"Not Waving But Drowning"

This poem seems so simple; it's short, the language is clear and straightforward, and there's a lot of repetition. But the fact that it's so easy to understand is just proof of Smith's skill.
Though some words and phrases are repeated, their meaning shifts from the beginning of the poem to the end. How does he make the last verse look so similar to the first, and yet tell a different story? It's not nearly as simple as it looks at first glance. He has to subtly manipulate each word, line, and verse to get from one point to another without getting off track.

When the poem begins, you can interpret the first verse literally - in fact, I think maybe you're supposed to. The speaker is literally drowning, and his friends don't realize what's happening until it's too late.
In the third verse, the meaning shifts from describing one isolated event to the speaker's entire lifetime. His  friends didn't just have a momentary lapse in judgment; they'd always misinterpreted his signals and failed to see that he was struggling. They didn't see who he really was or what he needed. Even in his death, they couldn't hear him - they just speculated about what may have happened to him, and "(Still the dead one lay moaning)".

I like the way this is structured. I like how Smith conveys multiple meanings without really providing the reader with too much information between the first and third verses, and manages to say so much in so few words. It reads so smoothly and simply, but there's more going on underneath.

"Sestina" - Elizabeth Bishop

On the surface, the language and content of this poem seem pretty clear. But I think it has layers that I have yet to discover, because even though I enjoy it each time I read through it, I keep feeling like I'm missing something. In a way I think it's meant to have an element of mystery, to convey a kind of stillness, confusion, and ambiguity. 

When I first started reading it, I thought the focus was going to be on the grandmother. The mention of rain, "failing light", and autumn, a time when the year is "dying", made me think of old age, regret, and sorrow. But sorrow and loss aren't experienced exclusively by those who have lived a long life. 

It seems like something has happened to the family in this poem, and the grandmother is trying to hide her sadness to protect the child. But despite her efforts, the child can still sense that something's wrong, and carries his/her own sadness inside.

The almanac plays a lot of different, sometimes conflicting, roles. At first it's described as a source of humor, but it's a false kind of humor because it helps the grandmother hide her tears, and in a way, deceive the child. So the first (and one of the only) instance of interaction between the two characters is false and empty in quality. They're disconnected, somehow.

The grandmother thinks her sorrow and the sadness of the family's circumstances (whatever they are) are known and felt only by her. But the almanac - something that's full of facts, dates, predictions, etc. - "hovers"above both her and the child. All of a sudden it has a kind of eerie, all-knowing power that gives the whole poem a sense of foreboding. 

The almanac could represent fate, since it contains dates and times of future events, in which case it's possible that there's more sadness to come - after all, it says, "I know what I know" and then "plants tears" in the child's drawing. It could also just be a record of what's happened to the characters, hanging over them to remind them that repressing their feelings won't make it go away.  

The almanac, the stove, the teakettle, etc. - all technically "inanimate"- are actually more animated and dynamic than the grandmother and the child. They contrast with the stillness of the house and the actual daily, domestic events in the poem, and also the grandmother's refusal to express her sadness. 

I'm not sure how all of these elements work together - like I said, I feel like there's so many other layers to this poem, and so many other ways to look at it. I really love what I've seen and felt so far, but I want to keep looking at it to see what else I may be missing.

"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"

I know a lot of people had mixed feelings about this poem, and in way I do too. It's definitely strange. I think I like it, but I'm not really sure why.

This is the way I look at it:

Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird --> thirteen(+) ways of looking at this poem --> thirteen(+) ways of looking at anything
But all of these ways are connected by some thread; all of these potential meanings make up a whole and are all part of the same thing.

No matter who you are, where you are in the world, etc., you're looking at something that someone else has seen. Your experience of it may be different, but there's at least some element that is the same.
I'm not sure if that's what Stevens meant, but I see a lot of symbols of unity and cyclicality throughout this poem:

"A man and a woman and a blackbird 
Are one."  

... 

"But I know, too,That the blackbird is involved
In what I know." 

... 

"When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles." 

... 

"The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying."

 

All of these images give me the sense that everything is connected. Stevens gives us thirteen different snapshots to demonstrate the multiplicity of perception and experience, but keeps returning to this theme of cohesion.
The verse that says, "The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds./It was a small part of the pantomime" is what first drew me to this idea. "Pantomime" is an interesting choice of words - it places the blackbird in the context of a theatrical performance, which is something in which several different elements are orchestrated to contribute to an overall effect. No matter what you choose to focus on - the acting, the costumes, the lights - and how you experience it, everyone in the audience is seeing the same play.

