Watup WCW!!?,

 

                This is just to say I have read the poems that are in the nice book my teach has assigned us this semester. Forgive me for not writing sooner, they were delicious, so sweet, and so bold. Your style intrigues me as a fellow poet and scientist, for those two aren’t often represented in a single being. While Elliot and Pound incorporate diction of a scientific nature, that of the heavily Latinate, I agree with Bill Zavatsky when he said “an Elliot or a Pound may drive readers away with their difficulty.”[1] And even if ‘other poets,’ which implicitly includes you, and incidentally me, “find themselves dismissed as ‘unpoetic’ because of their straight forward clarity” what can be done, eh? Life is a workshop, and everything encountered is an invitation to perfect our art of science and science of art, wouldn’tcha agree? Bill Z goes on to say that you “[see] no line dividing [your] activity as a poet from [your] life as a human being.” That’s refreshing, as line drawers often draw lines on lives other than their own, which creates confusion for everybody. It all makes sense really. How can one express themselves with a “poetic  line [that reflects] the rhythm of everyday speech”[2] if one isn’t intimately familiar with the ‘everyday’ that that speech is used?

 

The straight verbiage of the streets

is exposed in the everyday

when we look and listen

with the eye and ear awake.

 

                I’m struck by your 1934 letter about the plums, and Jessica Gleason’s analysis is incredible! She calls it ‘sneaky poetry,’ saying “This poem sneaks up on the reader, he/she looks and is inquisitive because at a glance this doesn’t seem like much of a poem at all. Then, all of a sudden the readers’ mind is shooting off in all directions trying to interpret… the situation surrounding the image.”[3] Readers often project their personal philosophy and ontology onto a poem, especially one as straight forward as the plum piece, which is fine and all, in the long run, for the point is to inspire, but they should be recognized as projections. What strikes me most about Jess G’s analysis is the idea of ‘sneaky poetry,’ how sometimes poems sneak up on the poet , not just the reader. It’s interesting how a quick scribble can be so undeniably poetic, and yet so far beyond conventions of the poetic. Marjorie Perloff quotes you saying, in reference to the plum piece, “it’s metrically absolutely regular… so dogmatically speaking it has to be a poem.” To which Ms. Perloff responds: “again, he mistakes sight for sound.”[4] I see the regularity of both sight and sound… well sort of. The three stanzas’ syllable counts are 12, 12, 13 which makes them, I suppose, slant regular: dozen, dozen, baker’s dozen…:) I’m of the inclination to liken poetry to truth in the context of Schopenhauer’s saying: “all [poetry] goes through three stages: first it is ridiculed; second it is violently opposed; and third, it is accepted as self-evident.” For me, your work, and in fact your life in general, for a life of linelessness is a life united, is self-evidently poetic, and a manifestation of Truth.

               

 

                 I look forward to hearing back from you.

                 And in the meanwhile, enjoy your time

                Amongst the families your life touches

                In the little big town of your birth & heart.

 

 

Inspired by yours,

 

 

 

 

 

 

Steven J. Caylor

         

          It’s funny, the opening of the T.S. Elliot Voices and Visions talks about seeking to say something yet unsaid, something new, and then tacks on at the end of the statement ‘something that is even true.’ For me truth is more appealing than ‘something new’ mostly because the truth is always new. Somewhat into the video there’s a statement that goes ‘there’s no more use trying to be traditional than there is in trying to be original’ that really points to it. The poet, as with the visual artist, is left to express their Now in light of personal belief, general truth, and Ultimate Reality.

          As the video takes on one of Elliot’s most well known poems, The Waste Land, the whole image is made clearer with footage of Europe laid waste by ‘the great war to end all wars.’ The bits and pieces of global literature collected and coalesced into The Waste Land are much like the bricks and blocks and rubble, the bomb crater ponds and pieces of left-over barbed-wire strewn about the cities and county-side of Europe. The power of Elliot’s Waste Land comes, though, through the fact and true understanding of his internal lands which paralleled so closely to the sights and sounds he experienced in his external world.

