Sharon Olds is an American poet who was born 19 November 1942 in San Francisco. She received the 2013 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry, the 1984 National Book Critics Circle Award, and the first San Francisco Poetry Center Award in 1980. She teaches creative writing at New York University.
When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it, in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,
your pencils, your reams of paper. Would they take your
suits back, too, those dark
carcasses hung in your closet, and the black
noses of your shoes with their large pores?
She had taught us to take us to take it, to hate you and take it
until we pricked with her for your
annihilation, Father. Now I
pass the bums in doorways, the white
slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their
suits of compressed silt, the stained
flippers of their hands, the underwater
fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the
lanterns lit from them in silence until they had
given it all away and had nothing
left but this.
Perhaps one of the most important things to note about this poem is the lack of a constant meter. This poem is filled with enjambment that carries us through the story being told, but it also stresses an important aspect. All of the lines are staggered, expressing that they can be viewed as staggered, incomplete thoughts. The majority of the poem is a reflection of the past, with the speaker's tone changing towards the end, showing that time has passed and that the speaker has different thoughts now.
Lines one through seventeen have an almost victorious tone throughout. The speaker is recalling how there was gladness when the mother divorced the children's father. "[H]er kids loved it," because their mother "took it and took it, in silence, all those years" and now she had finally stood up for herself. Her mother had been a victim of her husband, and because of this, the children were victims too. It is easy to see that the children felt that everything that happened to their father afterwards, from losing his job to losing his fancy clothing, was justified for the way he treated them and their mother.
Then again, in the middle of line seventeen, the father is actually mentioned as that. Before, it was just "you," the identification of having this "father" too horrible to be given acknowledgement. After line seventeen, the thoughts become less staggered, and in fact, they are formulated into one seemingly coherent sentence. Here, the tone changes to sympathetic; it is softer and more gentle. Rather than resent the father, the speaker actually identifies a sort of compassion for all the "bums in the doorways" who have lost everything because of the decisions of others.
The biggest theme in this poem is the emphasis that everyone is a victim of something. The beginning of the poem makes the mother and children the victims; the end of the poem shows the father being a victim. Overall, though, it is plausible to recognize that the father is the true victim. This does not justify the fact that he could have been aggressive and harsh to his wife, because the wife and the children "took it and took it" for years. Yet as the speaker reflects in the end with "until they had given it all away and had nothing left but this," there is the possibility that the father was doing everything with his job and his luxurious lifestyle for his family. The job and the secretaries all made it possible for him to provide a good life for his family. With all of that gone, he lost everything his life was built around. It is implied that sometimes people give everything they have for others, but the others will victimize them in the end.
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Monday, November 17, 2014
"At the Hospital" by David Ferry
David Ferry was born in 1924 in Orange, New Jersey. He is an American poet, translator, and educator, and he has published eight volumes of poetry and a volume of literary criticism.
She was the sentence the cancer spoke at last,
Its blurred grammar finally clarified.
This poem is incredibly short, but so much is packed into one sentence. Cancer is a heavy topic: we don't like to talk about it, and when we do, there's not much good to say about it, until you get to the people who have survived or know survivors. Those people are the ones that constantly instill hope and positivity in us, but nothing about this poem breathes anything good.
The past tense "was" implies that the woman whose diagnosis is cancer is now gone. She has passed on, and the cancer won in the end. The "blurred grammar" that is finally "clarified" is generally confusing. It seems that the woman's death made cancer's sentence become understandable.
Cancer can appear rapidly, and it can take lives rapidly, but it seems that this end was foreshadowed some time ago. The "at last" could be like some breath of relief - relief that the suffering is over. Then again, the fact that we know that this woman has passed could mean that cancer only truly showed itself when she had died. The cause of death was cancer, but it is possible that it was only known that she had cancer afterwards.
Maybe the clarification determined is that there is no answer to cancer. There are the very lucky survivors, but there is not an answer to every type of cancer, and this type, whatever it may be, clarifies this overall. Clarification tends to be something we want - we want to be able to understand everything around us -, but here, the clarification of cancer's "blurred grammar" doesn't seem desirable. It seems upsetting, and it's paradoxical.
