Friday, January 30, 2015

Sherman Alexie

Sherman Alexie is one of my favorite Native American writers. He has a youthful boisterousness and this allows him to write from the perspective of young Indians on the res. He is primarily known as a novelist and writer of short stories. Two of his great novels are Indian Killer, a suspenseful mystery, and Reservations Blues. I adore his collection of stories, The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist-Fight in Heaven. In it he includes a story called, "The Only Traffic Signal on the Reservation Doesn't Flash Red Anymore." He writes about the power of memory and story telling. He exposes reality: "It's hard to be optimistic on the reservation. When a glass sits on a table here, people don't wonder if it's half filled or half empty. They just hope it's a good beer. Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it's almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It's the small things that hurt the most. The white waitress who wouldn't take an order, Tonto, the Washington Redskins. And just like everybody else, Indians need heroes to help them learn how to survive. But what happens when our heroes don't even know how to pay their bills?"

The story then goes on to talking about how the boys are longing for a hero, and how they marvel at how a sixth grade girl named, Lucy, with scarred knees and wearing her Daddy's shirt, is the best basketball player they have ever seen. It's a reinvention of the warrior motif; Lucy is a new hero, a new hope. A great story!!

Alexie is also a poet, as is the case with many strong writers of fiction. I love the poem below where he mocks his own trade of writing "the great American Indian novel." He satirizes the stereotypes of Indians, from white and Indian cultures, and turns them on their head in a witty tongue-in-cheek fashion.



How to Write the Great American Indian Novel
by Sherman Alexie, 2006

All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.

The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man

then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white

that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps

at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.

Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. The should destroy the lives

of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust

at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.

Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.

There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.

Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian

then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed

and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.

If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,

everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Simon Ortiz- "Busted Boy"

In class today we were talking about Civil Disobedience, discussing the importance of speaking out when you disagree with something. It is important not to sit idly by.  You have a voice and it is your moral imperative to use it. Indeed, poets are often "rabble rousers," dissidents who speak out against the ills they see in society. They use their voices, the power of their words, to expose wrong and to demand change.

I'm going to share with you another Native American poem by a writer named Simon Ortiz, from the Acomo Pueblo tribe in New Mexico. Like many modern Indian poets, he demands that we shine a light on the cycle of poverty, welfare, crime, alcoholism and drug addiction, and lack of education that are prevalent on most reservations. The poem below, "Busted Boy," relates to many young men of color (not just Indian) who are arrested, locked up and thrown away simply for the color of their skin. This poem is not Civil Disobedience- Ortiz is not breaking any laws. In fact, he's exercising his freedom of speech. However, he is urging us not to sweep these injustices under the rug or to think that these wrongs shouldn't matter to ALL people.

For Ortiz, this poem is a journalistic snapshot of a moment in time, a plaintive cry against our unfair social system, and a call to action for the boys who did nothing wrong but being black.

By Simon J. Ortiz b. 1941 Simon J. Ortiz
He couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old,
likely even fifteen. Skinny black teenager, loose sweater.
When I got on Bus #6 at Prince and 1st Avenue,
he got on too and took a seat across from me.
A kid I didn’t notice too much because two older guys,
street pros reeking with wine, started talking to me.
They were going to California, get their welfare checks,
then come back to Arizona in time for food stamps.

When the bus pulled into Ronstadt Transit Center,
the kid was the last to get off the bus right behind me.
I started to cross the street to wait for Bus #8
when two burly men, one in a neat leather jacket
and the other in a sweat shirt, both cool yet stern,
smoothly grabbed the kid and backed him against
a streetlight pole and quickly cuffed him to the pole.

Plastic handcuffs. Practiced manner. Efficiently done.
Along with another Indian, I watch what’s happening.
Nobody seems to notice or they don’t really want to see.
Everything is quiet and normal, nothing’s disturbed.
The other Indian and I exchange glances, nod, turn away.
Busted boy. Busted Indians. Busted lives. Busted again.

I look around for the street guys going to California.
But they’re already gone, headed for the railroad tracks.
I’m new in Tucson but I’m not a stranger to this scene.
Waiting for the bus, I don’t look around for plainclothes.
I know they’re there, in this America, waiting. There; here.
Waiting for busted boys, busted Indians, busted lives.


