This poetry journal is more than just a book of poems, it has songs and what seem to be more stories than what some would consider "poems." One poem that caught my eye was on page 48:
Spoken Litany
Andreas:
I wont have to work no more
I wont have to walk any more
I wont have to cry no more
I wont have to talk
I've been running a long time
I've been waiting a long time
I've been living a long time
I've been moving a long time
I gave my last chance to you
This poem really caught my attention. To me it seems that the narrator place trust or some sort of weight on someone and they were let down. That they don't what to have to deal with what happened.
Looking through the journal I saw a vast difference in how some pieces were put together. How some were short lined while others were somewhat paragraph style. There were even some as short as three lines. It just showed me that a poem can be what ever you want it to be, not just a "typical poem" what ever that may be.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I Can Finally Blog (and you can to for just 5 easy payments....) Seriously though here's how.
I was asked to post how I finally got on the blog. If you created a gmail account AFTER you were invited to the blog you need to ask LG to re-add you as an admin. Then in your gmail the invitiation will be there.
Also to celebrate finally getting on here after many angry hours trying to figure it out I'll try to get into the blogging spirit by putting up one of my favorite poems. It is by Kurt Vonnegut who has my vote for the greatest American writer. If you're looking for mind blowing novels check out Slaughterhouse Five, Cat's Cradle, and The Sirens of Titan. Somewhat ironically this poem is the ending to the last book he wrote before dying. Anyway here it is:
Requiem
The crucified planet Earth,
should it find a voice
and a sense of irony,
might now well say
of our abuse of it,
"Forgive them, Father,
They know not what they do."
The irony would be
that we know what
we are doing.
When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.
Also to celebrate finally getting on here after many angry hours trying to figure it out I'll try to get into the blogging spirit by putting up one of my favorite poems. It is by Kurt Vonnegut who has my vote for the greatest American writer. If you're looking for mind blowing novels check out Slaughterhouse Five, Cat's Cradle, and The Sirens of Titan. Somewhat ironically this poem is the ending to the last book he wrote before dying. Anyway here it is:
Requiem
The crucified planet Earth,
should it find a voice
and a sense of irony,
might now well say
of our abuse of it,
"Forgive them, Father,
They know not what they do."
The irony would be
that we know what
we are doing.
When the last living thing
has died on account of us,
how poetical it would be
if Earth could say,
in a voice floating up
perhaps
from the floor
of the Grand Canyon,
"It is done."
People did not like it here.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Gulf Coast Journal
Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Art, Summer/Fall 2007, Vol 19./No. 2
Over the past week I have been picking different pages out of Gulf Coast and reading whatever poem, essay, short story, review or interview appeared before me. One section included a short essay, an interview, and a series of artwork titled “Drawings for Lorenzo” which showed how the arts overlap and support each other. Another interesting part of the journal was a series of rough drafts of Mark Z. Danielewski’s latest novel Only Revolutions that included scanned-in papers that were handwritten or typed and then marked up with colored pen. This was really interesting to see what was titled “Evolutions” of a piece of writing. It shows the process of creation as a type of artwork itself and gives credit to all those dirty looking pieces of paper that get swept aside for the perfect type, grammar and look of a printed novel. The poems make up most of the journal and all have the richness of imagery although sometimes the themes don’t appear as easily as the visuals and other senses do. Themes that were common throughout are the darker side of American life with “New Day Rising,” “Kidnapper,” “Go________,” and “Appendix” and nature in “Floodsong 6: Bullfrog’s Liturgy of the Eucharist” and “Crab Alley.”
“Appendix” was one of my favorite poems that captured the more depressing but more realistic side of American life, singing small praises of the individual while commenting on the darker parts of our country people tend to look over.
Maya Washington
Appendix
(Figure 1.)
I lose my Kool Aid smile the week we watch
Roots in American History class; the vomit-laden
middle passage; crack of whip against human
leather—the remains of Kunta’s black foot.
Alex Haley. Genetic memory. Me, a Diaspora baby.
Africa, the desecrated Mama. America, our collective
trauma. It has something to do with my teacher—
she insists that we call her Ma instead of Mrs.
Peschko. I think she has children of her own,
but figure she likes the way it sounds- like some mother
Of the American Revolution.
(Figure 2.)
The teacher is old. Yellow chalk
Stains her fingers—golden strokes;
human canvas. She says, “Life originated in Africa.”
I wonder, is this woman crazy enough to get the story right?
In spite of the fact that (in utero) God painted Ma Peshko white.
I chose this poem mainly because of the way it sounded when I read it. Even in my head I could feel the connection between words and the rhythm they created especially in the third stanza into the fourth with “Haley,” “memory,” and “baby” blending in with “Diaspora,” “Africa,” “Mama,” “America,” and “trauma.” Although the lyrical feel of the words caught my attention first I noticed the theme that centers around Africa and how we originated there, no matter what our skin color is now. The allusions to Roots, Diasporas, and the American Revolution were very strong points that fit well in the small story presented here, where a student is in class learning about a history that was not too friendly, “the vomit-laden middle passage” shows that clearly enough as well as the whip against “human leather.” The images mixed with the allusions are very strong, showing the brutality that was enough to wipe away the speaker's "Kool Aid smile." It's like a time when they are learning that the world isn't a pretty picture but then the teacher seems to show a side that isn't brutal, one that may be a bit “crazy” but at the same time “right.” I haven't quite figured out the title and labeling two parts of the poem, one "(Figure 1.)" and the other "(Figure 2.)" but it would be interesting to see what others have to say about that. Overall I felt this was a poem that excelled at lyrical language, intertwining allusions, and creating lasting images of a classroom and America.
