All this talk about dreams being in the underworld made me think of the movie Waking Life. For those of you who has not yet been enlightened by this film, a large part of the film has to do with lucid dreaming, which is when you realize you are dreaming and are able to make decisions while in sleep.
One way that the makers of the film suggest you can do this is by flicking light switches on and off during your daylife, because in dreams, you cannot adjust light levels. Therefore, you will get in such a habit of switching switches that when you do it in your dream, you will be able to determine you are dreaming when you are unable to turn the light off and on (this is, of course, assuming your dayworld invades your underworld, which Hillman would disagree with). After you realize you are dreaming, theoretically, you are able to make decisions and do pretty much whatever you like in the dream.
When it comes to Hillman, however, I am not sure how to apply this theory. If the dreams belong in the underworld, are we or can we control them? In class today, we said that dreams are supposed to be where you let go of the real world and let the underworld take over. If we do find a way to become an active role in our dreams, should we? Would Hillman acknowledge this phenomenon of lucid dreaming? Where does lucid dreaming belong in the underworld?
It seems as though, according to Hillman, we should not be able to control our dreams in any facet. If the person is aware enough to know they are dreaming, I wonder if they have even entered the underworld. If you are consciuos enough to make rational decisions, then it would seem as though the dayworld is invading the underworld. This is interesting, because Hillman thus far has only addressed the problems of bringing the underworld into the dayworld after the person has woken up and began to analyze the dream. Where do dreams lie if the dayworld is seeping into the underworld when the person is physically in the state of dreaming? Are they still in the underworld or have they reentered the realm of the dayworld?
This really intrigues me, because in my own experience, I have at times been able to realize I'm dreaming and been able to make decisions. For example, at one point in a dream, I was in the woods and became face-to-face with a tiger. At first, I was understandably frightened for my life. A moment later, I realized I was sleeping and I could fight the tiger. So I fought the tiger and won.
I am not a big fan of being able to control my dreams. My fiance has always been jealous; he's wanted to lucid dream for years and to no avail. I do think I think that dreaming is when the dreamer can let go and let the dream take over. I don't want to be able to make rational decisions; I have enough rational decisions to make in the dayworld.
So am I infringing on the underworld when I realize I am dreaming and decide to take action and possibly change the outcome of the dream? Or am I still in the underworld?
28 February 2007
26 February 2007
550: Response to Michael Earl Craig and Surrealist Poetry
After dating an artist for five years, one would think that I have a firm grasp on the art movements, and in some ways, I do. However, although my significant other has made some surrealist-influenced art (which I may bring pictures in), surrealism has always seemed to slip between my fingers. Even in art history classes and in literature classes that have addressed surrealism, I have had a hard time wrapping my brain around what it all means and how it functions.
Needless to say, when I started reading Michael Earl Craig’s Yes, Master the usual anti-surrealism grunts began to escape my lips. So I forced my fiancé to read some of the poems and show me how and why they are surrealism. I am going to assume that others have had a hard time “getting” surrealism so here are some things that he told me that helped me grasp the idea (kind of…):
• A common surrealist saying is that surrealism is the unexpected meeting of an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissection table
• Surrealism has to make just enough sense to make sense (it made sense to me when he said it, although writing it out makes it not seem to make sense… maybe that is a surrealist way of explaining surrealism.) For example, it is like saying something smells like purple. It's a fundamental truth that you can only explain in a way that doesn't make sense.
• Surrealism takes you where you least expected to go
With those explanations in mind, I jumped back into Craig, and I think I can now see some of the ways characteristics of surrealist poetry.
“Piece” was one of my favorite Craig poems even without the surrealism explanation. One of my favorite parts is, “After living with it for a short while he had the house removed” (4). Pre-explanation, I thought this was an interesting line, and after talking to Nathan, I realized that this is part of what makes this a surrealist poem: it is unexpected. Who would think that somebody would remove a house from a particular piece of art. From then on, the poem is harder to relate to, because the whole idea of removing a house and just putting pieces of art on the lawn is so far beyond reality. At the same time, however, it still kind of makes sense. It is not so absurd that the reader cannot imagine somebody doing this. The last stanza also seem hard to grasp but a vivid image nonetheless: “Because the neighbors were believers they could say among other things that they saw his strange wheelbarrow parked outside in the snow with its human ankles for handles” (4). In some strange way, this could be real, but it also hard to grasp and vague. What exactly did the neighbors believe in? Is the wheelbarrow part of the art? Are the human ankles the “he” found throughout the poem or are they also part of the artwork? I can almost see the wheelbarrow with the ankle handles and the neighbors peering out through the curtain at it, but I am still unclear as to what it actually is.
Throughout the rest of the book I just marked places where there were unexpected turns or lines or stanzas that seemed to come out of nowhere. Here are some of the interesting twists and turns Craig takes us on:
• In “The Interview”: “They make me think of potatoes, it’s the first thing I think of, and they’re in my underpants” (8). Unexpected: takes reader by surprise. Not sure what it means, but it's an amusing stanza
• In “Axiom”: “For who among us has not stood on the bank and thought about it, and wondered about the others? Then a
meteor shower came down and hit the man” (9). This is an unexpected event/turn in the poem.
• In “In the Januaried Mountains”: “I think about how a butterfly, if permitted, will crawl neurotically all over a soldier’s face for half an hour” (11). Well, I guess that could happen, but I never imagined somebody would think this or assume a butterfly would do this.
• The whole poem “Edward” (20) seemed random and didn’t seem to connect, in any obvious way anyway.
• In “Glass of Vodka”: What is the word for when a nun rolls a boulder away from the mouth of a cave or tomb?” (31) Here there is imagery of Jesus’s tomb; however, before Jesus rose, there was no Catholicism and thus no nun to roll away the boulder. Also, there is no word for this, and why would anybody think there would be? At this point in the poem, the person in it is looking at somebody through the bottom of a glass, so I get the feeling that this poem is about distorted imagery (maybe explaining the presence of a nun at Jesus’s tomb).