Simon Ortiz, “Busted Boy” from Out There Somewhere. Copyright © 2002 by Simon Ortiz. Reprinted by permission of University of Arizona Press.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Joy Harjo- "A Poem to Get Rid of Fear"

Joy Harjo is one of my favorite poets. I discovered her in a class about Native American Literature that totally blew my mind. She is a poet and a musician, as you will discern when you listen to her recite her poems. She lapses into a singing voice duirng her poems and this gives her words a more resonant quality. She is what many people would call a Spoken Word Poet. My favorite poem is one called "A Poem to Get Rid of Fear."

She begins: "I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear. I release you. You are my beloved and hated twin but now I don’t know you as myself."

She writes, "I am not afraid to be angry. I am not afraid to rejoice. I am not afraid to be hungry
I am not afraid to be full. I am not afraid to be black. I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hated. I am not afraid to be loved, To be loved, To be loved..." When she repeats the last phrase it sounds like a heartbeat.

She goes on to dismiss her fear, pushing it into its corner and taking charge. She is a feminist in all the positive meanings of the word.

I hope you'll watch this clip of her reading the poem at Def Poetry Jam.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAYCf2Gdycc

If you are interested, check out her website www.joyharjo.com
She is a vocalist and saxophonist in her own band, Joy Harjo and Poetic Justice. (Can I be her?!!?)



Tuesday, January 27, 2015

Give All to Love (a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson)

So I told you guys that when you have Transcendentalism on the brain, you'll see how everything connects to it. The universe is in collusion, sending messages about slowing down, smelling the proverbial roses, and appreciating the life you have. Indeed the universe must know what is happening in our little classroom, because in my inbox this morning, I found a link to my favorite poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson. In the first stanza, he writes about joyously seizing every opportunity that life presents. He exhorts each one of us to follow our heart "utterly" since it "knows its own path." I love how he talks about how it takes courage to love and that you sometimes need to make sacrifices and take risks for love.

So what kind of love does he mean? Is it love in the romantic sense? Yes! Is it love in terms of the passion of one's life work?  Yes. Is it love in terms of depth of spirituality? Yes.

It's all of those things. Follow whatever makes your heart swell with elation.

What do you think of the ideas in the last stanza? ("When the half-gods go, the gods arrive") What are the half-gods and gods? I'm eager to hear your thoughts in the comments.

This poem is just the right amount of schmaltz. ;-)

Give All to Love
By Ralph Waldo Emerson 1803–1882 Ralph Waldo Emerson
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good-fame,
Plans, credit and the Muse,—
Nothing refuse.

’T is a brave master;
Let it have scope:
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope:
High and more high
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent:
But it is a god,
Knows its own path
And the outlets of the sky.

It was never for the mean;
It requireth courage stout.
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending,
It will reward,—
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.

Leave all for love;
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,—
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, forever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
First vague shadow of surmise
Flits across her bosom young,
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free;
Nor thou detain her vesture’s hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Though her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive;
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,   
The gods arrive.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

The Winter Solstice

In beginning our unit on Transcendentalism, I always feel centered and more connected to nature.  I see the snow silently falling around me like a coccoon; the sun shining through the dirty windowpane; the ladybug valiantly crawling across the windowsill, finding shelter from the chill. Winter is when nature is dormant but the seeds of life are burgeoning in the ground. We hibernate, fatten for the winter, and imagine a time when we will feel the sun.

I enjoy this poem by Hilda Morley about this chilled time of winter.  The winter solstice occurs on the darkest day of the year, so it represents the birth of the sun. What does the sun represent?- light, warmth, possibility. This poem is simply a description of the darkest day of the year and the path the moon takes when it's the furthest distance from the sun. Extrapolating, we can believe it to be the start of a new life, new hope. That's what Transcendentalism is all about.

