Success is Counted Sweetest- Emily Dickinson

SUCCESS is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,

As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear.

-Emily Dickinson

I was going through a stack of poetry I had lying around. It was from a collection of poems bound together after Dickinson died. Dickinson was my hero for a while as an adolescent, but now I think I relate more fully to her. She never did succeed in life. She had a dismal marriage, as was typical of the time, struggled with health and happiness, struggled financially and then died. Her friends were cleaning out her bedroom when they found a trunk full of poetry. They searched her desk and found bits of parchment everywhere with scribbled thoughts and ink-blotted philosophies. Despite her desire to be published during her life, no one ever saw potential in her. I think society and her husband suffocated her. Her words I typed above are flavored with symbolism, specifically the second stanza. "The purple host" is symbolic of royalty who claim victory. But, as Dickinson so eloquently states, those holding the flag know nothing of victory compared to those who actually fought for it. I guess we always want most what we never have. She says that we value most what we do not have; those who know failure appreciate success more than the successful. Then she goes on to say those who hold the flag don't understand liberty, or victory, like those who suffered for it. Those who have become accustomed to success cannot possibly comprehend personal victory without knowing the face of failure. I have come to the conclusion that failure is one of the most human things one can experience. Although our society and environment influence us, nothing is more dominate in defining our individuality than our struggles and weaknesses. It's almost beautiful, actually, the process of failure.

Oh, I decided to pick a piece of art to go with my blog each week. It just seemed wrong to not have a visual to accompany my rants! :)

A Summer Day By The Sea- Henry Longfellow

A Summer Day By The Sea

The sun is set; and in his latest beams
Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold,
Slowly upon the amber air unrolled,
The falling mantle of the Prophet seems.
From the dim headlands many a light-house gleams,
The street-lamps of the ocean; and behold,
O'erhead the banners of the night unfold;
The day hath passed into the land of dreams.
O summer day beside the joyous sea!
O summer day so wonderful and white,
So full of gladness and so full of pain!
Forever and forever shalt thou be
To some the gravestone of a dead delight,
To some the landmark of a new domain.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


I've definitely been going through a Longfellow phase lately.
This reminds me of every summer of my childhood! We went out to Devil's Elbow and laid on the beach, climbed the cliffs, ran the sand dunes, and finished with Moe's and BJ's ice cream and salt water taffy. Summer days were just perfect with the beach so close. I loved looking out onto the horizon of the ocean, as if I was looking at eternity. This all sounds so idealistic and perhaps exaggerated, but that's exactly how I remember it. I love Longfellow's words, "O summer day beside the Joyous sea!... So full of gladness and so full of pain." I think these words somewhat encompass the entirety of life. The ocean alone holds so many metaphors! The bitterness of the salt, the hidden sea shells lurking under the sand, the slimy sea weed that embraces your toes... yet, it's so beautiful. I love being so utterly content that you can realize how surreal happiness is. Happiness is like sunshine; you can feel it and experience a portion, but you can never look at it, or comprehend it directly.

Thankgiving Poem

A Holiday Rhyme and Rhythm

I have never been one for poetry
But in this great time of solemnity
I suppose a rhyme and rhythm would suffice
So here I toss the cards and roll the dice
In hopes of a good line or two
Before I close and bid ado

The greatness of the universe unfurled
I marvel at the beauty of the world
The feast in which I do partake,
Jollity to the depths of my soul doth take

The sound of laughter, the sound of friends
The blind course of life, what's beyond the bend
Yet each day brings smiles
Even if for but a while

Let us not question or doubt
Simply sing praises and shout
For one day forget the woes and fears
When you are around loved one and dears

Remember the good
As ever one should
And on this Thanksgiving,
Thank Him for living

I am not one to smile and laugh
Despite all the goodness my life doth hath
But from now on I pledge,
Amongst the darkness I'll wedge
A bit of sunshine to my living
And remember it each Thanksgiving

-Mandee Sorensen

(I looked back at my posts and realized how negative I have become! Here's my attempt to brighten my paradigm!)

On Reading Poems to a Senior Class At South High by D.C. Berry

I spent a few minutes researching D.C. Berry to see if insights into his life would somehow grant me a few insights into this poem. Berry had a good personality and frankly lived a good life. However, he did fight in Vietnam. It seemed to me he struggled with the concept of conforming. This poem reminded me of my own views of high school. We go to high school and conform ourselves into model students. We are the "frozen fish in a package," just waiting to to be turned into something. We let the words and ideas of our superiors drown us. As the little "school of fish," we never stick out and never fend for ourselves. Sometimes I feel as though I go to school only to have another coat of paint caked on to conceal my individuality. It's been such a long time since I've really been allowed to think for myself. I hope I'm not another fish in the aquarium: on display behind a glass, limiting my view to the 4 walls around me.

At the same time, I wonder if we even have a problem being conformed. I mean, the fish get fed right? They have security and clean water. Perhaps they don't get to see the rest of the ocean, but if they never know, does it even matter? I think we like people limiting our potential. We may not admit to it, but if there is a limit on our potential, then we don't have to figure it out or our own. It's easier that way. We become what others except us to be.

Then there are the people like me. I realize I'm being brain washed by the system, but what am I doing about it? Writing silly blog posts about how pathetic it is that society is the master of my destiny. Or like Berry, write poems about being crafted into schools of fish. I guess we are either naive or afraid.

