I would like to preface this paper by saying that I hate defining something, because I think things can’t always be classified or defined in simple terms. Life and literature is too complicated for that. So instead of describing what contemporary poetry is (because who am I to attempt such a classification?), I am going to make some hopefully astute observations about what I noticed in my study of contemporary poetry thus far.
Contemporary poetry can be either very personal or can be applicable to anybody who reads it. It seems as though some poets use poetry as a release to express something that is very near and dear to their hearts. Sometimes the reader can relate but oftentimes the subject is far beyond the reach of the average man or woman. However, even if the subject matter is very personal, the poet can help the reader see or feel how they feel in their personal situation. For example, Yusef Komunyakaa’s poem Facing It is obviously about something that the majority of the population can’t relate to personally, because it is about being a veteran of the Vietnam War. He makes his personal connection to the war clear when he writes, “I’m inside/ the Vietnam Memorial/ again, depending on the light/ to make a difference./ I go down 58,022 names,/ half-expecting to find/ my own in letters like smoke.” However, although most people could never experience this feeling personally, Komunyakaa’s description is vivid, and it becomes a little easier to imagine how viewing the Vietnam Memorial as a veteran may feel.
Other contemporary poems are about everyday occurrences or thoughts that almost anybody could relate to personally. For example, in William Stafford’s poem Traveling through the Dark, Stafford writes about a doe who has been hit by the car, which is a common occurrence or sight to anybody who lives anywhere near deer. In Mary Oliver’s poem Mockingbirds, Oliver writes about the ideas of the importance of people even if they outwardly seem unimportant (like the old couple in the Greek myth she tells) and the unimportance of everyday obligations because of the importance of the moment (in her telling of watching mockingbirds play instead of going onto the planned days activities). These are thoughts that I’m sure a lot of people have had. It is so easy to think that we are small and insignificant (as the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s Total Perspective Vortex shows us), but at times, it is important to think that there is still value in our boring, seemingly insignificant lives. And haven’t we all frittered away time when we could and/or should be doing something useful? By addressing common thoughts, Stafford, Oliver, and other poets are clarifying thoughts and experiences that the everyday man or woman has encountered.
Contemporary poetry is not always about the rich and the powerful but about the everyman. In Gary Snyder’s poem Hay for the Horses, Snyder does not tell about a lush lifestyle many people strive for; instead, Snyder tells about a man who gathers and stacks bales of hay for a living. This may not be the everyday occurrence to everybody who reads the poem, but it is about somebody who may be on the fringe of modern society. This poem also seems to speak directly to the reader. Snyder includes dialogue: “’I’m sixty-eight,’ he said,/ ‘I first bucked hay when I was seventeen./ I thought, that day I started,/ I sure would hate to do this all my life./ And dammit, that just what/ I’ve gone and done.” This dialogue helps the poet drag the reader into the poem. The reader is not longer a casual observer but an active part of the poem.
Nature in contemporary poetry plays a number of roles. Some authors keep the spiritual beautiful vision of nature. In Mary Oliver’s Mockingbirds, she stops and watches mockingbirds “ spinning and tossing/ the white ribbons/ of their songs/ into the air.” This seems to be a common vision of nature as a source of beauty and reverence. Oliver also writes about natural forms in her poem The Chance to Love Everything: “All summer I made friends/ with the creatures nearby - / they flowed through the fields/ and under the tent walls/ or padded through the door,/ grinning through their many teeth.” This also seems to have a positive outlook on animals and nature. This poem, however, also shows a dark, fearful side to nature: “I heard a sound/ outside the door, the canvas/ bulged slightly – something/ was pressing inward at eye level./ I watched, trembling, sure I had heard/ the click of claws, the smack of lips/ outside my gauzy house - / I imagined the red eyes,/ the broad tongue, the enormous lap./ Would it be friendly too?”
