Sunday, April 29, 2012

Ten Minute Spill

Lips as tart and sweet as blackberries,
skin like a cloud.
He always said,
a smirk, wink,
"It isn't hard to find the needle
in this thicket."
And I drop off
a cliff
as he trails fingers,
licks my soul.
The whir of bodies
rushing to lubricate
movement and throats
full of rasped voices,
Mother, I'm never
coming home.

Terrance Hayes: Critical Post


            In his book, Lighthead, Terrance Hayes discusses many events, some fictitious and some autobiographical.  His poetry brings up several different themes through repetition.  I found that one of the most interesting and prevalent themes is that of sex and sexuality.  This theme is expressed in many of the poems in Hayes’ book, however I feel the three poems that best illustrate sex and sexuality are “The Elegant Tongue,” in the first half, and “Bullethead for Earthell” and “Cocktails with Orpheus,” in the second half.
            “The Elegant Tongue” uses a lot of descriptive language, mostly centralized on kissing, which is often a precursor to sex.  However, towards the end of the poem, there are some heavy implications of sex.  For instance, the lines, “Darling, kiss me again in the nastiest possible way./ When the blind fondle the elephant’s trunk, an organ/ of fifteen thousand miraculous multipurpose muscles, and hiss,” definitely describe the elephant’s trunk as something sensual.  I think he likens it to a penis, especially when he uses the term, “organ,” and by referencing the “miraculous multipurpose muscles.”  Also, Hayes goes on to speak of the trunk from the perspective of the blind, a speech loaded with insinuations.  “This creature is most like the serpent in Eden,/ tell them, If there is goodness in your heart, it will come/ to your mouth, and if that doesn’t work, tell them,/ In the dark it’s not the forked tongue that does the piercing.” This part has many points that make it highly sexual, the first being the comparison to a serpent, reiterating the phallic nature of the trunk.  Next, Hayes makes a line break at the phrase, “it will come,” which I interpret as a reference to ejaculation, coupled with the other half of the phrase, “to your mouth,” it adds the act of fellatio to the poem.  He goes on to say, “In the dark it’s not the forked tongue that does the piercing,” which appears to be a reference to penetration and intercourse.
            Hayes continues to use sex as a theme in the second half of his book, exhibited briefly in “Bullethead for Earthell.”  He discusses, “A naked towel, turned up to Heaven/ on the bed with the same sprawl/ of softness as the woman upon it,” which is an intimate description of a woman, sprawled nude, on a bed.  “Hayes goes on to discuss la petit mort in the lines, “…I realize/ in the moment preceding the moment/ of death, does not represent the moment/ of death.  It could be the broth of a spasm,/ the fever of gasping, the moment of death./ It could be the fitful woman holding you/ to the earth as the seed leaves your body.”  This is an obvious reference, not to true death, but to orgasm.  He seems to find it, not representative of death, but more of life and living.
            In “Cocktails with Orpheus,” Hayes takes the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, where she forgets him and spends life in the underworld, and alters it slightly, saying that Eurydice left, had a decent life.  The poem speaks literally about being in a bar with Orpheus, talking about life.  Suddenly, the poem switches to a sexual theme, the speaker stating “I am behind a woman whose skirt is hiked above her hips, as bound/ as touch permits, saying don’t forget me when I become the liquid/ out of which names are born, salt-milk, milk-sweet, and animal made.”  This is obviously a description of a sexual encounter, but there is an interesting reference to the Orpheus myth in the line “don’t forget me,” as Eurydice forgot Orpheus.  The liquid referred to is pretty apparently semen.  There is a sadness to the lines, “I want to be human above the body, uprooted and right, a fold/ of pleas released, but I am a black wound, what’s left of the deed.”  This seems to describe sex, but in a sorrowful, longing way, where the speaker seeks love instead of just sex.  It seems, however, that the speaker cannot find love, as he doesn’t love himself, having a negative evaluation of his self-worth.  He seems to regret his own birth, resenting his parents a little with the line “what’s left of the deed.”

Sunday, April 22, 2012

Auden Critical Larkin: sorry for the tardiness.


