"Writing" with Jan Dean

This poem, a free-written spout of inspiration coupled with a biting mentor's retort, shows the true path that language takes when put through the steam-press that is schooling. Jan Dean, an apparently talented poet, takes what seems to be the free-writing of a child, which details a grotesque scene of trauma and concern, and pairs it with the eloquent corrections of what the reader can assume to be the child's teacher. Through this juxtaposition of incorrect, untidied passion and curt, cold corrections, Dean takes a jab at the system of education. The poem glows with the idealism of preserving an author's voice and helping that author to better convey his or her message. It shines even more as a critical frown on teachers that read for grading and not for understanding. I hope that, when I become an educator, I remember Dean's sentiment and appreciate my young writers for what they have done correctly and not what they have done wrong.

"Oh, Oh" a Successful Second Attempt

I have long been a skeptic of the 'Read Twice' method of understanding poetry; I have always believed that, for analytical purposes, a poem need only be read once with proper thoroughness. After reading William Hathaway's "Oh, Oh," I find myself rejoicing in the success of the 'Read Twice' method. "My girl and I amble a country lane," Hathaway brilliantly and simply paints a portrait of the true beauty of the countryside: most of this with the connotational naming--country lane. "moo cows chomping daisies, our own" Calling the cows "moo cows" adds credibility and character to the speaker as a man of the country--magnified even mores by the line cut, indicating ownership of the daisies being chomped. "sweet saliva green with grass stems." This is the part that lent itself to a second reading. At this point, I was convinced that the speaker was a cow and that this poem was about cow love. I realized upon a second reading, however, that Hathaway only suggest ownership of the daisies and that the speaker is chewing grass and observing the cows. The imagery thus far is brilliant. After this glorious setting is in place, dialogue kicks in from 'his girl.' The conversation slowly winds its way around their relationship: both in appreciation to the world they have, expressing dreams of a far off future that "loyally" include one another. It's all very delightful, until they "look/ eagerly to the road ahead. And there, poised and growling, are fifty Hell's Angels." This sharp turn in the final line of the poem rhetorically mimics my thought process in terms of existence: when I am surrounded on all sides by nature, I look to the trees, I listen to the birds, I feel the cool water of the lake, and when my perception is complete, my appreciation turns to concern--worry about the road ahead, paved with demons. Being somewhat of a religious wanderer, my concept of Hell's Angels (excluding the biker gang, with which I am all too familiar) is boiled down simply to 'demons,' but with a more understanding connotation: Hell's Angels could be the renaming of harsh experiences that will benefit us in that they are experiences. Anyway, Hathaway very clearly exhibits the harsh turn of thought on a beautiful day to the troubles that lie in wait on the road ahead, "poised and growling." This has been a quality poem, by William Hathaway, who is still alive at age 87 today. Congratulations, living poet. You made it.

By blustin | View this Toon at ToonDoo | Create your own Toon

By blustin | View this Toon at ToonDoo | Create your own Toon

Blake and I worked together on these, so please give him some credit!

"When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer," I listened elsewhere

This poem, by Walt Whitman (one of my favorite poets), is a blurred and generalized reflection of--or inspiration for--Billy Collins' "Introduction to Poetry." The speaker hears from the accomplished astronomer his analysis of the massive and unquantifiable space and becomes "tired and sick." Annoyed at the blatant arrogance of one attempting to trap the majesty of the universe with a pen and paper, the listener wanders away and seeks the inexplicable wonder simply by looking to the stars. Whitman's genius lies in both his message and his presentation: the structure of the first half of the two part idea rhetorically suggests the structure of the lecture--each line longer and more droning than the last. Then, the lines are cut short, reflecting the calm of the night outside the lecture hall, the same calm as the contented feelings that overtake the speaker. This rhetorical manipulation of the structure allows the reader to truly empathize with the speaker and the situation. Sprinkled with some instances of literary device and imagery, this poem stays true to Whitman's artistic address to language.

"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.