Happy New Year!

The post title says it all. I'll be back to posting on Saturday. May 2010 begin in the best way for you!!

The Primer (Christina Davis)

Ouch. Someone was hurting while writing this poem. I feel the sting from the last line, the last stanza. It reverberates the whole poem and takes, takes, takes.

"The Primer" - a basic lesson. "the first obscenity was silence" In the beginning.....The variation is the one most cutting. You noticed it more, rationalize it - or try to. Say, you write a poem to rationalize it - to break it down into it's most basic parts - just the words, the phrases, no context. You turn a relationship and the history of all relationships into a simple 101 course.

Favorite line: "He said, Nothing."

A Visit from Saint Nicholas (Clement Clark Moore)

It's not quite Christmas, but only four days to go! Plus, I'm headed out of town and won't be able to update again until next Tuesday or Wednesday, so I figured I would put up the quintessential Xmas poem: A Visit from St. Nick! It's the poem that's important, I haven't a clue who the poet is - and poets.org doesn't give any hints.

This poem is everywhere at Christmas. I first learned it from a giant coloring book I had growing up. It was so big, I kept it underneath our large media-center. Every Christmas I would pull it out and color in a new page. A wonderful way to slowly learn, incorporate a poem into a life.

It's so well incorporated I cannot really disentangle it from my personal history with it. I can't think of it in terms of quality or dimensions or poetry. It simply is and it is tied up tight with the season for me.

So (to paraphrase), to all a good Christmas and good winter break. I'll see you at the close of the decade.

Favorite line: "His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow"

The Mystic's Christmas (John Greenleaf Whittier)

One day closer to Christmas, one more Christmas poem. Today's is The Mystic's Christmas by John Greenleaf Whittier.

I don't know when Whittier lived and wrote (and yes, I know I could just read his profile, but roll with me), but I'm guessing the 1800s because of the rhyme and the evenness of lines and even the subject and the way it is approached. It's a religious poem, taken from a slightly 'off' angle. The pomp surrounding Christmas is not all needed if you truly are celebrating Jesus' birth. "judge not him who every morn/ Feels in his heart the Lord Christ born!"

It's interesting that that is the 'mystic's' message. Mystics are regarded as more in-touch spiritually/out-of-touch with reality. Mystics are always speaking truths that others haven't seen/grasped yet.

I guess the talk about the commercialization of Christmas is not at all new.

Favorite line: "Why sitt'st thou thus?"

Christmas Bells (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Hehe, his name is Wadsworth. Okay, done being 12. Tonight's poem is Christmas Bells by Longfellow.

I'm in a spirited mood; I just got back from seeing the Nutcracker. And this is definitely a song of spirit. I thought these words were set to music:

"I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Aren't they? Perhaps they are. If I were not so tired, I would talk a bit about the difference between lyrics and poetry, but another night, another night.

Favorite line: "The words repeat/Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

An Old Cracked Tune (Stanley Kunitz)

I can't sing along, but I swear I could, if not sing, lope along to this poem by Stanley Kunitz. I'm not sure where I know Stanley Kunitz's name from; I think he edited a book of poetry I used to like. I don't know if he's Jewish, but the poem sure is.

A desert people. Exodus. Extermination. Is it any wonder N ends the poem with "I dance, for the joy of surviving"? This is a short poem - only eight lines long - but it contains the history of the Jewish people in it. And that's pretty darn neat.

Favorite line: "The sands whispered, Be separate,/the stones taught me, Be hard."

A Christmas Carol (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

I don't really have the time to write post tonight. I'm going to cheat. It's not quite Christmas, but it is close enough. Only eight days to go. Let's all gather round to hear the tale of Christmases long ago: A Christmas Carol.

Favorite line: "Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn"

Light breaks where no sun shines (Dylan Thomas)

Light breaks where no sun shines by Dylan Thomas: HOPE.