Besides the poetry I really enjoyed the short stories I've read so far from the journal especially "An American Education" and "The Scenic Route." The first one is a nonfiction essay from the point of view of the youngest of five siblings, the next youngest nine years older than him, and how they influenced his childhood and how he grew up. Topics that are addressed throughout his childhood through high school are learning how to read, sibling fights and friendship, divorce, best friends (how you can have a new one every year but there seems to be a necessity for one), bullies, drug use, jail, the military, sexuality of various kinds, pregnancy, and many other issues that lead to an education outside of school. It's told in small paragraphs, like a piece made up of small memories that created a larger story. Nothing drags on and there is always a touch of humor to every situation like one of the lines at the beginning, "...the futility of getting dogs to climb trees." The other story is fiction but feels very real, as though it is based on real life experiences. The first sentence opens up with the narrator's brother Benny deciding to be kidnapped, which caught my attention right away. It then leads on to show the disconnection of the mother and father from the son and daughter and how any of their relationships with other people are strained as well, except that Benny and Becky remain siblings, there for each other when needed.
Gulf Coast is published twice yearly: October and April. Send queries and manuscripts to Gulf Coast, Department of English, University of Houston, Houston, TX 77204-3013. Specify genre (fiction, poetry, nonfiction, or review) on the outside of your envelope. All correspondence must be accompanied by a cover letter and a self-addressed stamped envelope. Gulf Coast does not read unsolicited submissions from April 15 to August 15.
For more information and guidelines on how to submit visit http://www.gulfcoastmag.org/
Over the past week I have been picking different pages out of Gulf Coast and reading whatever poem, essay, short story, review or interview appeared before me. One section included a short essay, an interview, and a series of artwork titled “Drawings for Lorenzo” which showed how the arts overlap and support each other. Another interesting part of the journal was a series of rough drafts of Mark Z. Danielewski’s latest novel Only Revolutions that included scanned-in papers that were handwritten or typed and then marked up with colored pen. This was really interesting to see what was titled “Evolutions” of a piece of writing. It shows the process of creation as a type of artwork itself and gives credit to all those dirty looking pieces of paper that get swept aside for the perfect type, grammar and look of a printed novel. The poems make up most of the journal and all have the richness of imagery although sometimes the themes don’t appear as easily as the visuals and other senses do. Themes that were common throughout are the darker side of American life with “New Day Rising,” “Kidnapper,” “Go________,” and “Appendix” and nature in “Floodsong 6: Bullfrog’s Liturgy of the Eucharist” and “Crab Alley.”
“Appendix” was one of my favorite poems that captured the more depressing but more realistic side of American life, singing small praises of the individual while commenting on the darker parts of our country people tend to look over.
Maya Washington
Appendix
(Figure 1.)
I lose my Kool Aid smile the week we watch
Roots in American History class; the vomit-laden
middle passage; crack of whip against human
leather—the remains of Kunta’s black foot.
Alex Haley. Genetic memory. Me, a Diaspora baby.
Africa, the desecrated Mama. America, our collective
trauma. It has something to do with my teacher—
she insists that we call her Ma instead of Mrs.
Peschko. I think she has children of her own,
but figure she likes the way it sounds- like some mother
Of the American Revolution.
(Figure 2.)
The teacher is old. Yellow chalk
Stains her fingers—golden strokes;
human canvas. She says, “Life originated in Africa.”
I wonder, is this woman crazy enough to get the story right?
In spite of the fact that (in utero) God painted Ma Peshko white.
I chose this poem mainly because of the way it sounded when I read it. Even in my head I could feel the connection between words and the rhythm they created especially in the third stanza into the fourth with “Haley,” “memory,” and “baby” blending in with “Diaspora,” “Africa,” “Mama,” “America,” and “trauma.” Although the lyrical feel of the words caught my attention first I noticed the theme that centers around Africa and how we originated there, no matter what our skin color is now. The allusions to Roots, Diasporas, and the American Revolution were very strong points that fit well in the small story presented here, where a student is in class learning about a history that was not too friendly, “the vomit-laden middle passage” shows that clearly enough as well as the whip against “human leather.” The images mixed with the allusions are very strong, showing the brutality that was enough to wipe away the speaker's "Kool Aid smile." It's like a time when they are learning that the world isn't a pretty picture but then the teacher seems to show a side that isn't brutal, one that may be a bit “crazy” but at the same time “right.” I haven't quite figured out the title and labeling two parts of the poem, one "(Figure 1.)" and the other "(Figure 2.)" but it would be interesting to see what others have to say about that. Overall I felt this was a poem that excelled at lyrical language, intertwining allusions, and creating lasting images of a classroom and America.
Besides the poetry I really enjoyed the short stories I've read so far from the journal especially "An American Education" and "The Scenic Route." The first one is a nonfiction essay from the point of view of the youngest of five siblings, the next youngest nine years older than him, and how they influenced his childhood and how he grew up. Topics that are addressed throughout his childhood through high school are learning how to read, sibling fights and friendship, divorce, best friends (how you can have a new one every year but there seems to be a necessity for one), bullies, drug use, jail, the military, sexuality of various kinds, pregnancy, and many other issues that lead to an education outside of school. It's told in small paragraphs, like a piece made up of small memories that created a larger story. Nothing drags on and there is always a touch of humor to every situation like one of the lines at the beginning, "...the futility of getting dogs to climb trees." The other story is fiction but feels very real, as though it is based on real life experiences. The first sentence opens up with the narrator's brother Benny deciding to be kidnapped, which caught my attention right away. It then leads on to show the disconnection of the mother and father from the son and daughter and how any of their relationships with other people are strained as well, except that Benny and Becky remain siblings, there for each other when needed.