• In “Albert Often Cracked His Knuckles,” there are a few changes. First, there is a change from third person to first person: “The man on the ground started laughing, which was uncharacteristic for this man, I know because I am him” (34). There is also a change when there is “a knock at the bedroom door” forcing the reader to think this whole thing has been somebody else’s writing. Then the poem ends with “’No, Albert, this isn’t your mother” (35) making the knocking at the door an actual part of the story.
• In “We Picture the President,” Craig describes the president doing very specific things and assuming that everybody pictures him doing this. However, the things are so strange and specific, I doubt anybody besides Craig has thought about it, despite the fact that he seems to assume everybody has thought about it.
I’ll stop here before this paper becomes too long. I did also want to mention that there is a surrealist game called An Exquisite Corpse that is very interesting and actually fun. Let me know if you want to know more about it. We may even be able to play it over blogs.
Here is a picture of one of Nathan's surrealist-inspired sculptures:
Needless to say, when I started reading Michael Earl Craig’s Yes, Master the usual anti-surrealism grunts began to escape my lips. So I forced my fiancé to read some of the poems and show me how and why they are surrealism. I am going to assume that others have had a hard time “getting” surrealism so here are some things that he told me that helped me grasp the idea (kind of…):
• A common surrealist saying is that surrealism is the unexpected meeting of an umbrella and a sewing machine on a dissection table
• Surrealism has to make just enough sense to make sense (it made sense to me when he said it, although writing it out makes it not seem to make sense… maybe that is a surrealist way of explaining surrealism.) For example, it is like saying something smells like purple. It's a fundamental truth that you can only explain in a way that doesn't make sense.
• Surrealism takes you where you least expected to go
With those explanations in mind, I jumped back into Craig, and I think I can now see some of the ways characteristics of surrealist poetry.
“Piece” was one of my favorite Craig poems even without the surrealism explanation. One of my favorite parts is, “After living with it for a short while he had the house removed” (4). Pre-explanation, I thought this was an interesting line, and after talking to Nathan, I realized that this is part of what makes this a surrealist poem: it is unexpected. Who would think that somebody would remove a house from a particular piece of art. From then on, the poem is harder to relate to, because the whole idea of removing a house and just putting pieces of art on the lawn is so far beyond reality. At the same time, however, it still kind of makes sense. It is not so absurd that the reader cannot imagine somebody doing this. The last stanza also seem hard to grasp but a vivid image nonetheless: “Because the neighbors were believers they could say among other things that they saw his strange wheelbarrow parked outside in the snow with its human ankles for handles” (4). In some strange way, this could be real, but it also hard to grasp and vague. What exactly did the neighbors believe in? Is the wheelbarrow part of the art? Are the human ankles the “he” found throughout the poem or are they also part of the artwork? I can almost see the wheelbarrow with the ankle handles and the neighbors peering out through the curtain at it, but I am still unclear as to what it actually is.
Throughout the rest of the book I just marked places where there were unexpected turns or lines or stanzas that seemed to come out of nowhere. Here are some of the interesting twists and turns Craig takes us on:
• In “The Interview”: “They make me think of potatoes, it’s the first thing I think of, and they’re in my underpants” (8). Unexpected: takes reader by surprise. Not sure what it means, but it's an amusing stanza
• In “Axiom”: “For who among us has not stood on the bank and thought about it, and wondered about the others? Then a
meteor shower came down and hit the man” (9). This is an unexpected event/turn in the poem.
• In “In the Januaried Mountains”: “I think about how a butterfly, if permitted, will crawl neurotically all over a soldier’s face for half an hour” (11). Well, I guess that could happen, but I never imagined somebody would think this or assume a butterfly would do this.
• The whole poem “Edward” (20) seemed random and didn’t seem to connect, in any obvious way anyway.
• In “Glass of Vodka”: What is the word for when a nun rolls a boulder away from the mouth of a cave or tomb?” (31) Here there is imagery of Jesus’s tomb; however, before Jesus rose, there was no Catholicism and thus no nun to roll away the boulder. Also, there is no word for this, and why would anybody think there would be? At this point in the poem, the person in it is looking at somebody through the bottom of a glass, so I get the feeling that this poem is about distorted imagery (maybe explaining the presence of a nun at Jesus’s tomb).
• In “Albert Often Cracked His Knuckles,” there are a few changes. First, there is a change from third person to first person: “The man on the ground started laughing, which was uncharacteristic for this man, I know because I am him” (34). There is also a change when there is “a knock at the bedroom door” forcing the reader to think this whole thing has been somebody else’s writing. Then the poem ends with “’No, Albert, this isn’t your mother” (35) making the knocking at the door an actual part of the story.
• In “We Picture the President,” Craig describes the president doing very specific things and assuming that everybody pictures him doing this. However, the things are so strange and specific, I doubt anybody besides Craig has thought about it, despite the fact that he seems to assume everybody has thought about it.
I’ll stop here before this paper becomes too long. I did also want to mention that there is a surrealist game called An Exquisite Corpse that is very interesting and actually fun. Let me know if you want to know more about it. We may even be able to play it over blogs.
Here is a picture of one of Nathan's surrealist-inspired sculptures:
23 February 2007
510: Thoughts on oceans
After having water dreams for years and giving a presentation on water in class, I have become fascinated by the idea of water being the image-soul’s delight in death and the ego-soul’s fear of drowning. I still haven’t wrapped my brain around it completely, but hopefully after more research and exploration into theories on water and water in literature, I will understand it more completely. Here are my thoughts thus far:Hillman expressed the importance in looking at the type of water that is in the dream. For example, a river has the ability to suck you down whereas a vast deep lake has the ability to hold you up and allow you to float. My fascination lies in the ocean, not only because of my big waves dream but also because of the vastness. The ocean seems to contain aspects of rivers and lakes: at times it is placid and could allow you to float but at other times, the waves are large and it then has the ability to suck you in deeper than a river would. The ocean is unpredictable.
