I have really enjoyed reading Lace's blog and hearing about her story. I thought that her point of view was really interesting. I know that I have always been enamored with the sound of words. It made me laugh when Sexon talked about babies making sounds for the joy of making sounds because my mom's favorite story to embarrass me with is about me loudly "reading" the Bible in church while the pastor tried to pray. Of course I couldn't actually read - I was only one - but I saw the words, knew there were supposed to be noises associated with them, and made my own. I did this in the car, in the store, everywhere I saw words. When I learned to read, I loved to read out loud, tasting each sound in my mouth. Even now, I'll stop and relish the deliciousness of a word. Lamppost. Cobblestone. Window pane. Mmmm Lovely!
This idea has always permeated my writing. Things I write must feel good to say out loud and to hear. I get lost in the syllables and consonants, weaving a story or scene. The most mundane thing can be made beautiful with the right mixture of letters. The sound of words is my passion, and that is what pushes my writing.
But then there are those, like Lace, on whom the sound and music of words is lost. This made me think. The wonderful thing about words is that they are more than just the sound. Words mean so much. There are so many levels to words. A single word can say so much. Or nothing at all. A word means something completely different to every person. Words are not black and white. Words are beautiful, and words can be evil. Words are dangerous, but they are also saving.
I think that it's important to see words from a different point of view. Not necessarily just the point of the words, but the words themselves. For so long, I have been driven by the sound and beauty of the words and how that speaks to me. But I really liked what lace said in her last post about being able to visualize the music, rather than hearing it. Visualizing the sounds.
For me, the sound of the words, and their musicality sort of dictate the images that come to my mind. First come the sounds, then the images. But how would I see things differently if I only focused on the images of the poem? Forgot about the words, but saw only the images they brought to my mind?
I looked at Vacancy in the Park again, thinking only about the images. I closed my eyes and pictured each line, bringing myself there. I was surprised to find that I had an entirely new perspective on the poem.
This time, I felt time gone by, and the loneliness left behind. It was not sad. It felt like the acceptance of change and things that will never be again.
"March... Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for her knows not what.
It is like a boat that has pulled away
From a shore at night and disappeared."
Time goes on, and leaves us looking into the darkness, remembering a past long gone. We are always drawn to the past, but we cannot go back. We are always here, while time moves around us, leaving us behind with our memories if we aren't careful.
I hadn't realized the loneliness of this poem until I had taken the time to forget the words and focus only on what I saw. I'm very grateful for this new perspective I have found!
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Noticing
Mandolin and Liquers
La-la! The cat is in the violets
And the awnings are let down.
The cat should not be where she is
And the awnings are too brown,
Emphatically so.
If awnings were celeste and gay,
Iris and orange, crimson and green,
Blue and vermilion, purple and white,
And not this tinsmith's galaxy,
Things would be different.
The sun is gold, the moon is silver.
There must be a planet that is copper
And in whose light the roses
Would have a most singular appearance,
Or nearly so.
I love to sit and read the Telegraph
That vast confect of telegrams,
And to find how much that really matters
Does not really matter
At all.
What is this about? When I first read this poem, it just reminded me of a wandering mind on a Sunday afternoon. I picture an old man sitting on his porch, watching the world happen. This is a poem about noticing. It kind of reminds me of the poem I was assigned to memorize, Vacancy in the Park. Here, too, is a poem about noticing. Merely noticing the simple footsteps in the spring snow.
Life is simple. Things are. The sun is gold. The moon is sliver. If it wasn't, it would be different. But that is exactly how things are. Nothing matters.
The more I read Stevens, the more Lucretius screams at me. "And to find how much that really matters/ Does not really matter/ At all." It doesn't matter. What will all this be years down the road? What will we be? We will be nothing. All we can do is notice.
This poem is beautiful and simple. I am a huge fan of noticing (ha ha). Too often, things as small as the intense brownness of the awnings goes unnoticed. The misplacement of a cat is overlooked. But if nothing matters, why do we focus so much on the big things, and forget the little things?
The sublime is noticing. The sublime is taking the time to realize the color of the sun and moon, and the colors that they are not. The sublime is wondering what the world would be like if this were not so. The sublime is taking the time to see every day things, to not rush, to watch the happenings of a cat.
This poem is about noticing. This poem is about simplicity. This poem is about the sublime.
La-la! The cat is in the violets
And the awnings are let down.
The cat should not be where she is
And the awnings are too brown,
Emphatically so.
If awnings were celeste and gay,
Iris and orange, crimson and green,
Blue and vermilion, purple and white,
And not this tinsmith's galaxy,
Things would be different.
The sun is gold, the moon is silver.
There must be a planet that is copper
And in whose light the roses
Would have a most singular appearance,
Or nearly so.
