While Natalie Wood twirls in the Tennessee night
suspended above trucks
Billy pushes me down on the seat
fumbles with my bra.
He's heavy and clumsy
wants me for his steady girl
leaves a hickey on my breast.
I know how to hide traces of sex
with powder and perfume
how to please penis and mama
at the same time
go through a string of Billies
settle out of state
for one of them.
Years later Natalie falls off a boat.
I dream I'm treading water when
she reaches for help.
Afraid of going under
I watch her drown.
-Chella Courington, Southern Girl Gone Wrong
What fascinates me in this poem is the interplay between the speaker and Natalie Wood. At the beginning Natalie "twirls above trucks," presumably on a movie screen at a drive-in theatre. In that scene, the speaker is being "pushed down" by Billy, so there is an interplay between the elevation of the two women. Later in the poem the speaker dreams of watching Natalie wood in the ocean near the boat she fell off of. The poet, treading water, could reach out to help Natalie, but is afraid of going down herself and so watches her drown. So by the end of the poem the two women have switched positions. Going back to the beginning of the poem, perhaps the Speaker feels herself "drowning" under the Billies of the world, and has finally found a way from drowning, though still in the water.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Poetry Journal #15 - Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches --
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries with it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead --
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging --
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted --
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
-Mary Oliver, Dream Work
What surprises me about this poem is the quantity of punctuation. For such a short poem there is a large number of commas and periods. I think that the poet uses the punctuation as a way of creating a slow reading of the poem. The poem is titled "Morning Poem" and has an overall feeling of a slow awakening, and I believe that the poet's use of punctuation accents that nicely.
I enjoy the lines "If your spirit carries with it the thorn that is heavier than lead." It's a very artful way to articulate a cynicism or depression that most people find present in their spirits from time to time.
I think that overall, the poet's message in the poem is that, despite any difficulty you may feel in yourself or in the outside the world, each morning that you awaken is a prayer answered, is a blessing. From the beauty of the way light changes leaves from heaps of ash in the darkness to defined works of stained glass to the way black fabric becomes ponds and islands with lilies, the morning brings life and light to the world, and to you.
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches --
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries with it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead --
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging --
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted --
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
-Mary Oliver, Dream Work
What surprises me about this poem is the quantity of punctuation. For such a short poem there is a large number of commas and periods. I think that the poet uses the punctuation as a way of creating a slow reading of the poem. The poem is titled "Morning Poem" and has an overall feeling of a slow awakening, and I believe that the poet's use of punctuation accents that nicely.
I enjoy the lines "If your spirit carries with it the thorn that is heavier than lead." It's a very artful way to articulate a cynicism or depression that most people find present in their spirits from time to time.
I think that overall, the poet's message in the poem is that, despite any difficulty you may feel in yourself or in the outside the world, each morning that you awaken is a prayer answered, is a blessing. From the beauty of the way light changes leaves from heaps of ash in the darkness to defined works of stained glass to the way black fabric becomes ponds and islands with lilies, the morning brings life and light to the world, and to you.
Poetry Journal #14 - Love
The boy at the far end of the train car
kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone
and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door to let her in
and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.
She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.
And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,
whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.
And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together
is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,
I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted
when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.
-Billy Collins, Nine Horses
I find this poem interesting because of the description of the girl. The speaker, who in the poem is an observer of the interaction between the boy and the girl, doesn't give any indication of the woman's emotion, or action beyond describing her as "somber" and that she enters the cabin and lifts the cello into the overhead compartment. And yet, he calls her an angel, and describes the boy's eyes upon her as comparison to the saints looking upon god.
I think that there is extreme magic to the last two stanzas to this poem. It's a somewhat ordinary description up until then, and then it takes this fantastical descriptive twist. One would never have expected the boy's eyes to be described in such a manner, or have the girl compared to a painting of God. The poem ends in a very special way in that manner.
kept looking behind him
as if he were afraid or expecting someone
and then she appeared in the glass door
of the forward car and he rose
and opened the door to let her in
and she entered the car carrying
a large black case
in the unmistakable shape of a cello.
She looked like an angel with a high forehead
and somber eyes and her hair
was tied up behind her neck with a black bow.
And because of all that,
he seemed a little awkward
in his happiness to see her,
whereas she was simply there,
perfectly existing as a creature
with a soft face who played the cello.
And the reason I am writing this
on the back of a manila envelope
now that they have left the train together
is to tell you that when she turned
to lift the large, delicate cello
onto the overhead rack,
I saw him looking up at her
and what she was doing
the way the eyes of saints are painted
when they are looking up at God
when he is doing something remarkable,
something that identifies him as God.