I have also thought about literature and real life stories that have portrayed men and women who travel across oceans. It seems as though people who go out seeking new land may in fact delight in the possibility of death. As I’ve already stated, the ocean is unpredictable, and nobody can know when a storm will be so bad to sink a ship. Or the explorer could have placid seas throughout the trip. They don’t know; they are going out into the unknown knowingly risking life and limb.
I still need to do a lot more pondering and research on the subject. Any suggestions of places to look/books to consider are more than welcome.
21 February 2007
510: Dream
In the dream my parent's Jack Russell terrier, Dozer, had taken to chewing tobacco. He was walking around the living room gnawing on a clump of tobacco, and since he lacks control of his lips, yellow liquid seeped out of his mouth and onto the floor. My nana commented on how disgusting it was and asked us why we let him continue with such a "nasty habit." My dad started to explain how we let him do as he chooses, and if wanted to chew tobacco, he could chew tobacco.
20 February 2007
510: Dream
The whole dream takes place in a courtroom. I arrive and find out that Luke has been arrested and is not on trial for murder. I instantly feel bad because Luke had called me earlier and I failed to answer it and call him back. I am sure he called to let me know about his situation. All of the graduate students and teaching assistants are there to support Luke during the trial. I wake up before the trial actually begins.
19 February 2007
550: Valparaiso-inspired poems
After having trouble doing a formalist poem, I decided to find another poem to replicate. The poem "Going Blind" really hit home with me. My father started to lose his hearing when he was in the Air Force based in Okinawa during the Vietnam War, so throughout my life I have seen the progression and the way the hearing goes and the way people try to make up for the loss. I was a little hesitant about writing it about such a similar thing, but the idea came as soon as I read "Going Blind" and I was inspired.
GOING BLIND
What happens is that one eye loses interest.
His children's faces look like painted plates.
His wife walks into the wallpaper and the cat
disappears completely.
He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't complain.
He calls it his bad eye and gets used to it.
The other eye sees better than before.
Nothing is difficult.
When he sees nothing with the eye he closes it
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there a candle in the window lightning over water.
His talent is for special effects.
He quits his job and seldom leaves the house.
The good eye shifts to heroic scale.
Each day he wakes to catch a different scene.
The patterns are landscapes unpeopled and remote
places he has never seen. These are the hills of Samarkand
he thinks the Costa Brava Patagonia
there is so much to see.
He can easily ignore three whiskers thick as broomsticks
and his own life-sized reflection in the closing green ellipse
pleading Feed me. Feed me.
© by Annette Basalyga
So I attempted to replicate it:
GOING DEAF
First, it is just an added hum.
The hum overshadows other sounds:
The shouts of the children are mere words
thrown at one another, the wife’s dialogue
is blocked out by the uncontrollable hum.
He shrugs it off. It’s just the way things go,
he tells himself. The other ear will just work overtime.
Everything is normal.
When the audio from the television miss the ear,
the hand rises, scooping up the noise
like one scoops up water from a river to drink.
Social gatherings are harder, with noise attacking the one ear
from every direction, while the other continues on with it’s vacation.
The excuses start. Why leave the house
when we have invigorating company right here?
The right ear trundles on.
The hearing becomes selective.
The left ear learns when to tune in
and when to carry on in its own thoughts.
The ear hears what it wants to hear.
Regular conversations would sound like shouting matches
to anyone outside the house.
Repetition becomes a way of life.
The right ear begs the left ear to pay attention,
but the left ear is gone.
Like Melanie, I also had a hard time to find a poem I didn't like, so did Ed's poem choice for last week, "34-Counter" (no offense Ed). I chose it because I really dislike football for several reasons and therefore dislike most things dealing with it. Here is that poem:
34-COUNTER
There is something in the silence
between huddle and the line.
Somewhere between tickling sweat
trickling down the plinko-board hair
on our arms, the dog breath panting through
full-caged masks, the calls of eagles, audibles
of confusion, some place where within this war
there is a much needed turning point.
There is no cold, no numb, no pain, no guilt;
in the silence exists just grass, lines, us
and the enemy. The trick lies in not leaning
when pulling, to play it bluffed, and when
the cadence beats, the hike comes, the steamroll takes
hold, guard and tackle, foot-for-foot, toe-to-heel,
belly out the war cry of the single greatest
tool in ground-to-ground warfare.
© by Jason Huskey
Here is my parody:
34 – COUNTER
(Whatever that means)
There is something in writing poems
among sports fans.
Somewhere between references
that go over some people’s heads
who do not enjoy the sport, the language
of the sport that some people may not
pick up on, some place within this poem
there is a much needed explanation.
There is no point, no goal, no deeper meaning;
in the poem exists just references, sports analogies,
that are only useful to people who are in-the-know.
The trick is to possibly lead the unaware reader
that they’re reading about something else,
and when a sports fan reads it, the explanation comes.
The realization takes hold, wonderment and astonishment.
Belly out the frustration of the single greatest
agony of reading a poem about football.
And here is my attempt to replicate it:
PHILLIPS
There is something in the silence
in the moments before mounting the beam.
Somewhere between the butterflies
fluttering next to the stomach lining,
the shaking hands that in moments will need
to be still, the sound of judges announcing
previous scores, some place where in the body
something needs to take control.
There is no time to worry, no time to feel previous pains;
in the silence exists just the beam, the chalk,
and me. The trick lies in not just leaping on
when the salute is given, to take that extra moment, and when
the footsteps beat against the mat, the mount arrives, the control takes
hold, flip and leap, hand over head, feet pointed always,
belly out the sigh of relief of sticking the mount
and saluting the judges before the shaking returns.
GOING BLIND
What happens is that one eye loses interest.
His children's faces look like painted plates.
His wife walks into the wallpaper and the cat
disappears completely.
He doesn't tell anyone. He doesn't complain.
He calls it his bad eye and gets used to it.
The other eye sees better than before.
Nothing is difficult.
When he sees nothing with the eye he closes it
to watch the shapes that float behind shut lids.
