whelp, folks. final essay. i know you all must be crushed --- time to return to the good ol' days of mornings started with coffee mugs and the new york times instead of the ramblings of an awkward midwestern college student.
it's been fun.
barbaric, vast and wild: what is poetry?
Poetry, an art made for many senses, evolves just as any form of art does over time. Its purpose within certain cultural contexts and social circles may vary; its precise use of language may not own a steadiness; its creators and followers will not always agree with one another and will even argue about it; however, there are certain characteristics of poetry that have maintained somewhat of a reliably universal trueness to them. One is that poetry must have a purpose; it cannot be written for folly’s sake and live at the bottom of a desk drawer. It must have meaning, which it built upon in innumerable ways – one might sit down to write with a preconceived notion of what the poem is to be about; another may be inspired by a particular experience, sound, or word and may too sit, though with much less of a concrete idea of what will appear on the page before him. In either case, the result is no less of poetry than the other.
If written honestly, a poem contains the potential for breadth and depth that travels, rouses, hollers, shatters, whispers, sings, cries, stirs. Though it cannot be nailed down, one simple lens through which once might see poetry is this: it is the use of language that is pieced together so honestly that the nakedness of a human soul can both see it and be seen in it. As this class has spent a semester exploring the theme of “making it new,” it has been made apparent that poetry’s need for evolution and gaining of momentum has no signs of slowing. It can cradle memories, both collective and unique to the individual; it can hypnotize by means of aesthetic and intensity; it can communicate ideals and emotions amongst people, even if the ideas were foreign to begin with. It can say everything in no time at all. What poetry ultimately does (likewise what these ongoing semantics do) is serve as a reminder of our own limitations; yes, the universe is expansive and rich, but it is also cozy.
Poetry, being not only the written word but the word that is sung, read and spoken, is virtually obsolete without the eyes or ears or mouths of people (not to mention their minds). Therefore, as humankind unfolds and new generations gradually develop a set of their own characteristics, so too does the poetry of that society change. So naturally there are debates about the “true” nature of poetry --- however, the more common argument is in regards to what poetry is not rather than what it is. For example, (though a contemporary avant-garde writer may argue against this) it would pose quite a quandary to defend the idea that the nutritional facts or list of ingredients on the side of a cereal box might constitute poetry. It is obvious, however, to any common person that the work done by William Carlos Williams was poetry. Why? This question, however unfortunately so, is not to be answered. Were we ever to delineate the exact parameters of what makes a poem a poem, it would no longer be one.
In agreement with this notion is Language poet Lyn Hejinian, who made note in her introduction of The Best American Poetry 2004 that [American] poetry is never complete – that it is so full of energy and inventiveness that it is impossible to define poetry once and for all or to delimit its space (Hejinian 2004). As a thriving and widely-recognized writer, Hejinian’s estimation is about as concrete as it gets. However, as a poet who is happily lumped in with Charles Bernstein, Susan Howe and other ultra-moderns, the text of her foreword feels flighty in places, discussing her craft in puzzlingly ambiguous ways. This should come as no surprise to us; in fact, Al Filreis compares this particular brand of writing the calculus of modern poetic movements. Ambiguity, especially in art, does not inherently act as a destructive force. For example, Hejinian asserts that, “all art is about living,” (Hejinian 2004). For as broad as this statement may be, it is a perfectly reasonable notion. Art must have breath, significance, character, and works through a cyclical nature of nascence, maturity, decline and renewal. It progresses much like a human life does; existence, both of art and of people, is not static. Hejinian also claims that, as language is given meaning when structured into phrases, so poetry is given its meaning when it is linked to other poems; her argument is that poems must be written to resonate with other poems as it enables readers to consider matters of the collective human heart. Again, this is not a wholly bad idea, but it certainly negates the embrace that may exist between single poem and individual; as language poets extract the self from their writing, so too is the significance of privacy and intimacy between poem and reader extracted.
Poet Yusef Komunyakaa might agree. The famous writer, who contributed to The Best American Poetry only a year before Hejinian, has an especial fondness for refocusing on content; in fact, for Komunyakaa it, “is a part of process, which is essential to technique and form,” (Komunyakaa 2003). The notion of a “single” poem and even the argument concerning its effectiveness is no matter to him – a poem is a poem is a poem. The predominant issue, he thinks, with the new experimental poets is that they waste so much energy trying to strip the speaker from their writing that the language of the poem suffers – the experimentation, therefore, is in vain. Komunyakaa does not necessarily criticize the concept of “making it new,” and in fact encourages broadening the scope of literature, as “no topic is taboo,” but there must exist some sort of “refined principle of aesthetic,” (Komunyakaa 2003) in order for a poem to have the life and forward motion to which Hejinian alluded.
One remarkable being who could perceivably satisfy both Hejinian’s and Komunyakaa’s poetic standard is G.C. Waldrep. As a contemporary writer he senses few obligations to the laws of both grammar and Merriam Webster. However, to claim that the physical structure of his poetry is merely a testing of waters in literary rule-breaking is simply a mistake. It is made very evident to the reader that each one of Waldrep’s poems are constructed just so with a particular purpose in mind; in doing so, he makes excellent use of this component of contemporary avant-garde writing. However, he too is immensely occupied with content – Waldrep’s poems are dense and rich with meaning yet avoid dragging unnecessary aesthetic bulk. Both highly educated and attuned to word choice, he crafts poems that one must research in many cases; this often leads to the discovery that with his language, there are no such things as accidents. Waldrep is exemplary proof that one is more than capable of composing poetry that is distinctive, brilliantly worded, and intentional all at once. Similarly, and to readdress Hejinian’s notion of all poetry needing linkage, it is also just as feasible to gather up the works of enough poets like Waldrep to make an anthology. Against Forgetting: Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness is a prime example of exactly that. As in any anthology, one expects for stylistic differences, diverse focuses, even some thematic discrepancies between various writers, regions, and conflicts. And this is certainly true of Against Forgetting; for a book that features a century’s worth of writing by over 150 poets from 15 separate world conflicts, one mustn’t expect total uniformity throughout. Some are deeply personal, others politically charged. Some poets embrace the formal romantic style while others appear not to have the slightest inkling of what an iamb or quatrain might be. Still, these writers are all put together for a reason. Their fuel is what makes them cohesive; deeply-rooted, historically complex, and profoundly unjust conflict.
Poetry is inherently fluid – to be stationary is to not exist. Like a human person, a poem can only be immobilized by its surroundings; a poisonous cultural or political environment, a desk drawer, a creator that is either too self-assured or too meek, or overcritical noses that have turned up in favor of battling about the semantics of it all. However, as Yusek Komunyakaa has said, in poetry, the ego cannot ride shotgun. An honest poem is able to act as a cleansing agent and reinstate basic human truth. The poet, without abandoning his or her own idea of reality, can create what defends the value of individual minds existing in a society of interruptions. The true poet explores language fearlessly and with the understanding that no two minds will ever feel their way through a poem with exactly the same hands; and in terms of form, poems must make use of as many appropriate resources as possible --- the artist must bear in mind the gravity of all negative space; breath can be as important as the word itself. As we grow and transform as a global community, so too will our poems; we will always be attempting to “make it new.” So who knows? T.S. Eliot’s audience wasn’t immediately warm to him at the start of the last century; perhaps our great-grandchildren will see Lyn Hejinian as tame as a housecat.
works cited
Hejinian, Lyn. Introduction. Lyn Hejinian and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2004. Scribner, 2004. 9-14. Print.
Komunyakaa, Yusef. Introduction. Yusef Komunyakaa and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2003. New York: Scribner, 2003. 11-21. Print.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
a question answering a question
the following is the revised version of an essay that i wrote about poet wislawa szymborska, a writer featured in the against forgetting anthology.
A Question Answering a Question
Art, with poetry in particular, has been used throughout history to serve as a memorable, accessible witness to history’s claim on the lives of humankind. The 20th century was radically marked by a number of tragedies; poets of every milieu have taken it upon themselves to generate not only a greater awareness and understanding of these events, but a careful assessment of the ways in which a person absorbs its impact. An illustration of this sort of poet is Polish writer Wislawa Szymborska. Early in life she was encouraged by her father to write often, thus out of habit put a pen to paper during the German occupation of her homeland as the 1940s began and World War II gained momentum. As the decades went on and her country was entrenched in socialist regimes, Szymborska published volume after volume of poetry and became one of the best-known poets in Poland (Encyclopedia of World Biography). Her writing is marked by a sharp wit, an impassive, observational tone, and a wavering between the certain and the conceptual in order to broaden the meaning of her work. She is an ideal example of a poet who has not only been shaped by the conflict of her surroundings but who has returned the favor by transforming the way in which people respond to it.
Born in 1923, Wislawa Szymborska witnessed the German and Soviet occupation of her country at the age of 16, observing the establishment a socialist regime that was not overcome until 1990 (Background Notes: Republic of Poland). Under the power of socialism, Polish society was characterized by civil war, forced collectivization, economic privation, and Stalinist terror (Norgaard, Ole, and Sampson 773). Separated from the rest of the developing world by the proverbial “Iron Curtain,” the writing of artists living in the Eastern Bloc was soon characterized by a calculated and personally detached tone. Some committed their work to confronting the Soviet occupation; Szymborska, however, did not. In fact, this is one of her defining characteristics as a writer who has come out of a history of oppression and rebellion: she does not consider herself to be a “political poet” (Contemporary Women Poets). A pacifist, she does not believe in fighting fire with fire, and instead commits to mastering the skill of simultaneous narration and reflection. In her 1993 poem, “No Title Required,” she both reflects upon a morning spent sitting under a tree and describes it in real time. This dual contemplation blossoms into a much broader, introspective dialogue with statements such as, “And yet I’m sitting by this river, that’s a fact. / And since I’m here, / I must have come from somewhere, / and before that / I must have turned up in many other places, / exactly like the conquerors of nations / before setting sail” (Szymborska 175). Even from behind the Iron Curtain, she is able to ask noteworthy questions of the world though her delicate unique personal style of simplicity and straightforwardness without being chained to the obligations of being a purely political poet.
Wislawa Szymborska’s “No Title Required,” exemplifies her fondness for tongue-in-cheek statements, which she oftentimes employs to take swings at governmental principles and leaders. Her use of irony allows for the reader to come to more than one conclusion while reading or interpreting a poem (Carpenter). For example, in the poem “Utopia,” she describes an island that is built upon perfect reasonability and shrewdness. Said island is – unsurprisingly – uninhabited; she says, “The tree of Understanding, dazzlingly straight and simple, / sprouts by the spring called Now I Get It” (Szymborska 127). While this poem can be read as insinuating the author’s dislike for Poland’s state of totalitarianism, it can just as easily be perceived in terms of a more universal theme. In fact, the third line of the poem states, “The only roads are those that offer access,” and later, “The thicker the woods, the vaster the vista: / the Valley of Obviously” (Szymborska 127). In a broader context, this could be interpreted not only as Szymborska’s dislike for socialism but for easy answers and sightless assumptions. She tends to favor conclusions that commit only to doubt. “I am, she says, ‘a question answering a question’ (Carpenter).
