Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Friday, December 14, 2012

Poetry I Wrote - Probably Badly

Hey. So I write prose. I don't know if you've noticed from EVERY SINGLE OTHER post on this blog. Even the one I called a poem is really prose written in very short sentences. These two are actually poems. The first is a sort of modified sonnet and the second one is a prose poem. If they're really bad feel free to let me know and I won't post poetry up here again. This is kinda an experiment. Have fun. Also the first poem should really be read with this playing in the background.


A Rain Sonnet -
Drips echo up in to my ear
Washing clean my cares and my fear
See it’s not the feel nor the sound
Wherein stormy pleasure is found.
Rather tis the thought may that I
Prove the sadness brought by the rain
Fiction, Fant’sy, and Brittle Lie –
Lies of sorrow, sadness, and pain
“sad is happy for deep people”
Just to feel is proof of my life
Life is not found in home’r steeple
But in good hope after strife
How can sadness stay here and not
Flee if’t exposes what I’ve got?

The Source of Utopia -
For me there is no single utopia. I am enthralled by the serene life of the countryside. The slow moving people. The sweet smelling wind. The sounds of life in its purest form.
Yet I find an equal peace in the city – in the hustle and bustle of the city. The speeding of the always-cycling train. The rising stench of a thousand hot dog stands. The dull roar of a city that won’t sleep.
For me, utopia is the progression of life reminding me I’m alive. Utopia isn’t a sight. Or a smell. Or a sound. It is the amazing variety of sights in every place. And the ever changing scent of the world. And the sounds of the different folk, flora, and fauna found throughout the earth.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Beauty in Mundanity - A Review of MFA Poetry Readings in the Narrative Format


            The poetry reading started not with a bang or a murmur, but with well-maintained introductions. I arrived just as the first reader was introduced – Blake something – or something Blake. I had biked here and was in all likelihood not the best smelling human being in the room, so I was a little distracted when they announced his name. He is an established author who has been published a number of times. He is known for his humor, and he writes prose. Tonight, Blake will be reading his short story “The Best Man,” which he admits to the audience is about his brother. It is hilarious. Irreverent and mundane, the story details the narrator and his brother’s trip to a tailor to get their tuxedos fitted. The story seems to me to be an expose of the relationship dynamics between the narrator (who, under first impression, appears to be a pretty solid reflection of Blake) and his brother. The short piece details exactly how the narrator feels about his brother and life in general. The whole thing was a surprisingly realistic and uncensored (at one point the narrator ponders “rubbing one out” to a Victoria’s Secret catalogue) portrayal of what goes on inside a man’s head. I thought it was wonderful.
            Following the reading I take a look around the room. There is wine and cheese in the corner. Pretentious? Yes. Delicious looking? Of course. Do I want some? Most definitely. Unfortunately I can’t reach the wine and cheese due to the massive crowd guarding the concessions. That’s when I notice that the room is full of people from my class who, like me, had waited till the last possible reading to attend. It’s always nice to know you’re not alone. Yay for procrastination.  The next reader comes up, a man named Tommy who will be reading us a few of his poems. Now until three months ago I had never really appreciated poetry. And while this quarter has changed my impression quite a bit, I was still shocked at how much I liked this guy’s poetry. He writes about the most profound things – the imprisoning feeling of small towns or the ubiquity of love in all aspects of life – and the most commonplace – masturbation and the sadness of losing your favorite chicken and waffles restaurant. His work truly showcased the potential for story and poetry in every moment.
            Tommy was soon replaced by prose writer Kendra Fish. I definitely caught her name because I thought Tommy had said ‘Fitch’ in his introduction of her. He did not. He said Fish. She was also very impressive. She read excerpts from a story entitled “Both, Sister, mother, More.” The narrative was difficult to follow because of how much she jumped around during her reading, but from what I gathered, the story was about a gypsy woman and her daughter trying to live a normal life in Belgium. The story dealt with heavy issues like self-identity and sexuality extremely well, never trivializing or demonizing them. It is a story that I can see coming together to be a masterpiece examination of character growth and the mother-daughter relationship.
            At this point my back was beginning to get tired from standing in the same position for an hour. But luckily the last person, a woman named Megan, began reading her poetry just as I was becoming uncomfortable. I did not like Megan’s poetry. Perhaps my mind was tainted with the pain in my back and odd smells emanating from my dried sweat, but I found very little intriguing or strictly poetic about her writing. To be fair to Megan, she is a phenomenal writer; she handles imagery better than most I've read. However, I found her poetry to be lacking in any strictly poetic qualities beyond vivid description, which should be a quality of all good writing. I thought her descriptions were beautiful and well-conceived – I just wouldn't call them poetry.
            And thusly the night ended. My classmates and I ushered up to the front to get Tommy and Megan’s signatures and we were off for long bike rides home and whatever else awaited us in the night outside – now armed with the knowledge that beauty and more can be found in every second we are living. 