Favorite line: "The secret of the soil grows through the eye"

The Savoir must have been a docile Gentleman (Emily Dickinson)

I put up my tree tonight (all 1 1/2 feet of it), so I figured that tonight must be a Christmas poem. Who knew that Emily Dickinson wrote seasonal poems? Maybe everyone. I don't know. She's just not my style, so this, lesser known one from her, is a new one to me.

It's short (which I love). It's only eight lines long. It talks about Jesus being born and being "docile" to be born down a rugged lane when it's so cold and so far. But for his birth, the way would have always been so rugged, cold, and lengthy.

I wonder why he is described as being docile. Maybe because why on earth would anyone choose to be born there (down a path a billion rugged miles long)? But no child chooses where to be born. All babies can be (and should be) described as docile. Perhaps, Emily Dickinson reflects the general consensus on his later life. After all, 'gentleman' doesn't refer to a child, but to an adult.

Favorite line: "To come so far so cold a Day"

A Far Cry From Africa (Derek Walcott)

I first found the poem by Walcott in college. It was an appropriate place to first read it. The poem is about living/being of two worlds and the unease and pain that causes. My school was very aware of this theme since it recruited students from all over the world.

I like that the majority of this poem is description about Africa. Clearly, N lives in the western world and yearns/is curious about life in Africa. How can N reconcile both parts of himself? By writing a poem, of course. This creative output makes clear his anguish and his process.

Favorite line: "The gorilla wrestles with the superman."

Danse Russe (William Carlos Williams)

Another William Carlos Williams' poem: Danse Russe.

What I like about this poem is that it makes the unusual seems normal, explainable. Why is N dancing naked about the room? What does it matter? All other members of the house are asleep, it's N's secret. The poem is a shared secret. Huh. Not that N needs our ears. N is perfectly content with his actions and his conclusion: "Who shall say I am not/the happy genius of my household?" Of course he is, there is no space for rebuttal or response, the poem ends immediately after asking the question.

Favorite line: "if I in my north room/dance naked, grotesquely/before my mirror"

Artichoke (Richard Foerster)

I don't know the poet (and can find nothing illuminating), but he did bring back memories of my first encounter with an artichoke. I don't know if the way described in this poem is the only way to each fresh artichoke, but it has been my sole experience. Chile, last days, chill, patio, plastic table, saucers of dipping oil and the gestured instructions for the proper way to eat artichoke. I love how someone else's experiences seen through short, descriptive phrasing can convey a certain feeling and mood that haven't enter my thoughts for years.

But, you see, it's this. Completely and utterly this: "For all the bother, it’s the peeling away/we savored, the slow striptease/toward a tender heart—/how each petal dipped in the buttery sauce/was raked across our lower/teeth"

It's the act of memory, of new experience, of freshness, and yes, Richard, ("we risked silence,/risked even/love") even love. The act of eating artichoke is all those things.

Favorite line: "its residue/less redolent of desire than sweet restraint"

Quotidian Poem (Patricia Fargnoli)

I figured this poem would be good for my quotidian task. I don't know much (anything) about the poet, so I'm not sure what war she is referencing. It doesn't matter for the poem, I'm just mildly curious, is all.

"I threw in onions, garlic,
parsley, cumin,
a couple of tomatoes--
whatever made sense.
Enough for an army."

The army's meal is full of sense. I'm thinking that N doesn't think the army, therefore the war, has any sense. Thus N makes them a meal chock full of it. It's all in the presentation. It's pretty ridiculous to make a trip to the action center and be a tourist at the onset of war, which exactly what N does and is.

Favorite line: "When I heard the bombing/had begun I drove down/to Keene and bought/a 3x magnifying glass,/a sketch book/and drawing pencils. "

The Rain (Robert Creeley) :: Post 100

This is my 100th post! And for this milestone, I have decided to enjoy myself. I found audio recordings of my favorite poem, The Rain by Robert Creeley. The first is of a poetry reading done by Creeley, but it ends funnily, so I have included a second, which may be by Creeley too, it doesn't indicate the speaker.

Just ♥. Love to the poet, the poem, and to POETRY.