These are the ideas that stood out to me, but this is probably just one of the many ways to interpret this poem.

Modern conceit

I'd really love to see a modern version of the Metaphysical conceit, like John Donne's "The Sun Rising". I've seen individual elements that show up in that poem, but never in a combination that produces the same effect.
I can think of countless examples of objects that are given unlikely powers through personification, like the newspaper in the song "Milk Thistle" by Conor Oberst & The Mystic Valley Band:

"I'm just trying to kiss you
And you stab my eyes"

But I can't think of anything that goes as far as to turn the idea of something like the sun - something that has been constant throughout history and therefore its power and energy are rarely contested - upside down, using it as a metaphor for dullness, inconsistency, old age, etc.

I'd love to see what needs to be done differently to make a seemingly impossible, contradictory comparison like the one in Donne's poem work today. Would it sound different with simple, colloquial language? Which form would work best? Maybe slam poetry, because I can almost imagine someone taking Donne's idea and performing it - berating the sun, varying volume and speed for emphasis. But I think other forms could be effective as well.

Jamaal May + "Sincerity"

I went to the Jamaal May reading yesterday, and like everyone else who went, I thought he was amazing.

He said something about how he thinks we all have some kind of shared idea of what it is to be human, but we don't always have the tools to express that.
Well, he does. He does it with metaphors and rhythm and sounds, like with his "hums" - he read one of these and the combinations of the words, ideas, and sounds in the poem reflected the hum and vibration of our hearts, our voices, and the world we live in.

To me, this is what I mean when I talking about relating to a poem or poet. It's not so much that I need to feel that the details of the content are familiar to me, but I need to be able to understand the feelings of the poem in an intimate way, a way that taps into some shared realm of human experience. This is where the "truth" or reality of a poem loses value, and sincerity becomes more important. Whether the speaker actually is the poet or it's some constructed persona, I can sense when there's no real feeling at the root of his or her words. That, to me, is when it's no longer relatable.
This makes me think of The Grapes of Wrath, which isn't the same at all because it's prose, and perspective (first- or third-person) functions differently in some ways. But still. The book is structured in a way that focuses mostly on an intimate, detailed story of one family of Dust Bowl farmers migrating to California - it's personal in a way that's similar to the seemingly raw, honest poetry most of us in class favor. But Steinbeck weaves this story in with one much larger, showing snapshots of the thousands and thousands of farmers and their plight. These sections take on a somewhat detached, general tone, something that usually sounds condescending or unfeeling. However, the way they're written in this case still conveys intense feelings of sorrow, hope, disappointment, etc., because Steinbeck uses these zoomed-out snapshots to unite the farmers and show that they all make up one shared experience.

I think a lot of these same techniques work in poetry too; the format, perspective, tone - everything - can be manipulated in countless ways. There's not necessarily one form that's inherently better than another. It's the feeling behind the words that makes a poem work.

Emily Dickinson

Dickinson is just as fascinated by death as Sylvia Plath, but her perception of it seems completely different. Her style is different too; it's ethereal and airy (its tone, not its content!) instead of biting and intimate like Plath's.
It seems like she's more interested in the relationship between life and death than death itself. What kind of connection, if any, exists between our bodies, possessions, life experiences, and our soul?


The poem that begins with "Death sets a thing significant..." explores the relationship between the material and the "spiritual" (I can't think of another word for it...unfortunately). She describes objects that would have little or no value if they hadn't once been animated by some kind of life force - crayon marks, a thimble, a book, etc. She says "Death sets a thing significant", but really death provides a contrast to life, which is what makes things significant; those objects were put to use and given meaning when the speaker's friend(s) were alive. Death simply reminds her of their significance, if that makes sense.


What happens to a person's possessions, like the thimble or the book, and to their bodies when their soul departs? Are those things meaningful at all, or are they just insignificant because they're temporary? The same idea shows up in "I heard a fly buzz when I died":

"I willed my keepsakes, signed away

What portion of me I

Could make assignable..."

Again, there is a distinction here between things that can be made "assignable" and whatever it is that makes up a soul. What "portion"of a person is earthly and temporary, and what's left over? What defines this supposedly unique, timeless, unearthly "soul"?


I like these poems because of their deceptively simple, detached tone; it's mysterious and intriguing, which reflects the quality of the content, and makes me think about death in different ways without beating me over the head with an opinion or moral judgment.  