Yet the poem is so abrupt that it makes every single word more powerful, which makes this poem not so much about the woman lost but about the sentence itself. This sentence lets cancer be personified. Cancer is talking here, and cancer is in control.
She was the sentence the cancer spoke at last,
Its blurred grammar finally clarified.
This poem is incredibly short, but so much is packed into one sentence. Cancer is a heavy topic: we don't like to talk about it, and when we do, there's not much good to say about it, until you get to the people who have survived or know survivors. Those people are the ones that constantly instill hope and positivity in us, but nothing about this poem breathes anything good.
The past tense "was" implies that the woman whose diagnosis is cancer is now gone. She has passed on, and the cancer won in the end. The "blurred grammar" that is finally "clarified" is generally confusing. It seems that the woman's death made cancer's sentence become understandable.
Cancer can appear rapidly, and it can take lives rapidly, but it seems that this end was foreshadowed some time ago. The "at last" could be like some breath of relief - relief that the suffering is over. Then again, the fact that we know that this woman has passed could mean that cancer only truly showed itself when she had died. The cause of death was cancer, but it is possible that it was only known that she had cancer afterwards.
Maybe the clarification determined is that there is no answer to cancer. There are the very lucky survivors, but there is not an answer to every type of cancer, and this type, whatever it may be, clarifies this overall. Clarification tends to be something we want - we want to be able to understand everything around us -, but here, the clarification of cancer's "blurred grammar" doesn't seem desirable. It seems upsetting, and it's paradoxical.
Yet the poem is so abrupt that it makes every single word more powerful, which makes this poem not so much about the woman lost but about the sentence itself. This sentence lets cancer be personified. Cancer is talking here, and cancer is in control.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
"Ode to American English" by Barbara Hamby
Barbara Hamby is an American author, poet, fiction writer, editor, and critic. She was born in New Orleans, Louisiana but was raised in Hawaii. She was born in 1952. Her writing style blends pop culture references in formally strict lyrically extravagant poems.
I was missing English one day, American, really,
with its pill-popping Hungarian goulash of everything
from Anglo-Saxon to Zulu, because British English
is not the same, if the paperback dictionary
I bought at Brentano's on the Avenue de l'Opera
is any indication, too cultured by half. Oh, the English
know their dahlias, but what about doowop, donuts,
Dick Tracy, Tracy Dick? With their elegant Oxfordian
accents, how could they understand my yearning for the hotrod,
hotdog, hot flash vocabulary of the U.S. of A.,
the fragmented fandango of Dagwood's everyday flattening
of Mr. Beasley on the sidewalk, fetuses floating
on billboards, drive-by monster hip-hop stereos shaking
the windows of my dining room like a 7.5 earthquake,
Ebonics, Spanglish, "you know" used as comma and period,
the inability of 90% of the population to get the past perfect:
I have went, I have saw, I have tooken Jesus into my heart,
the battle cry of the Bible Belt, but no one uses
the King James anymore, only plain-speak versions,
in which Jesus, raising Lazarus from the dead, says,
"Dude, wake up," and the L-man bolts up like a B-movie
mummy. "Whoa, I was toasted." Yes, ma'am,
I miss the mongrel plenitude of American English, its fall-guy
rat-terrier, dog-pound neologisms, the bomb of it all,
the rushing River Jordan backwoods mutability of it, the low-rider,
with its sly dog, malasada-scarf beach blanket lingo
to the ubiquitous Valley Girls like-like stuttering,
shopaholic rant. I miss its quotidian beauty, its querulous
back-biting righteous indignation, its preening rotgut
flag-waving cowardice. Suffering Succotash, sputters
Sylvester the Cat; sine die, say the pork-bellied legislators
of the swamps and plains. I miss all those guys, their Tweety-bird
resilience, their Doris Day optimism, the candid unguent
of utter happiness on every channel, the midnight televangelist
euphoric stew, the junk mail, voice mail vernacular.