This dedication to question-asking in “Utopia” is similarly prevalent in other works by Wislawa Szymborska and displays her consistent wavering between a state of certainty and uncertainty. “Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous ‘I don’t know,’” she says (Encyclopedia of World Biography). In a way, this implies that she is generally a very unassuming person and, ultimately, is modest about her own capacities as a question-answerer. This predicament is brought to light in the poem “Hunger Camp at Jaslo,” a depiction of the way a writer might respond to lives lost amidst conflict. It starts out a by asking how many had died of hunger; Szymborska’s response is, “Write: I don’t know” (Forche 459). She does not claim to have the answers to difficult questions about why lives are lost (much less why their being lost is so overlooked). Furthermore, this poem displays her general affinity for humankind and habit of taking its side over the side of history. As she says in the first stanza: “History counts its skeletons in round numbers. / A thousand and one remains a thousand” (Forche 459). As far as she is concerned, history is a rather heartless force, disrespecting the intrinsic value of human life by failing to recognize its victims (Carpenter).
In order to level reality and compel the reader see these massive issues on a scale that makes sense, Wislawa Szymborska strategically strays from abstract thinking and instead describes what is immediate, what is concrete, what is commonplace. In “Hunger Camp at Jaslo,” for example, she compares human lives to blades of grass in a field. However, this simplification does not necessarily make her queries any easier to confront. Szymborska’s poetry is not meant to make the reader comfortable. In fact, the 1957 poem “Brueghel’s Two Monkeys,” takes a tone that is based entirely on unease. It deals with the ominous sense that hangs over a student being tested on a subject that they did not study for; on a less petty scale, it observes the anxiety that one experiences as being an active part of mankind’s history, which Szymborska believes has significantly added to human affliction through wars and repression (Carpenter).
A poem that very clearly and accurately encompasses Szymborska’s influences, intentions and diction as a writer is “Photograph from September 11.” She speaks ironically by describing the delicateness of a person in “flight” when the reality is that they have been tossed from a skyscraper. The poem concludes by saying “I can do only two things for them - / describe this flight / and not add a last line” (Szymborska 69), furthering her ambition to embrace the uncertain. Again, her focus is on the victims – on the small, the personal, the familiar. Like the small items that fell from pockets or the hair that fell loose in the wind.
The 20th century, defined largely by the tragedies that occurred during its time, left marks not only on nations but on the people within their borders. In many ways, artists have made it their plight to bring light to these events and the lasting effect that they have on future generations. The greatest of these artists, however, are able to take a globally recognized calamity and not only build awareness but dissect them in such a way that the common person is able to sit down and have a one-on-one experience with its implications. Wislawa Szymborska, whose native country of Poland has only recently pulled itself out of communist oppression, has stood in the face of injustice since her first works were published over 50 years ago. What makes her distinctive, though, is her refusal to commit to any one side of an argument unless it is the argument of humanity as a whole. Her sharp tongue, observational manner of speaking and affinity for both the ambiguous and the familiar mark her poetry as that which remains vital in a variety of political, cultural, and personal climates.
works cited
Carpenter, Bogdana. "Wislawa Szymborska and the importance of the unimportant." World Literature Today 71.1 (1997): 8+. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 8 Mar. 2011.
Forché, Carolyn. "Repression in Eastern and Central Europe." Against Forgetting: Twentieth-century Poetry of Witness. New York: W.W. Norton, 1993. 455-60. Print.
"HISTORY." Background Notes on Countries of the World: Republic of Poland (2007): 2-5. Military & Government Collection. EBSCO. Web. 18 Mar. 2011.
Norgaard, Ole, and Steven L. Sampson. "POLAND'S CRISIS AND EAST EUROPEAN
SOCIALISM." Theory & Society 13.6 (1984): 773. Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Web. 9 Mar. 2011.
"Poland." Encyclopedia of Intelligence & Counterintelligence. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2005. Credo Reference. 8 Sept. 2009. Web. 10 Mar. 2011.
"Solidarity." The Columbia Encyclopedia. New York: Columbia UP, 2008. Credo Reference. 7 Nov. 2008. Web. 11 Mar. 2011.
"Szymborska, Wislawa (1923-)." Encyclopedia of World Biography. Detroit: Gale, 1998. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 8 Mar. 2011.
Szymborska, Wislawa. "Photograph from September 11." Monologue of a Dog. New York: Harcourt, 2002. 69. Print.
Szymborska, Wislawa. View with a Grain of Sand Selected Poems. San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1993. Print.
"Warsaw Uprising." The Crystal Reference Encyclopedia. West Chiltington: Crystal Semantics, 2005. Credo Reference. 29 Mar. 2006. Web. 10 Mar. 2011.
"Wislawa Szymborska." Contemporary Women Poets. Gale, 1998. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 9 Mar. 2011.
A Question Answering a Question
Art, with poetry in particular, has been used throughout history to serve as a memorable, accessible witness to history’s claim on the lives of humankind. The 20th century was radically marked by a number of tragedies; poets of every milieu have taken it upon themselves to generate not only a greater awareness and understanding of these events, but a careful assessment of the ways in which a person absorbs its impact. An illustration of this sort of poet is Polish writer Wislawa Szymborska. Early in life she was encouraged by her father to write often, thus out of habit put a pen to paper during the German occupation of her homeland as the 1940s began and World War II gained momentum. As the decades went on and her country was entrenched in socialist regimes, Szymborska published volume after volume of poetry and became one of the best-known poets in Poland (Encyclopedia of World Biography). Her writing is marked by a sharp wit, an impassive, observational tone, and a wavering between the certain and the conceptual in order to broaden the meaning of her work. She is an ideal example of a poet who has not only been shaped by the conflict of her surroundings but who has returned the favor by transforming the way in which people respond to it.
Born in 1923, Wislawa Szymborska witnessed the German and Soviet occupation of her country at the age of 16, observing the establishment a socialist regime that was not overcome until 1990 (Background Notes: Republic of Poland). Under the power of socialism, Polish society was characterized by civil war, forced collectivization, economic privation, and Stalinist terror (Norgaard, Ole, and Sampson 773). Separated from the rest of the developing world by the proverbial “Iron Curtain,” the writing of artists living in the Eastern Bloc was soon characterized by a calculated and personally detached tone. Some committed their work to confronting the Soviet occupation; Szymborska, however, did not. In fact, this is one of her defining characteristics as a writer who has come out of a history of oppression and rebellion: she does not consider herself to be a “political poet” (Contemporary Women Poets). A pacifist, she does not believe in fighting fire with fire, and instead commits to mastering the skill of simultaneous narration and reflection. In her 1993 poem, “No Title Required,” she both reflects upon a morning spent sitting under a tree and describes it in real time. This dual contemplation blossoms into a much broader, introspective dialogue with statements such as, “And yet I’m sitting by this river, that’s a fact. / And since I’m here, / I must have come from somewhere, / and before that / I must have turned up in many other places, / exactly like the conquerors of nations / before setting sail” (Szymborska 175). Even from behind the Iron Curtain, she is able to ask noteworthy questions of the world though her delicate unique personal style of simplicity and straightforwardness without being chained to the obligations of being a purely political poet.
Wislawa Szymborska’s “No Title Required,” exemplifies her fondness for tongue-in-cheek statements, which she oftentimes employs to take swings at governmental principles and leaders. Her use of irony allows for the reader to come to more than one conclusion while reading or interpreting a poem (Carpenter). For example, in the poem “Utopia,” she describes an island that is built upon perfect reasonability and shrewdness. Said island is – unsurprisingly – uninhabited; she says, “The tree of Understanding, dazzlingly straight and simple, / sprouts by the spring called Now I Get It” (Szymborska 127). While this poem can be read as insinuating the author’s dislike for Poland’s state of totalitarianism, it can just as easily be perceived in terms of a more universal theme. In fact, the third line of the poem states, “The only roads are those that offer access,” and later, “The thicker the woods, the vaster the vista: / the Valley of Obviously” (Szymborska 127). In a broader context, this could be interpreted not only as Szymborska’s dislike for socialism but for easy answers and sightless assumptions. She tends to favor conclusions that commit only to doubt. “I am, she says, ‘a question answering a question’ (Carpenter).
This dedication to question-asking in “Utopia” is similarly prevalent in other works by Wislawa Szymborska and displays her consistent wavering between a state of certainty and uncertainty. “Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous ‘I don’t know,’” she says (Encyclopedia of World Biography). In a way, this implies that she is generally a very unassuming person and, ultimately, is modest about her own capacities as a question-answerer. This predicament is brought to light in the poem “Hunger Camp at Jaslo,” a depiction of the way a writer might respond to lives lost amidst conflict. It starts out a by asking how many had died of hunger; Szymborska’s response is, “Write: I don’t know” (Forche 459). She does not claim to have the answers to difficult questions about why lives are lost (much less why their being lost is so overlooked). Furthermore, this poem displays her general affinity for humankind and habit of taking its side over the side of history. As she says in the first stanza: “History counts its skeletons in round numbers. / A thousand and one remains a thousand” (Forche 459). As far as she is concerned, history is a rather heartless force, disrespecting the intrinsic value of human life by failing to recognize its victims (Carpenter).
In order to level reality and compel the reader see these massive issues on a scale that makes sense, Wislawa Szymborska strategically strays from abstract thinking and instead describes what is immediate, what is concrete, what is commonplace. In “Hunger Camp at Jaslo,” for example, she compares human lives to blades of grass in a field. However, this simplification does not necessarily make her queries any easier to confront. Szymborska’s poetry is not meant to make the reader comfortable. In fact, the 1957 poem “Brueghel’s Two Monkeys,” takes a tone that is based entirely on unease. It deals with the ominous sense that hangs over a student being tested on a subject that they did not study for; on a less petty scale, it observes the anxiety that one experiences as being an active part of mankind’s history, which Szymborska believes has significantly added to human affliction through wars and repression (Carpenter).
A poem that very clearly and accurately encompasses Szymborska’s influences, intentions and diction as a writer is “Photograph from September 11.” She speaks ironically by describing the delicateness of a person in “flight” when the reality is that they have been tossed from a skyscraper. The poem concludes by saying “I can do only two things for them - / describe this flight / and not add a last line” (Szymborska 69), furthering her ambition to embrace the uncertain. Again, her focus is on the victims – on the small, the personal, the familiar. Like the small items that fell from pockets or the hair that fell loose in the wind.
The 20th century, defined largely by the tragedies that occurred during its time, left marks not only on nations but on the people within their borders. In many ways, artists have made it their plight to bring light to these events and the lasting effect that they have on future generations. The greatest of these artists, however, are able to take a globally recognized calamity and not only build awareness but dissect them in such a way that the common person is able to sit down and have a one-on-one experience with its implications. Wislawa Szymborska, whose native country of Poland has only recently pulled itself out of communist oppression, has stood in the face of injustice since her first works were published over 50 years ago. What makes her distinctive, though, is her refusal to commit to any one side of an argument unless it is the argument of humanity as a whole. Her sharp tongue, observational manner of speaking and affinity for both the ambiguous and the familiar mark her poetry as that which remains vital in a variety of political, cultural, and personal climates.
works cited
Carpenter, Bogdana. "Wislawa Szymborska and the importance of the unimportant." World Literature Today 71.1 (1997): 8+. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 8 Mar. 2011.
Forché, Carolyn. "Repression in Eastern and Central Europe." Against Forgetting: Twentieth-century Poetry of Witness. New York: W.W. Norton, 1993. 455-60. Print.
"HISTORY." Background Notes on Countries of the World: Republic of Poland (2007): 2-5. Military & Government Collection. EBSCO. Web. 18 Mar. 2011.
Norgaard, Ole, and Steven L. Sampson. "POLAND'S CRISIS AND EAST EUROPEAN
SOCIALISM." Theory & Society 13.6 (1984): 773. Academic Search Premier. EBSCO. Web. 9 Mar. 2011.