I love to sit and read the Telegraph
That vast confect of telegrams,
And to find how much that really matters
Does not really matter
At all.
What is this about? When I first read this poem, it just reminded me of a wandering mind on a Sunday afternoon. I picture an old man sitting on his porch, watching the world happen. This is a poem about noticing. It kind of reminds me of the poem I was assigned to memorize, Vacancy in the Park. Here, too, is a poem about noticing. Merely noticing the simple footsteps in the spring snow.
Life is simple. Things are. The sun is gold. The moon is sliver. If it wasn't, it would be different. But that is exactly how things are. Nothing matters.
The more I read Stevens, the more Lucretius screams at me. "And to find how much that really matters/ Does not really matter/ At all." It doesn't matter. What will all this be years down the road? What will we be? We will be nothing. All we can do is notice.
This poem is beautiful and simple. I am a huge fan of noticing (ha ha). Too often, things as small as the intense brownness of the awnings goes unnoticed. The misplacement of a cat is overlooked. But if nothing matters, why do we focus so much on the big things, and forget the little things?
The sublime is noticing. The sublime is taking the time to realize the color of the sun and moon, and the colors that they are not. The sublime is wondering what the world would be like if this were not so. The sublime is taking the time to see every day things, to not rush, to watch the happenings of a cat.
This poem is about noticing. This poem is about simplicity. This poem is about the sublime.
Monday, September 24, 2012
The Simple Things
Okay, so...
I absolutely love the poem that I was assigned to memorize ("Vacancy in the Park"). The opening lines immediately grabbed me:
"March... Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for he knows not what."
I love the little things the world has to offer. Walking down the street, I am usually looking down, not because I'm ignoring the world around me, but because I am trying to absorb the miniscule things that usually go unnoticed. I fall in love with the cracks in the sidewalk, a trampled cigarette butt, the corner where the sidewalk meets a building, creases on a page in a book, graffiti in a bathroom stall. Each of these has a story, and I love to imagine the stories behind them.
This is what this poem says to me. I picture old tracks in Spring snow, melted slightly so that they are deformed, but still traveling to an unknown destination. These footsteps are memories of something that has gone by. It really does not matter what it is, just that it happened.
To me, this is sublime. We leave our memories unintentionally. We know nothing of the person who left these footprints except that they were here and now they are not. The world serves as our record-keeper and we each leave a mark. These footprints will fade, but they are here now, and that's what matters.
I have had a hard time connecting Lucretius with the sublime. I can understand his reasoning, how we can feel sublime knowing that this is the only time we have and we must cherish it. We can only truly enjoy something if we know it will be gone someday. However, I had a hard time feeling sublime with this mindset. If all we face is an eternity of nothing, what's the point? Why are we even here? This seems to be the opposite of sublime to me.
However, reading this poem, I understand. Our time on this Earth is beautiful. We each leave our footprints, our memories, our mark on this world. We may be gone, but we leave something behind. Eventually we will be forgotten and it will seem as though our lives do not matter, but really it's all just cracks in the sidewalk, graffiti in a bathroom stall, footprints in March snow... Our lives are the things that go unnoticed, the imperfections, but we are still here. We still matter. This is sublime: true understanding. The simple things.
I don't know, maybe I'm way off. But these two lines really spoke to me. These are the lines that will fester in my mind and stay with me for a while.
I absolutely love the poem that I was assigned to memorize ("Vacancy in the Park"). The opening lines immediately grabbed me:
"March... Someone has walked across the snow,
Someone looking for he knows not what."
I love the little things the world has to offer. Walking down the street, I am usually looking down, not because I'm ignoring the world around me, but because I am trying to absorb the miniscule things that usually go unnoticed. I fall in love with the cracks in the sidewalk, a trampled cigarette butt, the corner where the sidewalk meets a building, creases on a page in a book, graffiti in a bathroom stall. Each of these has a story, and I love to imagine the stories behind them.
This is what this poem says to me. I picture old tracks in Spring snow, melted slightly so that they are deformed, but still traveling to an unknown destination. These footsteps are memories of something that has gone by. It really does not matter what it is, just that it happened.
To me, this is sublime. We leave our memories unintentionally. We know nothing of the person who left these footprints except that they were here and now they are not. The world serves as our record-keeper and we each leave a mark. These footprints will fade, but they are here now, and that's what matters.
I have had a hard time connecting Lucretius with the sublime. I can understand his reasoning, how we can feel sublime knowing that this is the only time we have and we must cherish it. We can only truly enjoy something if we know it will be gone someday. However, I had a hard time feeling sublime with this mindset. If all we face is an eternity of nothing, what's the point? Why are we even here? This seems to be the opposite of sublime to me.