In his poem Traveling through the Dark, William Stafford addresses a gruesome side to nature. He tells the story of deer roadkill and how it is best to “roll them into the canyon.” He writes, “By glow of the tail-light, I stumbled back of the car/ And stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;/ She had stiffened already, almost cold./ I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.” This poem shows the seedy underbelly of nature that previous poets writing about nature left out. It tells about something that most people don’t want to think about but are faced with. However, Stafford doesn’t write about it to gross his readers out; instead, he finds some strange beauty in his experience with the dead doe. He seems to find or search for a connection or meaning with the doe’s death. He feels her unborn fawn and pauses to think before rolling her off the road. It is disgusting, no doubt, but beautiful in its own way.
03 April 2007
02 April 2007
Preliminary thoughts on oceans
in order to whittle my paper down to a reasonable subject, I am planning on looking at oceans that the role they play in literature and some film and/or television shows. However, even though this is more specific than my previous paper, it still seems to be way too big for a 20-page paper. Here is what I have in mind thus far.
While reading Hillman, Heraclitus, and others when researching water, several thoughts came to mind. First of all, the depth of the water comes to mind initially. When one is wandering the deep, blue sea, they never know how deep it is beneath their feet (without new nifty technologic devices) and they also do not know what lies beneath. This gives the sea a degree of uncertainty. Nobody knows what evil lurks beneath and where or when it will rear its ugly head. Uncertainty also exists with the success of traveling the seas with weather. Nobody can perfectly predict the weather, and when one is traveling for a long length of time, they are bound to run into turbulent waters. Now, Heraclitus says that the soul (the Hillmanian image-soul) delights in water because it delights in death. When I read this, I thought that when one travels water, the ocean in particular, they truly are delighting in the possibility of death. No doubt after traveling the seas for a long time one becomes in tune with the method, but that possibility of death remains. It takes a certain personality, a certain bravery really, to risk ones life to travel the open seas. When you depart from the port, you never know what's coming from above or from below.
However, although an uncertainty exists with water, I must keep in mind that all elements have a duality. Yes, oceans are vast and deep and foreboding, but water also has the ability to heal and purify things. On a clear day, the ocean may not look intimidating but quite beautiful instead. I also must keep in mind that in theory we are all made up of the elements and are thus part water. We are, in some ways, one with water.
Thus far I am revisiting some books, movies and tv shows that deal with water. Bookwise, I am currently looking into The Old Man and the Sea, The Odyssey, Moby Dick, and possibly Gulliver's Travels. My fiance said the film The Abyss would work well, but I am not familiar with it and will have to look into that more. The television show Lost comes to mind as well, because in the show there is the sense that there is no way to escape; the water plays the role of a fence and anybody who attempts to leave gets pulled back to the island (although I'm going to try to stay away from sounding like I'm ripping off Ryan's thesis here). I've checked out some books from the library that would hopefully be helpful: some on travel narratives, some on Greek theory and Heraclitus. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!!! I'm still trying to find my footing and am having a hard time coming up with one main point I want to make. Any suggestions there are greatly appreciated as well!!
While reading Hillman, Heraclitus, and others when researching water, several thoughts came to mind. First of all, the depth of the water comes to mind initially. When one is wandering the deep, blue sea, they never know how deep it is beneath their feet (without new nifty technologic devices) and they also do not know what lies beneath. This gives the sea a degree of uncertainty. Nobody knows what evil lurks beneath and where or when it will rear its ugly head. Uncertainty also exists with the success of traveling the seas with weather. Nobody can perfectly predict the weather, and when one is traveling for a long length of time, they are bound to run into turbulent waters. Now, Heraclitus says that the soul (the Hillmanian image-soul) delights in water because it delights in death. When I read this, I thought that when one travels water, the ocean in particular, they truly are delighting in the possibility of death. No doubt after traveling the seas for a long time one becomes in tune with the method, but that possibility of death remains. It takes a certain personality, a certain bravery really, to risk ones life to travel the open seas. When you depart from the port, you never know what's coming from above or from below.