"Meditations in an Emergency"

A few years ago I read "Meditations in an Emergency" by Frank O'Hara after hearing a Rilo Kiley song that references it - "I read with every broken heart we should become more adventurous." - and it was also mentioned in an episode of Mad Men. I love discovering new poems, books, music, etc. in that way.

 Mediations in an Emergency 

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious
as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
(and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable
list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with
which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else
for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too,
don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of
pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of
perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the
confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes--I can't
even enjoy a blade of grass unless i know there's a subway
handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not
totally _regret_ life. It is more important to affirm the
least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and
even they continue to pass. Do they know what they're missing?
Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time;
they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and
disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away.
Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me
restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them
still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I
would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm
curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be
attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the
earth. And lately, so great has _their_ anxiety become, I can
spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven.
Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best
discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness
which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a
legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that holds you in the
bosom of another and I'm always springing forth from it like
the lotus--the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must
not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the
filth of life away," yes, even in the heart, where the filth is
pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my
will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in
that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don't know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I
admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a
final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

"Fanny Brown is run away--scampered off with a Cornet of Horse;
I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She
has vexed me by this exploit a little too.--Poor silly
Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.--I wish She had a
good Whipping and 10,000 pounds."--Mrs. Thrale

I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my
dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from
the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where
you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot
ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in
the lock and the knob turns. 

One thing in this poem that's different thematically from some of the samplers we've read before the Modernism one is that even though nature is referenced several times, its importance is devalued. Instead, there's a focus on the common and the daily. O'Hara writes in the present tense, placing his more abstract ideas in the context of New York City subways, apartments, etc. I really like his style. Something about this poem makes it feel really up-close and immediate, kind of like "Poem (Lana Turner has collapsed!)". It sounds like he's just thinking aloud. To me it reads a lot like prose, so I don't know what exactly makes it poetry - maybe it's its intimate, conversational tone, or maybe it's the way it moves - but either way I enjoy it.

Sylvia Plath

I read The Bell Jar a couple years ago and loved it, but for some reason I hadn't read any of Sylvia Plath's poetry until now. There's a consistency in tone between the novel and the poems in the sampler. She has a distinct, sharp, intelligent voice in her writing. It's extremely intimate; It haunts me, but I love it. I feel like I know her and can relate to her simply because of her voice, not because I relate to the content of the poems. 
Especially in Lady Lazarus, she comes off as strong and independent rather than tragic and weak. She seems to resent the "concern" of the doctors and the people in her life, who behave more as spectators at a show than people who actually care about her wellbeing. She thinks very little of them and their inability to understand her condition. She doesn't need their attention, their artificial concern; she is a phoenix who repeatedly resurrects herself, stronger each time.
She presents herself as layered, intelligent, dark - and she does so with unwavering confidence and composure, a stark contrast to the stereotypically petty, "hysterical" woman.


Here's a clip of her reading this poem: 

It's even more beautiful when read aloud. The combination of her voice and the overall tone of the poem is captivating.

e. e. cummings/Word Mash-ups

What I like most about e. e. cummings is his syntax and his unique arrangement of words. I'm not sure I really understand the full meaning of his poems, like "in Just-", but I think the combinations of words and lack of spaces contribute to the meaning somehow. 


I find word combos like "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful" to be intriguing and appealing just on their own. When I write I often find myself thinking, "Wait, does the phrase I just used even exist? Will people know what I'm saying?" But when this came up in conversation with a friend, she reminded me that the great thing about writing is that you can (and should) do whatever you want - as long as it isn't just nonsense, and it serves a purpose. Sometimes there aren't any existing words that have the same specific meaning, sound, imagery, etc. as something like "mud-luscious".
In the context of "in Just-", I get the feeling that "mud-luscious" is meant to convey multiple meanings, especially because of the way it's positioned, running from one line to the next.

"spring when the world is mud-
luscious..." 

You can choose to see this as one word or two. Alone, mud is dirty, slimy, unpleasant. Paired with luscious, it can be seen as soft, rich, gooey. It evokes feelings of playfulness. It reminds me of being little and walking on the grass surrounding the sprinkler in my yard, actually seeking out muddy spots.
I think this combination of words captures the complexity of emotion and sensation in a really interesting way. Most feelings are ambiguous; they're not static and dimensionless. There's more than just "good/bad" or "happy/sad". Every sensation is a spectrum of emotions, layered and blended and connected in some way. So why not mash some words together to reflect this honestly instead of trying to convey concrete meanings?
I don't know if that's what e. e. cummings was trying to do, but that's the impression I got. 