Gulf Coast is published twice yearly: October and April. Send queries and manuscripts to Gulf Coast, Department of English, University of Houston, Houston, TX 77204-3013. Specify genre (fiction, poetry, nonfiction, or review) on the outside of your envelope. All correspondence must be accompanied by a cover letter and a self-addressed stamped envelope. Gulf Coast does not read unsolicited submissions from April 15 to August 15.
For more information and guidelines on how to submit visit http://www.gulfcoastmag.org/
Lyric Poems
Ok, Poets, since I posted an example of a narrative poem (and a bit of exposition), I thought I'd give you all a sample of a lyric poem. I've been reading this book by Brenda Shaughnessy, Human Dark with Sugar, and thought you all might enjoy the opening poem, "I'm Over the Moon." I'll follow up with a few notes as to why this is a lyric poem so you have a sense of what I mean.
"I'm Over the Moon"
I don't like what the moon is supposed to do.
Confuse me, ovulate me,
sppon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient
date-rape drug. So I'll howl at you, moon,
I'm angry. I'll take back the night. Using me to
swoon at your questionable light,
you had me chasing you,
the world's worst lover, over and over
hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight.
But you disappear for nights on end
with all my erotic mysteries
and my entire unconscious mind.
How long do I try to get water from a stone?
It's like having a bad boyfriend in a good band.
Better off alone. I'm going to write hard
and fast into you, moon, face-fucking.
Something you wouldn't understand.
You with no swampy sexual
promise but what we glue onto you.
That's not real. You have no begging
cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch
sucked. No lacerating spasms
sending electrical sparks through the toes.
Stars have those.
What do you have? You're a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There's a hero.
The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.
But my lovers have never been able to read
my mind. I've had to learn to be direct.
It's hard to learn that, hard to do.
The sun is worth ten of you.
You don't hold a candle
to that complexity, that solid craze.
Like an animal carcass on the road at night,
picked at by crows,
haunting walkers and drivers. Your face
regularly sliced up by the moving
frames of car windows. Your light is drawn,
quartered, your dreams are stolen.
You change shape and turn away,
letting night solve all night's problems alone.
--Brenda Shaughnessy
--------------------
With as many poems as there are about the moon, this one struck me in its playful, accurate and sharp language. While she suggests a dozen or more narratives, she never goes there. One of my favorite lines: "It's like having a bad boyfriend in a good band" sends us off into our own stories, but doesn't continue. Instead, it's the language play, the rhythm and rhyme that keep us tripping along in this poem:
What do you have? You're a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There's a hero.
The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.
Shaughnessy uses assonance in such a wonderful way: do/you/tool/moon/noon and then rears back with "hero" to end-stop the line. The alliteration in "Now, noon" is also impressive as it works to stop the rhythm short and underscore what she's trying to say (e.g., the moon can't be trusted in its sneaky beauty--unlike the "obvious sun").
Along with the way the sounds of the language work on us, the poem alludes to much: It brings together pop culture movements/references like "Take Back the Night" along with the established poetic tradition of John Donne (and others) with the "enemy of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures." This line referencing Donne's "The Sun Rising."
While you might say that there is an arc to the poem, it's not a narrative arc in which "something happens." The Colonel, for instance, does not spill ears on the table, leaving us with a lesson in politics and evil. Instead, "I'm Over the Moon" pulls us, pushes us, tricks and trips us through its language, going through lyrical phrases and phases like the moon itself. Sound is always wed to meaning.
--LG
"I'm Over the Moon"
I don't like what the moon is supposed to do.
Confuse me, ovulate me,
sppon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient
date-rape drug. So I'll howl at you, moon,
I'm angry. I'll take back the night. Using me to
swoon at your questionable light,
you had me chasing you,
the world's worst lover, over and over
hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight.
But you disappear for nights on end
with all my erotic mysteries
and my entire unconscious mind.
How long do I try to get water from a stone?
It's like having a bad boyfriend in a good band.
Better off alone. I'm going to write hard
and fast into you, moon, face-fucking.
Something you wouldn't understand.
You with no swampy sexual
promise but what we glue onto you.
That's not real. You have no begging
cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch
sucked. No lacerating spasms
sending electrical sparks through the toes.
Stars have those.
What do you have? You're a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There's a hero.
The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.
But my lovers have never been able to read
my mind. I've had to learn to be direct.
It's hard to learn that, hard to do.
The sun is worth ten of you.
You don't hold a candle
to that complexity, that solid craze.
Like an animal carcass on the road at night,
picked at by crows,
haunting walkers and drivers. Your face
regularly sliced up by the moving
frames of car windows. Your light is drawn,
quartered, your dreams are stolen.
You change shape and turn away,
letting night solve all night's problems alone.
--Brenda Shaughnessy
--------------------
With as many poems as there are about the moon, this one struck me in its playful, accurate and sharp language. While she suggests a dozen or more narratives, she never goes there. One of my favorite lines: "It's like having a bad boyfriend in a good band" sends us off into our own stories, but doesn't continue. Instead, it's the language play, the rhythm and rhyme that keep us tripping along in this poem:
What do you have? You're a tool, moon.