"Poland." Encyclopedia of Intelligence & Counterintelligence. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2005. Credo Reference. 8 Sept. 2009. Web. 10 Mar. 2011.
"Solidarity." The Columbia Encyclopedia. New York: Columbia UP, 2008. Credo Reference. 7 Nov. 2008. Web. 11 Mar. 2011.
"Szymborska, Wislawa (1923-)." Encyclopedia of World Biography. Detroit: Gale, 1998. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 8 Mar. 2011.
Szymborska, Wislawa. "Photograph from September 11." Monologue of a Dog. New York: Harcourt, 2002. 69. Print.
Szymborska, Wislawa. View with a Grain of Sand Selected Poems. San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1993. Print.
"Warsaw Uprising." The Crystal Reference Encyclopedia. West Chiltington: Crystal Semantics, 2005. Credo Reference. 29 Mar. 2006. Web. 10 Mar. 2011.
"Wislawa Szymborska." Contemporary Women Poets. Gale, 1998. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 9 Mar. 2011.
say "i" in the big name of everyone
the following is a thorough examination of a book by poet john ciardi, completely largely thanks to research that was needed for the other shorter essays about his work.
John Ciardi’s, In the Stoneworks:
Say “I” in the Big Name of Everyone
In the Stoneworks (1961), a book made up of three distinct sections, is John Ciardi’s eighth published book of poetry. He wrote 24 books of verse in his lifetime, although he was not confined to the brand, “poet.” In fact, according to the Encyclopedia of American poetry, he “lived a life almost completely devoted to language,” translating works by Dante, lecturing at Harvard, writing and editing articles for The Saturday Review of Literature as well as speaking on regular NPR segments. Ciardi’s literary tendency was to follow a, “disciplined, erudite tradition,” (Encyclopedia of American poetry, 2001) of poetry which aired on the side of formality in comparison to his 1960s contemporaries. His experience as an editor, critic, professor and even tail gunner in World War II shaped him to be a tremendously well-rounded writer, capable of producing clear and highly personal poetry that is by no means exclusive. Ciardi’s poetry from In the Stoneworks builds upon the idea that poetry is effective when made accessible to the common reader rather than existing for the poet’s personal sake.
“In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye” is the longest poem in the book. It consists of three parts, similar to the book of poetry as a whole. This poem is located in the first section, the poems of which display an immense array of structures, lengths and tones. Ciardi’s experience as an academic is displayed plainly in his examination of the flawed relationships that Adam and Eve share with one another and with God. Based on the title, one might deduce that the poem involves the biblical story of the Garden of Eden; there is mention of not only a garden but also a storm that occurs in and around it – perhaps here Ciardi references the first sin. Each of the three sections of “In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye,” is made up of five stanzas and concludes with a single line. There is no definite or direct rhyme scheme, but Ciardi sets up a type of structure which strays slightly from blank verse: each line is contained in 10 to 12 syllables, but there is no pattern to the order of these lines. For this reason, the poem is riddled with enjambments to give the appearance of symmetry, much like the garden at first gives the appearance of being at peace. He also makes notable use of the hyphen to create new compound word; he then repeats them to validate their authority within the poem (a few examples include blood-music, sky-top, sword-smile and fern-edge).
Throughout “In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye,” John Ciardi intensely, though simply, illustrates the first intimate interaction in human history by incorporating a similar relationship between Adam, Eve and the earth. At every chance possible, a motion of the human body is depicted as if nature itself commits the act: “His flung arm grew around her. Silently she swelled upon it as upon the wood of which she was the leaf, the fruit, and pod” (47-49). In the second section of the poem, the man [Adam] slips on the beach and cuts his arm, leaving a blood stain on the jib of the angel’s boat: “And all the weathers of Heaven could not bleach it” (89). This line is an example of a way in which Ciardi layers meanings on top of one another; “jib” is a technical term for a certain boat sail, but it also means, “to move resistively or backward instead of forward.” This wordplay allows the reader to predict what the man’s behavior will be and how the poem will unfold. In the third and final section of this poem, a parallelism is made between the Garden and the center of a man’s mind; storms rage around them both, but ultimately God is at their center. Ciardi constructs yet another play on words at the very end of the poem when Adam refuses to leave with the angels and is handed a burning branch; the final sentence of the poem is, “And the brand burned” (166). Although “brand” literally means “a partly burnt piece of wood,” it also stands for the passing of a torch as well as the branding of a people. This poem, despite its lack of rhyme scheme and obvious structure, truly and creatively explores a theme that all people can relate to: the falling away from God and the option to return to Him in time.
The second section of In the Stoneworks is equally as diverse as the first, displaying a number of structures, literary strategies and general subjects. Despite all discrepancies, Ciardi still maintains a sense of authentic, “loving humanism in poetry” (Encyclopedia of American Poetry, 2001), always emphasizing the significance of reconciliation between one’s experiences and the language used to describe the experience. One poem in particular deeply examines the ways in which a sensitively personal situation can be made empathetic. “Divorced, Husband Demolishes House,” is the account of exactly what the title says: 22 lines of man speaking to his ex (or soon-to-be ex)-wife. There is no rhyme scheme or order to the length of lines, although there is a sense of purposefulness with the ends of the very first and very last line. In fact, those are the only two places in which one might observe a connection in terms of the sound of a word; it begins with “house” and ends with “down.” The internal vowels create a consistency which reconciles the jagged messiness of the middle, much like a failed marriage. The repetition of the question, “What shall I say to you?” (2, 11-12, 18) indicates that the man might be tearing this house down in an effort to achieve catharsis; similarly, it makes subliminal note of the fact that by the time a marriage has failed, the only thing that is left to demolish is retrospect. Ciardi’s knack for poetic craftsmanship and employing of, “vivid, colloquial language,” (Continuum Encyclopedia of American Literature, 2005) allows for him to create a sense of empathy despite his lack of experience as a divorcee.
In the final section of In the Stoneworks, John Ciardi makes enormous use of a very short poem. “Returning Home,” is a meager five lines in length, yet depicts the instant in which one realizes how to own happiness. Per the usual, the language is very plain and flows easily as one line of text. The work itself has very little time to develop as a narrative, so instead it is used as more of a directive, as a statement through which the reader may see themselves, the world, or those they love in new light: “They admired you and I was proud. They are good men who are made happy by happiness,” (Ciardi, 1961). Thanks to Ciardi’s experience with etymology, there is vast depth to his word choice despite its outward simplicity. In truth, this provides Ciardi a great deal more flexibility than iambic pentameter or rhyming couplets might have. The hard “I” sound in “admired” and “I” as well as the hard “a” sound in “they” and “made” are repeated internal vowels that contribute to the smoothness of the poem as a whole. What makes the theme of this poem particularly clear is the use of the words “happy” and “happiness.” This repetition both supports and makes sense of the established meter (or lack thereof). To commit a single word to paper more than once in a poem that is only seventeen words long must be paid very close attention.
What gives this theme purpose, however, is its technical structure. The five lines are broken down individually into either five or four line syllables. This evenness gives the poem an almost box-like aesthetic. Boxes are consistent; they have exact, equal dimensions. They are stable. These are the rules about boxes, about squares, about cubes that will never, ever change. Happiness is the same way. There will always be a sense of security in ideas that are recognized as universal; ideas like boxes and happiness and the exact dimensions of them. Consistencies like these feel safe, familiar; like learning, finally, of happiness, whether it be yours or someone else’s.
John Ciardi was a man who kept himself occupied in an exceptionally unique number of ways, both in terms of career paths as well as within his poetry. Though he strayed from the traditions of confessional poets and the scattered jazz of new Beat poets, his writing is nonetheless pertinent to the lives and interests of common readers. Both his professional and personal experiences were melded together to create a style of poetry saturated with familiarity and inclusiveness. Because of this, Ciardi’s poetry effectively impacts readers by addressing the universal human spirit and the collective human heart.
works cited
Ciardi, John. In the Stoneworks; [poems]. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1961. Print.
John Ciardi 1916-86. (2001). In Encyclopedia of American Poetry: The Twentieth Century. Retrieved from http://www.credoreference.com/entry/routampoetry/john_ciardi_1916_86
Ciardi, John [Anthony]. (2005). In Continuum Encyclopedia of American Literature. Retrieved from http://www.credoreference.com/entry/amlit/ciardi_john_anthony
John Ciardi’s, In the Stoneworks:
Say “I” in the Big Name of Everyone
In the Stoneworks (1961), a book made up of three distinct sections, is John Ciardi’s eighth published book of poetry. He wrote 24 books of verse in his lifetime, although he was not confined to the brand, “poet.” In fact, according to the Encyclopedia of American poetry, he “lived a life almost completely devoted to language,” translating works by Dante, lecturing at Harvard, writing and editing articles for The Saturday Review of Literature as well as speaking on regular NPR segments. Ciardi’s literary tendency was to follow a, “disciplined, erudite tradition,” (Encyclopedia of American poetry, 2001) of poetry which aired on the side of formality in comparison to his 1960s contemporaries. His experience as an editor, critic, professor and even tail gunner in World War II shaped him to be a tremendously well-rounded writer, capable of producing clear and highly personal poetry that is by no means exclusive. Ciardi’s poetry from In the Stoneworks builds upon the idea that poetry is effective when made accessible to the common reader rather than existing for the poet’s personal sake.
“In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye” is the longest poem in the book. It consists of three parts, similar to the book of poetry as a whole. This poem is located in the first section, the poems of which display an immense array of structures, lengths and tones. Ciardi’s experience as an academic is displayed plainly in his examination of the flawed relationships that Adam and Eve share with one another and with God. Based on the title, one might deduce that the poem involves the biblical story of the Garden of Eden; there is mention of not only a garden but also a storm that occurs in and around it – perhaps here Ciardi references the first sin. Each of the three sections of “In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye,” is made up of five stanzas and concludes with a single line. There is no definite or direct rhyme scheme, but Ciardi sets up a type of structure which strays slightly from blank verse: each line is contained in 10 to 12 syllables, but there is no pattern to the order of these lines. For this reason, the poem is riddled with enjambments to give the appearance of symmetry, much like the garden at first gives the appearance of being at peace. He also makes notable use of the hyphen to create new compound word; he then repeats them to validate their authority within the poem (a few examples include blood-music, sky-top, sword-smile and fern-edge).
Throughout “In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye,” John Ciardi intensely, though simply, illustrates the first intimate interaction in human history by incorporating a similar relationship between Adam, Eve and the earth. At every chance possible, a motion of the human body is depicted as if nature itself commits the act: “His flung arm grew around her. Silently she swelled upon it as upon the wood of which she was the leaf, the fruit, and pod” (47-49). In the second section of the poem, the man [Adam] slips on the beach and cuts his arm, leaving a blood stain on the jib of the angel’s boat: “And all the weathers of Heaven could not bleach it” (89). This line is an example of a way in which Ciardi layers meanings on top of one another; “jib” is a technical term for a certain boat sail, but it also means, “to move resistively or backward instead of forward.” This wordplay allows the reader to predict what the man’s behavior will be and how the poem will unfold. In the third and final section of this poem, a parallelism is made between the Garden and the center of a man’s mind; storms rage around them both, but ultimately God is at their center. Ciardi constructs yet another play on words at the very end of the poem when Adam refuses to leave with the angels and is handed a burning branch; the final sentence of the poem is, “And the brand burned” (166). Although “brand” literally means “a partly burnt piece of wood,” it also stands for the passing of a torch as well as the branding of a people. This poem, despite its lack of rhyme scheme and obvious structure, truly and creatively explores a theme that all people can relate to: the falling away from God and the option to return to Him in time.