However, reading this poem, I understand. Our time on this Earth is beautiful. We each leave our footprints, our memories, our mark on this world. We may be gone, but we leave something behind. Eventually we will be forgotten and it will seem as though our lives do not matter, but really it's all just cracks in the sidewalk, graffiti in a bathroom stall, footprints in March snow... Our lives are the things that go unnoticed, the imperfections, but we are still here. We still matter. This is sublime: true understanding. The simple things.
I don't know, maybe I'm way off. But these two lines really spoke to me. These are the lines that will fester in my mind and stay with me for a while.
Back Story
Death does not take my memory. I remember that day. The chaos. The
fire. It has been so long. People come to clean our remains. They are
only children, or have we been gone for that long? They do not know what
happened here. They do not know how we were once full of life. We ran
and we lived and we were full of life.
Oh how we loved life. I remember the smell of the grapes in Autumn, sharp with the crisp fall breeze.
The children are only left to guess at who we were. What we left. At least they can guess at how we saw, how we felt.
I remember the clouds in Spring, flowing behind our mansion, our garden, our home. The breeze rushed through our gate, joining the clouds in their dance.
The children will live here, will live our lives. They will see what we saw, live what we lived, and they will never know. Only our memories remain, haunting the land like a spirit.
But it is all just a house. Only a house, nothing more. It was beautiful to us in live, but it is nothing in death.
Oh how we loved life. I remember the smell of the grapes in Autumn, sharp with the crisp fall breeze.
The children are only left to guess at who we were. What we left. At least they can guess at how we saw, how we felt.
I remember the clouds in Spring, flowing behind our mansion, our garden, our home. The breeze rushed through our gate, joining the clouds in their dance.
The children will live here, will live our lives. They will see what we saw, live what we lived, and they will never know. Only our memories remain, haunting the land like a spirit.
But it is all just a house. Only a house, nothing more. It was beautiful to us in live, but it is nothing in death.
A High-Toned Old Christian Woman
Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
Of all the poems we were told to read over the weekend, this stuck with me the most. Firstly, I was struck by the tone of the poem. It's kind of no-nonsense, this is how it is, you are wrong. It's not necessarily bitter or malicious, but it is very firm. There is a lot of passion behind his words. For him, this is it. This poem is incredibly Lucretius. "Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame. Take the moral law and make a nave of it And from the nave build haunted heaven." He calls her belief not only fiction, but childish. Although he says later that they "agree in principle" she is finding meaning in childish things which do not exist, and, therefore, she is only kidding herself. Her life is empty.
I think it's interesting when he says, "Proud of such novelties of the sublime." This, I think, is the most powerful line in the poem, or, at least, it is the line that struck a chord in my mind. "Novelties" and "sublime" are two words that should never be seen in conjunction with each other, and yet here it is. It shows how she has given her whole self to this belief and found joy and a sense of sublimeness that is false. So false as to be called a novelty. It is interesting that he acknowledges her false understanding of the sublime and, although, again, they share the same principles, she is only kidding herself. Her life is fiction, and it's sad. He follows this line with complete gibberish, reflecting the gibberish she spouts daily.
Mostly, this poem caught my eye because of "novelties of the sublime." I thought this was a sadly beautiful line which brings many images in my mind. Immediately I thought of the blissful ignorance of a child, who has absolutely no idea of what the world truly holds.
Take the moral law and make a nave of it
And from the nave build haunted heaven. Thus,
The conscience is converted into palms,
Like windy citherns hankering for hymns.
We agree in principle. That's clear. But take
The opposing law and make a peristyle,
And from the peristyle project a masque
Beyond the planets. Thus, our bawdiness,
Unpurged by epitaph, indulged at last,
Is equally converted into palms,
Squiggling like saxophones. And palm for palm,
Madame, we are where we began. Allow,
Therefore, that in the planetary scene
Your disaffected flagellants, well-stuffed,
Smacking their muzzy bellies in parade,
Proud of such novelties of the sublime,
Such tink and tank and tunk-a-tunk-tunk,
May, merely may, madame, whip from themselves
A jovial hullabaloo among the spheres.
This will make widows wince. But fictive things
Wink as they will. Wink most when widows wince.
Of all the poems we were told to read over the weekend, this stuck with me the most. Firstly, I was struck by the tone of the poem. It's kind of no-nonsense, this is how it is, you are wrong. It's not necessarily bitter or malicious, but it is very firm. There is a lot of passion behind his words. For him, this is it. This poem is incredibly Lucretius. "Poetry is the supreme fiction, madame. Take the moral law and make a nave of it And from the nave build haunted heaven." He calls her belief not only fiction, but childish. Although he says later that they "agree in principle" she is finding meaning in childish things which do not exist, and, therefore, she is only kidding herself. Her life is empty.