In Auden’s essay, “Poetry as Memorable Speech,” he claims, in essence, that poetry is literally about anything.  From things we would consider memorable and monumental, “Birth, death, the Beatific Vision…” to things that we think of as insignificant, “The mark on the wall, the joke at luncheon, word games.”  Auden seems to believe that poetry can be found in literally any instance, and it’s our task to simply take those experiences and put words to them.  He also says that poetry and literature, by the time he wrote his essay, had split into two distinct streams with two separate audiences and purposes.  One was geared towards the upper-class, and contained “compensation and escape.”  The second type of writing was aimed at the lower class, offering “a religion and a drug.”  Auden claimed that “Art for Art’s sake” had been swept aside, into corners, as a simply complimentary affair.
Auden argues that poetry must, “Move our emotions, or excite our intellect, for only that which is moving is memorable.”  This would seem to mean that insignificant or common activities are not memorable.  Auden goes on to explain, conversely, that, “We shall do poetry a great disservice if we confine it only to the major experiences of life.”  Here it seems Auden contradicts himself quite completely, saying we must also remember the little things, which, he had stated, were not memorable before. 
I think Larkin’s poem, “This Be the Verse,” offers a really brilliant example of the idea of remembering something important, claiming, “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  They may not mean to, but they do.”  This offers a really bitter tone, harsh, accusatory.  This blames the parents, for messing up the kid’s life, and shows the author reflecting on his experiences with his own parents.  It seems to be placing blame for an important event.  The tone shifts, turning a little more reflective in the second stanza with, “But they were fucked up in their turn, by fools in old-style hats and coats.”  This shows the author as pensive, more understanding, reflecting on major events in his parents’ lives as congruent with those in his.  There is yet another tonal shift in stanza three, becoming a bit more cautionary, and a hint wry, when the author warns, “Get out as early as you can, and don’t have any kids yourself.”  Larkin seems a bit subtler than Auden calls for, but I think he draws on specific details just enough to nail down a gestural feeling that major events were a factor.
I also feel that Larkin does an excellent job with drawing on insignificant or common activities, for example, in “The Whitsun Weddings.”  Larkin calls on details that are very specific, but specific only to non-major events.  The weddings are all insignificant to the speaker, so it would seem they’d be unworthy of memory.  However, Larkin pulls things like, “While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared,” out as minor details in a common event.  I think in this poem Larkin captures a really nice mixture of the requirements set by Auden, and I personally think that the casual, telling-it-to-a-friend attitude Larkin offers in this poem, as he seems to fondly recall the details of a would-be lackadaisical observance while on a train, makes it a lot more relatable to the reader.


Friday, April 20, 2012

Creative Post: A Veritably Villainous Villanelle

A chill on the breeze raises hair,
As a shadow moves across the moon,
And there’s a shiver in the night air.

There’s not even a sliver of light,
The dawn cannot come too soon,
A chill on the breeze raises hair.

The listening dead will ear my plight,
As I beg to return to a sunny noon,
And there’s a shiver in the night air.

There’s a creeping sensation, a bite
A loss of blood, beginning to swoon,
A chill on the breeze raises hair.

I cry out, why such a sleight!
As blood pools, body strewn,
And there’s a shiver in the night air.

Will leaves my body; I’ve no fight,
And the beast moans a melancholy tune.
A chill on the breeze raise hair,
And there’s a shiver in the night air.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Critical Post: "The Figure a Poem Makes"

In Frost's essay, he says that poetry needs emotion, needs personality added by the author.  He states that a poem "begins in delight and ends in wisdom," and it seems to me that wisdom cannot be gleaned without the input of someone with experience, e.g. the poet himself.   Frost also says, "If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem," which I think definitely pertains to some of the Lawrence poems we read, particularly "Love on the Farm".  This poem is wild, in my opinion, because it has a raw, sexual undertone, with words like "throttling," "quivering," "plaintive," and lines like, "Spurts from the terror of his oncoming." This diction offers a pulsing, sensual, wild rhythm, which seems to fit Frost's description of what a poem ought to be.

Also, Frost discusses surprise by stating first, "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.  No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader." He seems to be saying that, in writing a poem, the poet should have no plan, nothing too mapped out, because if the poet isn't moved by his own work, it cannot be expected to convey emotion and to move an audience.  I think that DH Lawrence offers the reader quite a measure of surprise, giving descriptions fit for people and revealing that the subject described is actually a plant or an animal figure, for instance, "The woodbine creeps abroad/ Calling low to her lover/ The sun-lit flirt who all the day/ has poised above her lips in play/ and stolen kisses, shallow and gay."  This segment brings to mind an image of a beautiful girl, flirtatious, alluring.  However, it describes instead, a honeysuckle plant, growing in the sun.  Lawrence goes so far as to surprise the reader by giving the scene between the man and his wife;


"I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair
Watching the door open; he flashes bare
His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes
In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise
He flings the rabbit soft on the table board
And comes towards me: ah! the uplifted sword
Of his hand against my bosom! and oh, the broad
Blade of his glance that asks me to applaud
His coming! With his hand he turns my face to him
And caresses me with his fingers that still smell grim
Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare!
I know not what fine wire is round my throat;
I only know I let him finger there
My pulse of life, and let him nose like a stoat
Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood.

And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down
His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood
Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood
Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown
Against him, die, and find death good."

This does a lot to surprise the reader, a sudden switch from animal sexuality to human sexuality, while still describing the humans with animal characteristics, e.g. "My pulse of life, and let him nose like a stoat/ Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood" and "I know not what fine wire is round my throat." I feel that Lawrence also surprises with subject matter by describing, in essence, the act of sex and orgasm, with the lines "...a flood/ Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown/ Against him, die, and find death good."