Now, noon. There's a hero.
The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.
Shaughnessy uses assonance in such a wonderful way: do/you/tool/moon/noon and then rears back with "hero" to end-stop the line. The alliteration in "Now, noon" is also impressive as it works to stop the rhythm short and underscore what she's trying to say (e.g., the moon can't be trusted in its sneaky beauty--unlike the "obvious sun").
Along with the way the sounds of the language work on us, the poem alludes to much: It brings together pop culture movements/references like "Take Back the Night" along with the established poetic tradition of John Donne (and others) with the "enemy of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures." This line referencing Donne's "The Sun Rising."
While you might say that there is an arc to the poem, it's not a narrative arc in which "something happens." The Colonel, for instance, does not spill ears on the table, leaving us with a lesson in politics and evil. Instead, "I'm Over the Moon" pulls us, pushes us, tricks and trips us through its language, going through lyrical phrases and phases like the moon itself. Sound is always wed to meaning.
--LG
Poetry Journals: Evidence & Observation
All of us in Poetry 311 have a contemporary poetry/literary journal (well, at least on loan!) I'm hoping that you will take yours, read through it and then share what you've found in your reading.
While you should follow the guidelines I've laid out via email and FB's Discussion Board, I'm hoping that you all will enjoy browsing and thinking about some of the things you read. In other words, let the guidelines be the most basic response. If you want to talk about other things (even other genres besides poetry), feel free.
I hope you see this more as a way to share with each other what you found interesting, mysterious or even confusing, while you're sampling a bit of the current American poetry scene.
The method to the madness is simply this: I can "tell" you all some of the different modes in poetry these days, but I think it's a lot more writerly and convincing to discover them for yourselves.
My great wish is that you have fun with this and learn a bit and discuss it with each other.
--LG
While you should follow the guidelines I've laid out via email and FB's Discussion Board, I'm hoping that you all will enjoy browsing and thinking about some of the things you read. In other words, let the guidelines be the most basic response. If you want to talk about other things (even other genres besides poetry), feel free.
I hope you see this more as a way to share with each other what you found interesting, mysterious or even confusing, while you're sampling a bit of the current American poetry scene.
The method to the madness is simply this: I can "tell" you all some of the different modes in poetry these days, but I think it's a lot more writerly and convincing to discover them for yourselves.
My great wish is that you have fun with this and learn a bit and discuss it with each other.
--LG
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Prose Poem & Explanation
Poets,
Since we were talking a lot about what kind of poems we were reading last class (prose vs. lyric), I thought I would give you an example of a prose poem to help us understand the difference.
The poem by Carolyn Forche, "The Colonel," is pasted in below and after that is an explanatory essay from Poets.org on the poem. I think it will help you begin to understand how to think about these differences. I'll follow up with a lyric poem and then with a poem that actually does both narrative and lyric. More soon!
LG
--
The Colonel
(From The Country Between Us, by Carolyn Forche)
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of the wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
----
Here's the exposition by G. Wilkins from Poetry.org:
Post subject: On Carolyn Forché’s “The Colonel”
by G.Wilkens Carolyn Forché’s “The Colonel” immediately catches the eye as one flips through the average poetry anthology. In the middle of couplets, tercets, and oddly-lined stanzas appears a small, tight block of text, like a brick wall in the midst of a field. The poem was written in 1978 while Forché was working for Amnesty International in El Salvador, and recounts a brutal encounter with its title character. The Colonel is a hard man in a violent world, and he cares not for the rights of the people he governs nor the fact that he is exposing his evil nature to a poet: as he says, “Something for your poetry, no?” (21). The poem reinforces this effect through its stark irony and short poetic flourishes, its outer appearance, and the length and terseness of its sentences. The Colonel is about as subtle and friendly as a brick wall, and thus the poem about him looks like one.
The intent of the “The Colonel” is to describe the nature of this brutal man, and the structure of the poem is likewise brutal on the eyes and ears. “The Colonel” is narrated by Forché in the first person. “What you have heard is true. I was in his house” (1). The poem begins somewhat disarmingly by describing the Colonel’s seemingly normal family: he has a wife who serves Forché coffee and sugar, a daughter who files her nails, and a son who has gone out for the night. The scene is quite domestic, and one might never know that one is in El Salvador in the home of a butcher. If the intent of the poem is to shock, it first soothes us with a feeling of homeiness: “There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him” (3). Pistol on the cushion? We weren’t expecting that one. The scene quickly gets darker as the shadow of the Colonel and his violent nature falls over the happy home. “The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house” (4). This is a clear foreshadowing of the man as a torturer and murder. A cop show in English is on the television, showing the Colonel as a man who can speak the international language and is presumably aware of what he is and that he will be seen for what he is. The poem goes on to stress that he doesn’t care, and is quite at home with violence:
“Broken bottles were / embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a / man’s legs or cut his cut his hands to lace” (5-7).
What kind of designer places broken bottles into walls? (LG's note: Actually, this is a common practice in Latin American wealthy or even middle-class homes. It keeps out thieves and others.)
The irony of “The Colonel” is reinforced after things rapidly deteriorate after a brief return to normal. Forché is treated to a sumptuous dinner and interesting table conversation: they feast on rack of lamb, good wine, bread, and green mangoes. They discuss the country and the problems of its governance, and are served by a maid summoned by a golden bell. A parrot contributes its pleasantries to the scene, but suddenly the Colonel tells it to shut up and leaves the room. From here the poem becomes a direct and chilling horror show:
The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears onto the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped into a water glass. It came alive there (15-18 ).