The same friend that I mentioned earlier did something similar in a poem she wrote a couple months ago. Here's a small part of it: 

A wintered silence beats through your house, yet
the tips of your toes, the edges
of your fingers comically, faithfully, boldly
howl from underneath that quilt your grandmother made all
those years ago, which now hides
in the ever-present darkness that is the
batcaveforest you call home.

"batcaveforest" has no specific, concrete meaning, but I think it still conveys the feeling she wanted to express. I think of a cave as something hollow and empty, and a forest as something dense. At first this seems contradictory, which could be one way that she meant to portray it. But then if I think of the cave as dark and mysterious, and the forest as impenetrable, the words work together. 

I don't know, I just find this really interesting. 

"Mother to Son"

I love everything about this poem. I love its short lines, its conversational tone, its movement. The "stairs" metaphor has been done before, but Hughes makes it feel new. Maybe not even new, but richer. 
It's more than just an uphill battle; there are even more roadblocks, each with its own kind of hurt. The "tacks", "splinters", "bare" floorboards, etc. all represent to me a range of negative emotions and difficulties. Starting a new line for each of these roadblocks - "It had tacks in it,/And.../And.../And..." - emphasizes the persistence and depth of the mother's struggles. The short, chopped lines enhance the description of this struggle, dragging me through in a way that reflects the feelings conveyed - exasperation, weariness, pain. Especially for the one-word line: "Bare." The way that sounds, and even the way it looks on the page, abrupt and all alone, effectively portrays a kind of hopeless, resigned emptiness. 
But her tone isn't resigned at all. She acknowledges all of the resistance she's met along the way, but continues "a-climbin' on", moving forward, and she tells her son to do the same. I love the ending, because Hughes perfectly captures the tone of a loving parent. In the beginning it's a mixture of compassion and tough love, and at the end there's a touch of tenderness - "Don't you fall now --/For I'se still goin', honey". I think the whole thing's beautiful. It says a lot in a short space.

"The Road Not Taken"

We talked about "The Road Not Taken" a lot already, so I won't spend too much time on it, but I do really find it interesting how it's been misinterpreted. That's what you get for quoting out of context. It's the same reason I always start watching a TV show from the first season, or why I always finish a book once I've started it. You can't possibly get a feel for any work of art without looking at the whole thing.

Anyway, the last three lines of this poem were quoted on one of my high school planners (not at graduation, thank god). Trying to inspire teenagers with lines that are preceded by "I shall be telling this with a sigh..." - yeah, that sounds like my high school. Still, I barely glanced at it, having seen it countless times before, and accepted it. 

But the first time I read it all the way through (about a year ago), I immediately understood, and immediately lost all hope. This is what I wrote that day:

There's so many books I'll never read.


I've gotten into the habit of making short to-do lists before bed, for the following day. I feel anxious if I don't. It's gotten to the point where I even have to include things like "Wake up" or "Eat" - as if I could forget to eat - to feel calm and in control. I used to only do this for especially busy days, to keep from feeling overwhelmed. Now I do it every night before bed, even for the [freest] of days.
If I can't get through these simple lists every day, how will I ever allow myself to move past the realm of routine and learn something new, take risks, create?
This terrifies me.


Even the most efficient and ambitious among us never get around to doing all they want to do. It's impossible.
Isn't it?
I couldn't possibly read all the books I want to read, learn all the languages I want to learn, travel to all the countries I want to see.


I want to learn all the secrets of yoga. Real yoga. Not "trendy" American yoga. I want to wear dresses every day. I want a masseuse. I want to explore creative writing because it excites me and scares me. I want to play the violin again, and while I'm at it, the guitar and piano, too. I want to transform my diet and find out what's possible in a world without donuts, without processed foods, without MSG. (...)


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler...


Every decision I make (or don't make) leads me in one direction and not the other.
I want them all.
I guess that's why Economics and I do not understand each other. I am campaigning to abolish opportunity cost, with all its formulas and logic.

If that's how I felt after reading it one time, how could anyone possibly interpret it as inspiring? If anything, it makes me feel defeated, helpless, stressed about every decision I'll ever have to make for the rest of my life. 
But I still like it. It frustrates me, but it articulates a feeling I've always had, that most people have.