By Hilda Morley 1916–1998 Hilda Morley
 
A cold night crosses
our path
                  The world appears
very large, very
round now       extending
far as the moon does
                                        It is from
the moon this cold travels
                                        It is
the light of the moon that causes
this night reflecting distance in its own
light so coldly
                                          (from one side of
the earth to the other)
                                        It is the length of this coldness
It is the long distance
between two points which are
not in a line        now
                                       not a
straightness       (however
straight) but a curve only,
silver that is a rock reflecting
                                                      not metal
but a rock accepting
distance
                     (a scream in silence
where between the two
points what touches
is a curve around the world
                                                      (the dance unmoving).
new york, 1969
 
  

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Mark Strand

Have you ever read a book that you DEVOURED? You ATE up the words and SAVORED their flavor? You wanted it to never end and INDULGED in its pleasure? I sure have. (As you know, Gatsby is a book that I have GOBBLED UP in one bite!) This language of feasting and the decadent consumption of words is featured in a fabulous poem by former US Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner, Mark Strand. His ingestion of poetry has given him an animalistic joy. The librarian, someone who seemingly lives in a world of words, does not understand this visceral love of poetry. He has taken the words into his body and loves them on a far deeper level.

 Eating Poetry

By Mark Strand 1934–2014 Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
 
Mark Strand, “Eating Poetry” from Selected Poems. Copyright © 1979, 1980 by Mark Strand. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

Also check out these other poems by Mark Strand:

"Coming to This"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179131

"Keeping Things Whole"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177001

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Dylan Thomas

So this blog, thus far at least, has been a survey of major American poets. But... I want to share with you the work of Dylan Thomas, a poet from Wales who wrote in the early part of the 20th century. He lived, wrote and struggled in NYC so we'll count him as an honorary American.

Dylan Thomas is best known for his poem, "Do not go gentle into that good night." I was thinking of this beautiful, haunting poem because I just started our unit in Transcendentalism. The spirit of Thoreauvian "sucking out the marrow of life," living each life to the fullest, is apparent in this bold rant against death. He urges us to live every moment and "rage against the dying of the light." He embraces the imagery of light as life that Thoreau invokes when he says that "the sun is but a morning star."

In this poem, called a villanelle (a nineteen line poem with two rhymes throughout), Thomas addresses his dying father and encourages him to fight the cold hand of death. It's a son's rejection of his father's mortality and the insistence of using your strength and embracing life even when things seem hopeless. It's a poem that those of us who have lost loved ones can relate to, and it speaks to the broader human desire to retain youthful vitality and put off death for as long as possible.

You may remember this poem from the movie, "Dead Poets' Society," a masterpiece featuring Robin Williams as Mr. Keating, the inspiring English teacher at a boys' boarding school. He invokes Dylan Thomas, as well as Thoreau and Emerson, to encourage the boys to live a life of purpose and meaning. If you haven't watched this movie, YOU MUST. It's mandatory viewing.

Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas

 
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Friday, January 16, 2015

Found Poetry/Annie Dillard

Found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems.

A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts: the words of the poem remain as they were found, with few additions or omissions. Decisions of form, such as where to break a line, are left to the poet.               -definition from poets.org

Here is an example of Found Poetry. Here the poet uses the text from Friedrich Nietzsche's The Leech and selects specific words to craft a poem of his/her own meaning. Since the poem features words from Nietzsche's original text, it captures the similar mood to that work. But the poem also offeres it's own meaning.

As writer Annie Dillard states about found poetry on the website, Found Poetry Review, “Happy poets who write found poetry go pawing through popular culture like sculptors on trash heaps. They hold and wave aloft usable artifacts and fragments: jingles and ad copy, menus and broadcasts — all objet trouvés, the literary equivalents of Warhol’s Campbell’s soup cans and Duchamp’s bicycle. By entering a found text as a poem, the poet doubles its context. The original meaning remains intact, but now it swings between two poles. The poet adds, or at any rate increases, the element of delight. This is an urban, youthful, ironic, cruising kind of poetry. It serves up whole texts, or interrupted fragments of texts.” — Annie Dillard



A pretty amazing poem, wouldn't you say! (Also makes me think of Chillingworth!!)

Check out found poems by Annie Dillard in her book, Mornings Like This. Then try to write a found poem yourself. If you do write one, please share it with us here!

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Sharon Olds


Sharon Olds is one of my favorite poets. She writes a lot about gender, the female body, relationships. I have many collections of her work and really enjoy how she can take simple moments of life and help us look at them through a different lens. For instance, the poem, "Rite of Passage," below. My then five-year old son had a birthday party and there was a certain animus there. Boys were running around, screaming and hitting and it all seemed so out of control to me. I remember feeling some unspeakable dread as I watched the intensity with which one boy decapitated the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pinata. This poem reminds me of that day. There is an innocence to children, but there is also a darker side of humanity that must be controlled, even at that age. It's all very Lord of the Flies.