The light of a candle (Yosa Buson)

Poets.org does not tell about Yosa Buson and I've never heard of him (her?) before this night. I wonder when Yosa lived and where. This is the only poem listed by him on the website. It's a haiku, which is a Japanese form of a strict number and patterns of syllables. 5, 7, 5 syllables.

This haiku does not follow that strict form. It is probably classified as such by poets.org because it is short, reads like haiku, and is concerned with nature. Of course, this is a translated poem. The original may very well have been in the proper syllabic counts.

What I like about this poem is that the last line throws you. The first two are extremely easy to understand, but that last takes a bit. I like that in the last line the word "springs" could have two meanings. It could be the verb, meaning jumps, or it could be the noun, being a season. I like it best as a verb, since it describes the action of passing on a flame from candle to candle.

Maybe it's the noun, though. In that case, I could see the transfer of fire being a birth of flame, a reiteration of fire. Birth and newcomings are very springlike.

Clever, clever. I like haiku for how condensed they are. It takes many paragraphs to (poorly) describe what happens in three lines of poetry. That's true great art.

Favorite line: "spring twilight"

I'm Nobody. Who are you. (Emily Dickinson)

I adore this poem by Emily Dickinson. It's such a witticism. I bet she wrote it in one go when she was feeling light. A happy poem from Emily? It be true.

The rhyme makes it light. As do the generic names for the two types of people in the world. For that matter, so does the exclamation point.

However, the lightness is belied by what must be a rather lonesome life-where for the first time, N has met a friend. The lightness takes on the ring of someone trying to rationalize the way their life is and that it is better, really, just find and dandy. Uh huh. *Nods*

Though, I am not sure I believe N. Too much pep in those words.

Favorite line: "I'm Nobody! Who are you?/Are you – Nobody – too?"

Because I could not stop for death (Emily Dickinson)

Because I could not stop for death by Emily Dickinson.

I like how calmly N says "he kindly stopped for me." Death practically provides a favor for N. Death is definitely written as gentlemanly. "his civility"

Death takes N through life. Childhood, adulthood, old age.

What I think is neat is how the last stanza is different than the rest. The whole poem through tends to use concrete nouns and images. 'school' 'grazing grain' 'carriage' However, in the last stanza, she switches to using words that don't mean much in actuality, but rather, they create a rounded image. You get what is being said, though it is not so direct as, say, in stanza three.

Favorite line: "Because I could not stop for Death,/He kindly stopped for me"

Because I could not stop for death (Emily Dickinson)

Make plans, but don't be rigid with them. Stuff happens. Shit happens, as was said in Forrest Gump. Or as Emily Dickinson says 'because I could not stop for death -- He kindly stopped for me.' Your plans may be great, but then again you never know when you'll be interrupted.

Wow, and um, sorry, but I am so tired and that is a terrible "talk" about this great poem. I'll try again later.

In the Library (Charles Simic)

In the Library by Charles Simic.

"I hear nothing, but she does." I don't believe N. N definitely hears the voices of the books. Else, N would not have taken the time to write this poem after finding a barely read tome. He listened to the unread book and chose to make it more well known, to bring it to our attention. He cares, just as Miss Jones does.

Lives devoted to little known pursuits. Hers to books that haven't been read in half a century. His to (some would say) esoteric poetry (though, not me. Keep it active and in your life!).

Favorite line: "She's very tall, so she keeps/Her head tipped as if listening."

Book of Nonsense (Edward Lear)

I haven't written in a while and sorry bout that. Thanksgiving is to blame as is wedding stuff. Today's poem is actually three snippets from the Book of Nonsense by Edward Lear. All three snippets are limericks. AABBA.

Limerick=Light Humor. It's practically a fact. I don't know of any limericks that have a harder or darker edge.

These poems don't mean much. They are, after all, nonsense. However, they do, at least, give mini portraits of three denizens of this nonsensical world (which may very well be our own).

Favorite line: "There was an Old Man in a tree,/Who was horribly bored by a Bee"