Still there a candle in the window lightning over water.
His talent is for special effects.
He quits his job and seldom leaves the house.
The good eye shifts to heroic scale.
Each day he wakes to catch a different scene.
The patterns are landscapes unpeopled and remote
places he has never seen. These are the hills of Samarkand
he thinks the Costa Brava Patagonia
there is so much to see.
He can easily ignore three whiskers thick as broomsticks
and his own life-sized reflection in the closing green ellipse
pleading Feed me. Feed me.
© by Annette Basalyga
So I attempted to replicate it:
GOING DEAF
First, it is just an added hum.
The hum overshadows other sounds:
The shouts of the children are mere words
thrown at one another, the wife’s dialogue
is blocked out by the uncontrollable hum.
He shrugs it off. It’s just the way things go,
he tells himself. The other ear will just work overtime.
Everything is normal.
When the audio from the television miss the ear,
the hand rises, scooping up the noise
like one scoops up water from a river to drink.
Social gatherings are harder, with noise attacking the one ear
from every direction, while the other continues on with it’s vacation.
The excuses start. Why leave the house
when we have invigorating company right here?
The right ear trundles on.
The hearing becomes selective.
The left ear learns when to tune in
and when to carry on in its own thoughts.
The ear hears what it wants to hear.
Regular conversations would sound like shouting matches
to anyone outside the house.
Repetition becomes a way of life.
The right ear begs the left ear to pay attention,
but the left ear is gone.
Like Melanie, I also had a hard time to find a poem I didn't like, so did Ed's poem choice for last week, "34-Counter" (no offense Ed). I chose it because I really dislike football for several reasons and therefore dislike most things dealing with it. Here is that poem:
34-COUNTER
There is something in the silence
between huddle and the line.
Somewhere between tickling sweat
trickling down the plinko-board hair
on our arms, the dog breath panting through
full-caged masks, the calls of eagles, audibles
of confusion, some place where within this war
there is a much needed turning point.
There is no cold, no numb, no pain, no guilt;
in the silence exists just grass, lines, us
and the enemy. The trick lies in not leaning
when pulling, to play it bluffed, and when
the cadence beats, the hike comes, the steamroll takes
hold, guard and tackle, foot-for-foot, toe-to-heel,
belly out the war cry of the single greatest
tool in ground-to-ground warfare.
© by Jason Huskey
Here is my parody:
34 – COUNTER
(Whatever that means)
There is something in writing poems
among sports fans.
Somewhere between references
that go over some people’s heads
who do not enjoy the sport, the language
of the sport that some people may not
pick up on, some place within this poem
there is a much needed explanation.
There is no point, no goal, no deeper meaning;
in the poem exists just references, sports analogies,
that are only useful to people who are in-the-know.
The trick is to possibly lead the unaware reader
that they’re reading about something else,
and when a sports fan reads it, the explanation comes.
The realization takes hold, wonderment and astonishment.
Belly out the frustration of the single greatest
agony of reading a poem about football.
And here is my attempt to replicate it:
PHILLIPS
There is something in the silence
in the moments before mounting the beam.
Somewhere between the butterflies
fluttering next to the stomach lining,
the shaking hands that in moments will need
to be still, the sound of judges announcing
previous scores, some place where in the body
something needs to take control.
There is no time to worry, no time to feel previous pains;
in the silence exists just the beam, the chalk,
and me. The trick lies in not just leaping on
when the salute is given, to take that extra moment, and when
the footsteps beat against the mat, the mount arrives, the control takes
hold, flip and leap, hand over head, feet pointed always,
belly out the sigh of relief of sticking the mount
and saluting the judges before the shaking returns.
15 February 2007
510: Plagiarized dream
Yes, it is true. Last night I stole my fiance's dream. Yesterday morning he told me about his dream, and then last night I had almost the exact same dream. I wonder what that means.... Here it is:
I was at a high school, although I didn't recognize it as being any high school that I've been at before. Somehow I knew I was still in Bozeman. Whatever event I had been at had just finished and it was time to go home. Instead of driving home, however, everybody started getting on planes that would take them to their neighborhood. When I sat down, Sue sat next to me and Melanie was in a seat across the aisle. I don't know where they were at the time, but I knew that my mom, my little sister, Nina, and Nathan were there. We took off smoothly, but after a few minutes in the air, the pilot started to veer the plane to the left, a soft turn at first but a sharper turn as time went on. Sue started asking what on Earth the pilot was doing, because it was obvious that we were now going in the wrong direction. As we kept turning, we noticed that we were also getting lower and lower to the ground and that we were no longer over the town but over red, rocky terrain. Sue became upset and started shouting out that the pilot was attempting to make an emergency landing. As we turned and sank, I looked out the window as I frantically put on my unlatched seatbelt. We seemed to be going in slow motion, almost like on some circular slide slowly taking us down to the ground. Eventually, the ground rushed up to meet us, and the plane skidded on the side. I was pressed against the side of the plane and could feel rocks and dirt grind up against the plane as though the side consisted of a tarp. After we stopped, everybody got off of the plane. I met up with my mom, my sister, and Nathan. When we got outside, everybody was crowded around the nose of the plane. As I got closer, I noticed small hole near the windshield (is it called a windshield?) of the plane. Everybody then took out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the hole.
On another note, I've been worried about coming up with a topic for the upcoming paper. I really have no idea where to begin coming up with a topic. Any suggestions?
