"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?

"Personal Hellicon"

I was recently trapped by writer's block--a condition that plagues me every so often--and having read through this poem again, I believe I have found a directed remedy to my plight. This poem, "Personal Helicon" by Seamus Heaney, shows the speakers growth as a man from carefree child to self-aware adult. Interestingly he uses a well to symbolize his ability to see himself as others see him--humanity is a well of experience (or some such quote in cliche). The first well has no reflection, and that is when Heaney's play seems most full of mirth. That is when true creativity and fun are taking place. Then a face starts to take it's form: first as a hovering, white apparition, then a fully fledged reflection (like the of Narcissus).

I thought to myself, having come to terms with the fact that I have writer's block, what am I trying to write for? Fame? Publication? Money? No, I was writing for the sake of creativity and expression. In this poem, I found that intended audiences, people we assume to be critiquing our work, force us to see the mirror and polish, rather than create. As thus, I have taken to writing in privacy. No expectations, no reflections about appearance, and no stress. I am cured at last.

Sort of a Blog Response

William Williams (quite a humorous name, in fact) has truly baffled and impressed me with his poem, "Sort of a Song." Here, I shall attempt deconstruction and reexamination.

"Let the snake wait under
his weed"

This seems simple enough: let the thing exist where it should exist. He seems to be setting up a direct comparison of the relation between the snake and his weed to the nature of writing.

"and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait
sleepless."

This is where confusion rears its ugly head. Since we're letting the snake exist in his habitat, we must be letting writing consist of its natural factor: words both slow and quick--words sharp to strike--words quiet to wait sleepless. Slow and quick seems clear, a possible reference to several literary ideas that involve pacing and diction. Sharp to strike, now I'm lost. Does he mean "sharp" as in "The better 'to strike' you with"? Or "sharp" as in "striking this will allow you to discover how sharp it is"? It seems the first would fit more cleanly. Words that are slow, quick, sharp, and quiet. Waiting sleepless, however, seems pretty clear: words are always 100% accessible.

The structure here is what has me truly impressed: it's as if the first idea completes the first stanza and leaves me blank space beneath it for reflection. Then, with an em dash of great importance, Williams cuts into my reflection with further poetry.

"--through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones."

I can only assume the subject to be writing. If that is true, these lines say that metaphor (a symbol here for figurative language, I think) allows writing to reconcile all things in this world, from the pebble to the human mind.

"Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!"

The use of single word imperatives here is a brilliant call to action. "No ideas but in things" might mean only ideas that pertain to reality.

"Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saxifraga I cannot relate these ideas. However, splitting rocks is the first step to breaking ground and finding something valuable (?). Perhaps "Saxifrage" is the thought that helps Williams start in his composition process and he is suggesting that we each find our own Invention Starter.

When broken up, the poem seems to make a little bit more sense. I really wish I could talk to Williams.

"No man is an island, entire of itself."

Edgar Allen Poe's "Alone" starts with a dark and gloomy reminiscence about his isolation in childhood. He then goes on to say that "Then--in my childhood... was drawn/ The mystery... Of a demon in my view." I have experienced times of intellectual reflection in which I believed myself to be entirely of an independent nature. And of that nature, I do deem to have 'seen a demon.' I think that Poe is trying to point out that his separation from others early on has forced him to look from a third party perspective and see the 'demons' of the other's lives. I entirely agree that isolation can breed cynicism through over-analysis. However, in John Donne's Meditation XVII, he says that "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main." In that, Donne is saying that all life is interrelated (at least on the level of human emotion) and that Poe's witness of the 'demon' as a result of being alone may be a witness of the 'demon' of loneliness itself.  These opposing ideas became ever-prevalent in my thoughts on this subject when I began to wonder about my academic lack of peers. It wasn't truly a lack of peers at all. Quite the contrary, the 'demon' of my loneliness was a fear of anything more than loneliness. However, Poe's representation of one side of this discussion was artfully crafted with a chain of couplets and what seems to be a loose iambic tetrameter. The genuine nature of the piece will hopefully find its way into my writing through example.