On every boulevard and rue I miss the Tarzan cry of Johnny
Weismueller, Johnny Cash, Johnny B. Goode,
and all the smart-talking, gum-snapping hard-girl dialogue,
finger-popping x-rated street talk, sports babble,
Cheetoes, Cheerios, chili dog diatribes. Yeah, I miss them all,
sitting here on my sidewalk throne sipping champagne
verses lined up like hearses, metaphors juking, nouns zipping
in my head like Corvettes on Dexedrine, French verbs
slitting my throat, yearning for James Dean to jump my curb.
This poem presents distinct examples that all pertain to American English and how it has become completely its own. It is not anything like the British roots that it came from, and in this poem, the speaker is nostalgic of all that American English is to them, Americans might not be able to identify with all of her examples, but we can recognize them and know that they are part of our heritage.
The ironic thing about this poem is that we are told that the "paperback dictionary" on British English is purchased in a bookstore called Brentano's, which is the "American bookstore in Paris." Therefore, it's even more ironic that the bookstore is American and selling British English dictionaries. Since the poem is all about language, it's interesting that there is so much irony about the location of the dictionary and its contents.
Then again, the poem is discussing language, and American English is influenced by multiple languages, so it is possible that the author is stressing this point by having an American bookstore sell British dictionaries in Paris.
There are multiple categories of examples, ranging from the many different languages brought from immigrants to food unique to us. No matter how unique all of these examples are to us, they were influenced by some other place in the world and brought here to be part of something big and influential in itself. British English and French are proper languages, but American English is sloppy and, to most everyone in the world, the most difficult to learn. The examples in this poem reflect the haphazard jargon that is common language to Americans across the country, It's a language easy and warming to us Americans, and it's worth missing if you find yourself across the world.
I was missing English one day, American, really,
with its pill-popping Hungarian goulash of everything
from Anglo-Saxon to Zulu, because British English
is not the same, if the paperback dictionary
I bought at Brentano's on the Avenue de l'Opera
is any indication, too cultured by half. Oh, the English
know their dahlias, but what about doowop, donuts,
Dick Tracy, Tracy Dick? With their elegant Oxfordian
accents, how could they understand my yearning for the hotrod,
hotdog, hot flash vocabulary of the U.S. of A.,
the fragmented fandango of Dagwood's everyday flattening
of Mr. Beasley on the sidewalk, fetuses floating
on billboards, drive-by monster hip-hop stereos shaking
the windows of my dining room like a 7.5 earthquake,
Ebonics, Spanglish, "you know" used as comma and period,
the inability of 90% of the population to get the past perfect:
I have went, I have saw, I have tooken Jesus into my heart,
the battle cry of the Bible Belt, but no one uses
the King James anymore, only plain-speak versions,
in which Jesus, raising Lazarus from the dead, says,
"Dude, wake up," and the L-man bolts up like a B-movie
mummy. "Whoa, I was toasted." Yes, ma'am,
I miss the mongrel plenitude of American English, its fall-guy
rat-terrier, dog-pound neologisms, the bomb of it all,
the rushing River Jordan backwoods mutability of it, the low-rider,
with its sly dog, malasada-scarf beach blanket lingo
to the ubiquitous Valley Girls like-like stuttering,
shopaholic rant. I miss its quotidian beauty, its querulous
back-biting righteous indignation, its preening rotgut
flag-waving cowardice. Suffering Succotash, sputters
Sylvester the Cat; sine die, say the pork-bellied legislators
of the swamps and plains. I miss all those guys, their Tweety-bird
resilience, their Doris Day optimism, the candid unguent
of utter happiness on every channel, the midnight televangelist
euphoric stew, the junk mail, voice mail vernacular.
On every boulevard and rue I miss the Tarzan cry of Johnny
Weismueller, Johnny Cash, Johnny B. Goode,
and all the smart-talking, gum-snapping hard-girl dialogue,
finger-popping x-rated street talk, sports babble,
Cheetoes, Cheerios, chili dog diatribes. Yeah, I miss them all,
sitting here on my sidewalk throne sipping champagne
verses lined up like hearses, metaphors juking, nouns zipping
in my head like Corvettes on Dexedrine, French verbs
slitting my throat, yearning for James Dean to jump my curb.