I was at a high school, although I didn't recognize it as being any high school that I've been at before. Somehow I knew I was still in Bozeman. Whatever event I had been at had just finished and it was time to go home. Instead of driving home, however, everybody started getting on planes that would take them to their neighborhood. When I sat down, Sue sat next to me and Melanie was in a seat across the aisle. I don't know where they were at the time, but I knew that my mom, my little sister, Nina, and Nathan were there. We took off smoothly, but after a few minutes in the air, the pilot started to veer the plane to the left, a soft turn at first but a sharper turn as time went on. Sue started asking what on Earth the pilot was doing, because it was obvious that we were now going in the wrong direction. As we kept turning, we noticed that we were also getting lower and lower to the ground and that we were no longer over the town but over red, rocky terrain. Sue became upset and started shouting out that the pilot was attempting to make an emergency landing. As we turned and sank, I looked out the window as I frantically put on my unlatched seatbelt. We seemed to be going in slow motion, almost like on some circular slide slowly taking us down to the ground. Eventually, the ground rushed up to meet us, and the plane skidded on the side. I was pressed against the side of the plane and could feel rocks and dirt grind up against the plane as though the side consisted of a tarp. After we stopped, everybody got off of the plane. I met up with my mom, my sister, and Nathan. When we got outside, everybody was crowded around the nose of the plane. As I got closer, I noticed small hole near the windshield (is it called a windshield?) of the plane. Everybody then took out their cell phones and started taking pictures of the hole.
On another note, I've been worried about coming up with a topic for the upcoming paper. I really have no idea where to begin coming up with a topic. Any suggestions?
12 February 2007
550: Comments on "On Goodbyes"
Valparaiso Review Poem:
“On Goodbyes” by Ned Balbo
I’m not sure what made me pick this poem. Maybe Collins put me in the mood for poetry about the seemingly mundane, which this poem is about. Or maybe it was about something I never really thought of in depth before. Either way, something struck me about it.
On second reading, I was pretty surprised that I picked this poem. It took me until the second read to realize that it rhymed in parts. Unfortunately, I had been brainwashed in my undergraduate creative writing course to avoid rhymes like the plague (which I am trying to break out of that habit now). But the rhyming in this poem was subtle. It didn’t seem as though the poet went out of his way to make sure his poem rhymed, but that the rhyming in the poem was a happy coincidence. If it had been more obvious rhyming, it may have felt to me that the poem was forced, that the author didn’t write from the heart but wrote to make it sound pretty (not that there is anything wrong with that, but I do think I fall into the category of a confessional poet).
Now, after analyzing the use of rhyme in the poem, I think I like this poem because it seems to fall somewhere between formalism and confessional. Although it seems to lean more toward the latter, there are traces of an underlying form. For one thing, the rhyming seems to be more old school, although it was done very tactfully. For another thing, there are three lines in ever stanza until the last one, which has four. Although I am more of a confessional poet, I do still have respect for formalism, being the overly-organized person that I am. Anyway, it was nice to see a poet not just doing what is the norm in society or doing what their English professor told them to do (as mine in undergrad told us to never rhyme).
On the other hand, I also like the confessional, free verse style of the poem. As I’ve already stated, this poem is about an everyday occurrence that anybody can relate to. Like Collins’s poems, this helps the reader relate to it. However, the author did write things in a way that made the reader think more than they would have with some of Collins’s poems in order to grasp what the author means.
One thing I did like from my previous creative writing class was playing with line and stanza breaks, and I like the way Ned Balbo did this. For example, the end of the first stanza says, “but those that take us by surprise, the dead” and ends there. The reader has to get to the next stanza to know that the author was not talking about dead people but about “air empty in their wake.” The anticipation of what comes next or where the author is going to go on the next line was well done. The author easily could have taken it in a different direction, and he started to lead the reader in that direction, but quickly brought it back into his intended direction. Then, at the very end of the poem, Balbo ends it with “I hate goodbyes: from those – to those – we dread and need, who take or leave us, like the dead.” So the author did actually end up taking us there afterall.
As I’ve already stated, I also like the subject matter. Although I did like Collins’s accessibility, I did like the fact that even after reading it several times, I don’t feel as though I grasped everything in the poem. Every time I’ve read it, I’ve walked away with a different or new interpretation and I’m sure I will every other time I read it. There is something to be said about a poem that requires more reading. I will keep going back to it until I think I’ve figured it all out.
“On Goodbyes” by Ned Balbo
I’m not sure what made me pick this poem. Maybe Collins put me in the mood for poetry about the seemingly mundane, which this poem is about. Or maybe it was about something I never really thought of in depth before. Either way, something struck me about it.
On second reading, I was pretty surprised that I picked this poem. It took me until the second read to realize that it rhymed in parts. Unfortunately, I had been brainwashed in my undergraduate creative writing course to avoid rhymes like the plague (which I am trying to break out of that habit now). But the rhyming in this poem was subtle. It didn’t seem as though the poet went out of his way to make sure his poem rhymed, but that the rhyming in the poem was a happy coincidence. If it had been more obvious rhyming, it may have felt to me that the poem was forced, that the author didn’t write from the heart but wrote to make it sound pretty (not that there is anything wrong with that, but I do think I fall into the category of a confessional poet).
Now, after analyzing the use of rhyme in the poem, I think I like this poem because it seems to fall somewhere between formalism and confessional. Although it seems to lean more toward the latter, there are traces of an underlying form. For one thing, the rhyming seems to be more old school, although it was done very tactfully. For another thing, there are three lines in ever stanza until the last one, which has four. Although I am more of a confessional poet, I do still have respect for formalism, being the overly-organized person that I am. Anyway, it was nice to see a poet not just doing what is the norm in society or doing what their English professor told them to do (as mine in undergrad told us to never rhyme).
On the other hand, I also like the confessional, free verse style of the poem. As I’ve already stated, this poem is about an everyday occurrence that anybody can relate to. Like Collins’s poems, this helps the reader relate to it. However, the author did write things in a way that made the reader think more than they would have with some of Collins’s poems in order to grasp what the author means.
One thing I did like from my previous creative writing class was playing with line and stanza breaks, and I like the way Ned Balbo did this. For example, the end of the first stanza says, “but those that take us by surprise, the dead” and ends there. The reader has to get to the next stanza to know that the author was not talking about dead people but about “air empty in their wake.” The anticipation of what comes next or where the author is going to go on the next line was well done. The author easily could have taken it in a different direction, and he started to lead the reader in that direction, but quickly brought it back into his intended direction. Then, at the very end of the poem, Balbo ends it with “I hate goodbyes: from those – to those – we dread and need, who take or leave us, like the dead.” So the author did actually end up taking us there afterall.
