I have been working with my brother to revise a sonnet that he wrote. We worked on it a few times, but he wanted to submit it as part of his college application. The catch was, it could only be eight lines. So I harkened back to Molly Peacock's lecture on the magical proportions of the sonnet and started hacking. In other words, we tried to keep the 8:6 ratio (roughly) while leaving the heart of the poem intact.
Here is the most "finished" version (the lines are really long):
DNA created me. I am one plus one, the reaction of an act not correlated with a thought of me.
What am I if not a continuation of people who lived before my creation? Accident or surprise,
no one hoped or planned for me. If I were a part of God’s plan, then I should have purpose.
But I could find so many purposes, meaning falls away.
I lean toward nothing.
I am not thankful for the happiness belief brings. Absolute Truth breeds division.
What am I but another organism on the chain whose links make up existence?
I am everything and nothing. I refuse treatment for my cancer.
Both of us were pleased and amazed with the results. The original was far more wordy. Almost an essay. Now the lines pop, especially the short one at the turn.
It was a good exercise. If only I could be as ruthless with my own work. I aim to try.
Happy haunting,
jk
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Lunar Eclipse
Here's a poem I wrote in February of 2008 which was just recently published in the Autumn 2009 Issue of The Midwest Quarterly. I hope that it will speak to you on your own terms; but, for me, this poem represents an early phase in my discovery and initial investigations of secular humanism. Thanks for reading,
Matt
Lunar Eclipse
February 20, 2008
I like how you throw your cigarette to the grass
and leave me with the wooden rocking chair,
the wetness of you breath lingering
in the frozen air after you have shut the door.
I imagine you, going from room to room,
turning off lights, shutting the cabinets
I have left open. See how stones from the river
enter the eyes of our children? What beautiful
stupor sleep ushers. What will I give them?
The night is theirs, this shadow passing
over the moon makes everything around it
explode. I will not pray tonight. To pray
is to confess solitude. I am not alone.
To pray in gratitude is to confess coincidence,
to admit to luck or chance, but everything
here I have made, or helped in the making.
To pray in exaltation is to celebrate
that which is not your own. To pray in
petition is to beg. I will not pray tonight.
I beg for nothing. I have seen the light
between each star brighten as the red moon
goes dark, then bleeds, then goes dark again.
Matt
Lunar Eclipse
February 20, 2008
I like how you throw your cigarette to the grass
and leave me with the wooden rocking chair,
the wetness of you breath lingering
in the frozen air after you have shut the door.
I imagine you, going from room to room,
turning off lights, shutting the cabinets
I have left open. See how stones from the river
enter the eyes of our children? What beautiful
stupor sleep ushers. What will I give them?
The night is theirs, this shadow passing
over the moon makes everything around it
explode. I will not pray tonight. To pray
is to confess solitude. I am not alone.
To pray in gratitude is to confess coincidence,
to admit to luck or chance, but everything
here I have made, or helped in the making.
To pray in exaltation is to celebrate
that which is not your own. To pray in
petition is to beg. I will not pray tonight.
I beg for nothing. I have seen the light
between each star brighten as the red moon
goes dark, then bleeds, then goes dark again.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Transformative Metaphor in Updike's Early Stories
As I continue to read The Early Stories, I am taken by Updike's use of metaphor. Two, in particular, have been so startling and apt that I would call them "transformative," in that they transport the reader out of the story for a moment, only to drop her back in with a changed view of the world of the story. When combined with Updike's exquisite descriptions, these metaphors make for a sublime reading experience.
Here is the first, from "Still Life":
He felt she quite misjudged his seriousness and would have been astonished to learn how deeply and solidly she had been placed in his heart, affording a fulcrum by which he lifted the great dead mass of his spare time, which now seemed almost lighter than air... (205)
It's so shocking that it completely takes the reader out of the narrative, but so apt that one is able to reenter without much trouble.