The second section of In the Stoneworks is equally as diverse as the first, displaying a number of structures, literary strategies and general subjects. Despite all discrepancies, Ciardi still maintains a sense of authentic, “loving humanism in poetry” (Encyclopedia of American Poetry, 2001), always emphasizing the significance of reconciliation between one’s experiences and the language used to describe the experience. One poem in particular deeply examines the ways in which a sensitively personal situation can be made empathetic. “Divorced, Husband Demolishes House,” is the account of exactly what the title says: 22 lines of man speaking to his ex (or soon-to-be ex)-wife. There is no rhyme scheme or order to the length of lines, although there is a sense of purposefulness with the ends of the very first and very last line. In fact, those are the only two places in which one might observe a connection in terms of the sound of a word; it begins with “house” and ends with “down.” The internal vowels create a consistency which reconciles the jagged messiness of the middle, much like a failed marriage. The repetition of the question, “What shall I say to you?” (2, 11-12, 18) indicates that the man might be tearing this house down in an effort to achieve catharsis; similarly, it makes subliminal note of the fact that by the time a marriage has failed, the only thing that is left to demolish is retrospect. Ciardi’s knack for poetic craftsmanship and employing of, “vivid, colloquial language,” (Continuum Encyclopedia of American Literature, 2005) allows for him to create a sense of empathy despite his lack of experience as a divorcee.
In the final section of In the Stoneworks, John Ciardi makes enormous use of a very short poem. “Returning Home,” is a meager five lines in length, yet depicts the instant in which one realizes how to own happiness. Per the usual, the language is very plain and flows easily as one line of text. The work itself has very little time to develop as a narrative, so instead it is used as more of a directive, as a statement through which the reader may see themselves, the world, or those they love in new light: “They admired you and I was proud. They are good men who are made happy by happiness,” (Ciardi, 1961). Thanks to Ciardi’s experience with etymology, there is vast depth to his word choice despite its outward simplicity. In truth, this provides Ciardi a great deal more flexibility than iambic pentameter or rhyming couplets might have. The hard “I” sound in “admired” and “I” as well as the hard “a” sound in “they” and “made” are repeated internal vowels that contribute to the smoothness of the poem as a whole. What makes the theme of this poem particularly clear is the use of the words “happy” and “happiness.” This repetition both supports and makes sense of the established meter (or lack thereof). To commit a single word to paper more than once in a poem that is only seventeen words long must be paid very close attention.
What gives this theme purpose, however, is its technical structure. The five lines are broken down individually into either five or four line syllables. This evenness gives the poem an almost box-like aesthetic. Boxes are consistent; they have exact, equal dimensions. They are stable. These are the rules about boxes, about squares, about cubes that will never, ever change. Happiness is the same way. There will always be a sense of security in ideas that are recognized as universal; ideas like boxes and happiness and the exact dimensions of them. Consistencies like these feel safe, familiar; like learning, finally, of happiness, whether it be yours or someone else’s.
John Ciardi was a man who kept himself occupied in an exceptionally unique number of ways, both in terms of career paths as well as within his poetry. Though he strayed from the traditions of confessional poets and the scattered jazz of new Beat poets, his writing is nonetheless pertinent to the lives and interests of common readers. Both his professional and personal experiences were melded together to create a style of poetry saturated with familiarity and inclusiveness. Because of this, Ciardi’s poetry effectively impacts readers by addressing the universal human spirit and the collective human heart.
works cited
Ciardi, John. In the Stoneworks; [poems]. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1961. Print.
John Ciardi 1916-86. (2001). In Encyclopedia of American Poetry: The Twentieth Century. Retrieved from http://www.credoreference.com/entry/routampoetry/john_ciardi_1916_86
Ciardi, John [Anthony]. (2005). In Continuum Encyclopedia of American Literature. Retrieved from http://www.credoreference.com/entry/amlit/ciardi_john_anthony
Sunday, April 10, 2011
our lives
recently, our class has gone through the final text of the semester: lyn hejinian’s, “my life.” though it was introduced as being semi-autobiographical, we discussed the ways in which it is more autographical than anything else. hejinian tends to create self as she writes, skipping around in a way that seems haphazard but perhaps has a much higher purpose. as far as i am concerned, the book seems as though it was written to make the reader to step outside of themselves and observe their own lives in the way that she observes “her” life (i use quotations purely because the text does not necessarily follow her exact life story --- hence its pseudo-autobiographical nature).
each chapter of my life is structured so that the title is arranged into a small, box-like form in the corner like a stamp. we speculated that perhaps these titles could be read separately from the book itself as one extensive poem. in order to further explore this, i took the liberty of typing out each title as a single line. the results are as follows:
“A pause, a rose / something on paper
As for we who “love to be / astonished”
It seemed that / we had hardly / begun and we were / already there
A name trimmed / with colored / ribbons
What is the / meaning hung / from that depend
The obvious / analogy is with / music
Like plump birds / along the shore
The inevitable / sentiment is / a preliminary
What memory is / not a “gripping” / thought
We have come / a long way from / what we actually / felt
It is hard to / turn away from / moving water
I wrote my name / in every one of / his books
Religion is a / vague lowing
Any photographer / will tell you / the same
At the time / the perpetual Latin / of love kept / things hidden
She showed the / left profile, / the good one
It was only a / coincidence
When one travels, / one might “hit” / a storm
Such displacements / alter illusions, / which is / all-to-the-good
The coffee / drinkers answered / ecstatically
We are not / forgetting the / patience of the / mad, their love / of detail
Reason looks for / two, then / arranges it / from there
I never swept / the sand from / where I was going / to sit down
No puppy or dog / will ever be / capable of this, / and surely no / parrot
The greatest / thrill was / to be the one / to tell
The plow makes / trough enough
The years pass, / years in which, / I take it, events / were not lacking
So upright, / twilit quoted
Yet we insist / that life is full / of happy chance
The settling-in / that we’re describing is a / preliminary to / being blown up
I laugh as if my / pots were clean
A somewhat / saltier, earthier / tomato grows / there and is / more seductive
There is no / “sameness” of / the sky
One begins as a / student but / becomes a friend / of clouds
At a moment of / trotting on only / one foot in so / much snow
If there’s / nothing out the / windows look / at books
The run, that if / you broke it, / you’d have none
Now such is / the rhythm / of cognition
Preliminaries / consist of / such eternity
My morphemes / mourned events
Skies are the / terrains of this / myopic
And I in the / middleground / found
The world gives / speech substance / and mind (mile) / stones
A word to guard / continents of / fruits and organs
‘Altruism / in poetry’”
there you have it. all forty-five chapters.
i’d like to end this post with a final thought that occurred to me in class the other day:
the title of this book, considering the fact that it is not hejinian’s authentic life experience, fascinates me. the reader is able to place themselves into the text with such ease that i imagine it’s meant to say, in a sense, “my life.” not just her life but all of our lives, if that makes sense. say this book is given as a gift to person B by person A.
person B: what is this?
person A: my life.
… make sense?
each chapter of my life is structured so that the title is arranged into a small, box-like form in the corner like a stamp. we speculated that perhaps these titles could be read separately from the book itself as one extensive poem. in order to further explore this, i took the liberty of typing out each title as a single line. the results are as follows:
“A pause, a rose / something on paper
As for we who “love to be / astonished”
It seemed that / we had hardly / begun and we were / already there
A name trimmed / with colored / ribbons
What is the / meaning hung / from that depend
The obvious / analogy is with / music
Like plump birds / along the shore
The inevitable / sentiment is / a preliminary
What memory is / not a “gripping” / thought
We have come / a long way from / what we actually / felt
It is hard to / turn away from / moving water
I wrote my name / in every one of / his books
Religion is a / vague lowing
Any photographer / will tell you / the same
At the time / the perpetual Latin / of love kept / things hidden
She showed the / left profile, / the good one
It was only a / coincidence
When one travels, / one might “hit” / a storm
Such displacements / alter illusions, / which is / all-to-the-good
The coffee / drinkers answered / ecstatically
We are not / forgetting the / patience of the / mad, their love / of detail
Reason looks for / two, then / arranges it / from there
I never swept / the sand from / where I was going / to sit down
No puppy or dog / will ever be / capable of this, / and surely no / parrot
The greatest / thrill was / to be the one / to tell
The plow makes / trough enough
The years pass, / years in which, / I take it, events / were not lacking
So upright, / twilit quoted
Yet we insist / that life is full / of happy chance
The settling-in / that we’re describing is a / preliminary to / being blown up
I laugh as if my / pots were clean
A somewhat / saltier, earthier / tomato grows / there and is / more seductive
There is no / “sameness” of / the sky
One begins as a / student but / becomes a friend / of clouds
At a moment of / trotting on only / one foot in so / much snow
If there’s / nothing out the / windows look / at books
The run, that if / you broke it, / you’d have none
Now such is / the rhythm / of cognition
Preliminaries / consist of / such eternity
My morphemes / mourned events
Skies are the / terrains of this / myopic
And I in the / middleground / found
The world gives / speech substance / and mind (mile) / stones
A word to guard / continents of / fruits and organs
‘Altruism / in poetry’”
there you have it. all forty-five chapters.
i’d like to end this post with a final thought that occurred to me in class the other day:
the title of this book, considering the fact that it is not hejinian’s authentic life experience, fascinates me. the reader is able to place themselves into the text with such ease that i imagine it’s meant to say, in a sense, “my life.” not just her life but all of our lives, if that makes sense. say this book is given as a gift to person B by person A.
person B: what is this?
person A: my life.
… make sense?
ouvroir, common sense
once upon a time, the 1960s happened in france. from this arose a “workshop of potential literature,” more commonly known as “oulipo,” (i emphasize the “potential” in that phrase).
essentially, one is encouraged to take a piece of writing and replace each noun with a noun loosely related to it in the dictionary – as an exploration of this, our class followed the “n+7” format. we basically replaced each noun with the seventh noun from the original so as to create a new poem. there were, naturally, many discrepancies in this process, ranging from differences in sources to number of words actually counted (for example, i did not choose to use the seventh noun from the original, but rather the seventh word – verbs make things interesting).
the piece that i selected to be changed – ruined, as far as i am concerned – is “our house,” a song by crosby stills, nash & young that most are familiar with.
here goes nothing:
“i’ll light the firn, ytterbium place the fluctuant in the vasodilatation that ytterbium bought toe
staring at the firn for house arrests and house arrests while Ibibio listen to ytterbium play your lowbrow sonnies all nik long for meadow hen
only for meadow hen
come to meadow hen no win and rest your health spa for just five mirable dictus, evidently is lowbrow
such a cozy rootage, the wind socks are illuminated by the evening super abound through thence
fiery genders for ytterbium, only for ytterbium
our howdah is a very, very, very fine howdah
with two catacombs in the yataghan
ligation used to be so hard
now evidently is easy ‘cause of ytterbium
i’ll light the firn, ytterbium place the fluctuant in the vasodilatation that ytterbium bought toe.”
essentially, one is encouraged to take a piece of writing and replace each noun with a noun loosely related to it in the dictionary – as an exploration of this, our class followed the “n+7” format. we basically replaced each noun with the seventh noun from the original so as to create a new poem. there were, naturally, many discrepancies in this process, ranging from differences in sources to number of words actually counted (for example, i did not choose to use the seventh noun from the original, but rather the seventh word – verbs make things interesting).
the piece that i selected to be changed – ruined, as far as i am concerned – is “our house,” a song by crosby stills, nash & young that most are familiar with.
here goes nothing:
“i’ll light the firn, ytterbium place the fluctuant in the vasodilatation that ytterbium bought toe
staring at the firn for house arrests and house arrests while Ibibio listen to ytterbium play your lowbrow sonnies all nik long for meadow hen
only for meadow hen
come to meadow hen no win and rest your health spa for just five mirable dictus, evidently is lowbrow
such a cozy rootage, the wind socks are illuminated by the evening super abound through thence
fiery genders for ytterbium, only for ytterbium
our howdah is a very, very, very fine howdah
with two catacombs in the yataghan
ligation used to be so hard
now evidently is easy ‘cause of ytterbium
i’ll light the firn, ytterbium place the fluctuant in the vasodilatation that ytterbium bought toe.”