As I’ve already stated, I also like the subject matter. Although I did like Collins’s accessibility, I did like the fact that even after reading it several times, I don’t feel as though I grasped everything in the poem. Every time I’ve read it, I’ve walked away with a different or new interpretation and I’m sure I will every other time I read it. There is something to be said about a poem that requires more reading. I will keep going back to it until I think I’ve figured it all out.
550: Valparaiso Review Poem
ON GOODBYES
by Ned Balbo
I hate goodbyes. I don't mean those we dread,
foresee or bring about, that shadow us,
but those that take us by surprise, the dead
air empty in their wake. The words are less
important than that someone cuts the cord
quickly: so much already shadows us
we dare invite no more, no single word
or phrase beyond a short God-be-with-you,
Farewell, Good Night. We want to reach accord
cleanly, without rancor, then cut through
the crowd, escape, forget. Speak soon enough,
before someone can say "goodbye" to you,
or else, you'll watch it happen, hear the laugh
meant kindly, simulated through the noise
of crowds still trapped, not leaving fast enough
to drown the false cheer carried in a voice.
The need to part is real. The words are noise.
I hate goodbyes: from those—to those—we dread
and need, who take or leave us, like the dead.
(comments coming soon)
by Ned Balbo
I hate goodbyes. I don't mean those we dread,
foresee or bring about, that shadow us,
but those that take us by surprise, the dead
air empty in their wake. The words are less
important than that someone cuts the cord
quickly: so much already shadows us
we dare invite no more, no single word
or phrase beyond a short God-be-with-you,
Farewell, Good Night. We want to reach accord
cleanly, without rancor, then cut through
the crowd, escape, forget. Speak soon enough,
before someone can say "goodbye" to you,
or else, you'll watch it happen, hear the laugh
meant kindly, simulated through the noise
of crowds still trapped, not leaving fast enough
to drown the false cheer carried in a voice.
The need to part is real. The words are noise.
I hate goodbyes: from those—to those—we dread
and need, who take or leave us, like the dead.
(comments coming soon)
09 February 2007
510: Thoughts on Frye and class
As I get deeper and deeper into Frye's book, I feel as though I'm addicted. I tried to get ahead on reading this week for next week and ended up reading all of next week's reading by Wednesday. Although I, like Ariana, was hesitant to categorize literature, I'm not as averse to it as I thought I would be. Although I don’t think categorizations work in every situation, because literature is a complex device, I am enjoying reading about archetypal criticism and the mythos of spring, summer and autumn (and soon winter). The more I read and think about the books I’ve read in recent past, including nonfiction books, the more I see how archetypal criticism works and the way the plot devices and characters in the different mythos function. I don’t know if I’ll ever read another book the same way.
The idea of everything being a displaced myth is also fascinating. When Dr. Sexson talked about it in class, I was skeptical at first. So after class I went home and thought about my favorite book and tried to see if I could connect my favorite book, Pride and Prejudice, to a myth or fairy tale. It only took me a minute to figure out that it could be another version of The Frog Prince (maybe I unconsciously picked that fairy tale to displace for that reason). Although Mr. Darcy isn’t ugly and actually from outward appearances seems an agreeable suitor, the story is the same. Elizabeth Bennett is prejudiced against Mr. Darcy from her first few encounters with him. It isn’t until she sees his true goodness that she realizes her first impression was mistaken. Of course, there are other plot points in the book that may not tie in directly, but I’m sure if I read up on more myths and fairy tales I could bring some more connections.
The idea of everything being a displaced myth is also fascinating. When Dr. Sexson talked about it in class, I was skeptical at first. So after class I went home and thought about my favorite book and tried to see if I could connect my favorite book, Pride and Prejudice, to a myth or fairy tale. It only took me a minute to figure out that it could be another version of The Frog Prince (maybe I unconsciously picked that fairy tale to displace for that reason). Although Mr. Darcy isn’t ugly and actually from outward appearances seems an agreeable suitor, the story is the same. Elizabeth Bennett is prejudiced against Mr. Darcy from her first few encounters with him. It isn’t until she sees his true goodness that she realizes her first impression was mistaken. Of course, there are other plot points in the book that may not tie in directly, but I’m sure if I read up on more myths and fairy tales I could bring some more connections.
510: New dream and a recurring dream
Had a Catholic guilt dream last night. In the dream I received a letter in the mail declaring that the Catholic Church has decided to execute me by hanging. This all seemed to make sense in the dream but was daunting nevertheless. It explained that I was going to be hanged, but all of the charges were in Latin so I was unable to figure out what exactly I had done wrong. Nathan told me to calm down and to go see a religious studies professor at MSU, because they should be able to help me out (even though I don't even know if MSU has a religious studies program). It was a pretty strange dream considering the fact that I detached myself from the Catholic church years ago. Maybe I feel guiltier than I thought about not having a Catholic wedding.
As promised, I will delve into a recurring dream I started having around my freshman year in undergraduate school. They aren't as consistent as my T-rex-dinosaur dreams, but I do have them quite regularly; more often than dinosaurs these days. The situation, place, and people around are always different. I've been at a hotel, at my sister's friend Jamie's wedding, visiting my deceased grandmother, etc. Giant waves are the only consistency. Sometimes I am on or near a beach, sometimes I am unaware that water is near by, but waves will just all of a sudden become extremely high (not going to estimate the height; I am terrible at judging distances). They are so high, I end up getting swept in while I am violently attempting to escape. I never stay asleep long enough to find out if I make it out alive. Not sure if the dreams are linked to my fear of natural disasters (specificly tornados and tsunamis) or if they're linked to something else. My research into my praxis presentation on water next week will hopefully help.