However, although an uncertainty exists with water, I must keep in mind that all elements have a duality. Yes, oceans are vast and deep and foreboding, but water also has the ability to heal and purify things. On a clear day, the ocean may not look intimidating but quite beautiful instead. I also must keep in mind that in theory we are all made up of the elements and are thus part water. We are, in some ways, one with water.
Thus far I am revisiting some books, movies and tv shows that deal with water. Bookwise, I am currently looking into The Old Man and the Sea, The Odyssey, Moby Dick, and possibly Gulliver's Travels. My fiance said the film The Abyss would work well, but I am not familiar with it and will have to look into that more. The television show Lost comes to mind as well, because in the show there is the sense that there is no way to escape; the water plays the role of a fence and anybody who attempts to leave gets pulled back to the island (although I'm going to try to stay away from sounding like I'm ripping off Ryan's thesis here). I've checked out some books from the library that would hopefully be helpful: some on travel narratives, some on Greek theory and Heraclitus. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!!! I'm still trying to find my footing and am having a hard time coming up with one main point I want to make. Any suggestions there are greatly appreciated as well!!
27 March 2007
Poetry
WITH A CONFIDENT AND DETERMINED HAND
With one movement of the hand,
another piece of clay falls to the floor.
After a few more strokes,
a figure begins to appear.
Somehow, he always seems to find
the art within the clay.
I could never do it.
The blob of clay remains a blob
despite my endeavors to make something beautiful.
Even after years of watching,
my hands have failed to imitate his movements,
or, at least, produce the same result.
The problem is, he makes it seem
so easy. His eyes determined and unblinking
with his lower lip jutted out in a pout,
he sees something others can’t
and he knows just how to let it emerge.
I could watch him for hours,
pushing and molding the clay
with tools until it is just so.
When he begins to use his hands,
you know he is in the final stretch.
His large, masculine hands move the clay
more delicately than one could imagine.
It is worse when he draws.
When he begins, the whole page seems like a mess of scribbles,
but the more his hand moves over and around the page,
the lines become more defined
and the figures materialize.
As he presses harder upon the pencil,
the details I wouldn’t have thought of come out:
the dimple in her left cheek,
the mole on his right forearm,
that one strand of hair that won’t stay in place.
He says anybody could learn.
He tried to teach me once.
With my awkward, inexperienced hand,
I mimicked his movements and confidence and followed his instructions,
and a face appeared.
It was not a face that I foresaw,
but it was a face.
Sometimes when he’s not around, I open a notebook
and try to replicate his movements
once more,
but nothing comes out
but scribbles on a blank page.
Here is an attempt at prose-poetry:
MUSE
When did it become so hard? Writing words on a page without any intent or purpose used to be what I did for fun after a long day of school in the fourth grade. I pumped out poems, short stories, and even short books quicker than my family could keep up reading them. I looked forward to submitting my words to writing contests and took pride in the fact that I won a ribbon or two. I was going to become a writer; there was no doubt in my mind. As time went on, our ’94 Gateway began to gather more and more dust. I would go back and tweak previous works, but I had felt as though I had run out of words to write and things to say. Eventually, I abandoned it all. My dad bought a new computer six years after my writing career, and in the transition, all my work was lost. When he told me, I shrugged. I had moved on to bigger and better things. I was going to become a veterinarian. And now I had a boyfriend. Sometimes I think about going back under the basement stairs and pulling out the computer that once held my prized works. Maybe that was my muse. But I doubt I ever will. Instead, I need to seek new words to say, more stories to tell.
With one movement of the hand,
another piece of clay falls to the floor.
After a few more strokes,
a figure begins to appear.
Somehow, he always seems to find
the art within the clay.
I could never do it.
The blob of clay remains a blob
despite my endeavors to make something beautiful.
Even after years of watching,
my hands have failed to imitate his movements,
or, at least, produce the same result.
The problem is, he makes it seem
so easy. His eyes determined and unblinking
with his lower lip jutted out in a pout,
he sees something others can’t
and he knows just how to let it emerge.
I could watch him for hours,
pushing and molding the clay
with tools until it is just so.