And then from "Who Made Yellow Roses Yellow?":
How tender of Clayton still to drink beer! By a trick of vision the liquid stood unbounded by glass. The sight of that suspended amber cylinder, like his magic first glimpse of Clayton's face, conjured in Fred an illusion of fondness... [they exchange a few words, then:]
Fred felt not so much frustrated as deflected, as if the glass that wasn't around the beer was around Clayton. (230)
One is aware of a keen intellect at work-- keen eyes to make the observation in the first place; keen mind to make the connection. And the reader's thoughts about the relationships between people--in this case, strangers barely turned acquaintances-- is forever changed.
Here is the first, from "Still Life":
He felt she quite misjudged his seriousness and would have been astonished to learn how deeply and solidly she had been placed in his heart, affording a fulcrum by which he lifted the great dead mass of his spare time, which now seemed almost lighter than air... (205)
It's so shocking that it completely takes the reader out of the narrative, but so apt that one is able to reenter without much trouble.
And then from "Who Made Yellow Roses Yellow?":
How tender of Clayton still to drink beer! By a trick of vision the liquid stood unbounded by glass. The sight of that suspended amber cylinder, like his magic first glimpse of Clayton's face, conjured in Fred an illusion of fondness... [they exchange a few words, then:]
Fred felt not so much frustrated as deflected, as if the glass that wasn't around the beer was around Clayton. (230)
One is aware of a keen intellect at work-- keen eyes to make the observation in the first place; keen mind to make the connection. And the reader's thoughts about the relationships between people--in this case, strangers barely turned acquaintances-- is forever changed.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Transgressive Desire and Action in Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
These past few weeks I’ve been obsessing over one of Frost’s most simplistic poems, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I can remember memorizing and reciting the poem in second grade and I decided to memorize it again. Most of it came back to me fairly quickly, and I’ve been reciting it for my two boys after their bedtime stories. Through the processes of (re)memorization, I’ve also been revising my interpretation.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Like much of Frost’s work, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is highly accessible on a certain level, even to children. In fact, Frost published a collection of poetry intended for children titled You Come Too: Favorite Poems for Young Readers.
My more recent analysis, however, would more than likely not be included in an elementary school teacher’s lesson plan. I believe the major mode of “Stopping by Woods” is not pastoral but transgressive, a mode which early critics failed to consider.
John T. Ogilvie, for example, focuses on the “dichotomy” of two environments in the poem: 1) the speaker’s intense fascination with the dark manifestation of the natural world and 2) his social “obligations,” the “promises to keep” (l. 14). Ogilvie further asserts that these two environments are given equal consideration: “The artfulness of ‘Stopping by Woods,’ consists in the way the two worlds are established and balanced.
Perhaps a definition of my terms is in order. By ‘transgressive,’ I’m referring to the mood of the poem which asserts a general breach of social order or convention. Such a mood cannot operate within Ogilvie’s balanced dichotomy because the transgressive mood threatens to cancel out the second part of such a balanced equation, the speaker’s obligations to society.
One of my constant slips in the process of memorization occurred in the third line of the poem, which I mistakenly recited as “He will not mind me stopping here” instead of “He will not see me stopping here.” Such a slip is indicative of my own ordering of the poem’s narrative. It makes sense that the speaker might consider the land owner’s possible objections, but this is not the case. Instead, the speaker only considers whether or not he will be noticed or ‘caught.’ Such a distinction is small, but it sets the transgression of the poem in motion with the simple act of trespassing. The transgressive mood is further defined in the final stanza of the poem, as the speaker celebrates not only the act of trespassing, but its achievement, the place: “The woods are lovely, dark and deep,” (l. 13).
More recently, critics have identified the transgression of the poem as emblematic of the speaker’s desire to permanently sever all social ties. “The theme of ‘Stopping by Woods,’
Jeffrey Meyers asserts, “is the temptation of death, even suicide, symbolized by the woods that are filling up with snow on the darkest evening of the year.”
Such a dark interpretation may be justifiable, but its specificity is restrictive. Perhaps it is more useful to identify the speaker, as so many of Frost’s speakers, at the very intersection of indecision, malaise and social obligation. He yearns for and even idealizes transgression because he believes it may allow an escape from such uncertainty.
Works Cited
Ogilvie, John T. "From Woods to Stars: A Pattern of Imagery in Robert Frost’s Poetry." South Atlantic Quarterly. Winter 1959.