 

 

 

          Marianne Moore is a cheerfully refreshing person that produced playfully poignant poems of profundity, perfectly arrhythmic yet prosetic, and possiblly as scientific as anything in Nature or National Geographic. The Voices and Visions on her moves quickly, not focusing on one poem for many minuets mainly, it seems, since she showed prowess for writing on nearly any subject from poetry to phish to phone clocks to fine filigreed ice fields with the potential to flatten forests to baseball to boats docked while the town’s chapel donned a new hat. One passage from the poem ‘Four Quartz Crystal Clocks’ is especially inspiring: “The sea-side burden should not embarrass the bell-boy with the buoy-ball endeavoring to pass hotel patronesses; nor could a practiced ear confuse the glass eye for taxidermists with eyeglasses from the optometrist.” It almost comes across as nonsense when spoke, but remains quite sensical all the same. Taken out of context it looses the more explicit metaphorical meaning associated with Bell system clocks, but still somewhat alludes to the concept of accuracy.  Why in fact should the bell-boy be embarrassed by his buoy-ball burden? It’s his job to lug the luggage of the hotel’s temporary home callers; i’m not sure why one would bring a buoy-ball, but regardless…

 

 

 

 

          Langston Hughes is an encouraging example of the creative intellect that was free in himself from the start it seems. I find a kind of joy in his strength at overcoming the challenges and roadblocks in his path to happiness. His message is powerful and his life was a beautiful parallel to Martin Luther King Jr.’s. He wasn’t focused on equality quite like MLKJr, but he was a point of inspiration for the oppressed communities so that they felt equal throughout their areas of actualizing experience; nutritive (educational), emotional, social, and psycho-spiritual. Hughes is made all the more intriguing to me by his explorations into his roots, grown deep as the rivers from which they drink. I like how he bends the language to express more clearly the sense of the sounds found on the tongues of everyday people in everyday speech. The Voices and Visions film on Hughes seems to be less focused on his poetry and more inclusive of the general atmosphere of the man, but it makes clear that Hughes wasn’t limited to poetry for linguistic expression. His journey expanded into journalism, prose stories, plays, songs, and others surely.

My favorite poem of his, Goodbye Christ, only received a glossing over in reference to the controversy pieces like that brought him, but i recognize the inner assurance and freedom that would be necessitated by that kind of expression even in today’s ambiance, let alone in the prohibitionist style morality of the poem’s time of penning.   

 

Tha 1-2-3 Blues

Ala Langston Hughes

 

 The day’s growin’ old on us, Yea, the light’s gon’- baby,

       I’m standin’ here waitin’ witma Dancing shoes on,

 & the tower bells ’re chimin’ but my heart ha’nt a song.

 

I’m struttin’,

stutter steppin’,

doin’ the 1-2-3 Blues

 

 The day’s grown new on us baby, Yea, the Moon’s Shin’in-

    out here movin’ baby, in the crowd we’s grooving,

  & the tower bells ’re chimin’ & the Dance floor ain’t thin’in-

well the tower bells ’re chimin’ & the Dancers keep it movin.

 

We’s struttin’

stutter stepin’

doin’ the 1-2-3 Blues

 

The day’s gro’n on us baby, Yea, tha stars ’re glO’in bright

our kulas ‘re Burning; red, yEl’a, green  & Blue ‘re shO’in- tanight

      & the tower bells ‘re chimin’; which-way-’re-ya gOin’?

     well the tower bells ‘re chimin’; Which way-‘re-ya gOin’ baby?

Yeah, the Clock tower bells ‘re Chimin’; which way-‘re-ya gOin’ tanight?

 

Let’s keep struttin’,

keep it stutter stepin’,

doin’ the 1-2-3 Blues

OneLove
Ala Elizabeth Bishop

The will to bleed isn’t hard to muster.
So many things need money to be spent,
and making it while helping others is juster.