-Billy Collins, Nine Horses
I find this poem interesting because of the description of the girl. The speaker, who in the poem is an observer of the interaction between the boy and the girl, doesn't give any indication of the woman's emotion, or action beyond describing her as "somber" and that she enters the cabin and lifts the cello into the overhead compartment. And yet, he calls her an angel, and describes the boy's eyes upon her as comparison to the saints looking upon god.
I think that there is extreme magic to the last two stanzas to this poem. It's a somewhat ordinary description up until then, and then it takes this fantastical descriptive twist. One would never have expected the boy's eyes to be described in such a manner, or have the girl compared to a painting of God. The poem ends in a very special way in that manner.
Poetry Journal #13 - I Don't Blame Charles Bukowski...
Full Title: I Don't Blame Charles Bukowski, But I Think I've Benn Sucked Into The Volvox And I'm Really Scared
I'm in the CopyCat bar
with my countrymen,
the seven thousand
bastard apostles
of Charles Bukowski.
I'm a poet.
I'm a poet too.
And I'm an augmented waitress
in a peek-a-boo bra.
And we're discussing
hashish and Baudelaire
and immaculate conceptions
and breast reductions
as lesbian conspiracies.
Most of us are red
and sweaty.
All of us are green
and watery,
squatting in the bar light
like seven thousand
Mickys' Bigmouths
transmogrified.
And I'm dressed nice
but out of money.
So I drink the drinks
that other people leave behind.
I don't let the rim
of the glass
touch my mouth.
I just tilt
back my head
open wide
and swallow fast.
I do this naturally
without gagging
and I'm so good at it
that several of my countrymen
ask if I've ever been
a sword swallower.
Yes I have.
I specialized
in all things sharp
and orally metallurgical:
Mayakovsky
and "Ecce Homo."
I was good.
I had an ageny
and a brilliant career.
In one deep breath,
I ingurgitated
all of "A cloud in Trousers,"
"The Antichrist"
and a Physicians Desk Reference
for college students
all over the East.
And as an encore
I'd take four, five,
six syllable words
from the audience,
light them on fire
and swallow
two at a time.
Penultimate. Evisceration. Eventually
it got out of control.
When no one was around
I'd gulp so much
High Latin Mass
and Ancient Etruscan
that I became
almost pure ornamentation
from the lips down.
It felt so weird
I was scared.
I swallowed a roll
of fine gauge
chicken wire
to trap unnecessary
elaboration.
Then I bought myself
a flotation peek-a-boo bra,
a pneumatic teddy,
and a vat of Mickys' Bigmouth
to float in.
And I floated
until I got almost
all feeling back.
Now I feel like
my countrymen
and they feel
like me.
And we feel
like another beer.
-Dian Sousa, Lullabies For The Spooked and Cool
I'm in the CopyCat bar
with my countrymen,
the seven thousand
bastard apostles
of Charles Bukowski.
I'm a poet.
I'm a poet too.
And I'm an augmented waitress
in a peek-a-boo bra.
And we're discussing
hashish and Baudelaire
and immaculate conceptions
and breast reductions
as lesbian conspiracies.
Most of us are red
and sweaty.
All of us are green
and watery,
squatting in the bar light
like seven thousand
Mickys' Bigmouths
transmogrified.
And I'm dressed nice
but out of money.
So I drink the drinks
that other people leave behind.
I don't let the rim
of the glass
touch my mouth.
I just tilt
back my head
open wide
and swallow fast.
I do this naturally
without gagging
and I'm so good at it
that several of my countrymen
ask if I've ever been
a sword swallower.
Yes I have.
I specialized
in all things sharp
and orally metallurgical:
Mayakovsky
and "Ecce Homo."
I was good.
I had an ageny
and a brilliant career.
In one deep breath,
I ingurgitated
all of "A cloud in Trousers,"
"The Antichrist"
and a Physicians Desk Reference
for college students
all over the East.
And as an encore
I'd take four, five,
six syllable words
from the audience,
light them on fire
and swallow
two at a time.
Penultimate. Evisceration. Eventually
it got out of control.
When no one was around
I'd gulp so much
High Latin Mass
and Ancient Etruscan
that I became
almost pure ornamentation
from the lips down.
It felt so weird
I was scared.
I swallowed a roll
of fine gauge
chicken wire
to trap unnecessary
elaboration.
Then I bought myself
a flotation peek-a-boo bra,
a pneumatic teddy,
and a vat of Mickys' Bigmouth
to float in.
And I floated
until I got almost
all feeling back.
Now I feel like
my countrymen
and they feel
like me.
And we feel
like another beer.
-Dian Sousa, Lullabies For The Spooked and Cool
The speaker in this poem sounds to me like the poet herself, speaking generally about her relationship with poetry.
What surprises me about this poem is the location, a seedy bar. The speaker seems to be a reasonably intelligent, well-spoken, and well-read person, and yet she is located in what seems to be a very seedy bar. This disparity makes for a very interesting environment.