Meyers, Jeffrey. Robert Frost: A Biography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1996.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Like much of Frost’s work, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” is highly accessible on a certain level, even to children. In fact, Frost published a collection of poetry intended for children titled You Come Too: Favorite Poems for Young Readers.
My more recent analysis, however, would more than likely not be included in an elementary school teacher’s lesson plan. I believe the major mode of “Stopping by Woods” is not pastoral but transgressive, a mode which early critics failed to consider.
John T. Ogilvie, for example, focuses on the “dichotomy” of two environments in the poem: 1) the speaker’s intense fascination with the dark manifestation of the natural world and 2) his social “obligations,” the “promises to keep” (l. 14). Ogilvie further asserts that these two environments are given equal consideration: “The artfulness of ‘Stopping by Woods,’ consists in the way the two worlds are established and balanced.
Perhaps a definition of my terms is in order. By ‘transgressive,’ I’m referring to the mood of the poem which asserts a general breach of social order or convention. Such a mood cannot operate within Ogilvie’s balanced dichotomy because the transgressive mood threatens to cancel out the second part of such a balanced equation, the speaker’s obligations to society.
One of my constant slips in the process of memorization occurred in the third line of the poem, which I mistakenly recited as “He will not mind me stopping here” instead of “He will not see me stopping here.” Such a slip is indicative of my own ordering of the poem’s narrative. It makes sense that the speaker might consider the land owner’s possible objections, but this is not the case. Instead, the speaker only considers whether or not he will be noticed or ‘caught.’ Such a distinction is small, but it sets the transgression of the poem in motion with the simple act of trespassing. The transgressive mood is further defined in the final stanza of the poem, as the speaker celebrates not only the act of trespassing, but its achievement, the place: “The woods are lovely, dark and deep,” (l. 13).
More recently, critics have identified the transgression of the poem as emblematic of the speaker’s desire to permanently sever all social ties. “The theme of ‘Stopping by Woods,’
Jeffrey Meyers asserts, “is the temptation of death, even suicide, symbolized by the woods that are filling up with snow on the darkest evening of the year.”
Such a dark interpretation may be justifiable, but its specificity is restrictive. Perhaps it is more useful to identify the speaker, as so many of Frost’s speakers, at the very intersection of indecision, malaise and social obligation. He yearns for and even idealizes transgression because he believes it may allow an escape from such uncertainty.
Works Cited
Ogilvie, John T. "From Woods to Stars: A Pattern of Imagery in Robert Frost’s Poetry." South Atlantic Quarterly. Winter 1959.
Meyers, Jeffrey. Robert Frost: A Biography. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1996.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
American Hybrid
So I started reading American Hybrid, which is a Norton anthology of contemporary poems that combine elements of formal and experimental poetry edited by David St. John and Cole Swensen and, and I have to say, it put me in a foul mood. I mean, I'm all for playing with language, but I get irritated when the experiment is not at all accessible. I don't need a narrative arc, but I do appreciate the suggestion of meaning, or a hint of sense. Some reason to read other than to exercise my decoding skills.
There were a few exceptions. Mark McMorris's work struck me a particularly readable and rhythmic:
Everything falls, to pieces, to the victor, to someone's lot
falls like a girl falls or a blossom, falls head over heels
like a city or water and like darkness falls, a dynast
a government can fall, or an apple, a cadence, the side of a hill... (p. 272)
This continues for 16 more lines, the accumulation of colloquialisms and new thoughts about what it means to fall create a layering that spins the reader's sense of the usual in a provocative way. McMorris works in sound and poetry performance, and when I read this piece, I could almost hear the lines speaking themselves off the page. I really loved it.
On the back of the book, Matthew Zapruder, editor of Wave Books, says, "Next time anyone asks you if American poetry is still relevant, necessary, or alive, hand them this book and walk away." I just think that's silly. First of all, it's closing down a conversation where one could otherwise blossom. I like the hand them this book part, but the walking away is so arrogant. It's like quoting a passage at the end of a paragraph in a literary essay and expecting readers to just "get it."