Give something every day. Try not to bust, or
greet the loss of bosshood; find your intent.
The will to bleed isn’t hard to muster.

Then practice bleeding faster, hustler.
All parts of you are valuable, gent;
and making it while helping others is juster.

Love Mother Earth. Look, watch, trust her.
She needs to last, this third house from the cent.
The will to bleed isn’t hard to muster.

I’ve got two dreams: Peace & Love. Standing under
these umbrellas the World is content,
and making it while helping others is juster.

In losing blood (cells in a fluid umber)
i Love, and shall not die. It’s evident;
the will to bleed isn’t hard to muster,
and doing it to help others is juster.

Summer Snows
Ala Langston Hughes

Winter weather can bring a young heart low, baby.
A weary heart needs a strong start when cold winds blow,
and with snow piling up, baby,  the broken one needs more.

Winter weather can bring a young heart low, baby.
And sometimes it’s found in the warmth as a closed door
that hides behind it, baby, your sweet sweet glow.

Winter weather can bring a young heart low, baby.
Yeah, winter weather can bring a young heart low.
What’s the chances of you helping me rise tonight?


Winter weather surrounds me, that’s fo sho, baby.
A weary heart needs a strong start when it swims for shore,
and with waves piling up, baby, the broken one needs more.

Winter weather surrounds me, that’s fo sho, baby.
But sometimes the silence calls to me, and i know,
that winter’s fine, baby, even if it’s not my home.

Winter weather surrounds me, that’s for sho, baby.
Yeah, winter weather surrounds me, that’s for sho.
What’s the chances of you chillin’ wit me tonight?

 

Lagnston Hughes uses the line, punctuation and formatting to create a musical continuity that works to transform the oftentimes sorrowful subject matter of his poetry of the streets, of streets that ran deep as rivers and occasionally red with the shed tears of his fellows. He transformed Eliot’s Waste Lands into quick lyrics, powerful and poignant, pointed as the spears that pierced the side of ‘Christ in Alabama,’ somewhat distanced from the goreiest of the details, but fully immersed in the reality of it all.

His language has a bounce and step to it that provides the rhythm, melody, and vocals for his silent songs. That, combined with his treatment of line and line breaks, and his use of italics and CAPITILIZATION work to keep the eye and mind moving, through the sometimes disturbing, often cutting edge, perspectives encapsulated in Hughes’ poetry.

The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,

And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.

It is what the dead close on, finally: I imagine them

 

                These three lines are big enough to daze me, as Plath’s peacefulness expands enough to enclose such a confidently clear approach to the experience of death. But when the light becomes blinding, putting on sunglasses is well advised, so let us bring some shade to the dazzle and see what emerges from a close reading of lines 32-34 of Tulips.

                With a first quick look at the poem’s title, something emerges, maybe a mirage, maybe not, but something that illuminates the passage by shadowing it in perspective is the fact that Plath’s father was a zoologist. This doesn’t directly apply to tulips, but he studied bees and sometimes those who know bees know flowers. So on one level or another this poem (and passage) applies to her father; as most of her poems likely did.

One layer of protection that may prove useful is the Oxford English Dictionary, with which we can clear the haze from around the words themselves, and thus the images they conjure in the imagination. Peace is a rather abstract concept even in the concentration of everyday experiences, and its use in a poem, especially one by one as prominent as Sylvia Plath, cannot be taken lightly, though likely represents something specific in the artist’s life. The online OED offers a definition of peace that, when used as a filter between Plath’s life and poetry and our understanding, acts as the concrete in our cement recipe: “Peace- Freedom from conflict or dissonance between individuals, (esp. in early use, between an individual and God).” This seems to describe the primary goal of Plath’s life. For her, her father represented the most prominent symbol for ‘God,’ and his death early in her life was her greatest disillusionment with him. The word ‘big’ used to describe the fullness of her desired freedom from dissention with her father carries a lot of weight. Big, beyond the surface connotations of large size, is about inclusion, or, as the OED phrases it: “Filled to busting; teeming, pregnant.” So Plath’s use of ‘big’ isn’t just a reiteration of the fullness of the freedom, it also brings along a piece of the puzzle with life-giving symbolism printed on it. The word Plath uses to provide the image of what the peacefulness is big with is like the sun on days free of clouds and covering, and the OED defines is as; ”to prostrate the mental faculties… as by weariness; to benumb or confuse the senses; to confound or bewilder the vision with excess of light or brilliance.” So the inclusiveness of the freedom she sought, so teeming with light that it becomes excessive and prostrating to the mental faculties was her replacement for the prostrating nature of her father’s brilliance to her mental continuity.  