Also check out the other poems I suggested at the end of the post!

Rite of Passage

By Sharon Olds b. 1942 Sharon Olds
As the guests arrive at our son’s party   
they gather in the living room—
short men, men in first grade
with smooth jaws and chins.
Hands in pockets, they stand around
jostling, jockeying for place, small fights
breaking out and calming. One says to another
How old are you? —Six. —I’m seven. —So?
They eye each other, seeing themselves   
tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their   
throats a lot, a room of small bankers,
they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you
up, a seven says to a six,
the midnight cake, round and heavy as a
turret behind them on the table. My son,
freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,   
chest narrow as the balsa keel of a   
model boat, long hands
cool and thin as the day they guided him   
out of me, speaks up as a host
for the sake of the group.
We could easily kill a two-year-old,
he says in his clear voice. The other   
men agree, they clear their throats
like Generals, they relax and get down to   
playing war, celebrating my son’s life.
 
"The Death of Marilyn Monroe"
 
"The Race"
 

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Martin Luther King

At this time of year, this divisive year especially, we honor Martin Luther King, Jr. and his peaceful but insistent means of changing the world. He knew the power of words, and he used these words to create a better world for all of us.

This time last year in San Francisco around 1,500 people gathered for a "Poetic Conversation with Martin Luther King." It was a tribute in the spoken word with youth poets dancing and singing to celebrate his legacy and speak about the world they want to live in.

"Upon arrival at the theater, audience members received a blank card with a prompt: "What hurts you or your community more than fists?" that encouraged attendees to respond on Instagram with an image and the hashtag #MLKSpokes."

"In a day and age when kids aren’t necessarily getting hosed down or bitten by police dogs like in the Civil Rights Movement, there’s still daily struggles that a lot of our young people encounter that are violent, and that are invisible, and that are not necessarily discussed in the mainstream media, let alone actually visualized," [project director, Jose Vadi] said.

Let's continue the conversation. Let your words have power for goodness, respect and understanding!

Please check out the whole article using the link below:

http://mashable.com/2014/01/21/youth-speaks-mlk-jr/






Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Robert Bly/ Poetry 180

Poetry 180 is a website established by Billy Collins, a wonderful current poet and former US Poet Laureate. It offers a poem every day to high school students, similar to what this blog is trying to accomplish. These poems are generally brief and relevant to the lives of young people. It provides a wonderful entrance to a lifetime of enjoying poetry. Please check out the website and perhaps you'd like to sign up to have the poems shared with you each day. (Let me know if you do sign up for this- extra credit!!)


http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/

Below is a poem by Robert Bly, another Poet Laureate and a new favorite of mine. I love this poem because it is a simple snapshot of a feeling, a moment. It indicates to us that our own lives are poetry, if we only seek to view them that way.

Today's is a short poem about the joy of being alone.
(It should be read twice.)

Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter

Robert Bly

It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time.

from Silence in the Snowy Fields, 1953
Wesleyan University Press, Middletown, Conn.
Copyright 1962 by Robert Bly.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced with permission


Another good one by Robert Bly:


Three Kinds of Pleasures


I

Sometimes, riding in a car, in Wisconsin

Or Illinois, you notice those dark telephone poles

One by one lift themselves out of the fence line

And slowly leap on the gray sky—

And past them, the snowy fields.

 

II

The darkness drifts down like snow on the picked cornfields

In Wisconsin: and on these black trees

Scattered, one by one,

Through the winter fields—

We see stiff weeds and brownish stubble,

And white snow left now only in the wheeltracks of the combine.

 

III

It is a pleasure, also, to be driving

Toward Chicago, near dark,

And see the lights in the barns.

The bare trees more dignified than ever,

Like a fierce man on his deathbed,

And the ditches along the road half full of a private snow.



Can you tell I'm thinking of snow?!

Monday, January 12, 2015

John Berryman: "The Ball Poem"

 

As a mom, I watch my children grow and change: gangly limbs bursting out of outgrown clothes, Barbies and dump trucks traded for iphones and Xbox. Each day that their eyes open is different from the last. They are different people from who they were the day before, for good or bad. I do sometimes want to seize them up in my arms and transport them back to early times, when balls were toys of never-ending fascination and snuggles were readily obtained. They change. And like every parent sadly knows, they take another step towards leaving.