“The Colonel” contains few obvious poetic devices, purporting to be a plain, journalistic report of a true event. When one appears, it bears careful study: “They were like dried peach halves,” is the only simile in the poem, and Forché uses it to make the stark image come to life for us, as the ears do in water. The simile catches the poet struggling with expression, with the shock and horror of the scene. She literally can find no other way to say what she must, so she resorts to what might seem an inappropriate image in such a grim context. Yet the mention of peach halves echoes the use of mangoes earlier, and along with the parrot reinforces the beautiful tropical setting in which all these ugly events are playing out. Thus, Forché’s simile is another form of her use of ironic contrast to shock the reader with the Colonel’s brutality.
Another conspicuous poetic device in the midst of Forché’s hard, blank prose is the repetition of “some” in the last three lines. “Something for your poetry, no? he said. / Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the / ears on the floor were pressed to the ground” (21-23). The repetition forces us to read the prose as poetry, and if these lines are scanned they are found to be almost perfectly anapestic. This compresses the rhythm just as the ears hit the ground, as they are shut off from sound in one last killing act by the Colonel. However, the two intonations of “Some of the ears” bring a song-like ending to this prose poem, creating a sudden hole at the bottom of the poem’s wall, through which a little life yet flows: some of the ears can still hear, someone, such as Forché, will always remain to bear witness to any atrocity. This poetic aspect points to poetry’s role as the recorder of deeds, shown by the sudden lapse of the poem’s flat diction into a flowing cadence. In addition to the poem’s internal devices, “The Colonel” makes heavy use of its visual impact on the page to present the defiant visage of the Colonel and his violence. The poem is short, being only twenty-three lines long, if one chooses to count its blocky structure as lineated. It even seems unusual to count the lines in this poem, as they are arranged like neither a normal stanza nor a paragraph. This poem could be called journalistic prose, but it is not indented either. Its appearance in fact fits into no category, its only resemblance being to a square, a wall, a slab of stone, or a monolith. When read, this appearance recreates the unforgiving face that one imagines on the Colonel as he says “I am tired of / fooling around…As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they / can go fuck themselves” (18-20). The poem is itself the hard chunk of its subject’s heart, dropped uncaringly onto the page. If “The Colonel” had been broken into tercets of long lines, this effect would have been softened. Therefore the outer appearance of the poem is a crucial element of its thematic purpose. If “The Colonel” is a brick wall, each of its sentences must be bricks. This is exactly the case, as we see from the short, choppy statements which dominate the poem from its first lines:
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, her son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. (1-4)
We have already seen that what these sentences say sets up the ironic twists of the poem, but they bear further examination for what their sound and image accomplish. They set the staccato rhythm that dominates, which sounds like a typewriter or a machine gun. This again brings in the associations with journalism and violence that the poem plays on.
“On the television was a cop show. It was in English.” The speaker sounds as if she was on the verge of stuttering, or her teeth were chattering in fear. This highlights the tension that pervades the poem, even when what is being described is not harsh and almost mundane. The poem’s sound grates and rattles, setting us on edge and causing us to read quickly, almost inhaling the lines in our suspense. Within lines commas break the sound into even smaller bricks of sound. The longest lines are those which detail some uncomfortably violent image, as if to trip us into the broken bottles projecting from the walls and scoop out our kneecaps or lacerate our hands. The poem’s sound smoothes out slightly near the end, as the poem works into its unexpectedly fluent closing “couplet,” as if providing a little music to soothe both the severed ears and our own. On the whole though, “The Colonel” is a jarring blurt of short, fast sentences which scream out their horrific story.
The visual appearance of these sentences has a similar effect on our eyes. Looked at as a whole, the poem seems to be a black rock on the page that lets out little light. Seen up close it appears to be made of bricks of hard fact that sit dully within the poem’s hard façade. Each tiny detail: the tray of coffee and sugar, the daughter filing her nails, the papers, the pet dogs, the pistols, etc. has it own niche in the wall. Visually as well aurally, the poem breaks its discrete details into units which drag us in the immediacy of the scene quickly and don’t prepare us for the shock of what is about to happen.
In every way, “The Colonel” tries to thrust us into its big, dramatic image. It wants to almost rub our faces in the image of the ears, and both its sound and appearance set up that gut-punching shock which reveals so unambiguously the nature of the Colonel. “The Colonel” is a visual and verbal mugging. “The Colonel,” upon close examination, shows itself to be not only a poem but one that makes extensive use of a host of effects, internal and external, to produce the feeling of stunned horror that it leaves us with. By means of irony, the concise use of simile, repetition, and metrical effects, as well a driving rhythm and a stony appearance, the poem brings us face to face with its horrible villain and his callus disdain for the human lives he commands and the young American poet he wishes to use to deliver his stern message. To read “The Colonel” is to sit with Forché in the thick, fearful atmosphere of that house, to eat the lamb, drink the wine, taste the mangoes and see a sack of ears spill out onto a table._________________
Since we were talking a lot about what kind of poems we were reading last class (prose vs. lyric), I thought I would give you an example of a prose poem to help us understand the difference.
The poem by Carolyn Forche, "The Colonel," is pasted in below and after that is an explanatory essay from Poets.org on the poem. I think it will help you begin to understand how to think about these differences. I'll follow up with a lyric poem and then with a poem that actually does both narrative and lyric. More soon!