Monday, April 4, 2011
take heart; i have not let anyone in
this is not the second waldrep poem i’ve read – just the second waldrep poem i’ve been able to make bare minimum sense of. as mentioned before, i’m actually very much in love with his poetry … i just don’t understand a lot of it. in any case, this post needs a purpose, so here for you is an analysis of waldrep’s disclamor poem entitled, “wildwood.”
the poem itself is an uneven 29 lines long – go figure – and begins by questioning why we assume that a thing’s given name indicates what that thing means; shutters are not necessarily for shutting. he goes on further to argue that we treat words like accessories. we do them shame by spurting them out without thought; do them harm by mixing them improperly and breaking ribbons of speech “like ribbons of water.” but “dialect is the truest gift,” it allows the true self to speak for itself (if we allow it) similarly to trees. trees cannot lie about their own stories or tell it in a way that is not truthful because trees grow in rings – they cannot hide any part of themselves because to do so would inhibit growth. people are the same way.
a sentence in this poem reminds me of ideas from waldrep’s “battery o’rorke;” there is a clear reference to the idea that a person cannot be effective or cause change if they are not in movement, if they do not grow. here waldrep remembers, “There was a time I could not hear / because my ears were stopped with pure honey. / I was standing still.” waldrep then asks when thieves will stop trying to steal our words from us. we color our lives with language, yet he suggests that imitators with wicked intentions might twist our proverbs into jokes. it is then that waldrep proposes his own potential solution to such a dilemma – “Carefully I copy the image / of empire’s currency, / abstraction of the leader, abstraction from the mode: / thus sex as artifact.” this seems like the idea of fighting fire with fire (minus the actual fighting, of course). if his words are to be stolen from him and mistreated, then he will plagiarize images that are of value to whatever larger, more corporate body he sees as being damaging to his craft (*sidenote: i think it’s really interesting that in philosophy, a “mode” is considered to be one of the nonessential qualifications of God). thus, he says, something as God-given as sex is “plagiarized” and the credit of its invention is given to humankind instead; mass-produced and inexpensive.
waldrep goes on to encourage an individual named “lilith,” assuring her that he has “not let anyone in.” i assume that this is in effort to reassure another person – a writer, perhaps? – that he has not taken risks that would endanger the words they write. “If,” he says, “I refuse to remove my hand from the guiding thread,” it is only because he has not chosen to devote himself to “foreskin, shent villa, / sweet crystal psalm.” to shent is to destroy, scold or put to shame; villas are often seen as rather pretentious dwelling places. the crystal psalm he mentions could symbolize purity, innocence, or virginity – considering his just having mentioned sex, i find that tremendously interesting. he will not accept words that have been twisted or wrung by the wrong hands – he will not accept “pledging allegiance” to a hypocritical use of language.
the poem itself is an uneven 29 lines long – go figure – and begins by questioning why we assume that a thing’s given name indicates what that thing means; shutters are not necessarily for shutting. he goes on further to argue that we treat words like accessories. we do them shame by spurting them out without thought; do them harm by mixing them improperly and breaking ribbons of speech “like ribbons of water.” but “dialect is the truest gift,” it allows the true self to speak for itself (if we allow it) similarly to trees. trees cannot lie about their own stories or tell it in a way that is not truthful because trees grow in rings – they cannot hide any part of themselves because to do so would inhibit growth. people are the same way.
a sentence in this poem reminds me of ideas from waldrep’s “battery o’rorke;” there is a clear reference to the idea that a person cannot be effective or cause change if they are not in movement, if they do not grow. here waldrep remembers, “There was a time I could not hear / because my ears were stopped with pure honey. / I was standing still.” waldrep then asks when thieves will stop trying to steal our words from us. we color our lives with language, yet he suggests that imitators with wicked intentions might twist our proverbs into jokes. it is then that waldrep proposes his own potential solution to such a dilemma – “Carefully I copy the image / of empire’s currency, / abstraction of the leader, abstraction from the mode: / thus sex as artifact.” this seems like the idea of fighting fire with fire (minus the actual fighting, of course). if his words are to be stolen from him and mistreated, then he will plagiarize images that are of value to whatever larger, more corporate body he sees as being damaging to his craft (*sidenote: i think it’s really interesting that in philosophy, a “mode” is considered to be one of the nonessential qualifications of God). thus, he says, something as God-given as sex is “plagiarized” and the credit of its invention is given to humankind instead; mass-produced and inexpensive.
waldrep goes on to encourage an individual named “lilith,” assuring her that he has “not let anyone in.” i assume that this is in effort to reassure another person – a writer, perhaps? – that he has not taken risks that would endanger the words they write. “If,” he says, “I refuse to remove my hand from the guiding thread,” it is only because he has not chosen to devote himself to “foreskin, shent villa, / sweet crystal psalm.” to shent is to destroy, scold or put to shame; villas are often seen as rather pretentious dwelling places. the crystal psalm he mentions could symbolize purity, innocence, or virginity – considering his just having mentioned sex, i find that tremendously interesting. he will not accept words that have been twisted or wrung by the wrong hands – he will not accept “pledging allegiance” to a hypocritical use of language.
i want as i have always wanted
goodness, it’s been a while.
the next couple of posts are in examination of poems by g.c. waldrep – a writer i have to say i was very skeptical of initially. he, however, is truly the sort of poet that grows on you. it’s a challenge not to be fascinated by what he puts to a page once one is committed to unearthing what on earth he is talking about.
that said, it is worth mentioning that waldrep studied for his mfa at the university of iowa and his ph.d at duke. currently the assistant professor of english and professor of creative writing at bucknell university, he also directs the bucknell seminar for younger poets and serves as editor-at-large for the kenyon review (a publication that has featured some of his work in the past).
“battery o’rorke” is one of nine “battery” poems in waldrep’s book disclamor. they concentrate on his experience of searching though a string of military setups just outside of san francisco, decommissioned just after the second world war (with the exception of two). the batteries are included in the golden gate national recreation area – the concept of the armed forces having left behind structures on beaches as parks is an interesting concern of waldrep’s that he wrestles with throughout the book.
in terms of “battery o’rorke,” specifically, however:
the poem itself is broken down into four unequal sections, separated by a small, charming sort of symbol (i think it looks like a flower). the form of a poem, as we have discussed in class, has a tremendous amount to do with how a reader interprets the words – in many ways, the way a poet chooses to space his or her language plays as important a role as the actual words they’ve chosen to use. waldrep in particular utilizes space to depict a walking motion, just as he ambled from beach to concrete military embankment. other battery poems include selections of graffiti that he observed on the walls – waldrep has a tendency to list what he sees as he observes it, solidifying the idea that the reader is perhaps walking beside him. “battery o’rorke,” however, follows a pattern of using less concrete examples and more expansive thought process; he wonders as he wanders. this choice of style, in fact, is employed to support the overall statement that waldrep makes in the last section of the poem: “The beach ignores the power of words / as words ignore the power of things.” this is a very broad concept to wrap one’s mind around – if one is to glance just slightly before this statement, however, it is also clear that waldrep is uncertain of his own role in life’s grand scheme. he hypothesizes, “I want as I have always wanted. / I think I must be a very minor poet, / to want so---).”
this poem creates a parallel between the poet and the battery – the poet, if he is to stand motionless in an abandoned military operation, is just as useless as the concrete itself; deserted, cold, covered in graffiti. however, if change occurs then progress is made and usefulness is restored; therefore, if waldrep keeps moving (as the footsteps of his poems do) and allows for himself to contemplate and ask questions and wonder --- then the writing is not forsaken. we may carry with us everything we have ever learned, and we may know certain truths to be unchanging, but there is always room for growth. though certain things about a person may never change in the same sense that God never changes – “I carry the bones of the pedagogue / in ivory brackets, / my hand is steady, / I mix consecration / with consecration,” time can always carry us forward.
waldrep’s three full-length collections of poetry are as follows: goldbeater's skin (2003), disclamor (2007), and archicembalo (2009). his newest collection of poetry, entitled your father on the train of ghosts, is due this month (written in collaboration with john gallaher).
the next couple of posts are in examination of poems by g.c. waldrep – a writer i have to say i was very skeptical of initially. he, however, is truly the sort of poet that grows on you. it’s a challenge not to be fascinated by what he puts to a page once one is committed to unearthing what on earth he is talking about.
that said, it is worth mentioning that waldrep studied for his mfa at the university of iowa and his ph.d at duke. currently the assistant professor of english and professor of creative writing at bucknell university, he also directs the bucknell seminar for younger poets and serves as editor-at-large for the kenyon review (a publication that has featured some of his work in the past).
“battery o’rorke” is one of nine “battery” poems in waldrep’s book disclamor. they concentrate on his experience of searching though a string of military setups just outside of san francisco, decommissioned just after the second world war (with the exception of two). the batteries are included in the golden gate national recreation area – the concept of the armed forces having left behind structures on beaches as parks is an interesting concern of waldrep’s that he wrestles with throughout the book.
in terms of “battery o’rorke,” specifically, however:
the poem itself is broken down into four unequal sections, separated by a small, charming sort of symbol (i think it looks like a flower). the form of a poem, as we have discussed in class, has a tremendous amount to do with how a reader interprets the words – in many ways, the way a poet chooses to space his or her language plays as important a role as the actual words they’ve chosen to use. waldrep in particular utilizes space to depict a walking motion, just as he ambled from beach to concrete military embankment. other battery poems include selections of graffiti that he observed on the walls – waldrep has a tendency to list what he sees as he observes it, solidifying the idea that the reader is perhaps walking beside him. “battery o’rorke,” however, follows a pattern of using less concrete examples and more expansive thought process; he wonders as he wanders. this choice of style, in fact, is employed to support the overall statement that waldrep makes in the last section of the poem: “The beach ignores the power of words / as words ignore the power of things.” this is a very broad concept to wrap one’s mind around – if one is to glance just slightly before this statement, however, it is also clear that waldrep is uncertain of his own role in life’s grand scheme. he hypothesizes, “I want as I have always wanted. / I think I must be a very minor poet, / to want so---).”
this poem creates a parallel between the poet and the battery – the poet, if he is to stand motionless in an abandoned military operation, is just as useless as the concrete itself; deserted, cold, covered in graffiti. however, if change occurs then progress is made and usefulness is restored; therefore, if waldrep keeps moving (as the footsteps of his poems do) and allows for himself to contemplate and ask questions and wonder --- then the writing is not forsaken. we may carry with us everything we have ever learned, and we may know certain truths to be unchanging, but there is always room for growth. though certain things about a person may never change in the same sense that God never changes – “I carry the bones of the pedagogue / in ivory brackets, / my hand is steady, / I mix consecration / with consecration,” time can always carry us forward.
waldrep’s three full-length collections of poetry are as follows: goldbeater's skin (2003), disclamor (2007), and archicembalo (2009). his newest collection of poetry, entitled your father on the train of ghosts, is due this month (written in collaboration with john gallaher).