When he begins to use his hands,
you know he is in the final stretch.
His large, masculine hands move the clay
more delicately than one could imagine.
It is worse when he draws.
When he begins, the whole page seems like a mess of scribbles,
but the more his hand moves over and around the page,
the lines become more defined
and the figures materialize.
As he presses harder upon the pencil,
the details I wouldn’t have thought of come out:
the dimple in her left cheek,
the mole on his right forearm,
that one strand of hair that won’t stay in place.
He says anybody could learn.
He tried to teach me once.
With my awkward, inexperienced hand,
I mimicked his movements and confidence and followed his instructions,
and a face appeared.
It was not a face that I foresaw,
but it was a face.
Sometimes when he’s not around, I open a notebook
and try to replicate his movements
once more,
but nothing comes out
but scribbles on a blank page.
Here is an attempt at prose-poetry:
MUSE
When did it become so hard? Writing words on a page without any intent or purpose used to be what I did for fun after a long day of school in the fourth grade. I pumped out poems, short stories, and even short books quicker than my family could keep up reading them. I looked forward to submitting my words to writing contests and took pride in the fact that I won a ribbon or two. I was going to become a writer; there was no doubt in my mind. As time went on, our ’94 Gateway began to gather more and more dust. I would go back and tweak previous works, but I had felt as though I had run out of words to write and things to say. Eventually, I abandoned it all. My dad bought a new computer six years after my writing career, and in the transition, all my work was lost. When he told me, I shrugged. I had moved on to bigger and better things. I was going to become a veterinarian. And now I had a boyfriend. Sometimes I think about going back under the basement stairs and pulling out the computer that once held my prized works. Maybe that was my muse. But I doubt I ever will. Instead, I need to seek new words to say, more stories to tell.
20 March 2007
Response to Sandra Alcosser
I really don’t like saying that I don’t like certain poems, but overall, Sandra Alcosser’s poetry really didn’t do anything for me. I liked certain lines, images, or stanzas, but I’m not sure if I liked a complete poem of hers. So I guess I will comment on observations I made and some images that I did like.
Alcosser seemed to address some “isms” that previous poets we have studied have not acknowledged. What initially comes to mind are feminism and racism. The feminism was a little more prevalent; in fact, by the poem in the section Sugary Heat had undertones about comments she was making about men. The poem “Pale Boat at Honey Island” had a lot of sexual imagery (“the way he pushes deeper,” “he poles deeper”), but the imagery is more disturbing than pleasant. For example, Alcosser follows “the way he pushes deeper” with “into everything I hate” (7). She also uses words like “silt,” “muck,” “rotten breath,” and “sweat the odor of crawfish” about her lover; not exactly what one would expect (or want) to hear about a sexual experience.
A similar but different comment about feminism was made in the poem “A Warrior’s Tale” where a man tells the horrific story about a woman who had been raped, pushed over a cliff, and left to die. At the end of the poem, a woman who heard the story, Rachel, breaks down and cries in another room where the men could not see her. This seemed to be a comment about women not wanting to show fear in front of men. This made me wonder, if a woman shows fear in front of a man, does this give him power over her? Why do some women choose to act tough in front of men but breaking down once they leave their presence. It is an interesting comment on genders: what is a heroic story to the man who found and called attention to the attacked woman is a story of absolute horror to a woman to a woman.
Another poem that had some comments on women was in “In the Jittering World” (20). The line that made the comment was “Perhaps we both are lost in our landscape, woman and chameleon always changing to save our skin.” This seems to comment on the way the woman role has changed so much since the beginning of time but probably more in recent times with women’s lib. There is the pressure for women to change from the roles they used to be forced play (being only a wife and mother). Women are now supposed to want a high-powered career and to be able to fulfill a role that was traditionally reserved for men. This idea also seems to be present in “Wildcat Path” (where Alcosser writes “When I serve my family at the kitchen table, they lick their lips, turn toward me – mother, wife, teacher no longer, but now the woman who walked with a lion” (49).