I think it's interesting when he says, "Proud of such novelties of the sublime." This, I think, is the most powerful line in the poem, or, at least, it is the line that struck a chord in my mind. "Novelties" and "sublime" are two words that should never be seen in conjunction with each other, and yet here it is. It shows how she has given her whole self to this belief and found joy and a sense of sublimeness that is false. So false as to be called a novelty. It is interesting that he acknowledges her false understanding of the sublime and, although, again, they share the same principles, she is only kidding herself. Her life is fiction, and it's sad. He follows this line with complete gibberish, reflecting the gibberish she spouts daily.
Mostly, this poem caught my eye because of "novelties of the sublime." I thought this was a sadly beautiful line which brings many images in my mind. Immediately I thought of the blissful ignorance of a child, who has absolutely no idea of what the world truly holds.
Borrowed Book
The book I borrowed is "Modernism and the Other in Stevens, Frost, and Moore" by Andrew M. Lakritz
I Am The Walrus
So, to be perfectly honest, when I first cracked open "The Bible"
and set my eyes upon Earthly Anecdote, I felt completely and utterly
overwhelmed. As I continued reading the poems of Wallace Stevens, my
overwhelmed feelings grew and grew until I began to wonder if I was
crazy to even think I had what it took to be in this class. However,
yesterday, when we discussed the sound of words and looked at Violet's
story, I took a completely different approach to Stevens' poetry. I
couldn't help but think of "I Am the Walrus" by The Beatles (technically
written by John Lennon). The song makes no sense whatsoever using
sounds such as "goo goo g'joob" and entirely made-up words
(crabalocker). For some reason, though, I have never had any issue
understanding this song. It is almost abstract in its meaning; in fact,
it seems as though the whole point is that it has no meaning. The
meaning I have always gotten from it has come in the form of feelings
and images I have conjured while listening to the song. The combination
of the music and the sounds of the words create this world in my mind
that cannot be entirely explained, but I have always found this deep,
strange connection to this song. I feel as though I have fallen into the
mind of Lennon as I listen and together we go on this journey through
his imagination.
I have been trying to keep this in mind as I read the poems of Wallace Stevens. Instead of trying to find the metaphor in his work and decipher an actual physical meaning, I read it with only the abstract in mind. What feelings does this string of words bring to the surface? What does my inner eye see? What pictures does he paint with his words? Instead of trying to figure out what he means, I try instead to hear how he wanted to be read. How was he intending his poem to sound? His words are music, and I intend to read them as such. I have found a much great appreciation and understanding of Stevens reading his work as such.
I Am the Walrus
I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.
I'm crying.
Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody tuesday.
Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.
Mister city policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
Yellow mother custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.
Sitting in an english garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun don't come, you get a tan
From standing in the english rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob goo goo g'joob.
Expert textpert choking smokers,
Don't you think the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty,
See how they snied.
I'm crying.
Semolina pilchard, climbing up the eiffel tower.
Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna.
Man, you should have seen them kicking edgar allan poe.
I am the eggman, They are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob goo goo g'joob goo goo g'joob.
Goo goo g'joob goo
I have been trying to keep this in mind as I read the poems of Wallace Stevens. Instead of trying to find the metaphor in his work and decipher an actual physical meaning, I read it with only the abstract in mind. What feelings does this string of words bring to the surface? What does my inner eye see? What pictures does he paint with his words? Instead of trying to figure out what he means, I try instead to hear how he wanted to be read. How was he intending his poem to sound? His words are music, and I intend to read them as such. I have found a much great appreciation and understanding of Stevens reading his work as such.
I Am the Walrus
I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
See how they run like pigs from a gun, see how they fly.
I'm crying.
Sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come.
Corporation tee-shirt, stupid bloody tuesday.
Man, you been a naughty boy, you let your face grow long.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.
Mister city policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row.
See how they fly like Lucy in the Sky, see how they run.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
I'm crying, I'm crying.
Yellow mother custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye.
Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess,
Boy, you been a naughty girl you let your knickers down.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob.
Sitting in an english garden waiting for the sun.
If the sun don't come, you get a tan
From standing in the english rain.
I am the eggman, they are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob goo goo g'joob.
Expert textpert choking smokers,
Don't you think the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty,
See how they snied.
I'm crying.
Semolina pilchard, climbing up the eiffel tower.
Elementary penguin singing Hari Krishna.
Man, you should have seen them kicking edgar allan poe.
I am the eggman, They are the eggmen.
I am the walrus, goo goo g'joob goo goo g'joob goo goo g'joob.
Goo goo g'joob goo
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