LG
--
The Colonel
(From The Country Between Us, by Carolyn Forche)
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man's legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of the wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
----
Here's the exposition by G. Wilkins from Poetry.org:
Post subject: On Carolyn Forché’s “The Colonel”
by G.Wilkens Carolyn Forché’s “The Colonel” immediately catches the eye as one flips through the average poetry anthology. In the middle of couplets, tercets, and oddly-lined stanzas appears a small, tight block of text, like a brick wall in the midst of a field. The poem was written in 1978 while Forché was working for Amnesty International in El Salvador, and recounts a brutal encounter with its title character. The Colonel is a hard man in a violent world, and he cares not for the rights of the people he governs nor the fact that he is exposing his evil nature to a poet: as he says, “Something for your poetry, no?” (21). The poem reinforces this effect through its stark irony and short poetic flourishes, its outer appearance, and the length and terseness of its sentences. The Colonel is about as subtle and friendly as a brick wall, and thus the poem about him looks like one.
The intent of the “The Colonel” is to describe the nature of this brutal man, and the structure of the poem is likewise brutal on the eyes and ears. “The Colonel” is narrated by Forché in the first person. “What you have heard is true. I was in his house” (1). The poem begins somewhat disarmingly by describing the Colonel’s seemingly normal family: he has a wife who serves Forché coffee and sugar, a daughter who files her nails, and a son who has gone out for the night. The scene is quite domestic, and one might never know that one is in El Salvador in the home of a butcher. If the intent of the poem is to shock, it first soothes us with a feeling of homeiness: “There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him” (3). Pistol on the cushion? We weren’t expecting that one. The scene quickly gets darker as the shadow of the Colonel and his violent nature falls over the happy home. “The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house” (4). This is a clear foreshadowing of the man as a torturer and murder. A cop show in English is on the television, showing the Colonel as a man who can speak the international language and is presumably aware of what he is and that he will be seen for what he is. The poem goes on to stress that he doesn’t care, and is quite at home with violence:
“Broken bottles were / embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a / man’s legs or cut his cut his hands to lace” (5-7).
What kind of designer places broken bottles into walls? (LG's note: Actually, this is a common practice in Latin American wealthy or even middle-class homes. It keeps out thieves and others.)
The irony of “The Colonel” is reinforced after things rapidly deteriorate after a brief return to normal. Forché is treated to a sumptuous dinner and interesting table conversation: they feast on rack of lamb, good wine, bread, and green mangoes. They discuss the country and the problems of its governance, and are served by a maid summoned by a golden bell. A parrot contributes its pleasantries to the scene, but suddenly the Colonel tells it to shut up and leaves the room. From here the poem becomes a direct and chilling horror show:
The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears onto the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped into a water glass. It came alive there (15-18 ).
“The Colonel” contains few obvious poetic devices, purporting to be a plain, journalistic report of a true event. When one appears, it bears careful study: “They were like dried peach halves,” is the only simile in the poem, and Forché uses it to make the stark image come to life for us, as the ears do in water. The simile catches the poet struggling with expression, with the shock and horror of the scene. She literally can find no other way to say what she must, so she resorts to what might seem an inappropriate image in such a grim context. Yet the mention of peach halves echoes the use of mangoes earlier, and along with the parrot reinforces the beautiful tropical setting in which all these ugly events are playing out. Thus, Forché’s simile is another form of her use of ironic contrast to shock the reader with the Colonel’s brutality.
Another conspicuous poetic device in the midst of Forché’s hard, blank prose is the repetition of “some” in the last three lines. “Something for your poetry, no? he said. / Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the / ears on the floor were pressed to the ground” (21-23). The repetition forces us to read the prose as poetry, and if these lines are scanned they are found to be almost perfectly anapestic. This compresses the rhythm just as the ears hit the ground, as they are shut off from sound in one last killing act by the Colonel. However, the two intonations of “Some of the ears” bring a song-like ending to this prose poem, creating a sudden hole at the bottom of the poem’s wall, through which a little life yet flows: some of the ears can still hear, someone, such as Forché, will always remain to bear witness to any atrocity. This poetic aspect points to poetry’s role as the recorder of deeds, shown by the sudden lapse of the poem’s flat diction into a flowing cadence. In addition to the poem’s internal devices, “The Colonel” makes heavy use of its visual impact on the page to present the defiant visage of the Colonel and his violence. The poem is short, being only twenty-three lines long, if one chooses to count its blocky structure as lineated. It even seems unusual to count the lines in this poem, as they are arranged like neither a normal stanza nor a paragraph. This poem could be called journalistic prose, but it is not indented either. Its appearance in fact fits into no category, its only resemblance being to a square, a wall, a slab of stone, or a monolith. When read, this appearance recreates the unforgiving face that one imagines on the Colonel as he says “I am tired of / fooling around…As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they / can go fuck themselves” (18-20). The poem is itself the hard chunk of its subject’s heart, dropped uncaringly onto the page. If “The Colonel” had been broken into tercets of long lines, this effect would have been softened. Therefore the outer appearance of the poem is a crucial element of its thematic purpose. If “The Colonel” is a brick wall, each of its sentences must be bricks. This is exactly the case, as we see from the short, choppy statements which dominate the poem from its first lines:
What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, her son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the cushion beside him. (1-4)
We have already seen that what these sentences say sets up the ironic twists of the poem, but they bear further examination for what their sound and image accomplish. They set the staccato rhythm that dominates, which sounds like a typewriter or a machine gun. This again brings in the associations with journalism and violence that the poem plays on.