The other “ism” (racism) was addressed in the poem “Worms,” but I won’t go into detail because that was a lot more upfront an obvious than some of the feminist imagery.
What I do like about Alcosser is her strong imagery and the way she played with the poetic form. Some poems seemed more like prose (“The Red Dress” [35]), some had a less conventional shape (“In the Jittering World” [20] and “Wildcat Path” [48-49]), some looked like their subject (“Throughout the Duration of a Pulse a Heart Changes Form” [57]), and some changed back and forth between poetic form and prose form (“Buying the Carnival [27-29]).
Alcosser seemed to address some “isms” that previous poets we have studied have not acknowledged. What initially comes to mind are feminism and racism. The feminism was a little more prevalent; in fact, by the poem in the section Sugary Heat had undertones about comments she was making about men. The poem “Pale Boat at Honey Island” had a lot of sexual imagery (“the way he pushes deeper,” “he poles deeper”), but the imagery is more disturbing than pleasant. For example, Alcosser follows “the way he pushes deeper” with “into everything I hate” (7). She also uses words like “silt,” “muck,” “rotten breath,” and “sweat the odor of crawfish” about her lover; not exactly what one would expect (or want) to hear about a sexual experience.
A similar but different comment about feminism was made in the poem “A Warrior’s Tale” where a man tells the horrific story about a woman who had been raped, pushed over a cliff, and left to die. At the end of the poem, a woman who heard the story, Rachel, breaks down and cries in another room where the men could not see her. This seemed to be a comment about women not wanting to show fear in front of men. This made me wonder, if a woman shows fear in front of a man, does this give him power over her? Why do some women choose to act tough in front of men but breaking down once they leave their presence. It is an interesting comment on genders: what is a heroic story to the man who found and called attention to the attacked woman is a story of absolute horror to a woman to a woman.
Another poem that had some comments on women was in “In the Jittering World” (20). The line that made the comment was “Perhaps we both are lost in our landscape, woman and chameleon always changing to save our skin.” This seems to comment on the way the woman role has changed so much since the beginning of time but probably more in recent times with women’s lib. There is the pressure for women to change from the roles they used to be forced play (being only a wife and mother). Women are now supposed to want a high-powered career and to be able to fulfill a role that was traditionally reserved for men. This idea also seems to be present in “Wildcat Path” (where Alcosser writes “When I serve my family at the kitchen table, they lick their lips, turn toward me – mother, wife, teacher no longer, but now the woman who walked with a lion” (49).
The other “ism” (racism) was addressed in the poem “Worms,” but I won’t go into detail because that was a lot more upfront an obvious than some of the feminist imagery.
What I do like about Alcosser is her strong imagery and the way she played with the poetic form. Some poems seemed more like prose (“The Red Dress” [35]), some had a less conventional shape (“In the Jittering World” [20] and “Wildcat Path” [48-49]), some looked like their subject (“Throughout the Duration of a Pulse a Heart Changes Form” [57]), and some changed back and forth between poetic form and prose form (“Buying the Carnival [27-29]).
Dreams and wedding dresses
Over spring break, I purchased my wedding dress, and afterwards found a few interesting things about it. First of all, the dress is part of a collection by the designer called Dreams. Secondly, the name of the dress is oleaje, which is spanish for surge, which brings me right back to water and waves.
I don't think I'll ever be able to do anything again without thinking of this class!!
I don't think I'll ever be able to do anything again without thinking of this class!!
08 March 2007
Golems
Last night, I could not get elements out of my head. And then I remembered an X-Files episode I had watched a few days before that was about the Golem. Naturally, I started thinking about how the element of earth functions in the Golem.
The golem is part of a Jewish folklore where man tries to emulate God by making a being out of mud. Golem actually means "raw materials." Once the golem was created, he was unable to disobey its creator. Having a golem servant is the ultimate sign of wisdom and holiness. However, no matter how holy the creator appears, the creature they create will always be a shadow of the creatures God has created. Golems are hindered from some things that are everyday for normal humans. For one thing, they are unable to speak, because if they spoke, they would have a soul. Golems are not very intelligent either; they are brainless and are either obedient to man or hostile toward man. Golems do have some special powers, such as invisibility, a heated touch, and the ability to summon spirits of the dead.