I think that the Poet is speaking of the realism and honesty required in poetry. She states that she had a brilliant career, an agency and then started ingurgitating five-syllable words, and it got out of hand. I think she is speaking of when poetry becomes more ornamental than meaningful. When the length and intelligence of the word eclipses the meaning of each word and the overall message of the poem. I think that, also, that is why the poem takes place where it does, in a seedy bar. Originally it seemed so delightfully inappropriate, but I think she is saying, through the location, that the down-to-earth person is the real roots of poetry.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Poetry Journal #12 - Let Me Die a Youngman's Death
Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
-Roger McGough
It's clear that in this poem, the speaker is speaking of himself and the intended audience is the world at large or a deity who has control over fate. It does not seem to be a prayer or plea to god, since the sincerity of he poem is somewhat in question due to the humor involved.
The Speaker desires to die a "youngman's death" which, since death does not often strike the young, he interprets to mean one that is dramatic, not easy or slow, most specifically not a "what a nice way to go" death.
The Speaker clearly has somewhat of a disdain for the slow, natural and peaceful death that the majority of the world claims to seek. He prefers the options of being mowed down by a red sports car, being shot by gangsters, or being murdered by his wife for committing adultery.
Overall, I think that his message is that there is as much life in the method by which you die as life you live beforehand. He wants his death to be an event worth of the life lived beforehand, not a quiet passage into the next world.
This poem reminds me of the quote:
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave
with the intention of arriving safely
in an attractive and well preserved body,
But rather to skid in sideways,
chocolate in one hand,
wine in the other,
body thoroughly used up,
totally worn out and screaming
"WOO HOO what a ride!"
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death
-Roger McGough
It's clear that in this poem, the speaker is speaking of himself and the intended audience is the world at large or a deity who has control over fate. It does not seem to be a prayer or plea to god, since the sincerity of he poem is somewhat in question due to the humor involved.
The Speaker desires to die a "youngman's death" which, since death does not often strike the young, he interprets to mean one that is dramatic, not easy or slow, most specifically not a "what a nice way to go" death.
The Speaker clearly has somewhat of a disdain for the slow, natural and peaceful death that the majority of the world claims to seek. He prefers the options of being mowed down by a red sports car, being shot by gangsters, or being murdered by his wife for committing adultery.
Overall, I think that his message is that there is as much life in the method by which you die as life you live beforehand. He wants his death to be an event worth of the life lived beforehand, not a quiet passage into the next world.
This poem reminds me of the quote:
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave
with the intention of arriving safely
in an attractive and well preserved body,
But rather to skid in sideways,
chocolate in one hand,
wine in the other,
body thoroughly used up,
totally worn out and screaming
"WOO HOO what a ride!"
Thursday, November 20, 2008
CAI Lab 11/20 - Love Poem & Erotic Poem
In any poetic form (free verse, sonnet, ode…) try your hand at writing a poem that expresses love. Try to find the precise, concrete language that touches the unmistakable source of feelings you have for someone. Your poem can be about any kind of love, not necessarily romantic love. Remember: in the course of the poem, never use the word love.
*********************
Take any everyday activity (washing dishes, making the bed, changing the car oil, cooking a meal, skate boarding, surfing) and describe the activity using concrete, sensuous language. The poet walks a fine line here: s/he doesn’t want to mock the activity, just present it in a sexier light.
Starting the Car
It's a bitter cold morning,
frost on the windshield
and a hazy white layer
lays over the dark blue paint
hiding its metallic glitter
from the sun, reluctant
to meet the sky, still peppered
with fading stars.
I press the button on the key,
the locks respond
with a soft "click" to let me in,
and the warm glow of the dome light
bathes the interior of the chilly cabin.
Each ridge and valley of the key
finding purchase in the hollows,
I turn my wrist to begin
the ritual of raising the dead.
Deep, rumbling groans emerge
from under the frozen hood,
the dashboard flickering,
fading in and out.
I turn again, I turn harder,
pumping the gas and flicking my wrist
I continue the careful rhythm.
Lights staying on longer,
engine whirring higher
With a final rush, life returns.
Its heart roughly beating
coated with thick, rich oils
coaxing it to run,
Lights sparkle - beacons of life
from the darkness of the dashboard.
With my foot on the gas, I think,
Thank god starting you
Is easier than starting the car.
Imprisoned
I keep you
in the deepest
most labyrinthine
corridors of my chest
where the darkness
does not meet
the red
I hold down the ropes
and chains that keep you trapped
in the empty chambers -
arteries to keep me alive
But the tiniest movement
or sound you make
reverberates
until all I can focus on
is you
My grip weakens
red bleeds into black
and you fill the hollows of my heart.
