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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
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.
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