"note, passed to superman" from Lucille Cliffton, a human

The structure of this poem is quite possibly its most meaningful piece (in competition with the final two lines). Lucille Cliffton, born 1936, models her poem to literally resemble a note to Superman, conceived 1938. Having grown up with Superman, I imagine she is using him as his early symbolisms portray him: the Big Blue Boyscout, childish savior of the world all grown up. The first line kicks off the rhetoric with an interesting juxtaposition of "jesus," and "superman." Placing these two on opposite sides of the comma seem to suggest a comparison or contrast of these two symbols: quite possibly a comment on the modern paraphrasing of religious figures and media anaologies.

She goes on to discuss Superman's role in Metropolis as a troubled crime-fighter, making a sly allusion to the "choirboy" (boyscout) Clark Kent, and to provide a very interesting point of view on interaction with alien life.
I have always thought it selfish to believe that we, here on earth, are the only living organisms in this vast, immeasurable universe. Cliffton takes that idea one step further and says "there is no planet stranger/ than the one i'm from." It's interesting to consider ourselves as aliens, and Cliffton introduces the idea with much subtlety along with a comment on our existence. Perhaps even her consideration of Superman as a character is a comment on the strange nature of our societal consciousness. Perhaps it is getting late.

"The Guitarist Tunes Up"--Am "I" the Guitarist?

I, having been a guitarist for some time now, absolutely loved this poem. I wish that I had read it before I played and then after once more: the meaning is lucid, but I feel that I might owe that clarity to my experience with the instrument.

Tuning is definitely a fine process--fraught with caution and optimism. While I'm tuning, I feel truly at the mercy of the instrument: strings could break, bolts could loose and drop pitch, stirrups can catch strings and make sound lies, the whole event is nerve-wracking. At the same time, I've spent enough time with my guitars to gain an understanding of their habits. With that knowledge, I can't express the feeling of tuning any more clearly than Frances Cornford's "attentive courtesy." He goes on to illustrate a relationship between the man and his guitar with a likeness to marriage, and he does so quite rightly. Guitars have the strange capacity to sound entirely different at moment's notice. The guitarist doesn't command the guitar, he simply participates in the creation of music, pulling creativity out of its resting place within the hollowed body

Am "I" the Guitarist? I was able to relate to this poem instantly. There was no translation for the emotions and ideas presented, so when I ask this question, I don't mean myself in particular, but any guitarist in the first person. It seems as though Cornford wanted to paint a portrait of the tuning guitarist and show it to those that can't see from the outside. I had always thought of tuning as an embarrassing display of under-preparation, but Cornford has made it beautiful in this poem.

"The End of Life"

This critical juncture at which
I find myself is truly a
Bittersweet Freedom.
The great, collapsing cliffs of
Venture and Folly,
Grinding atop my eight by ten paradigm.
Panoramic view of white-washed walls and
Clothing I can no longer wear--piling
Next to the suitcase as if for a bonfire.
Crumbling scribbles of three brothers, age five,
Hide under a fresh coat of paint.
The year is out.
A foray into the cold.

Question Poem

"The Purpose We Don't Know"

Is there a reason or being?
Will we ever know?
Does one find it in others?
Can it help us live more completely?
Does it bring us peace?
Will it bring war?
Will it find us?
Why?