This poem by John Berryman explores the ephemeral nature of childhood. The ball represents so many things beyond a simple ball. It's every aspect of youthful purity and hope. Berryman himself lost his innocence at a rather young age when his father died quite tragically. He clearly understands what it means to lose his "ball" and become a man too soon.

A powerful poem.... enjoy.

 

The Ball Poem

By John Berryman 1914–1972 John Berryman
 
What is the boy now, who has lost his ball.
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street,
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight.
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.
 
John Berryman, "The Ball Poem" from Collected Poems, 1937-1971. Copyright © 1989 by John Berryman. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, www.fsgbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Friday, January 9, 2015

Louise Bogan, "Women"

Louise Bogan is a poet I discovered when I was in college, in a Women's Studies course exploring the "F word"- feminism. We read this poem and discussed the choices that women make, how so many opportunities go by because women are going about the business of life and taking care of others. They cook, clean, love, and labor, and then what has life been? Have they let it go by? Has it been their own life? I think of my own grandmother, a vision of perfect domesticity- not a "wild" woman in the least. Did she long to feel the wind in her face or was she content "to eat dusty bread"?

As Louise Bogan herself has said, she wrote this poem in 1923 when she was 24 years old, and her views of gender improved with age. She was a trailblazer, giving silenced women a voice.

I love this poem because with its rhymed stanzas it is quite accessible and decipherable to all readers. But it avoids beyond sing-songy and trite. Its images are haunting and meaningful.

I have just seen "Wild" in the theatres, with Reese Witherspoon playing the title role of Cheryl Strayed. This is based on the memoir, Wild, that chronicles Cheryl's arduous and cathartic journey on the Pacific Coast Trail, finding peace and understanding after the death of her mother. It shows a woman with "wilderness" in her, in both literal and figurative ways. I highly recommend both the book (read it first!!!) and the movie.

Now enjoy the poem....

Women By Louise Bogan
Women have no wilderness in them,   
They are provident instead,   
Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts   
To eat dusty bread.   

They do not see cattle cropping red winter grass,   
They do not hear   
Snow water going down under culverts   
Shallow and clear.   

They wait, when they should turn to journeys,   
They stiffen, when they should bend.   
They use against themselves that benevolence   
To which no man is friend.   

They cannot think of so many crops to a field   
Or of clean wood cleft by an axe.   
Their love is an eager meaninglessness   
Too tense, or too lax.   

They hear in every whisper that speaks to them   
A shout and a cry.   
As like as not, when they take life over their door-sills   
They should let it go by.
 
Source: Body of this Death: Poems (1923)

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Carl Sandburg

Carl Sandburg is a poet of working class America.  He had many jobs, including milk delivery boy, barber shop porter, fireman, truck operator, and apprentice house painter. He was a musician (guitarist and singer), a radio broadcaster, and writer. He wrote to glorify hard work, the striving and labor that our country was built on. 

His biographer, Richard Crowder notes, in Carl Sandburg, "he was the first poet of modern times to actually to use the language of the people as his almost total means of expression.... Sandburg had entered into the language of the people; he was not looking at it as a scientific phenomenon or a curiosity.... He was at home with it." Sandburg's own Whitmanesque comment was: "I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. Did you know that all the work of the world is done through me?" Sandburg was quoted as saying, "I'll probably die propped up in bed trying to write a poem about America." Sandburg was read by the masses, as well as scholars. He is a people's poet.

Sandburg is also well-known as the singing bard—the "voice of America singing."It was fortunate that he was willing to travel about reciting and recording his poetry, for the interpretation his voice lent to his work was unforgettable. With its deep rich cadences, dramatic pauses, and midwestern dialect, his speech was "a kind of singing." Ben Hecht once wrote: "Whether he chatted at lunch or recited from the podium he had always the same voice. He spoke like a man slowly revealing something." For all this fame, he remained unassuming. What he wanted from life was "to be out of jail,... to eat regular,... to get what I write printed,... a little love at home and a little nice affection hither and yon over the American landscape,... [and] to sing every day."

(excerpts and quotes from poetryfoundation.org)

Sandburg's best known poem is "Chicago." Note the gerunds (-ing verbs!) that create a sense of activity and labor. Note the personification of this vital city.
 