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
a poet on the subjects of nature, ships, sex, storms, and sin
“In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye” is the longest poem in John Ciardi’s In the Stoneworks (1961), his eighth published book of poetry. It consists of three parts; the book itself is also broken into three parts. This poem is found in the first section, the poems of which explore an immense array of structures, lengths and tones. Because of Ciardi’s experience with etymology, there is a tremendous depth to his word choice despite its outward simplicity. Based on the title, one might assume that Ciardi refers to the Garden of Eden; in fact, the poem examines the flawed relationships that Adam and Eve (who go unnamed until the third section) have with God, with the Garden, and with one another.
Each of the three sections of "In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye" is made up of five stanzas and concludes with a single, final line. There is no definite or direct rhyme scheme, but Ciardi sets up a type of structure by allowing only 10 to 12 syllables per line; for this reason the poem is riddled with enjambments to give the appearance of symmetry. He also makes remarkable use of the hyphen, utilizing it to create words that aren’t really words, then repeating them to validate their authority within the poem (a few examples include blood-music, sky-top, sword-smile and fern-edge).
Section one introduces the reader to the setting; a lush garden full of bird song and fruit trees. Two people, referred to as “she” and “he” at first are sleeping on the ground. Suddenly she wakes up, laughs, and he also awakes: “His lids blew back like mist.” The first intimate interaction in human history takes place between two people; Ciardi describes this intensely, though simply, by incorporating a similar relationship between the man and woman and earth. At every chance possible, a motion of the human body is depicted as if nature itself was committing the act: “His flung arm grew around her. Silently she swelled upon it as upon the wood of which she was the leaf, the fruit, and pod.” The section ends, however, on a rather sour note; the 10-syllable line that finishes it describes a blood-webbed snake coming out of the roots that the man had torn (“blood-webbed” having also been a term used to describe the man’s “bronze gourd burled up in his thighs). It should come as no surprise that a serpent’s presence in a garden can’t mean anything good.
The second section takes the reader back to the Garden in its post-hurricane state. Angels wandering ask questions but the man refuses them and tries to gather what he can; the woman follows. It is at this point in the poem that one sees a definite internal disruption that has stemmed from the actual destruction. The man stays very silent and leaves in the middle of the night to the shore where the Angels had docked; when he accidentally cuts his arm, the blood stains a jib of the boat, “And all the weathers of Heaven could not bleach it.” This line is an example of a way in which Ciardi layered meanings on top of one another; a jib is a technical term for a certain boat sail, but it is also means, “to move resistively or backward instead of forward.” This wordplay allows the reader to predict what the man’s behavior will be and how the poem will unfold. After returning to the woman’s side, he calls her by name, “Eve,” and “his red arm locked round her till she moaned for her crushed breath.” Moreover, as he sleeps she returns also to his side and makes a note of how dark he is – and that she becomes shadowy as she moves closer: “But when she lay beside him, she, too, darkened and went out.” These two stanzas of the poem, using the color red as a symbol for the temptation of sin and darkness of night for literal spiritual darkness indicate that Adam’s behavior directly affects and changes Eve because of how near they are to each other in every sense.
The third and final section of this poem follows Adam in his final interaction with the angels, who are departing on their ship the next morning. Two sails are hoisted; one red, stained by the blood of Adam, and one white, symbolizing holiness and purity. A parallelism is then made between the Garden and the center of a man’s mind; that both have storms raging around them but that God is at the absolute center: “Was that it? to be locked in calm, but powerless to calm what raged?” Adam is full of questions, and a conversation is struck between himself and a sort of shape-shifting angel. The themes of red and white are again revealed in bi-colored doves. Adam asks, “Now, what garden is there but what I make myself?” and a feather falls from the angel’s hawk-head, a bird which represents keen eyesight and guardianship. The bird tells Adam that he may either choose to go with them or stay where he is. Adam refuses the offer and says, “My words are not, ‘I stay,’ but ‘You go.’” The Hawk hands him a burning branch; the final sentence of the poem is, “And the brand burned.” This is another Ciardi moment of brilliance in which he employs more than one meaning of a word; although “brand” does literally mean “a partly burnt piece of wood,” it also stands for the passing of a torch as well as the branding of a people. This poem, despite its lack of rhyme scheme and outwardly apparent structure truly explores, with a great deal of creative simplicity, the story behind God not only branding His people as His own, but giving them the free will to choose a life of their own, whether it includes Him or not.
Each of the three sections of "In the Garden of the Hurricane’s Eye" is made up of five stanzas and concludes with a single, final line. There is no definite or direct rhyme scheme, but Ciardi sets up a type of structure by allowing only 10 to 12 syllables per line; for this reason the poem is riddled with enjambments to give the appearance of symmetry. He also makes remarkable use of the hyphen, utilizing it to create words that aren’t really words, then repeating them to validate their authority within the poem (a few examples include blood-music, sky-top, sword-smile and fern-edge).
Section one introduces the reader to the setting; a lush garden full of bird song and fruit trees. Two people, referred to as “she” and “he” at first are sleeping on the ground. Suddenly she wakes up, laughs, and he also awakes: “His lids blew back like mist.” The first intimate interaction in human history takes place between two people; Ciardi describes this intensely, though simply, by incorporating a similar relationship between the man and woman and earth. At every chance possible, a motion of the human body is depicted as if nature itself was committing the act: “His flung arm grew around her. Silently she swelled upon it as upon the wood of which she was the leaf, the fruit, and pod.” The section ends, however, on a rather sour note; the 10-syllable line that finishes it describes a blood-webbed snake coming out of the roots that the man had torn (“blood-webbed” having also been a term used to describe the man’s “bronze gourd burled up in his thighs). It should come as no surprise that a serpent’s presence in a garden can’t mean anything good.
The second section takes the reader back to the Garden in its post-hurricane state. Angels wandering ask questions but the man refuses them and tries to gather what he can; the woman follows. It is at this point in the poem that one sees a definite internal disruption that has stemmed from the actual destruction. The man stays very silent and leaves in the middle of the night to the shore where the Angels had docked; when he accidentally cuts his arm, the blood stains a jib of the boat, “And all the weathers of Heaven could not bleach it.” This line is an example of a way in which Ciardi layered meanings on top of one another; a jib is a technical term for a certain boat sail, but it is also means, “to move resistively or backward instead of forward.” This wordplay allows the reader to predict what the man’s behavior will be and how the poem will unfold. After returning to the woman’s side, he calls her by name, “Eve,” and “his red arm locked round her till she moaned for her crushed breath.” Moreover, as he sleeps she returns also to his side and makes a note of how dark he is – and that she becomes shadowy as she moves closer: “But when she lay beside him, she, too, darkened and went out.” These two stanzas of the poem, using the color red as a symbol for the temptation of sin and darkness of night for literal spiritual darkness indicate that Adam’s behavior directly affects and changes Eve because of how near they are to each other in every sense.
The third and final section of this poem follows Adam in his final interaction with the angels, who are departing on their ship the next morning. Two sails are hoisted; one red, stained by the blood of Adam, and one white, symbolizing holiness and purity. A parallelism is then made between the Garden and the center of a man’s mind; that both have storms raging around them but that God is at the absolute center: “Was that it? to be locked in calm, but powerless to calm what raged?” Adam is full of questions, and a conversation is struck between himself and a sort of shape-shifting angel. The themes of red and white are again revealed in bi-colored doves. Adam asks, “Now, what garden is there but what I make myself?” and a feather falls from the angel’s hawk-head, a bird which represents keen eyesight and guardianship. The bird tells Adam that he may either choose to go with them or stay where he is. Adam refuses the offer and says, “My words are not, ‘I stay,’ but ‘You go.’” The Hawk hands him a burning branch; the final sentence of the poem is, “And the brand burned.” This is another Ciardi moment of brilliance in which he employs more than one meaning of a word; although “brand” does literally mean “a partly burnt piece of wood,” it also stands for the passing of a torch as well as the branding of a people. This poem, despite its lack of rhyme scheme and outwardly apparent structure truly explores, with a great deal of creative simplicity, the story behind God not only branding His people as His own, but giving them the free will to choose a life of their own, whether it includes Him or not.
length times width times height
In his five-line poem, “Returning Home,” John Ciardi depicts in as few words as possible the instant in which one realizes how it is that one might be happy. In a mere two sentences, the poem not only observes happiness but addresses one’s desire for it, discovers the path to it and realizes that perhaps one might already be happy if not at least capable of being so. A poet’s dilemma and darling commitment is to say as much as possible in as little space as possible- in Ciardi’s case this is especially true. He allows himself only twenty-two syllables to say what many people spend entire lifetimes trying to articulate. As a writer he must trust a use of space nearly as much as use of language.
In terms of said language, Ciardi’s is very plain. It flows easily as one line of text and is not distracting or sing-song. The work itself has very little time to develop as a narrative, so instead it is used as more of a directive, as a statement through which the reader may see themselves or the world or those they love in new light – and thus the beauty of carefully chosen words. For Ciardi it provides a great deal more flexibility then iambic pentameter or rhyming couplets might have. The hard “I” sound in “admired” and “I” as well as the hard “a” sound in “they” and “made” are repeated internal vowels that contribute to the smoothness of the poem as a whole.
What makes the theme of the poem particularly clear is the use of the words “happy” and “happiness.” This repetition both supports and makes sense of the established meter (or lack thereof). To commit to a single word or version of a word more than once in a poem that is only seventeen words long must be paid very close attention. What gives this theme purpose is in fact its technical structure. The five lines are broken down individually into either five or four line syllables. This evenness gives the poem an almost box-like aesthetic. Boxes are consistent. They have exact, equal dimensions. They are stable. There are rules about boxes, about squares, about cubes that will never, ever change. Happiness is the same way. There will always be a sense of security in ideas that are recognized as universal; ideas like boxes and happiness and the exact dimensions of those things. Consistencies like these feel safe; this poem is consistent – precise. Equal. Not particularly difficult to navigate, wonderful to rely on.
I imagine that the reader is either the speaker of the poem or the speaker’s observer. The mood, created by the simplicity of the poem itself, is a very genuine calmness. It is as if the speaker is wholly convicted of what they are saying of another person and at the same time quietly, smilingly realizes something for him or herself. The “you” in this poem is not actually you or I, but rather a person the speaker is observing; a person the speaker knows very well or loves very much. The love, however, and the observing is being done from a disjointed state, from a point of watching rather than acting. The title of this poem, “Returning Home,” is that way for an imperative reason: in their observing, the speaker is taken “home;” to the familiar, to some memory or mindset having to do with that “you” who makes them feel so safe and comforted and familiarized.
In short, Ciardi had taken two simple, or seemingly simple, sentences. He has broken them into nearly equal lines of four to five syllables, using unassuming word choice and sensitive structure. Through this carefully executed and approach to writing, a poem of intense consistency is born; consistency that feels safe, familiar – like learning, finally, of happiness, whether it be yours or someone else’s.
