Eating Poetry by Mark Strand

This has to be the craziest poem I have read in a while, but I am completely drawn to it!I knew it wasn't literal from the beginning but I could not for the life of me deduce a meaning for the metaphor. I read several interpretations online but none really fit for me. So I came up with this: this poem is about a man who has discovered poetry. He is "crazy" about them, hence the image of a man eating poetry with ink running down his face. Each stanza seems to have a tone shift. The second one I think represents us as the reader. The librarian, or us, judge or gawk at this man in such a crazy state over a few simple words. It's something we are not accustomed to. The readers are not supposed to have a strong opinion on poetry. The third stanza is where it gets really weird. I think Strand uses the dog as a symbol of critics of poetry; this could also be us as readers, but more likely it is those with premeditated opinions. The dogs continue to the third stanza violently attacking the man who just discovered poetry and the library is the observer, still not completely taking a side. She is frightened, unsure which side to take until the man turns into a dog as well?? I don't think the symbol of the dog continues as a critic. He starts by licking the librarians hand, and she is frightened by him. He has transformed and is trying to share his new found passion with her. In the last stanza he says, "I am a new man." He snarls, and then "romp(s) with joy in the bookish dark." Hmm?? So I am thinking he has transformed with his new discovery and he is determined to not give up this passion for anything, not even for the all mighty librarian. He has conquered himself and accepted his new joys. I don't know for sure. This poem was a bit of a stretch, but I still really enjoyed it!

Writing by Jan Dean

Writing

and then i saw it
saw it all all the mess
and blood and everythink
and mam agenst the kichin dor
the flor all stiky
and the wall all wet
and red and dad besid the kitchen draw
i saw it saw it all
an wrot it down an ever word of it is tru

You must take care to write in sentences,
Checky your spellings and your paragraphs.
Is this finished? It is rather short.
Perhaps next time you will have more to say.

Jan Dean

This poem is rather interesting. The first time I read it, I laughed assuming this was a commentary on how ridiculous the lack of editing can be. But then I really actually on the first stanza, the one nearly impossible to read. It was then I realized the italics were not the important part of the poem. In the first stanza you read in broken English about a broken home. It sounds to me like this child has witnessed abuse. The teacher goes on to comment about the grammar of it, asking, "Is this finished?... Perhaps next time you will have more to say." What this teacher did not realize is this child said everything, everything there was to say, but she was too involved with her world of editing to notice the intent of the author. This poem really is a commentary on ignoring the signs of abuse and this poem is an incredible way of saying it.

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer by Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman is one of my favorite poets and this piece of his just makes me smile. It's one of his simpler poems. He speaks of a lecture he attended where an impressive astronomer spoke. This poem is rather narrative and doesn't use as much figurative language as most poems I write about on here. He spends four lines describing the astronomer's lecture and then writes, "How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick." I know how you feel, Walt. I love learning. Well, most of the time. But so often I sit in the room suffocating with the lack of significance of the lesson prepared. It was especially bad in Trig! Anyway, Whitman goes on to wander outside and looks up at the stars in all their beauty. The author's meaning is so sweet and SIMPLE. He is saying we spend too much time studying, explaining, justifying and not enough time enjoying. I love this philosophy. I have been reflecting on my life and have realized, like Whitman, things are too complicated. I have spent so many hours doing homework over watching a movie with my mom. Life is best in its simplest form. We cannot force explanations for miracles. To me, my family is a miracle. We are so happy. I hardly know another family like mine. Rather than ignoring the beauty of my family, only to aspire to the honors of the world I want to sit back and enjoy it. I don't want to memorize the constellations, only marvel up at the night sky.

Kafkaesque Cartoon

I definately had this done next Sunday but I saw on the blogs we're supposed to update it now? Is this our poetry blog for the week?

Much Madness is Divinest Sense

Much madness is divinest sense

To a discerning eye,

Much sense, the starkest madness.

‘Tis the majority

In this, as all, prevail:

Assent, and you are sane;

Demur, you’re straightway dangerous

And handled with a chain. -Emily Dickinson

I know I have said this a thousand times... I LOVE EMILY DICKINSON! She's brilliant. It took me a few readings to actually understand it. What really gave it away is when I looked up "Assent" and "Demur." To assent with something is to agree or concur. And then of course to demur with something is to disagree or argue it. This poem is once again speaking of conformity. The voice of the public who speaks against common knowledge is often considered 'mad' but she twists the word 'mad' from insanity to brilliance. This is a very clever social commentary on how society treats abstract thinkers. Rather than value the ingenuity, the brilliance is often tosses aside as mad ravings. Although it is a simple meaning, Dickinson has a very novel way of saying it which makes this poem more enjoyable than most.

Engagement- by Adam Sol

Engagement

The young man knows he's going to die today, but he's wrong.

The other young man figures the army is the best way to improve his life,
but he's wrong.
They both think their weapons will protect them, but they're wrong.
They both believe their prayers will help.

Their commanders have intentions and intelligence, but they're wrong.
We've heard the story before. It's wrong.
The news will document it, but it will be wrong.
The war on terror, the war on Islam, the clash of civilizations.

The explosion will exceed the necessity of the occasion.
The exchange of fire will be unbalanced.
The response will be disproportionate.
The reporter is factually incorrect, theoretically misinformed, morally
reprehensible.

The clear typeface and perfect binding are misleading.
The reader is uncomfortably and inappropriately implicated.
The tranquil mind is insufficient to the task.
The young men, necks dirty and damp, advance.