This poem presents distinct examples that all pertain to American English and how it has become completely its own. It is not anything like the British roots that it came from, and in this poem, the speaker is nostalgic of all that American English is to them, Americans might not be able to identify with all of her examples, but we can recognize them and know that they are part of our heritage.
The ironic thing about this poem is that we are told that the "paperback dictionary" on British English is purchased in a bookstore called Brentano's, which is the "American bookstore in Paris." Therefore, it's even more ironic that the bookstore is American and selling British English dictionaries. Since the poem is all about language, it's interesting that there is so much irony about the location of the dictionary and its contents.
Then again, the poem is discussing language, and American English is influenced by multiple languages, so it is possible that the author is stressing this point by having an American bookstore sell British dictionaries in Paris.
There are multiple categories of examples, ranging from the many different languages brought from immigrants to food unique to us. No matter how unique all of these examples are to us, they were influenced by some other place in the world and brought here to be part of something big and influential in itself. British English and French are proper languages, but American English is sloppy and, to most everyone in the world, the most difficult to learn. The examples in this poem reflect the haphazard jargon that is common language to Americans across the country, It's a language easy and warming to us Americans, and it's worth missing if you find yourself across the world.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
"Midsummer" by Derek Walcott
Derek Walcott is a poet and playwright from the island of Saint Lucia. He was born 23 January 1930 and is currently a professor of poetry at the University of Essex. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1992 and has collected a large assortment of other awards in his career.
Certain things here are quietly American-
that chain-link fence dividing the absent roars
of the beach from the empty ball park, its holes
muttering the word umpire instead of empire;
the gray, metal light where an early pelican
coasts, with its engines off, over the pink fire
of a sea whose surface is as cold as Maine's.
The light warms up the sides of white, eager Cessnas
parked at the airstrip under the freckling hills
of St. Thomas. The sheds, the brown, functional hangar
are like those of the Occupation in the last war.
The night left a rank smell under the casuarinas,
the villas have fenced-off beaches where the natives walk,
illegal immigrants from unlucky islands
who envy the smallest polyp its right to work.
Here the wetback crab and the mollusc are citizens,
and the leaves have green cards. Bulldozers jerk
and gouge out a hill, but we all know that the dust
is industrial and must be suffered. Soon -
the seas's corrugations are sheets of zinc
soldered by the sun's steady acetylene. This
drizzle that falls now is American rain
stitching stars in the sand. My own corpuscles
are changing as fast. I fear what the migrant envies:
the starry pattern they make-the flag on the post office-
the quality of the dirt, the fealty changing under my foot.
This poem focuses on imagery of multiple different aspects of America, but it is specific imagery that we don't normally think about when it comes to this country. Walcott begins by telling us that "[t]hings here are quietly American," and with the mention of St. Thomas, we can predict that the setting is not really America, but perhaps a Virgin Island in the Caribbean, as Walcott is from Saint Lucia. All of the examples in this poem are little details that were noticed on the island, but they are distinctly American, even though most Americans never realize these.
The poem is filled with observations from chain-link fences to bulldozers, discussing immigration and natives to the country. It is interesting that Walcott says that ball parks are "muttering the word umpire instead of empire." Other countries around the world may have this view that America is an empire, and most can agree that America is an empire in some senses, but America isn't focused on dominating the world. The observations are so unlike any others that it seems to be telling us that America is unknowingly spreading its traditions and characteristics with the rest of the world. The American pastime of baseball is ringing stronger than the idea of conquering and having ultimate rule over the world.
Dozens of images flash through our minds while we read this poem, and we are able to identify with the settings because, once we really think about them, we are able to identify with all of them. America's population is defined as a melting pot because of its mix of people that live here. The many settings displayed in this poem are also, in a sense, a melting pot of American symbols.
Certain things here are quietly American-
that chain-link fence dividing the absent roars
of the beach from the empty ball park, its holes
muttering the word umpire instead of empire;
the gray, metal light where an early pelican
coasts, with its engines off, over the pink fire
of a sea whose surface is as cold as Maine's.