In terms of said language, Ciardi’s is very plain. It flows easily as one line of text and is not distracting or sing-song. The work itself has very little time to develop as a narrative, so instead it is used as more of a directive, as a statement through which the reader may see themselves or the world or those they love in new light – and thus the beauty of carefully chosen words. For Ciardi it provides a great deal more flexibility then iambic pentameter or rhyming couplets might have. The hard “I” sound in “admired” and “I” as well as the hard “a” sound in “they” and “made” are repeated internal vowels that contribute to the smoothness of the poem as a whole.
What makes the theme of the poem particularly clear is the use of the words “happy” and “happiness.” This repetition both supports and makes sense of the established meter (or lack thereof). To commit to a single word or version of a word more than once in a poem that is only seventeen words long must be paid very close attention. What gives this theme purpose is in fact its technical structure. The five lines are broken down individually into either five or four line syllables. This evenness gives the poem an almost box-like aesthetic. Boxes are consistent. They have exact, equal dimensions. They are stable. There are rules about boxes, about squares, about cubes that will never, ever change. Happiness is the same way. There will always be a sense of security in ideas that are recognized as universal; ideas like boxes and happiness and the exact dimensions of those things. Consistencies like these feel safe; this poem is consistent – precise. Equal. Not particularly difficult to navigate, wonderful to rely on.
I imagine that the reader is either the speaker of the poem or the speaker’s observer. The mood, created by the simplicity of the poem itself, is a very genuine calmness. It is as if the speaker is wholly convicted of what they are saying of another person and at the same time quietly, smilingly realizes something for him or herself. The “you” in this poem is not actually you or I, but rather a person the speaker is observing; a person the speaker knows very well or loves very much. The love, however, and the observing is being done from a disjointed state, from a point of watching rather than acting. The title of this poem, “Returning Home,” is that way for an imperative reason: in their observing, the speaker is taken “home;” to the familiar, to some memory or mindset having to do with that “you” who makes them feel so safe and comforted and familiarized.
In short, Ciardi had taken two simple, or seemingly simple, sentences. He has broken them into nearly equal lines of four to five syllables, using unassuming word choice and sensitive structure. Through this carefully executed and approach to writing, a poem of intense consistency is born; consistency that feels safe, familiar – like learning, finally, of happiness, whether it be yours or someone else’s.
a happy obsession
After graduating from three different universities and serving three years in the Air Force, poet John Ciardi embarked on an unbelievably successful literary career which lasted for nearly 46 years, publishing 24 books of verse and receiving nearly 20 awards in his lifetime. This multifaceted career was not limited to poetry, although poetry was the predominant reason for his popularity; Ciardi was also a renowned (and in some ways, infamous) critic, editor, professor, anthologist, children’s writer and etymologist. His experience as a scholar of English and as an editor impacted his style enormously and was directly related to his tempestuous relationship with the developing community of contemporary poets of the time. He was known for being very outspokenly critical of writers who said more than was needed simply because they were too consumed by their own unawareness; from Ciardi’s perspective these individuals were namely new-age poets who wrote for their own sake rather than the reader’s. His forthrightness worked quite well considering his own authentic love affair with language landed him with a brimming bank account.
Ciardi wore many a literary hat during the span of his career – he was a Professor of English both in Rutgers University and as at Harvard and devoted nearly 30 years to lecturing and directing the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference. Though he played many roles in this respect, his approach to writing never changed dramatically and rarely, if ever, lost focus. His words were always channeled toward the general public. Ciardi was very vocal in terms of making poetry accessible to the masses – an approach not even marginally accepted by his peers until the late 1950s. Although he by no means sacrificed his own approval of his works for popularity, he still managed to gain a large following because of the intellectual yet approachable elements in his work. It was Ciardi’s desire that the general public would someday be brought together by more than just an interest in poetry.
In The Stoneworks (1961), was Ciardi’s 8th book of poetry. It exemplifies the styles that he employed throughout his entire career – not overemphasizing anything, saying only what needed to be said, making use of the natural world and the most basic & yet most intimate human relationships to show the reader something about their own reality that perhaps they did not see before. The year that he published In The Stoneworks was actually the same year in which Ciardi left his teaching positions at Harvard and Rutgers – a decision that allowed him to further pursue his own literary undertakings full-time, although throughout the rest of his career he did continue to participate in the world of academia via lectures, television appearances and poetry readings.
Ciardi, throughout his career, brought on a lot of disapproval from his peers in criticizing newer contemporary poetic tendencies. Though Ciardi’s work was never totally drowned by any of these new trends, he isolated himself by being openly critical of the shifting values insofar as what constituted “good” poetry. He always insisted that poetry demanded practice; that it is not easy but that the creative process is rather unbearably, wonderfully difficult because it forces one to face failure (Contemporary Authors Online). He is known for having been very frank and obsessing over the re-evaluation of himself and his work time and time again until the poem could be more or less perfected – in his mind, the poem was the central authority, not its author. He valued very much the notion of learning from mistakes; of being able to grow out of bad writing and make something better.
Another reason why John Ciardi was so widely loved by the public and (likely) why he rejected the fluff of many new contemporary poets is because he never tried to overcomplicate what he was trying to write or make into something it couldn’t be. Said Ciardi on this subject: “I'm not a complicated man and I don't have any gripping internal problems. But I get interested in things. Words have become a happy obsession" (McCarty). In fact, for a portion of his writing career, Ciardi fueled fully his fascination in etymology and where certain words even come from – this fascination resulted in his publishing several volumes of The Broswer’s Dictionary, a method which he hoped would bring the meticulous nature of language-loving closer to the public. Ciardi loved language. He used it to write about anything he could – hurricanes, history, sex, grace, gardens, death; and he did it tremendously well, all the way until his death on Easter Sunday in 1986.
Works Cited
Seaman, Donna. "The Collected Poems of John Ciardi." Booklist 15 Apr. 1997: 1377. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 3 Feb. 2011.
"John Ciardi." Contemporary Authors Online. Detroit: Gale, 2007. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 3 Feb. 2011
McCarty, Mary. "Cincinnati Magazine." Editorial. Cincinnati Magazine Dec. 1985: 100-05. Google Books. Web. 4 Feb. 2011.
Works of Poetry John Ciardi
• Homeward to America, Holt, 1940.
• Other Skies, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1947.
• Live Another Day: Poems, Twayne, 1949.
• From Time to Time, Twayne, 1951.
• As If: Poems New and Selected, Rutgers University Press, 1955.
• I Marry You: A Sheaf of Love Poems, Rutgers University Press, 1958.
• Thirty-Nine Poems, Rutgers University Press, 1959.
• In the Stoneworks, Rutgers University Press, 1961.
• In Fact, Rutgers University Press, 1962.
• Person to Person, Rutgers University Press, 1964.
• This Strangest Everything, Rutgers University Press, 1966.
• An Alphabestiary, Lippincott, 1967.
• A Genesis, Touchstone Publishers (New York, NY), 1967.
• The Achievement of John Ciardi: A Comprehensive Selection of his Poems with a Critical Introduction (poetry textbook), edited by Miller Williams, Scott, Foresman, 1969.
• Lives of X (autobiographical poetry), Rutgers University Press, 1971.
• On the Orthodoxy and Creed of My Power Mower, Pomegranate Press (Cambridge, MA), 1972.
• The Little That Is All, Rutgers University Press, 1974.
• For Instance, Norton, 1979.
• Selected Poems, University of Arkansas Press, 1984.
• The Birds of Pompeii, University of Arkansas Press, 1985.
• Echoes: Poems Left Behind, University of Arkansas Press, 1989.
• Poems of Love and Marriage, University of Arkansas Press, 1989.
• Stations on the Air, Bookmark Press of the University of Missouri-Kansas City, 1993.
• The Collected Poems of John Ciardi, University of Arkansas Press (Fayetteville, AK), 1997.
Ciardi wore many a literary hat during the span of his career – he was a Professor of English both in Rutgers University and as at Harvard and devoted nearly 30 years to lecturing and directing the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference. Though he played many roles in this respect, his approach to writing never changed dramatically and rarely, if ever, lost focus. His words were always channeled toward the general public. Ciardi was very vocal in terms of making poetry accessible to the masses – an approach not even marginally accepted by his peers until the late 1950s. Although he by no means sacrificed his own approval of his works for popularity, he still managed to gain a large following because of the intellectual yet approachable elements in his work. It was Ciardi’s desire that the general public would someday be brought together by more than just an interest in poetry.
In The Stoneworks (1961), was Ciardi’s 8th book of poetry. It exemplifies the styles that he employed throughout his entire career – not overemphasizing anything, saying only what needed to be said, making use of the natural world and the most basic & yet most intimate human relationships to show the reader something about their own reality that perhaps they did not see before. The year that he published In The Stoneworks was actually the same year in which Ciardi left his teaching positions at Harvard and Rutgers – a decision that allowed him to further pursue his own literary undertakings full-time, although throughout the rest of his career he did continue to participate in the world of academia via lectures, television appearances and poetry readings.
Ciardi, throughout his career, brought on a lot of disapproval from his peers in criticizing newer contemporary poetic tendencies. Though Ciardi’s work was never totally drowned by any of these new trends, he isolated himself by being openly critical of the shifting values insofar as what constituted “good” poetry. He always insisted that poetry demanded practice; that it is not easy but that the creative process is rather unbearably, wonderfully difficult because it forces one to face failure (Contemporary Authors Online). He is known for having been very frank and obsessing over the re-evaluation of himself and his work time and time again until the poem could be more or less perfected – in his mind, the poem was the central authority, not its author. He valued very much the notion of learning from mistakes; of being able to grow out of bad writing and make something better.
Another reason why John Ciardi was so widely loved by the public and (likely) why he rejected the fluff of many new contemporary poets is because he never tried to overcomplicate what he was trying to write or make into something it couldn’t be. Said Ciardi on this subject: “I'm not a complicated man and I don't have any gripping internal problems. But I get interested in things. Words have become a happy obsession" (McCarty). In fact, for a portion of his writing career, Ciardi fueled fully his fascination in etymology and where certain words even come from – this fascination resulted in his publishing several volumes of The Broswer’s Dictionary, a method which he hoped would bring the meticulous nature of language-loving closer to the public. Ciardi loved language. He used it to write about anything he could – hurricanes, history, sex, grace, gardens, death; and he did it tremendously well, all the way until his death on Easter Sunday in 1986.
Works Cited
Seaman, Donna. "The Collected Poems of John Ciardi." Booklist 15 Apr. 1997: 1377. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 3 Feb. 2011.
"John Ciardi." Contemporary Authors Online. Detroit: Gale, 2007. Gale Biography In Context. Web. 3 Feb. 2011
McCarty, Mary. "Cincinnati Magazine." Editorial. Cincinnati Magazine Dec. 1985: 100-05. Google Books. Web. 4 Feb. 2011.
Works of Poetry John Ciardi
• Homeward to America, Holt, 1940.
• Other Skies, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1947.
• Live Another Day: Poems, Twayne, 1949.
• From Time to Time, Twayne, 1951.
• As If: Poems New and Selected, Rutgers University Press, 1955.
• I Marry You: A Sheaf of Love Poems, Rutgers University Press, 1958.
• Thirty-Nine Poems, Rutgers University Press, 1959.
• In the Stoneworks, Rutgers University Press, 1961.
• In Fact, Rutgers University Press, 1962.
• Person to Person, Rutgers University Press, 1964.
• This Strangest Everything, Rutgers University Press, 1966.
• An Alphabestiary, Lippincott, 1967.
• A Genesis, Touchstone Publishers (New York, NY), 1967.
• The Achievement of John Ciardi: A Comprehensive Selection of his Poems with a Critical Introduction (poetry textbook), edited by Miller Williams, Scott, Foresman, 1969.