“On the television was a cop show. It was in English.” The speaker sounds as if she was on the verge of stuttering, or her teeth were chattering in fear. This highlights the tension that pervades the poem, even when what is being described is not harsh and almost mundane. The poem’s sound grates and rattles, setting us on edge and causing us to read quickly, almost inhaling the lines in our suspense. Within lines commas break the sound into even smaller bricks of sound. The longest lines are those which detail some uncomfortably violent image, as if to trip us into the broken bottles projecting from the walls and scoop out our kneecaps or lacerate our hands. The poem’s sound smoothes out slightly near the end, as the poem works into its unexpectedly fluent closing “couplet,” as if providing a little music to soothe both the severed ears and our own. On the whole though, “The Colonel” is a jarring blurt of short, fast sentences which scream out their horrific story.
The visual appearance of these sentences has a similar effect on our eyes. Looked at as a whole, the poem seems to be a black rock on the page that lets out little light. Seen up close it appears to be made of bricks of hard fact that sit dully within the poem’s hard façade. Each tiny detail: the tray of coffee and sugar, the daughter filing her nails, the papers, the pet dogs, the pistols, etc. has it own niche in the wall. Visually as well aurally, the poem breaks its discrete details into units which drag us in the immediacy of the scene quickly and don’t prepare us for the shock of what is about to happen.
In every way, “The Colonel” tries to thrust us into its big, dramatic image. It wants to almost rub our faces in the image of the ears, and both its sound and appearance set up that gut-punching shock which reveals so unambiguously the nature of the Colonel. “The Colonel” is a visual and verbal mugging. “The Colonel,” upon close examination, shows itself to be not only a poem but one that makes extensive use of a host of effects, internal and external, to produce the feeling of stunned horror that it leaves us with. By means of irony, the concise use of simile, repetition, and metrical effects, as well a driving rhythm and a stony appearance, the poem brings us face to face with its horrible villain and his callus disdain for the human lives he commands and the young American poet he wishes to use to deliver his stern message. To read “The Colonel” is to sit with Forché in the thick, fearful atmosphere of that house, to eat the lamb, drink the wine, taste the mangoes and see a sack of ears spill out onto a table._________________
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Imitation Blog 2.17
Jack Gilbert's Going There-
Of course it was a disaster.
That unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.
I thought that this poem, "going there" by jack gilbert was one of his better, more connecting poems. It was kind of hard to imitate something like this for a few reasons. I didn't know if i could be imitating the theme or how the text/ form of the poem went. What I did was just go with similar text/form. My theme was somewhat different. I thought it was difficult because i liked this poem so much that i didn't wan to really change it - so imitating it was rough for me.
Of course it was a disaster.
That unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.
I thought that this poem, "going there" by jack gilbert was one of his better, more connecting poems. It was kind of hard to imitate something like this for a few reasons. I didn't know if i could be imitating the theme or how the text/ form of the poem went. What I did was just go with similar text/form. My theme was somewhat different. I thought it was difficult because i liked this poem so much that i didn't wan to really change it - so imitating it was rough for me.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Imitating Jack Gilbert's "Going Wrong" -Sarah Holmes
Going Wrong
By Jack Gilbert
The fish are dreadful. They are brought up
the mountain in the dawn most days, beautiful
and alien and cold from night under the sea,
the grand rooms fading from their flat eyes,
Soft machinery of the dark, the man thinks,
washing them. “What can you know of my machinery!”
demands the Lord. Sure, the man says quietly
and cuts into them, laying back the dozen struts,
getting to the muck of something terrible.
The Lord insists: “You are the one who chooses
to live this way. I build cities where things
are human. I make Tuscany and you go to live
with rocks and silence.” The man washes away
the blood and arranges the fish on a big plate.
Starts the onions in the hot olive oil and puts
in peppers. “You have lived all year without women.”
He takes out everything and puts in the fish.
“No one knows where you are. People forget you.
You are vain and stubborn.” The man slices
tomatoes and lemons. Takes out the fish
and scrambles eggs. I am not stubborn, he thinks,
laying all of it on the table in the courtyard
full of early sun, shadows of swallows flying
on the food. Not stubborn, just greedy.
Pending Good
By Sarah Holmes
The deer are beautiful. They quietly lope up
the mountain in the dawn of days, alarming
and familiar and warm beneath the forest canopy,
the dappled moonlight fading from their orb-like eyes,
Swift gears of the sunrise, the man contemplates,
Tracking them. “What do you know of my devices!”
demands the goddess. Hmph, the man grunts loudly
and raises his bow, aiming at the russet doe,
preparing heart and mind to do something terrible.
The goddess contends: “You choose on your own
to live like this. My brother raises cities where
things are human. My aunt creates fields of wheat
but you hunt my deer.” The man releases the arrow
and the blood runs thick from a perfect wound.
He leaps forward and the herd vanishes into the
safety of trees. “You have lived years without women.”
He takes out his knife to cut into the hide.
“People forget you, no one cares about you.
You are proud and obstinate.” The man slices
flesh and bones. Removes the inedible organs
and prepares the strips. I am not proud, he thinks,
opening up the carcass in the abandoned clearing
filling with new sun, shadows of vultures soaring
above the kill. Not proud, just hungry.