The light warms up the sides of white, eager Cessnas
parked at the airstrip under the freckling hills
of St. Thomas. The sheds, the brown, functional hangar
are like those of the Occupation in the last war.
The night left a rank smell under the casuarinas,
the villas have fenced-off beaches where the natives walk,
illegal immigrants from unlucky islands
who envy the smallest polyp its right to work.
Here the wetback crab and the mollusc are citizens,
and the leaves have green cards. Bulldozers jerk
and gouge out a hill, but we all know that the dust
is industrial and must be suffered. Soon -
the seas's corrugations are sheets of zinc
soldered by the sun's steady acetylene. This
drizzle that falls now is American rain
stitching stars in the sand. My own corpuscles
are changing as fast. I fear what the migrant envies:
the starry pattern they make-the flag on the post office-
the quality of the dirt, the fealty changing under my foot.
This poem focuses on imagery of multiple different aspects of America, but it is specific imagery that we don't normally think about when it comes to this country. Walcott begins by telling us that "[t]hings here are quietly American," and with the mention of St. Thomas, we can predict that the setting is not really America, but perhaps a Virgin Island in the Caribbean, as Walcott is from Saint Lucia. All of the examples in this poem are little details that were noticed on the island, but they are distinctly American, even though most Americans never realize these.
The poem is filled with observations from chain-link fences to bulldozers, discussing immigration and natives to the country. It is interesting that Walcott says that ball parks are "muttering the word umpire instead of empire." Other countries around the world may have this view that America is an empire, and most can agree that America is an empire in some senses, but America isn't focused on dominating the world. The observations are so unlike any others that it seems to be telling us that America is unknowingly spreading its traditions and characteristics with the rest of the world. The American pastime of baseball is ringing stronger than the idea of conquering and having ultimate rule over the world.
Dozens of images flash through our minds while we read this poem, and we are able to identify with the settings because, once we really think about them, we are able to identify with all of them. America's population is defined as a melting pot because of its mix of people that live here. The many settings displayed in this poem are also, in a sense, a melting pot of American symbols.
Friday, November 7, 2014
"What's That Smell in the Kitchen?" by Marge Piercy
Marge Piercy is an American poet, novelist, and social activist. She was born in Detroit, Michigan on 31 March 1936. Her poetry tends to be free verse and deals with feminist and social concerns.
All over America women are burning dinners.
It's lambchops in Peoria; it's haddock
in Providence; it's steak in Chicago;
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning
food they're supposed to bring with calico
smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined,
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, it's
her husband spitted over a low fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
it's a dead rat with a bomb in its belly
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested,
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam.
Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.
Based on all that Marge Piercy stands for, it is somewhat difficult to determine who the speaker is in this poem. There is a strong and clear voice that seems to be Marge Piercy, so it is possible that in this case, Marge Piercy is the author and the speaker.
As a feminist, Marge Piercy is identifying the societal concept that women are supposed to serve others. She provides examples of food from across the nation: "lambchops in Peoria" references Illinois; "haddock in Providence" references East Coast cuisine; "steak in Chicago" references the Midwest; "tofu delight in Big Sur" identifies with California and the West Coast lifestyle; and "red rice and beans in Dallas" identifies the South. These examples help show that women burn dinner, regardless of what it is.
The anger she displays in this poem places focus on the stereotype that women must serve men because society says so. The intense imagery of plotting to kill husbands by barbecuing them or serving them poison spells vengeance.
Incompetence is the inability to do something successfully. The last line of this poem says that burning dinner is not being able to cook properly, but it is war. That's a drastic difference; incompetence involves ignorance or lack of a skill, whereas war involves intended violence. The entirety of the poem leads us to show that women can intentionally burn food because they are fighting against all that is expected of them as being a woman. Society has always stressed that wives are supposed to serve their husbands, and women will always be lower in class than men.
Marge Piercy, then, is personifying feminist ideas into a common occurrence: burning dinner.
All over America women are burning dinners.