                In order to clear up the image in line 33 let’s retreat once again to the perspective gained through the poem’s title and look at line 51 of Daddy, it goes: “You stand at the blackboard, daddy.” It only seems logical that for Plath, her peace, her freedom from the Daddy that “d[id] not do any more” might possibly be full of a lack of questions fired from the blackboard like panzer shells. The second portion of line 33 seems to state that, for her, peace only required letting go of herself, and the idea of things as possessions that are valuable in themselves.

Turning now to line 34, the word ‘close’ pops into the foreground and brings us back to the beginning. The OED defines it, in its verb form, as: “to stop an opening, to shut; to cover in; to contain (enclose); to include, contain within itself.” If we include the adjectival definitions some shade might be found that supports Plath’s conjecture: “close- of proximity in space, time, form, or state… of intervening space or spaces closed up, whereby the parts are… near to each other.” Many of those who have experienced ‘near death experience(s)’ describe the perception of light and, in the Buddhist philosophy, a departing being is said to be presented with the ‘Pure Light’ that occasionally dazes and sends the being back into the cycle of birth and death. So, with the polarizing lenses of anecdotal philosophy and the OED, we discover that when we die, or near die, we come close to the light that fills and dazzles and sometimes seek again the shelter of embodiment. Then, finally, we ‘stop [the] opening’ of that book in our lives and begin “to include, contain within,” the light that is peace until we’re full. If only Sylvia could have found means to do so within her incredibly expansive imagination…

The Day Light Shined
Ala Frank O’Hara
 

It is 7:17 at Ivy Tech Wabash Valley
one day after smoke ring day- yea, fryday-
it’s 2006, I’m a student and working- the JD Gator
is my chariot as i clear Coke cans and Camel butts
from the four cardinal facing parking lots
before any but maintenance walks the grounds

I drive into the shop and look for my Echo
trimmer and line, a pair of cutters, some gas and the time
as I’m driving back to the lots whose slots are filling,
but my sight’s on the lawns, where i dance and play
 
                                                                      I’m paid
when lunch rolls around so i roll on down 1st street
to Pizza Di Roma for a slice of Italy, New York style
and I smile as i drive back, this time for biotech class
where we play with jellyfish GFP and bacterium genomes;
we cut and paste with REs1] and Topo II[2] and the bugs glow-
We discuss efficiency, how Lilly and Pfizer bank roll;
i think about all the ways Cannabis could help the world
and how wild lettuce could help reduce what’s swollen

Driving down 1st again I side-step the traffic of 3rd
and I’m home, where I pack the evening bowl, Prince Albert
Cherry Vanilla, and i pack the evening bowl of Popeye power
and my bud Clint & i putt down Maple to Fruitridge
to the Hawthorn Park short cut which leads me to a grove
on the lake just as the sun is working itself westward and low

i’m snapping a lot now, with the Canon’s shutter firing;
i lean against the wind and watch sunbeams shatter and
flow into my squinted aperture and i imagine the sun’s wave;
and Gaia breaths- and thought and clocks stopped ticki-

a friend once said something about inspiration

and then another said something about energy

and then another said something about life

and then i said 'to me the three are one'


...energy channeled is life,
     life experienced is inspiration,
inspiration channeled is Energy,
    Energy experienced is Life,
     Life channeled is Inspiration,
Inspiration experienced is Energy...