These last two stanzas, in particular, do a good job of describing wild, surprising emotion and feeling.  I think that this sort of vivid description makes Lawrence a perfect example of what Frost expects a poet to be.

Words Words Words: First Words excersize

Words, words, words
Mommy talks, I listen.
I talk too.
Words all the time
Are just words.
Words, words--Wait.
These are different,
These words are new
About fishies and silly
Pictures of fantastic pets.
These words are
Rhymey giggling sweet.
I like the Gink,
The pink-ink-drinker.
But best are fishies
Red.
Blue.
One.
Two.
These words are good fishes.
Words. Words. Words.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Reminiscent of Plato, no?



Pardon the strange subtitles, But this is the video I was talking about in class the other day, The one that animates the story of how we were once whole, and are now merely parts.

I love this movie, and this song.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Photo?


I realized I forgot to post a picture...
So here are some delightful cephalopods, My favorite thing in the animal kingdom.
Adieu.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Critical Post: "Easter 1916"

In "Easter 1916"there is an emphasis on death and consequences to people at war.  He talks about how war makes people harder, less caring or forgiving, saying "Too long a sacrifice/ Can make a stone of the heart."  I think that Yeats is glad for the war, because it's helping to ensure freedom for Ireland, but he is simultaneously mourning those lost, as in lines "Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part."  This differs from Rosenberg's poems, like "Break of Day in the Trenches" in which he seems to be very resentful towards the war, stating his jealousy of a mouse "Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew/ Your cosmopolitain sympathies./ Now you have touched this English hand/ You will do the same to a German/ Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure." He is claiming that even a rat has more freedom than he does, clearly displeased by the fighting, and seems to see no real good in the war.

Yeats uses more formal, flourishy language, with less easy interpretation needed to get at his meaning.  It seems that Rosenberg writes more informally, in a personal, casual voice, which belies an intimacy and openness that Yeats lacks.  Yeats also uses more metaphoric and cryptic descriptions, whereas Rosenberg is fairly plain in his meaning.

I think both poems have very interesting perspectives on war, and that they are both beautiful in their own right.

Poem on Iraq/Afghanistan.

A taste of Afghanistan
City sand has its own taste
Not the country’s dust,
But darker.
It’s stronger – bitter parts
Under infantry foot.
Under 500 years going and coming.
Kipling’s finest up and over –
Through the pass,
Through the places where soldiers stood
In stolid white snow.
Cemeteries in the pass where Alexander’s own
Fell on the square rocks.
Paved with smoothed over river rock,
This open grave – white, bare. 
 
Kabul sand polishes everyone’s edges.
Tajiks sharp on the cusp
And Northern Alliance coming down
Hard in the fray.
They all want each other’s throats.
Their wives lost in the fight –
Save for pointed heels and
Gold bangled over fine red henna.
 
Eastern sand and southern sand,
Pakistan sand crooked as broken teeth,
Herati sand pure and rising to the top.
Nothing mixes and there is no space in between.
If God loved this place he doesn’t now.
If He breathed in the brass bullet casings
And the diesel air and spiteful prayers.
A place for lust and dirty children
And the things night can hide.
 
What things grown men can hide-
In the dark corners of their own children’s rooms.
In the big shadows of a capital with no master and no disciple.
No scope for all things to come together
The sand and the dust and the dirt that makes things grow-
When it is left alone.
 
But we’ve put our fingers in it
And the stirring and stamping won’t leave
Much for the growing.
Dust bowls and cyclone air will take the rest.
Every village is filled with it now –
Dust from our bombs and inside our APCs.
Dirt scrubbed from our rifle actions
And ground into our sweaty palms like Mississippi silt.
 
And still nothing grows.
I’ve taken a knee in seventeen villages –
On street corners and broken down roundabouts,
On highways and in shattered homes.
On helo pads and plywood chapel steps,
On the backs of dead men-
And screaming vile women.
 
They will, all of them, bend or break –
It is either them or me.
It’s either winning or losing
And putting in its place
What does not belong,
Sand of a different taste and hue
That cannot tell me it is sorry.
Rob Densmore, 2009

I Was Young Then

I was young then, and full of naivety
And he was young too, both of us foolish in love
We were close, and closer still, whenever we could be,
And all was good and all was fair until push brought shove.

Yes, young and wild were we, not sure what love was,
And he was startled, with a slap, and I darted.
Hearts cracked and crumbled, all but dust,
And naivety meant love departed.

And there was hurt, and surely, betrayal
And he took up with some then-friend of mine
But to see him happy without me, Oh!
Was as though a stab in my spine.

He never knew my deep regret
How terribly I pined for him
But my heart would not forget
The love that dwelled therein.

Though time did pass, love did stay,
And though there was impermanent bitterness,
Time brought me back his warm embrace.
And love returned his kiss.