This anthology is difficult, and perhaps it is not a bad thing to be knocked off my rocker a little, so I'll not give up yet. I'm curious to know what others who may have read this are thinking. I've handed you this book. Now I'm standing here waiting for an answer.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Invitation to Oblivion
In honor of my little brother's 21st birthday. I offer the following. It's an anonymous (which somehow seems very appropriate) ancient Greek poem from the Hellenistic period (c. 323-31 B.C.).
Invitation to Oblivion
Why was I born? Where did I come from?
How do I happen to be where I am?
Knowing nothing, how can I learn anything?
I was nothing, and yet I was born,
and before too long I'll be nothing again,
nothing at all, of no value whatever.
And such is the lot of everyone. I say,
therefore, brim the mixing bowls with wine,
for only in oblivion is oblivion braved.
From: Greek Lyric Poetry. Trans. Sherod Santos.
-Matt
Invitation to Oblivion
Why was I born? Where did I come from?
How do I happen to be where I am?
Knowing nothing, how can I learn anything?
I was nothing, and yet I was born,
and before too long I'll be nothing again,
nothing at all, of no value whatever.
And such is the lot of everyone. I say,
therefore, brim the mixing bowls with wine,
for only in oblivion is oblivion braved.
From: Greek Lyric Poetry. Trans. Sherod Santos.
-Matt
Friday, August 21, 2009
More Mary Oliver
A couple of years ago, at the request of my cousin, Jason, I started a yahoo group for my mom's family. She is one of ten children, so you can imagine keeping in touch is sometimes a challenge, especially once you move out to the next generation. So it's been a good tool; folks post little updates, links to photos, recipes, and the like. My uncle, Tom, often posts poems he likes, after which ensues a little impromptu poetry discussion. It's fun. Here is his latest choice, which I found interesting since Mary Oliver has been appearing on our blog regularly. I love the lightness with which she approaches the dark.
Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next
Days and Weeks
by Mary Oliver
What is so utterly invisible
as tomorrow?
Not love,
not the wind,
not the inside of stone.
Not anything.
And yet, how often I'm fooled-
I'm wading along
in the sunlight-
and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining
days ahead-
I can see the light spilling
like a shower of meteors
into next week's trees,
and I plan to be there soon-
and, so far, I am
just that lucky,
my legs splashing
over the edge of darkness,
my heart on fire.
I don't know where
such certainty comes from-
the brave flesh
or the theater of the mind-
but if I had to guess
I would say that only
what the soul is supposed to be
could send us forth
with such cheer
as even the leaf must wear
as it unfurls
its fragrant body, and shines
against the hard possibility of stoppage-
which, day after day,
before such brisk, corpuscular belief,
shudders, and gives way.
"Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next
Days and Weeks" by Mary Oliver, from What Do We Know. © Perseus Books Group,
2001.
Isn't it beautiful?
Like Matt, I will begin teaching next week. English 112: Exposition and Persuasion. It's an online section, so I never actually meet my students fact to face. Unless of course they show up at my house, which has happened. I'm looking forward to it.
Peace,
jk
Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next
Days and Weeks
by Mary Oliver
What is so utterly invisible
as tomorrow?
Not love,
not the wind,
not the inside of stone.
Not anything.
And yet, how often I'm fooled-
I'm wading along
in the sunlight-
and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining
days ahead-
I can see the light spilling
like a shower of meteors
into next week's trees,
and I plan to be there soon-
and, so far, I am
just that lucky,
my legs splashing
over the edge of darkness,
my heart on fire.
I don't know where
such certainty comes from-
the brave flesh
or the theater of the mind-
but if I had to guess
I would say that only
what the soul is supposed to be
could send us forth
with such cheer
as even the leaf must wear
as it unfurls
its fragrant body, and shines
against the hard possibility of stoppage-
which, day after day,
before such brisk, corpuscular belief,
shudders, and gives way.
"Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of the Ponds I Will Visit in the Next
Days and Weeks" by Mary Oliver, from What Do We Know. © Perseus Books Group,
2001.
Isn't it beautiful?
Like Matt, I will begin teaching next week. English 112: Exposition and Persuasion. It's an online section, so I never actually meet my students fact to face. Unless of course they show up at my house, which has happened. I'm looking forward to it.
Peace,
jk
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