Now, it is important to remember that the name Adam actually means earth. In some theories, God created Adam himself out of mud. It is interesting to consider what the implications are when making beings out of the earth. The earth is cold and is associated with the underworld. The earth is also the only element humans have any real control over. One cannot control fire, air, and water, but in some ways, they do have the ability to control some aspects of the earth, such as growing plants, destroying mountains, building cities. Despite catastrophes, such as earthquakes, the earth is also predictable.
So what does it mean if humans are made of mud initially? Even if we're not, what are the implications when people attempt to make servants out of mud to do our bidding? If we are also made out of mud, why don't we have the ability to communicate with the underworld like the golem?
I want to look deeper into the golem. Not sure if it will be very fruitful, but I am interested about these men made of earth.
The golem is part of a Jewish folklore where man tries to emulate God by making a being out of mud. Golem actually means "raw materials." Once the golem was created, he was unable to disobey its creator. Having a golem servant is the ultimate sign of wisdom and holiness. However, no matter how holy the creator appears, the creature they create will always be a shadow of the creatures God has created. Golems are hindered from some things that are everyday for normal humans. For one thing, they are unable to speak, because if they spoke, they would have a soul. Golems are not very intelligent either; they are brainless and are either obedient to man or hostile toward man. Golems do have some special powers, such as invisibility, a heated touch, and the ability to summon spirits of the dead.
Now, it is important to remember that the name Adam actually means earth. In some theories, God created Adam himself out of mud. It is interesting to consider what the implications are when making beings out of the earth. The earth is cold and is associated with the underworld. The earth is also the only element humans have any real control over. One cannot control fire, air, and water, but in some ways, they do have the ability to control some aspects of the earth, such as growing plants, destroying mountains, building cities. Despite catastrophes, such as earthquakes, the earth is also predictable.
So what does it mean if humans are made of mud initially? Even if we're not, what are the implications when people attempt to make servants out of mud to do our bidding? If we are also made out of mud, why don't we have the ability to communicate with the underworld like the golem?
I want to look deeper into the golem. Not sure if it will be very fruitful, but I am interested about these men made of earth.
06 March 2007
550: an attempt at surrealism
I am having a really hard time writing surrealist poetry. I can't seem to let go control. Well, here's what I have so far.
BLOODSTAINS
I.
You look nice today.
Did you get that sweater
at thrift shop? Because I made one
just like it
and donated it.
II.
Blood, blood,
bloodstains, but the casket
was two feet shorter
than the man who lay
inside.
III.
The bunnies hopped
out of his mouth
and scrambled across
the green grass.
TODAY’S DATE
I like the idea
of people running
for office. There’s a positive
effect when you run
for office. Maybe some will run
for office and say, vote
for me, I look forward
to blowing up America.
I don’t know,
I don’t know if that will be their platform
or not. But it’s –
I don’t think so.
I think people who generally run
for office say, vote
for me, I’m looking forward
to fixing your potholes,
or make sure you got
bread on the table.
-President Bush on 16 March 2005
BLOODSTAINS
I.
You look nice today.
Did you get that sweater
at thrift shop? Because I made one
just like it
and donated it.
II.
Blood, blood,
bloodstains, but the casket
was two feet shorter
than the man who lay
inside.
III.
The bunnies hopped
out of his mouth
and scrambled across
the green grass.
TODAY’S DATE
I like the idea
of people running
for office. There’s a positive
effect when you run
for office. Maybe some will run
for office and say, vote
for me, I look forward
to blowing up America.
I don’t know,
I don’t know if that will be their platform
or not. But it’s –
I don’t think so.
I think people who generally run
for office say, vote
for me, I’m looking forward
to fixing your potholes,
or make sure you got
bread on the table.
-President Bush on 16 March 2005
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