It's lambchops in Peoria; it's haddock
in Providence; it's steak in Chicago;
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning
food they're supposed to bring with calico
smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined,
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, it's
her husband spitted over a low fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
it's a dead rat with a bomb in its belly
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested,
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam.
Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.
Based on all that Marge Piercy stands for, it is somewhat difficult to determine who the speaker is in this poem. There is a strong and clear voice that seems to be Marge Piercy, so it is possible that in this case, Marge Piercy is the author and the speaker.
As a feminist, Marge Piercy is identifying the societal concept that women are supposed to serve others. She provides examples of food from across the nation: "lambchops in Peoria" references Illinois; "haddock in Providence" references East Coast cuisine; "steak in Chicago" references the Midwest; "tofu delight in Big Sur" identifies with California and the West Coast lifestyle; and "red rice and beans in Dallas" identifies the South. These examples help show that women burn dinner, regardless of what it is.
The anger she displays in this poem places focus on the stereotype that women must serve men because society says so. The intense imagery of plotting to kill husbands by barbecuing them or serving them poison spells vengeance.
Incompetence is the inability to do something successfully. The last line of this poem says that burning dinner is not being able to cook properly, but it is war. That's a drastic difference; incompetence involves ignorance or lack of a skill, whereas war involves intended violence. The entirety of the poem leads us to show that women can intentionally burn food because they are fighting against all that is expected of them as being a woman. Society has always stressed that wives are supposed to serve their husbands, and women will always be lower in class than men.
Marge Piercy, then, is personifying feminist ideas into a common occurrence: burning dinner.
Monday, November 3, 2014
"Leaving the Motel" by W.D. Snodgrass
William De Witt Snodgrass wrote under the pseudonym S. S. Gardons. He was an American poet who won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1960. He was born in 5 January 1926, and he died 13 January 2013.
Outside, the last kids holler
Near the pool: they'll stay the night.
Pick up the towels; fold your collar
Out of sight.
Check: is the second bed
Unrumpled, as agreed?
Landlords have to think ahead
In case of need,
Too. Keep things straight: don't take
The matches, the wrong keyrings--
We've nowhere we could keep a keepsake--
Ashtrays, combs, things
That sooner or later others
Would accidentally find.
Check: take nothing of one another's
And leave behind
Your license number only,
Which they won't care to trace;
We've paid. Still, should such things get lonely,
Leave in their vase
An aspirin to preserve
Our lilacs, the wayside flowers
We've gathered and must leave to serve
A few more hours;
That's all. We can't tell when
We'll come back, can't press claims,
We would no doubt have other rooms then,
Or other names.
Outside, the last kids holler
Near the pool: they'll stay the night.
Pick up the towels; fold your collar
Out of sight.
Check: is the second bed
Unrumpled, as agreed?
Landlords have to think ahead
In case of need,
Too. Keep things straight: don't take
The matches, the wrong keyrings--
We've nowhere we could keep a keepsake--
Ashtrays, combs, things
That sooner or later others
Would accidentally find.
Check: take nothing of one another's
And leave behind
Your license number only,
Which they won't care to trace;
We've paid. Still, should such things get lonely,
Leave in their vase
An aspirin to preserve
Our lilacs, the wayside flowers
We've gathered and must leave to serve
A few more hours;
That's all. We can't tell when
We'll come back, can't press claims,
We would no doubt have other rooms then,
Or other names.
This poem depicts the story of two unnamed people who have stepped away from society to be together, with a high possibility that the relationship shouldn't even be occurring. They have checked in with different names, as mentioned in the last stanza, so that no one will trace or find them, and they have paid for the motel room.
The beginning of the poem is actually the end of the occasion; "fold your collar our of sight" implies that clothing is being readjusted to leave no trace of where the person has been and what has happened. They also have to ensure that the second bed in the room looks as though it's been slept in, when in reality it hasn't been touched. This is proof that the entirety of the poem is scandalous. The couple must take steps to ensure that no one knows of what has happened there and that no one knows that they were even there. The meticulous checklist runs through the poem, which indicates that they have taken every precaution beforehand and are continuing to do so now.