My experience imitating Jack Gilbert:
The first part of writing the imitation poem was the hardest, simply finding a poem I felt I could imitate. It wasn’t so much I felt like the writing would be difficult but I there seemed to be little structure to most of the poems I was looking through and I felt like I need a visually structural poem to work from, I like when things look solid together. So I stopped trying to find an Ann Killough poem and went with Jack Gilbert. I read through many of the poems but was hoping to connect to one, there were a few I did but the material wasn’t what I wanted, then I read the first poem of the book. I really liked the way he had the thoughts of the man and the Lord talking to him and there was definite structure within the poem. What got me as well was the description of the fish and preparing the fish, I’m fond of both. Overall I really admire the way Gilbert worked in the mightiness and supernatural speech of the Lord against the simple way the man prepared his fish, it was a nice contrast of abstract against concrete images. The idea of the man being greedy to go out in the wild, catch his own fish, and prepare it all for himself as compared to being with woman and in the city where wealth and comfort is more likely obtained was also interesting. You can’t really call the man greedy, he seems more controlled and simple than what one would call a greedy man, but it was very interesting to have him think of himself as such. I haven’t quite figured out the overall meaning of the poem but I liked the feeling it gave me and I figured writing an imitation poem and spending time with “Going Wrong” would only help me understand it more.
Writing the poem proved easier than I thought going into it. I kept fairly strictly to the same structure as Gilbert, keeping aware of the word count per line not to go below seven words and not to go above ten while keeping them visually about the same length. All the quotes and inner thoughts are in the same places, I used some of the same lines but tried to switch up the words to fit the flow of the poem better. I kept the similar theme of eating an animal but started from the point of hunting it, rather than cooking it and chose an animal with probably more emotional bearing. Instead of the Lord I decided, just as I got to that line, that I was going to make it the goddess Artemis, the goddess of the hunt and the moon. The lines before about moonlight and the deer made it very easy to go with her. I keep her unnamed as not to take away from the imagery and the themes of the poem, it’s not about Roman mythology after all. Her lines are similar to the Lord’s in Jack Gilberts but I attribute the cities to Apollo since he is credited music, poetry, and the arts which make up the substance if not the buildings of a city and the wheat to Demeter, the goddess of wheat and harvest. I made sure the relationships were correct as well. I kept the visuals strong like Gilbert did with the fish, but fairly simple in wording. I didn’t want a lot of abstraction since the speaking of the deity themselves proves to be abstract enough, the basic tasks of cooking in Gilbert’s and hunting in my own poem help to keep the poem centered in reality and gives a time and place for the reader to attach to. While I have never hunted myself, I based the visuals on seeing deer in real life and knowing a bit about the process from books and my sister’s old housemate that hunted.
As for the meaning of the poem, I wasn’t sure if I kept it or went a different way. By writing the imitation poem I hoped to better understand what Gilbert was trying to get at. By the title it appears he believes the man is “going wrong” which I can only assume is because he has given up on city life and left to enjoy the wild. The end with “not stubborn, just greedy”, supported this as well since he is taking in the whole of nature for himself and giving up on the life so many other people must share. Perhaps going wrong was that he wasn’t following what everyone else thought was right, what the Lord claims he created. The Lord seems to be trying to insult the man into going back to the other life but the man is refusing him by simply continuing his task, a task that requires more work than it would in a city, a task all by himself. With my poem I wanted to keep a same sense; that the man in my poem doesn’t care for the city and the fields and the arts, but the rush of getting his own food and living off the land in a basic way. In the end it’s about not having a lot but having the most basic. At the end I realized this man was more than just hungry for food, but for the harshness of life, for the feeling of surviving on his own, for the taste of meat and not of wheat even. The last word was the hardest to pick because it seems to hold the most weight in Gilbert’s poem and I assumed it would in mine as well. He isn’t proud, he thinks, for he isn’t out here hunting because of other people, to change his how he is viewed or for his own ideals of manliness and survivorship; he is out there for something else, something more basic. So I was going for austere but it seemed too harsh, although I liked how it was similar to Spartan which would be an interesting concept relating to the unnamed gods but I didn’t want to focus on any certain place. Hungry seemed like the best word choice, basic and fairly neutral, not wrong or right.
The last point about the imitation poem that was difficult was the title. I’m bad with coming up with titles I feel are satisfactory for anything and poems are the hardest to name for me. I didn’t want to keep the same title because I wanted to take a different route than Gilbert in the meaning but it wasn’t the completely opposite route as the two different men are fairly similar in their situation and thoughts. I searched for synonyms and antonyms of “going” and of “wrong” and decided to go with “Pending Good” since it is not clear whether the man’s decision is right or wrong, good or bad, in which case it is undecided in the poem. I chose “good” over keeping with “wrong” because in my viewpoint satisfying hunger can’t really be bad, especially when that much work and care has been put into it, it isn’t for greediness like in Gilbert’s poem. Although I’m still iffy about the title I think it goes with the poem, but that’s my best explanation for it at this time.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
John Updike
Did anyone note John Updike's recent death? I've read a smattering of his work including Rabit Redux...
Welcome to Poetry 311!
Welcome to the Poetry 311 class blog!
This blog is run by Professor Graham's Poetry Workshop students. We are hoping to think "out loud" or publicly through our blog about poetry and what's out there in contemporary "poetry land."
This semester we will be exploring other poetry blogs, on-line and print poetry journals, and discuss some of the poems we're reading in class (e.g., Jack Gilbert's The Great Fires and Ann Killough's Beloved Idea). We will also be interviewing the poet Brian Clements some time in March. But besides this, we may just post some of our own poems and thoughts about things we've talked about in class.
Here's to engaged poetry blogging!
Lea Graham
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