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

On Getting Drunk

So this is not the next installment in my 2012 series. I'm working on that. I'll get it to you guys. But I was working on a response paper for a poem by Charles Baudelaire called "Get Drunk." Well that's what the English translation is called. I can neither pronounce nor read French, so I won't include any of that here. Anyway I liked the poem and had fun responding to it, so I thought I'd share it with you guys.

This is the poem:


“Get Drunk”

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time which breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.
But on what?  On wine, on poetry or on virtue, whatever you wish. But get drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake up again, the drunkenness already diminished or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: “It is time to get drunk!  So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get continually drunk!  On wine, on poetry or on virtue, whatever you wish."  

And here is my response (sorry for the formal structure, it's for class):

In Charles Baudelaire’s poem “Enivrez-Vous” (“Get Drunk”), he makes the bold declaration that we as humans must always be drunk, so as not to be crushed by the oppressive weight of life. He follows this with the assertion that it doesn’t matter on what we get drunk, whether it be “on wine, on poetry, or on virtue,” as long as we get drunk. Now I thought this argument was interesting, as “drunk” can be defined in a general sense as being unable to make one’s own decisions, and thus Baudelaire is arguing that it is better to go through life a slave to something else than it is to make well-thought out decisions. However, what is more interesting to me, though not entirely mutually exclusive, is the likening of poetry and virtue to substances equally as capable of robbing a person of sobriety as wine and the ways these substances can lead to insobriety.
            First let’s examine poetry. Poetry is a creation. Poetry and writing in general provide the deepest reflections of a soul. Poetry serves as a canvas for those who write it and a mirror for those who read it. Poetry reveals far more about the person interpreting it than it does its subject. So if this is our definition and understanding of poetry, then how is it intoxicating? I think that the expression and reflection a poem provides often results in passion. We have a passion for knowing ourselves and an even greater passion for knowing others. And from passion, both scientifically and emotionally, comes an elation that robs us of our self-control. We whoop for joy. We weep great tears. We scream in agony. So it seems that poetry intoxicates by playing to our passions and freeing us from our inhibitions.
            Now let’s take a look at virtue. Where poetry was freeing, virtue is confining. Virtue limits one’s actions to a set moral compass. While virtue’s limits on actions set it apart from the freed action of poetry and wine, it can still get someone drunk. By removing a person’s options, virtue allows for a certain freedom of decision. Morals limit a decision to one option, thereby removing the moment of crisis that comes with making said decision. Virtue removes one’s ability to make one’s decision by removing all decisions in one’s life, thereby adhering to our definition of “drunk.”
            Finally I think it’s important to consider what effect this has on the poem. Our initial reading of the poem suggested that Baudelaire is arguing that we be slaves rather than thinking beings. However, poetry suggests just the opposite - that we need to be freed from our inhibitions in order to live life to its fullest and not be “slaves of time.” Thus the lack of control inherent in being drunk, whether off wine or the passion of poetry, frees us from the weight of the world. However, virtue suggests that this inebriation is also possible through enslavement to a master other than time, namely morals. Virtue frees us from time by freeing us from decision, making us drunk off of morals. After examining poetry and virtue as inebriants, our reading must then be adapted to encompass the freedoms they supply. I propose instead that Baudelaire is suggesting that in order to live life to its fullest we must have all the cares of everyday life lifted from our shoulders in any way we can.

Not included in original essay -
I'm not sure if I agree with this poem or not. On one hand, I think drunkeness provides us with one extremely valuable resource: the ability to just say or do something without regard for other people's opinions. On the other hand there are few things I value more than intelligent discourse, which can only come about with carefully weighted decision making. So I think if we go with the final reading of the poem I proposed and limit it to certain situations, then I'd agree. For example, its a lot easier to tell a girl you think she's beautiful if you have given up on all your inhibitions. But those same inhibitions help us debate things like politics, science, religion, morals, literature, and pretty much everything else. So I think in making decisions of the self, our hearts should be ruled by passion or morality, but in decisions regarding others and matters of intellect we  should let our brains do the talking. But that's just my opinion, what do you think?

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

"I Wish I Could Understand": a poem

So I don't write poetry often. In fact this is the first thing I've written that wasn't a school assignment, but it was on my mind and I'm late on a post this week. So please enjoy this poem until I get up my review of Starkid's new play "Holy Musical B@man":

I don't understand how I can detest someone so much and miss them terribly at the same time.

I don't understand how I can mean it telling someone "I love you," and scream at them for destroying the person I love most.

I don't understand how someone can declare love for me and defile that which I hold most dear.

I wish I could understand.

Cause if I understood, maybe I could do something. Maybe I could escape somewhere. Maybe I could move on somehow.

I wish I could understand.
But I can't.

By - S.G. Spears