I keep you
in the deepest
most labyrinthine
corridors of my chest
where the darkness
does not meet
the red
I hold down the ropes
and chains that keep you trapped
in the empty chambers -
arteries to keep me alive
But the tiniest movement
or sound you make
reverberates
until all I can focus on
is you
My grip weakens
red bleeds into black
and you fill the hollows of my heart.
*********************
Take any everyday activity (washing dishes, making the bed, changing the car oil, cooking a meal, skate boarding, surfing) and describe the activity using concrete, sensuous language. The poet walks a fine line here: s/he doesn’t want to mock the activity, just present it in a sexier light.
Starting the Car
It's a bitter cold morning,
frost on the windshield
and a hazy white layer
lays over the dark blue paint
hiding its metallic glitter
from the sun, reluctant
to meet the sky, still peppered
with fading stars.
I press the button on the key,
the locks respond
with a soft "click" to let me in,
and the warm glow of the dome light
bathes the interior of the chilly cabin.
Each ridge and valley of the key
finding purchase in the hollows,
I turn my wrist to begin
the ritual of raising the dead.
Deep, rumbling groans emerge
from under the frozen hood,
the dashboard flickering,
fading in and out.
I turn again, I turn harder,
pumping the gas and flicking my wrist
I continue the careful rhythm.
Lights staying on longer,
engine whirring higher
With a final rush, life returns.
Its heart roughly beating
coated with thick, rich oils
coaxing it to run,
Lights sparkle - beacons of life
from the darkness of the dashboard.
With my foot on the gas, I think,
Thank god starting you
Is easier than starting the car.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Poetry Journal #11 - Pale September
Pale september, I wore the time like a dress that year
The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin
But as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared
My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within
But then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full
And sank in the burrows of my keep
And all my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep
He goes along just as a water lily
Gentle on the surface of his thoughts his body floats
Unweighted down by passion or intensity
Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts
And he finds a home in me
For what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap
And all my armor failing down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as Im singing him to sleep
All my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as Im singing him to sleep
-Fiona Apple
In this poem, or song, I think that the speaker is describing her relationship with a man, though is not speaking to him or to herself. I believe it to be somewhat of a musing, and the audience for the song is simply any objective third person.
It seems that the speaker has experienced a shift in perspective, in her life, as evidenced by the change in seasons and temperatures of which she speaks. She moves from autumn and winter to summer, and from winter and cold to warmth. In this poem, I think she is using autumn and winter to describe an emotional distance. She states that she wore "[Pale September] like a dress that year" which would imply that she in wearing a sense of dying or solitude, as autumn is symbolic of a time of lonliness, moving into the winter. This is further supported by the "embers of [her] summer" disappearing, and her heart going cold. She is implying an initial move from warmth and love to one of coldness, until the next lines where he "rises as the moon in full," which moves us into the chorus. In this respect I think the song shifts gears several times. It starts off speaking of autumn, then backtracks a bit to talk about the move from Summer to autumn, then proceeds to winter, and then finally, as she enters the chorus, we are moving back into warmth. I think that this is symbolic of Spring, a time of rebirth.
In the chorus, she sings "All my armor falling down" which to me is symolic of the "autumn dress." She is letting go of that lonliness and solitude which she wore to protect herself.
The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin
But as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared
My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within
But then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full
And sank in the burrows of my keep
And all my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep
He goes along just as a water lily
Gentle on the surface of his thoughts his body floats
Unweighted down by passion or intensity
Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts
And he finds a home in me
For what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap
And all my armor failing down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as Im singing him to sleep
All my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet
And my winter giving way to warm, as Im singing him to sleep
-Fiona Apple
In this poem, or song, I think that the speaker is describing her relationship with a man, though is not speaking to him or to herself. I believe it to be somewhat of a musing, and the audience for the song is simply any objective third person.
It seems that the speaker has experienced a shift in perspective, in her life, as evidenced by the change in seasons and temperatures of which she speaks. She moves from autumn and winter to summer, and from winter and cold to warmth. In this poem, I think she is using autumn and winter to describe an emotional distance. She states that she wore "[Pale September] like a dress that year" which would imply that she in wearing a sense of dying or solitude, as autumn is symbolic of a time of lonliness, moving into the winter. This is further supported by the "embers of [her] summer" disappearing, and her heart going cold. She is implying an initial move from warmth and love to one of coldness, until the next lines where he "rises as the moon in full," which moves us into the chorus. In this respect I think the song shifts gears several times. It starts off speaking of autumn, then backtracks a bit to talk about the move from Summer to autumn, then proceeds to winter, and then finally, as she enters the chorus, we are moving back into warmth. I think that this is symbolic of Spring, a time of rebirth.
In the chorus, she sings "All my armor falling down" which to me is symolic of the "autumn dress." She is letting go of that lonliness and solitude which she wore to protect herself.
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