Poetry Response #9

This week's poem of choice is "Acquainted with the Night," by Robert Frost. I really enjoyed our conversation about it in class and decided to do it for the week. Unfortunately, I was in a really bad mood then, so this dark poem fit perfectly. Now I'm in an excellent mood, so my take on this might be a bit more positive than usual.
This poem is discussing seeing the darkest hours of life. Frost's son committed suicide, which has to be one of the darkest corners the earth has to offer. He has certainly been "Acquainted with the Night," but haven't we all? Not all corners are as dark and deep, but all consume and all destroy just that little part of us that felt alive. In this poem, it really sounds like Frost is ready to go down the same dark lane as his son. He says, "I have passed by the watchman on his beat/And dropped me eyes, unwilling to explain." This of course, the watchman being the people in life who notice you are sad, but will never understand. Nevertheless, although I think it was written about suicide, I will not take it like that. The best part about the night is even though you're surrounded by darkness, if you look up there is a glimmer of light. Just a small shimmer of hope. Yes, I have been aquainted with the night. I have seen dark days, months, and even years. But I have also been acquainted with the warm summer day. Sometimes winter lasts longer than it should, but the spring does come. When we're in the dark, it's so hard to realize that light is even there. We get so consumed and our sense of time is skewed. It's hard to understand that darkness is temporary.

"Human Condition" by Tom Gunn

One thing I've been contemplating lately is my own insignificance. Perhaps it's partially due to the daunting uncertainties of my future (namely college.) I have been questioning my own individuality. My mind cannot possibly fathom the wonders of the universe, let alone the wonders of the earth. Lately I have been so engrossed by the thought that everyone has thoughts! It seems so basic, yet I cannot wrap my mind around the concept that while my mind is spinning, tossing around ideas, marveling, pondering, wondering, analyzing, remembering, the kid right next to me in AP Stats is doing the same thing! Right now on this earth, there are 6 billion stories being written, 18 billion being cherished or remembered, and perhaps an infinite more to be created. The line in this poem that haunted me the most was in the 2nd stanza, "I am condemned to be/ an individual." Among the 6,697,254,041 people on the earth (according to Google) I have associated with an estimated 1,000 people on a personal level. If those stats are true, then only .00000014931% of the world has ever been aware of my existence! I am .00000000015% of the population of the earth. And yet, many other .00000000015% of the population have actually altered the lives of the other 99.9999999999999999999999999999% of the world! I suppose the greatest lesson I learned is that 'insignificant' is not a permanent label. And perhaps one may be insignificant statistically speaking (being only .00000000015% of the population) but to the .00000014931% of the world you do associate with, you're anything but insignificant. "I must/find out the limitation/of mind and universe."Perhaps this is the "Human Condition;" among my own insignificance lies a unique individual with infinite potential; with the power to love, sing, dance, cry, hate, run, eat: with the power to be a ripple on the destiny of the world.

Happy Halloween!

I officially declare this to be my week off! haha. Hope you're having a great Halloween weekend!

Poetry Response #8

Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
this is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
now whispered and revealed
to wood and field.

[Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

Last week for our timed essay, one of the poems was by Longfellow and I really liked it after a while of studying it. Then in choir we were singing an art song (a song where a composer takes a poem and puts it to music) and this particular art song happened to be by Longfellow. It excited me so I decided to analyze my choir music this week! For some reason, this poem made me think of how humans hold their grief in. We are really privet people, we Americans. Especially back in the day dear old Henry was writing this! The earth isn't like that though, not really. When the grief surfaces, then comes the clouds. When the tears start rolling, then comes the rain. And when the heart starts weeping, then comes the snow. "Slowly in the silent syllables recorded/this is the secret of despair." I think the silent tears we cry are the most sincere, the most selfless. Now I have absolutely no idea if this is Longfellow meant, but I think sometimes the poet doesn't necessarily want a poem to be read the same way. Poetry is a little bit like a symphony; whether it's major or minor makes it feel different, but the audience chooses to create the depth.

Poetry Response #8- For the Sleepwalkers by Edward Hirsch

As I was looking through the new poetry packet to fine one that would interest me, I originally neglected my attentions towards the first poem of the page. I wanted to find one that associated with this quote I had been stewing over this five day weekend, "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" -Vincent van Gogh. I couldn't help but ask my sister what a day would be like without fear. We can act like we are fearless, but no one is. Everyone is paranoid to fart while using a public bathroom, it's just how it is! Everyone fears having a super bad break-out the week of prom. Most people fear what they say, how they look, how they talk, walk, eat, breathe. People live in fear; not necessarily are we afraid to walk, talk, or eat, but rather we are afraid every move we make is being analyzed by skeptics. "For the Sleepwalkers" caught my attention as I noticed the line, "We have to learn the desperate faith of sleepwalkers who rise of their calm beds and walk through the skin of another life." Sleepwalkers do not fear the dark, as we do. Somehow they subconsciously trust themselves enough to wander through the night. I suppose it is really strange how when we consciously wake up in the middle of the night, we hesitate stepping out of our bed and slowing mew through what seems like a dark labyrinth known as our bedrooms. Really, we see our room so often in the light, do we not know what is there? Why do we doubt ourselves? Our hands flair against the wall where the light switch remains comatose. Have we not switched the light on a thousand times in the comforts of the day without hesitation, yet we can cannot trust ourselves in the dark? What if we could "have so much faith in the invisible," as Hirsch suggests, what if we could experience a day without fear?