Chicago (1916)

By Carl Sandburg 1878–1967 Carl Sandburg
     
Hog Butcher for the World,
   Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
   Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
   Stormy, husky, brawling,
   City of the Big Shoulders:
They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:
Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.
Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,
   Bareheaded,
   Shoveling,
   Wrecking,
   Planning,
   Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,
                   Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.
 

How would you write a poem about your hometown?
What words would you use to describe it?

Think of similes ("fierce as a dog") and metaphors ("city of the big shoulders")
Note how he explores the paradoxical nature of the city: dark (prostitutes, wickedness, curses) and hopeful (proud, alive). This gives him versimillitude (realness) The city is a multi-faceted place.


This poem dialogues well with "I Hear America Singing" by Walt Whitman.
 
By Walt Whitman 1819–1892 Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.


Note the repetition of "singing" and consider the different meanings this word takes from stanza to stanza. Whitman uses anaphora, a rhetorical device consisting of repetition, for emphasis.


Also check out:

"I, Too" by Langston Hughes            (This poem is a direct response to "I Hear America Singing")
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177020

"Fog" by Carl Sandburg
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174299

"I Am the People, the Mob" by Carl Sandburg
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174303
 
 

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Robert Frost


The first poem I ever loved, thanks to my 5th grade English teacher, Barbara Sutton, was "The Road Not Taken." It's a simple, well-known poem (almost cliched) about a wanderer in the wood and the conflict he or she experiences at having to choose a path, thereby forsaking another. It represents the many choices we make in life, and it is also a reminder to us that answers lie in nature if we only look to find them.

Mrs. Sutton forced our class to memorize this poem, which you can imagine caused a lot of grumbling. "What is the point of learning a poem by heart?" we asked. It was frustrating. We forgot the words. But we practiced, and practiced, and ultimately deeply learned them. Mrs. Sutton then made us stand in front of the class and recite the poem, and we bravely complied.


Decades later, this is the poem that I can especially summon to memory. To me it is simplicity, beauty, existential angst and sublime opportunity. It is nature. It is choice. It is possibility. I didn't understand those things as a ten year old, but I appreciated the beauty of the language and the enthusiasm with which Mrs. Sutton taught it to me.

The Road Not Taken
 
 
 
TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;
 
Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,
 
And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.




More poems by Robert Frost:

Mending Wall by Robert Frost : The Poetry Foundation

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost : The Poetry Foundation

After Apple-Picking

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening


Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Poetry is...

What is poetry? What allows words to come to together in such a powerful way to inspire, soothe, provoke, and question?

According to the dictionary, poetry is (noun):

1.
the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.
2.
literary work in metrical form; verse.
3.
prose with poetic qualities.
 
Ugh. That stinkpot definition captures nothing of what poetry is all about. It is ironically unpoetic.

Not surprisingly poets themselves define "poetry" better. In Carl Sandburg's collection, Good Morning America, he published thirty-eight definitions of poetry. For instance:
     "Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance."
     "Poetry is a pack-sack of invisible keepsakes."
     "Poetry is a sky dark with wild-duck migration."
     "Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what
      is seen during a moment."


Other poets offer their own insightful definitions:
      "Poetry is what gets lost in translation." (Robert Frost)
      "Poetry is language in orbit." (Seamus Heaney)
      "Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn." (Thomas Gray)
      "Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and a thought has found its words." (Robert
            Frost)
      "Poetry is man's rebellion against being what he is." (James Branch Cabell)
      "Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful." (Rita Dove)
      "Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words." (Edgar Allan Poe)
      "Poetry is a mirror that makes beautiful that which is distorted." (Percy Bysshe Shelley)
      "Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth." (Samuel Johnson)
      "Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." (Lawrence Ferlinghetti) (My fave!)
      "Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge-it is immortal as the heart of man." (William
             Wordsworth)
      "Poetry is what happens when nothing else can." (Charles Bukowski)


Make your own definition of poetry. What does it mean to you? (Note, if it doesn't mean anything to you, hopefully my posts will change that as you become more aware of expressive language!)

My own definition: Poetry is a blue-gray storm rising in a still morning sky.
(Good poetry always changes the way I think and generates powerful emotion)
                            
Read the poems this year and spend some time with them. You will not always understand. Are you really meant to? But allow yourself to enter another's mind, to be swept up into a mood, and to travel to another place.