• Lives of X (autobiographical poetry), Rutgers University Press, 1971.
• On the Orthodoxy and Creed of My Power Mower, Pomegranate Press (Cambridge, MA), 1972.
• The Little That Is All, Rutgers University Press, 1974.
• For Instance, Norton, 1979.
• Selected Poems, University of Arkansas Press, 1984.
• The Birds of Pompeii, University of Arkansas Press, 1985.
• Echoes: Poems Left Behind, University of Arkansas Press, 1989.
• Poems of Love and Marriage, University of Arkansas Press, 1989.
• Stations on the Air, Bookmark Press of the University of Missouri-Kansas City, 1993.
• The Collected Poems of John Ciardi, University of Arkansas Press (Fayetteville, AK), 1997.
written by a sponge dipped in warm milk and sprinkled with sugar
Earlier in the semester, our class was given the opportunity to center our individual focuses on contemporary poets of our choosing. The next several weeks were spent selecting, researching, scrutinizing, exploring, picking apart and eventually writing about said poets. This process has proven to broaden the way our class sees a poem – instead of a standalone piece that is hailed as either good or bad, it is one of many parts, each of which is just as important as the next. My personal experience with this began when I misplaced myself for a good number of hours in the campus library, slowly winding between shelves, collecting a heap of anthologies high enough to make me wonder if I’d ever leave (my incompetence in the art of choosing did not help this matter). In time I realized that the only way to make a decision before the library closed was to be as blind to the covers as I was to the poems between them. With diplomatic eyes I selected the plainest, simplest, most bare-bones hardcover as possible – and thus, my research of poet John Ciardi began.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
tilting, leaning
whatever will happen when this alter gives out
when the nails bend when the
board snaps when the unplumbed injury suddenly
exists
and the holy wretched mess of oak is
splintered
in you
and the hardened blood
braillescape arm
is at once familiar and welcomed into the family of limbs
as if it was always there?
when the nails bend when the
board snaps when the unplumbed injury suddenly
exists
and the holy wretched mess of oak is
splintered
in you
and the hardened blood
braillescape arm
is at once familiar and welcomed into the family of limbs
as if it was always there?
the wasteland, part ii
The Wasteland T.S. Eliot
A Game of Chess, the second section of Eliot’s five-part 1922 poem is broken into two separate poems: one revolving around a moment in the life of a wealthy woman in a very unhappy, apparently loveless marriage. Considering the way she addresses the person who one assumes is her husband or lover, she has a very erratic personality and is paranoid (or at the very least anxious) about her life its circumstances. Despite her affluence, she is disdainful of the dreariness of the wealth around her. One is made aware of when one poem merges with the other at the first repetition of the phrase, “hurry up please its time.” At this change, the reader is plunged into a totally converse scene (although the theme is very similar). Two women are discussing the current situation of a mutual friend whose life has been enormously weighed down by her having five children and a husband in the army who is never home – the concern in question is that he’ll get her pregnant with their sixth child and that she will not be capable of bearing it – literally and figuratively. The poem ends with the pub closing and the two friends saying goodnight to one another.
This setup makes for a venn diagram of poetry; though it transpires in two opposite places (a palace of a house and a pub-like setting), the people are very similar. There is erratic, pretty paroxysmal hopelessness followed by a collective, mournful hopelessness – that head-shaking, “what-a-shame” sort.
Themes dealt with here are the bourgeoisie versus normalcy, the repetition of “hurry up please its time,” the concepts of emptiness and loneliness, the use of teeth, bones, and the idea that life and love are both games (though not necessarily playful ones).
The elements of symbolism and allusion to outside works of art and literature in this piece are at first somewhere between daunting and annoying – mainly in the sense that they’re hard to keep track of. The references are reserved more for the first half of the poem that focuses on a wealthy lifestyle, likely to accentuate the notion of the upper class being better educated (although the “lazy” stereotype fits the bill a bit better).
To describe Part II of The Wasteland in a succinct manner would go a little something like this:
Life is an unhappy game; it is easy to ignore until it has been recognized that life’s general bareness has seeped into the lives of us all.
A Game of Chess, the second section of Eliot’s five-part 1922 poem is broken into two separate poems: one revolving around a moment in the life of a wealthy woman in a very unhappy, apparently loveless marriage. Considering the way she addresses the person who one assumes is her husband or lover, she has a very erratic personality and is paranoid (or at the very least anxious) about her life its circumstances. Despite her affluence, she is disdainful of the dreariness of the wealth around her. One is made aware of when one poem merges with the other at the first repetition of the phrase, “hurry up please its time.” At this change, the reader is plunged into a totally converse scene (although the theme is very similar). Two women are discussing the current situation of a mutual friend whose life has been enormously weighed down by her having five children and a husband in the army who is never home – the concern in question is that he’ll get her pregnant with their sixth child and that she will not be capable of bearing it – literally and figuratively. The poem ends with the pub closing and the two friends saying goodnight to one another.
This setup makes for a venn diagram of poetry; though it transpires in two opposite places (a palace of a house and a pub-like setting), the people are very similar. There is erratic, pretty paroxysmal hopelessness followed by a collective, mournful hopelessness – that head-shaking, “what-a-shame” sort.
Themes dealt with here are the bourgeoisie versus normalcy, the repetition of “hurry up please its time,” the concepts of emptiness and loneliness, the use of teeth, bones, and the idea that life and love are both games (though not necessarily playful ones).
The elements of symbolism and allusion to outside works of art and literature in this piece are at first somewhere between daunting and annoying – mainly in the sense that they’re hard to keep track of. The references are reserved more for the first half of the poem that focuses on a wealthy lifestyle, likely to accentuate the notion of the upper class being better educated (although the “lazy” stereotype fits the bill a bit better).
To describe Part II of The Wasteland in a succinct manner would go a little something like this:
Life is an unhappy game; it is easy to ignore until it has been recognized that life’s general bareness has seeped into the lives of us all.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
we come and go
Heritage Countee Cullens
The Lovesong of Alfred J Prufrock T.S. Eliot
Walking out of class after discussing Eliot and Cullen left me with the sense that I was supposed to have taken a side and stuck with it; which poem is more American? Which is more effective? Which is better?
As the discussion began, I was immediately under the impression of two things: One, a reader’s being discouraged by the complex language or ambiguity of a poem seriously affects their ability to enjoy it. Two, enjoying a poem isn’t exactly the point. Although poetry theoretically should be an agreeable experience, a writer’s goal is not to please his or her readers (the world of literature would be a very disappointing realm if this was not the case). Similarly, a reader’s failure to instantly grasp what a poet says is not always an indication of a poem’s quality.
Therefore, rather than pledge loyalty to one poet, I opt instead to consider the purpose of poetry and how each man accomplishes that.
Cullen is clearly committed to viewing the world through the spectacles of race; he can hardly help it. There is nothing wrong with this except that racially-centered writing has an intrinsic appeal to less people. Eliot, on the other hand, asks much broader questions of existence but does so in a bizarre context that is more challenging to navigate; in this way, he creates potential to turn off his readers very quickly.
Both ask questions of the individual living in a society of prejudices, whether they are based on race, age, disability, poverty or sex. Both approach the individual’s predicament in completely rational ways; in either case, the individual experiences a sense of abandonment from the inside of a compliance culture. As society’s manners of viewing and judging its members changes, one’s perspective of self accordingly adjusts. Eliot asks universal questions in the first place, but Cullen’s question of the individual is poised in such a way that it surpasses the narrow focus of Africa and extends to the universal self. The difference here is that Cullen deals with one’s sensitivity to cultural roots; Eliot’s focus is on age. Both handle the question of how one fits into one’s surroundings, functioning as one part of many.
We as readers should be able to relate to both poems; perhaps a person who has experienced racism directly is drawn more to Cullen. Perhaps familiarity with a crisis of age catches the attention of another. Whichever poem you relate to, it asks the same thing;
Who are you? What are your surroundings? And: Do you dare to be that person in that place?
The Lovesong of Alfred J Prufrock T.S. Eliot
Walking out of class after discussing Eliot and Cullen left me with the sense that I was supposed to have taken a side and stuck with it; which poem is more American? Which is more effective? Which is better?
As the discussion began, I was immediately under the impression of two things: One, a reader’s being discouraged by the complex language or ambiguity of a poem seriously affects their ability to enjoy it. Two, enjoying a poem isn’t exactly the point. Although poetry theoretically should be an agreeable experience, a writer’s goal is not to please his or her readers (the world of literature would be a very disappointing realm if this was not the case). Similarly, a reader’s failure to instantly grasp what a poet says is not always an indication of a poem’s quality.
Therefore, rather than pledge loyalty to one poet, I opt instead to consider the purpose of poetry and how each man accomplishes that.
Cullen is clearly committed to viewing the world through the spectacles of race; he can hardly help it. There is nothing wrong with this except that racially-centered writing has an intrinsic appeal to less people. Eliot, on the other hand, asks much broader questions of existence but does so in a bizarre context that is more challenging to navigate; in this way, he creates potential to turn off his readers very quickly.
Both ask questions of the individual living in a society of prejudices, whether they are based on race, age, disability, poverty or sex. Both approach the individual’s predicament in completely rational ways; in either case, the individual experiences a sense of abandonment from the inside of a compliance culture. As society’s manners of viewing and judging its members changes, one’s perspective of self accordingly adjusts. Eliot asks universal questions in the first place, but Cullen’s question of the individual is poised in such a way that it surpasses the narrow focus of Africa and extends to the universal self. The difference here is that Cullen deals with one’s sensitivity to cultural roots; Eliot’s focus is on age. Both handle the question of how one fits into one’s surroundings, functioning as one part of many.
We as readers should be able to relate to both poems; perhaps a person who has experienced racism directly is drawn more to Cullen. Perhaps familiarity with a crisis of age catches the attention of another. Whichever poem you relate to, it asks the same thing;
Who are you? What are your surroundings? And: Do you dare to be that person in that place?
Monday, February 21, 2011
their hands, bodies by ahkos ahkos
This poem horrifies me. War should horrify me more than it does, but I do not see it; the same goes for death. This writer, however, does: he sees aftermath and tells of it in such a way that is almost unbearable. The language is simple. It does not condemn war or explain a fear of death with lofty terms because, really, that’s not how we understand it (if we understand it at all). Its simplicity, however, should not be mistaken for plainness; every aspect of this poem is very calculated, very thought-out; even the use of space between words and thoughts is used to sink the reader into a grey, silent, awful sort of trapped-in-your-own-head feeling. The repetition is sporadic but perfectly planned – it doesn’t sound like a writing mechanism; it just sounds the way a person’s thoughts would go if they were facing an ocean of bodies. It sounds like an oncoming panic attack, like the taste of almost being sick.
This poem horrifies me. War should horrify me more than it does, but I do not see it; the same goes for death. This writer, however, does: he sees aftermath and tells of it in such a way that is almost unbearable. The language is simple. It does not condemn war or explain a fear of death with lofty terms because, really, that’s not how we understand it (if we understand it at all). Its simplicity, however, should not be mistaken for plainness; every aspect of this poem is very calculated, very thought-out; even the use of space between words and thoughts is used to sink the reader into a grey, silent, awful sort of trapped-in-your-own-head feeling. The repetition is sporadic but perfectly planned – it doesn’t sound like a writing mechanism; it just sounds the way a person’s thoughts would go if they were facing an ocean of bodies. It sounds like an oncoming panic attack, like the taste of almost being sick.
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