As promised, I will delve into a recurring dream I started having around my freshman year in undergraduate school. They aren't as consistent as my T-rex-dinosaur dreams, but I do have them quite regularly; more often than dinosaurs these days. The situation, place, and people around are always different. I've been at a hotel, at my sister's friend Jamie's wedding, visiting my deceased grandmother, etc. Giant waves are the only consistency. Sometimes I am on or near a beach, sometimes I am unaware that water is near by, but waves will just all of a sudden become extremely high (not going to estimate the height; I am terrible at judging distances). They are so high, I end up getting swept in while I am violently attempting to escape. I never stay asleep long enough to find out if I make it out alive. Not sure if the dreams are linked to my fear of natural disasters (specificly tornados and tsunamis) or if they're linked to something else. My research into my praxis presentation on water next week will hopefully help.
06 February 2007
510: Dream text
Blogging sure is addicting. At least to me it is. Having sufficiently filled my mind with Frye for this week's class, I will spend my remaining free time relaying one of my two recurring dreams.
One of the silliest dreams I have had since I was around 9 years of age has been about dinosaurs. They aren't silly really; quite frightening actually. Silly really that I am having dreams of dinosaurs. It merits some kind of explanation (although I am really going to age myself as the youngest person in the class).
When I was around 9, my father took me to go see my first PG-13 film: Jurassic Park. I, along with many people at the time, was absolutely frightened but exhilarated by the film. After seeing for a second time, I went to the library and took out Crichton's book as well as the sequel (same name as the second film, but completely different). The book scared me so badly, I had the shut the blinds on the window next to my bed because I kept imagining velociraptors standing outside my window while I was sleeping.
Around that time I started having the dinosaur dreams. Little did I know, these dreams would remain. For the first ten years of having the dream, it was always a similar situation, although a different location. I would be somewhere familiar, sometimes at home, often at my high school. All of a sudden, people were running and screaming toward me. I look up and see the T-Rex pounding toward me. Although everybody around me is running, I hesitate. There is always some instinct in me telling me that I have to save anybody. I always wake up before I realize who I need to save or whether I escape the dinosaur's wrath.
In my late teens/early twenties the dreams changed for the worse. These dreams main tyrant are velociraptors, making the T-Rex seem like friendly dog you would want to bring home. Sometimes I am somewhere familiar, although sometimes I am somewhere that I have never been before. One dream even thrust me into the future into a house that was more like a maze. No structure exists in these dreams. They are always different and I never know when the beasts of prey are going to pop out. Some of the dreams have eggs, which I am desperately attempting to find and destroy to make my battle against the raptors a little less hopeless. Needless to say, I miss old Rexy. I never know what's coming with these terrors and know once they come into my dream, the rest of my night will be filled with tossing and turning and a lot of pillow punching.
Next recurrent dream to come: waves.
One of the silliest dreams I have had since I was around 9 years of age has been about dinosaurs. They aren't silly really; quite frightening actually. Silly really that I am having dreams of dinosaurs. It merits some kind of explanation (although I am really going to age myself as the youngest person in the class).
When I was around 9, my father took me to go see my first PG-13 film: Jurassic Park. I, along with many people at the time, was absolutely frightened but exhilarated by the film. After seeing for a second time, I went to the library and took out Crichton's book as well as the sequel (same name as the second film, but completely different). The book scared me so badly, I had the shut the blinds on the window next to my bed because I kept imagining velociraptors standing outside my window while I was sleeping.
Around that time I started having the dinosaur dreams. Little did I know, these dreams would remain. For the first ten years of having the dream, it was always a similar situation, although a different location. I would be somewhere familiar, sometimes at home, often at my high school. All of a sudden, people were running and screaming toward me. I look up and see the T-Rex pounding toward me. Although everybody around me is running, I hesitate. There is always some instinct in me telling me that I have to save anybody. I always wake up before I realize who I need to save or whether I escape the dinosaur's wrath.
In my late teens/early twenties the dreams changed for the worse. These dreams main tyrant are velociraptors, making the T-Rex seem like friendly dog you would want to bring home. Sometimes I am somewhere familiar, although sometimes I am somewhere that I have never been before. One dream even thrust me into the future into a house that was more like a maze. No structure exists in these dreams. They are always different and I never know when the beasts of prey are going to pop out. Some of the dreams have eggs, which I am desperately attempting to find and destroy to make my battle against the raptors a little less hopeless. Needless to say, I miss old Rexy. I never know what's coming with these terrors and know once they come into my dream, the rest of my night will be filled with tossing and turning and a lot of pillow punching.
Next recurrent dream to come: waves.
510: Dream text
Finally, a dream stuck with me when I woke up. Nothing exciting or as interesting as last week's dreams, but here goes:
I am at some kind of fair with my older sister. I hear from somebody that one of my favorite professors from my undergraduate school is in the book section, so I head there in order to see her. However, when I reach the room that used to contain the books, a bar greets me instead. At the bar, I see Derek, a fellow RA last year who I sat duty with and befriended. Although he was not and still is not old enough to be at a bar, he was in my dream. I greeted him with surprise and sat down to chat and catch up. Last year he seemed lost and not sure of what he wanted to do with his major or if he wanted to stay at IUP. In the dream (and in real life), it turns out he transferred to Penn State and switched his major to engineering. He seemed really happy and content with his life. He also seemed to have matured quite a bit since I last saw him.
Suddenly I am in a large truck (not semi-large, but F-350 large) with my little sister and Meghan's parents. (I was good friends with Meghan from 3rd grade until she seemed to fall off of the planet senior year.) We didn't talk about where we were going, but I knew that we were heading to Boston. I was telling them about my meeting with Derek and tried to explain who Derek was and why I was so happy for him since they did not know him.
The appearance of people from my past is probably remnant from my guilt of never calling or keeping in touch with anybody. I probably dreamed of Derek because our mutual friend Cody called me last week. Cody and Derek, apart from being friends, were kind of like two peas in a pod.
