledge to be gained with every breakthrough of understanding brought by the clarity of the senses.
This was just my initial reaction, based mostly on assumption. I went back after this initial reading to see if my hypothesis held up to poetic scrutiny. I read the poem aloud slowly, trying to emphasize each punctuation mark in a logical, rhythmic manner. In each sentence, I put verbal emphasis on words beginning with capital letters. I paused for about one second on each comma, then paused for about three seconds on each dash. I noticed there are no periods. There is no sense of finality in any of the stanzas. Each stanza ends with a dash, except for the third stanza, which has a comma as its final punctuation mark. The third lines of stanzas one and two are anchored with one repeating word. The first stanza has “treading--treading” while the second stanza has “beating--beating.” I am not quite sure what to make of this repetition, but it might be similar to the echo that the speaker hears through the barrier.
The enjambed sentiment of lines three and four, “--till it seemed/ That sense was breaking through--” makes me wonder about my initial hypothesis. Is it possible that it only seems that the senses are being put to use in this poem? There are a few words that stick out to me in the poem. “Sense” (4), “Mind” (8), “Heavens” (11), “Reason” (17), “World” (19), and “Finished” (20). The scattering of these words, which are each abstract and concrete at the same time, indicates some connection between them all. Or maybe it indicates a separation between them. Or maybe a sequence of events that plays out by jumping from one to the next. It is very difficult for me to determine their relationship, but I feel that they all rely on each other somehow.
In this poem, there is also the issue of loss of control. The speaker is not taking control of the action in this poem, but only feeling it. It is “they” who are carrying out the action. In the first three stanzas, “they” tread to and fro, “they” take their seats, “they” lift a box. “They” disappear after the third stanza, but the speaker does not achieve autonomy because of their absence. When the speaker drops down through the “Plank in Reason” (17), it does not appear to be her choice to fall. She is completely at the mercy of some outside presence or reality.
I cannot come to any conclusions about this poem. It is very difficult to reach a conclusion about a poem that seems both so finite and so infinite. I cannot tell whether it is about life or death. I know the poem has the potential to go on. It does not end with any sense of finality for the reader, though the speaker “Finished knowing--” (20). I suppose that what is so intriguing about this poem is the prospect that something comes after the attainment of knowledge. The poet leaves the door open for possibility after the assets of Sense, Mind, Reason, and World have been extinguished. What lies beyond?
I thought the poem might be about clearing all distractions from consciousness except for the important bodily senses. Lines 19 and 20, “And hit a World, at every plunge,/ And finished knowing--then--” bring to mind the vast amounts of knowledge to be gained with every breakthrough of understanding brought by the clarity of the senses.
This was just my initial reaction, based mostly on assumption. I went back after this initial reading to see if my hypothesis held up to poetic scrutiny. I read the poem aloud slowly, trying to emphasize each punctuation mark in a logical, rhythmic manner. In each sentence, I put verbal emphasis on words beginning with capital letters. I paused for about one second on each comma, then paused for about three seconds on each dash. I noticed there are no periods. There is no sense of finality in any of the stanzas. Each stanza ends with a dash, except for the third stanza, which has a comma as its final punctuation mark. The third lines of stanzas one and two are anchored with one repeating word. The first stanza has “treading--treading” while the second stanza has “beating--beating.” I am not quite sure what to make of this repetition, but it might be similar to the echo that the speaker hears through the barrier.
The enjambed sentiment of lines three and four, “--till it seemed/ That sense was breaking through--” makes me wonder about my initial hypothesis. Is it possible that it only seems that the senses are being put to use in this poem? There are a few words that stick out to me in the poem. “Sense” (4), “Mind” (8), “Heavens” (11), “Reason” (17), “World” (19), and “Finished” (20). The scattering of these words, which are each abstract and concrete at the same time, indicates some connection between them all. Or maybe it indicates a separation between them. Or maybe a sequence of events that plays out by jumping from one to the next. It is very difficult for me to determine their relationship, but I feel that they all rely on each other somehow.
In this poem, there is also the issue of loss of control. The speaker is not taking control of the action in this poem, but only feeling it. It is “they” who are carrying out the action. In the first three stanzas, “they” tread to and fro, “they” take their seats, “they” lift a box. “They” disappear after the third stanza, but the speaker does not achieve autonomy because of their absence. When the speaker drops down through the “Plank in Reason” (17), it does not appear to be her choice to fall. She is completely at the mercy of some outside presence or reality.
I cannot come to any conclusions about this poem. It is very difficult to reach a conclusion about a poem that seems both so finite and so infinite. I cannot tell whether it is about life or death. I know the poem has the potential to go on. It does not end with any sense of finality for the reader, though the speaker “Finished knowing--” (20). I suppose that what is so intriguing about this poem is the prospect that something comes after the attainment of knowledge. The poet leaves the door open for possibility after the assets of Sense, Mind, Reason, and World have been extinguished. What lies beyond?
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