Adam Sol

This poem is really interesting. It has a very obvious meaning but yet such a unique way of saying it. His poems is a social commentary on the Iraq war. In his first stanza he ends each line by saying, "but he's wrong." He discusses two young boys' hopes and how they are wrong. Sol's last line, "They both think their prayers will help." Perhaps since this line doesn't end with the typical "but he's wrong" the author thinks they are right. But most likely not. I think the author sincerely thinks that God has no place in war, but he leaves it up for the readers to pause and decide for themselves. The second stanza is formatted very similarly, except he moves up the food chain. He discusses the higher forces of war- the commanders, the media, and the home front- mentioning the errors in that. His last line takes the media and image of war out of the picture and states the truth, that war is just war. Sol's next two stanzas go on to list the flaws of war, both the coverage of war and the act of war. What is most powerful is his last line, "The young men, necks dirty and damp, advance." After looking at the complexity of war, all it really boils down to is the young men fighting for it. I don't think Sol is necessarily anti-war, but he is against unnecessary war. Yes, there are times we need to fight, but Sol believes their are times to stand aside as well.

God-Fearing by Phillip Fried

God-fearing

He's the catastrophe we strive to cap
with ice-like hydrates, blowout preventer stacks.
Gushing spill in a world of scarcity.
Hemorrhage of energy, despite every
tourniquet of containment. Infinite spew.
Staunchless plume of animacules, the nimble
swimmers jostling in any cubic centimeter.
Plenty's horn, the topsy-turvy tornado.

We are engineers, contriving options,
tapping and funneling, drilling counter wells
that will never arrive at the infant Omnipotence
who rock-a-byes inside us, the purler that broke
the goat's horn.
North is stretched out over the empty
place. Earth hangs upon Nothing. Myth is irrevocable.

Phillip Fried

This poem is so enormous in complexity-yet it's so simple. It really reminded me of those question poems we wrote in class and the one she read us, "Questions We Have About God." I think what Fried is really asking here is why is God so complex, and more importantly, will he ever understand Him. This underlying question is hard to find, especially because the writing itself is so complex. In a way, that was how Fried asked his question. In his initial stanza, he wrote describing God using complicated imagery and truly beautiful language. This is where he asks why God is so hard to understand. He sees the destruction of the earth, the beauty of the earth, he sees all of God's creations but he does not understand. He cannot fathom God's purpose, his hand in everything. In his second stanza, he writes "We are engineers." We are the authors of our destiny is basically what he is saying. Fried is trying to understand the delicate balance of fate vs. free will. He wants to know if he has a hand in God's plan. His last two lines are his conclusion, and sadly those are the two lines that confuse me the most. I think he has concluded that there is beauty in insignificance. It is alright to question and not understand as long as we find beauty in the nothingness.

I have to explain this week's artwork! So... when I think of this poem the mosaic art really came to mind. I found a stain glass window that was just perfect. It looks so complex, yet really it is just made of tiny pieces. It's a symbol for the questions of the universe!

What the Seed Knows by Anita Skeen

What the Seed Knows

winter plods on like a Russian novel, spring
hints, haiku

tight blouses unbutton, jackets unzip,
skin is not just skin

rich soil proliferates
in the heart, in the hand
that can never let go

rivers flow unseen, underground, unfettered
unfathomable

some dig down, some rise up
some survive

sleep is not dreamless:
how else the orange, the dogwood?
the phalanx of asparagus?

coddled in the pod,
all the seed needs:

darkness, more snug
than light

grit splits the rock, raises
a tiny fist, screams
the world into profusion
of petaled racket

to uncurl and unfurl
to unhusk from the crust

to inhale, exhale
turn toward what's bright

Anita Skeen

Well, once again it appears I'm behind a poetry blog. I don't know quite how this happens, yet somehow every four blogs or so I notice I'm one short. Anyway, I found this poem on this new website I discovered. It's called Poems Daily (http://poems.com/poem.php?date=15047). It's really a cool website! Each day they publish a poem written by one person or another. I love it. It's like a little taste of cleverness in the morning. This poem above is so interesting. Just scroll up and look at it, without reading it as a whole. Even the words that pop out and the form is just so unique. I love how each stanza starts a new idea that is still an enjambment from above. How she indents the second line of each stanza is very unique, which is strange when it comes to interpretation. I think Skeen was trying to say through the poem that the best things in life, the most natural and real, are the simple things. Something as simple as a seed can still produce a staple of life. What interests me is her structure in not as simple as you would think- it's not the standard poem. Yet, in a way, it's a perfect balance of simple and unique. In her second stanza she says, "tight blouses unbutton, jackets unzip, skin is not just skin. " This is what I think is really the theme of this piece: sometimes we take everything too seriously. What we need instead is to realax; unzip our jackets and sit back and let life be simply marvelous. All we need to do is "inhale, exhale/turn towards what's bright."

Questioning Perfection

Questioning Perfection

What defines perfections- flaws or the lack thereof?
Is there one perfect form or many?
Is perfection a reality?

Isn't perfection subjective??

Why do I hate perfection, yet never stop seeking it?
If perfection is so impossible, how did we form a concept of it?

If the standard is set low enough, is everything perfection?

Perhaps, just perhaps, perfection is a mere idea
Incepted into our hearts to both taunt and taint-
but never to redeem.

-AP Lit group (With a little editing here and there.)