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.
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