The author's tone could be one of awe or appreciation for what motels can offer. Even though this poem is sexual and scandalous in its various ways, motel rooms hold many people's secrets. They hold forbidden love and bonds unlike any others, and that's what can make motel rooms so interesting. On the other hand, the tone is also overwhelmingly regretful. Motel rooms open up new possibilities, but the possibilities seldom ever last. As fascinating as these places are, they also remind us that nothing lasts forever.
The beginning of the poem is actually the end of the occasion; "fold your collar our of sight" implies that clothing is being readjusted to leave no trace of where the person has been and what has happened. They also have to ensure that the second bed in the room looks as though it's been slept in, when in reality it hasn't been touched. This is proof that the entirety of the poem is scandalous. The couple must take steps to ensure that no one knows of what has happened there and that no one knows that they were even there. The meticulous checklist runs through the poem, which indicates that they have taken every precaution beforehand and are continuing to do so now.
The author's tone could be one of awe or appreciation for what motels can offer. Even though this poem is sexual and scandalous in its various ways, motel rooms hold many people's secrets. They hold forbidden love and bonds unlike any others, and that's what can make motel rooms so interesting. On the other hand, the tone is also overwhelmingly regretful. Motel rooms open up new possibilities, but the possibilities seldom ever last. As fascinating as these places are, they also remind us that nothing lasts forever.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
"A Found Poem" by Maxine Kumin
Maxine Kumin was an American poet who was appointed Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the -Library of Congress from 1981-1982. She had multiple awards in her lifetime, including the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1973. She died 6 February 2014 at the age of eighty-eight.
Ars Poetica
A Found Poem
Whenever I caught him down in the stall, I'd approach.
At first he jumped up the instant he heard me slide
the bolt. Then I could get the door open while
he stayed laying down, and I'd go in on my hands
and knees and crawl over to him so that
I wouldn't appear so threatening. It took
six or eight months before I could simply walk in
and sit with him, but I needed that kind of trust.
I kept him on a long rein to encourage him
to stretch out his neck and back. I danced with him
over ten or fifteen acres of fields with a lot
of flowing from one transition to another.
What I've learned is how to take the indirect route.
That final day I felt I could have cut
the bridle off, he went so well on his own.
Ars Poetica
A Found Poem
Whenever I caught him down in the stall, I'd approach.
At first he jumped up the instant he heard me slide
the bolt. Then I could get the door open while
he stayed laying down, and I'd go in on my hands
and knees and crawl over to him so that
I wouldn't appear so threatening. It took
six or eight months before I could simply walk in
and sit with him, but I needed that kind of trust.
I kept him on a long rein to encourage him
to stretch out his neck and back. I danced with him
over ten or fifteen acres of fields with a lot
of flowing from one transition to another.
What I've learned is how to take the indirect route.
That final day I felt I could have cut
the bridle off, he went so well on his own.
Without a title, readers would never know that this poem is
actually about poetry. I, along with all horse lovers, would see this poem as
being about what horses can teach us.
The poem essentially uses a horse as a metaphor for poetry.
It begins with a horse being down in a stall, which tends to symbolize that
some injury has occurred. It is entirely plausible that this can be linked with
the failed attempt at a good, praise-worthy poem. If your work isn't applauded
by others, your pride and motivation can be wounded. The time frame of
"six or eight months" can express how much time it can take to earn
trust, but moreover, it can display how difficult it is to get a poem just right.
Writing poetry isn't easy, and to write one that gains approval from all is
even more difficult. Here, the speaker is taking the time to earn the trust
back from readers so that she trusts herself and her abilities to write poetry.
Because every day spent with horses is a roller coaster of
emotions and new challenges, the enjambments that occur repeatedly force us to
ride with the poem. In the second stanza of the poem, we are with the speaker
as they ride the horse across fields. We are experiencing the journey with
them, and poetry has us experience the journey with the author.
Horses are always teaching us something new, and we are
taken on a journey with them every time. Poetry is a learning experience, which
is why the horse is an exemplary metaphor for it.
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