I am at some kind of fair with my older sister. I hear from somebody that one of my favorite professors from my undergraduate school is in the book section, so I head there in order to see her. However, when I reach the room that used to contain the books, a bar greets me instead. At the bar, I see Derek, a fellow RA last year who I sat duty with and befriended. Although he was not and still is not old enough to be at a bar, he was in my dream. I greeted him with surprise and sat down to chat and catch up. Last year he seemed lost and not sure of what he wanted to do with his major or if he wanted to stay at IUP. In the dream (and in real life), it turns out he transferred to Penn State and switched his major to engineering. He seemed really happy and content with his life. He also seemed to have matured quite a bit since I last saw him.
Suddenly I am in a large truck (not semi-large, but F-350 large) with my little sister and Meghan's parents. (I was good friends with Meghan from 3rd grade until she seemed to fall off of the planet senior year.) We didn't talk about where we were going, but I knew that we were heading to Boston. I was telling them about my meeting with Derek and tried to explain who Derek was and why I was so happy for him since they did not know him.
The appearance of people from my past is probably remnant from my guilt of never calling or keeping in touch with anybody. I probably dreamed of Derek because our mutual friend Cody called me last week. Cody and Derek, apart from being friends, were kind of like two peas in a pod.
550: Collins-inspired poems
§ Sitting in a Busy Downtown Coffee Shop on a Thursday Afternoon
I can’t help asking myself,
“Doesn’t anybody have a job?”
And if they do, how can I get a job like that,
with enough free time and relaxation
to visit a coffee shop and read a novel.
A man in a black suit sits in a brown leather couch
reading Dickens and glancing at his Rolex.
What is the suit for?
How can a Thursday-afternoon patron of coffee shops afford a Rolex
if he spends his business hours in coffee shops.
Then I wonder if he is a poet,
taking moments out of his day to scribble down his thoughts
and then returning to David Copperfield.
What a bum.
§ Airport
She stands in the terminal
nervously peeling off her red nailpolish.
She glances back and forth
between the arrival gate and the television
that flashes a green sign “Arrived.”
She begins to pace.
It seems as though she’s making all the other waiting people anxious.
What is the rush?
Should we be worried too?
When the passengers begin to pour down the ramp,
she becomes more frenzied.
Red chips fly off of her
like water off of a wet dog
attempting to shake himself dry.
When she sees him,
the one she was waiting so frantically for,
a wave of calm rushes over her face,
and her hands abandon her fingernails
as they wrap themselves around his neck.
I can’t help asking myself,
“Doesn’t anybody have a job?”
And if they do, how can I get a job like that,
with enough free time and relaxation
to visit a coffee shop and read a novel.
A man in a black suit sits in a brown leather couch
reading Dickens and glancing at his Rolex.
What is the suit for?
How can a Thursday-afternoon patron of coffee shops afford a Rolex
if he spends his business hours in coffee shops.
Then I wonder if he is a poet,
taking moments out of his day to scribble down his thoughts
and then returning to David Copperfield.
What a bum.
§ Airport
She stands in the terminal
nervously peeling off her red nailpolish.
She glances back and forth
between the arrival gate and the television
that flashes a green sign “Arrived.”
She begins to pace.
It seems as though she’s making all the other waiting people anxious.
What is the rush?
Should we be worried too?
When the passengers begin to pour down the ramp,
she becomes more frenzied.
Red chips fly off of her
like water off of a wet dog
attempting to shake himself dry.
When she sees him,
the one she was waiting so frantically for,
a wave of calm rushes over her face,
and her hands abandon her fingernails
as they wrap themselves around his neck.
05 February 2007
510: Response to Pans Labyrinth
In lieu of forcing myself to watch the Superbowl, I went to go see Pans Labyrinth, which I think is applicable to our class. The film was set during the Spanish Civil War and followed the story of a young girl who becomes acquainted with a faun who tells her she's the princess of the underworld. Although this part of the story was fantastical and seemed to be part of a fairy tale, the other part of the film portrayed not only the girl's hardships but also the hardship on the Spanish people during the Civil War. Although most of the film was realistic (with people telling young Ofelia to get her head out of books filled with fairy tales), there were fairy tale elements that I thought were especially relevant to what we were talking in class with the displaced fairy tales. Of course, by the end a question is stuck in the viewer's head: was it all inside her head? Did the fairies and faun visit her or was she creating hope and another world in order to attempt to escape her own personal turmoil.
I still haven't had time to wrap my brain around the film and come up with something eloquent to say, so I will just recommend that the rest of the class go see it.
Poetry coming soon. Mustering up the courage now to post them.
I still haven't had time to wrap my brain around the film and come up with something eloquent to say, so I will just recommend that the rest of the class go see it.
Poetry coming soon. Mustering up the courage now to post them.
04 February 2007
510: Dream text
Haven't been dreaming as much this week, which is strange for me. I usually remember my dreams. Finally one stuck last night.
In the dream, these two sisters had some kind of artistic ideas, ways to sell their art and/or use their artistic talents. Can't remember the first sister's idea but the second one was quite shallow and wanted to do drawings of ridiculously good-looking people (or something like that). Anyway, Nathan gave suggestions to both of the sisters in order for them to market their ideas to the public. The sisters did not like his advice, obviously, because they sued him. Don't remember the charges, but the jury returned a guilty verdict.
In a different part of the dream, we ran into one of Nathan's old college friends, Fred, in a deli. Nathan didn't even recognize him until I pointed out who he was. He had two women with him. That's all that I remember from that dream.
In the dream, these two sisters had some kind of artistic ideas, ways to sell their art and/or use their artistic talents. Can't remember the first sister's idea but the second one was quite shallow and wanted to do drawings of ridiculously good-looking people (or something like that). Anyway, Nathan gave suggestions to both of the sisters in order for them to market their ideas to the public. The sisters did not like his advice, obviously, because they sued him. Don't remember the charges, but the jury returned a guilty verdict.
In a different part of the dream, we ran into one of Nathan's old college friends, Fred, in a deli. Nathan didn't even recognize him until I pointed out who he was. He had two women with him. That's all that I remember from that dream.
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