Frank O’Hara: The Day Lady Died
The Day Lady Died
Charles Simic: Fork
This strange thing must have crept
Right out of hell.
It resembles a bird’s foot
Worn around the cannibal’s neck.
As you hold it in your hand,
As you stab with it into a piece of meat,
It is possible to imagine the rest of the bird:
Its head which like your fist
Is large, bald, beakless, and blind.
I had previously heard that Simic was a surrealist poet, and after reading a few of his poems, I can see that he is the Salvador Dali of poets. The way that he transforms a simple household object (a spoon, a fork, a stone) into a living, breathing creature is unsettling. Humans use forks everyday; they are commonplace and controlled by us. Simic sees this fork as an unknown creature and describes in such a way as to make seem evil. This alchemy makes the object seem odd – why would we want to put something as vile as a “fork” into our mouths? A fork is nothing other than a small devil’s pitchfork, a bird foot, so why keep one around the house? In many of his poems, Simic forces us into alien status, making the common world a strange place. We must see things for the first time.
William Wordsworth: The World is Too Much With Us
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Although this poem was written almost a century ago, it still resonates with me today. The first line of the poem, “the world is too much with us,” is seperated with a semi-colon from everything else in the poem. Perhaps this is to indicate the significance of the statement. The reader must wonder if the world is better off with humans, and why? Wordsworth proclaims that humans have lost touch with nature and are too obsessed with material. When reading the poem out loud, there is a certain rhyme scheme (petrachan) that makes it seem angry. Although the tone itself seems to be admonishing, the emphasis on words gives away even more Wordsworth’s dissappointment in humanity. Wordsworth then goes on to say that he wishes to be removed from this plebian and uncaring lifestyle – he wishes to be a Pagan, which is not an acceptable spirituality at his time. Paganism would help him to see the greatness of nature and the awe of the unknown world. In line 10, “a Pagan suckled in a creed outworn” evokes imagery of a mother feeding a baby; however, this mother is uknown and is too great to be comprehensible. Wordsworth is trying to say that humans would be better nurished by the uknown and that which invokes awe in them, than the way that they were currently living.
Chalres Bukowski: I Met a Genius Today
I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
as he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it’s not pretty
it was the first time I’d
realized
that.
As humans, we are conditioned to think in a certain way – certain things are pretty, certain things are ugly just because we’ve been taught they are. The speaker has always seen the coast line and the ocean as a beautiful thing, however, once somebody breaks the mold and says that it’s not so great, the author sees the landscape for what it truly is. Remarkably, the “teacher” a six-year-old; this makes sense because children are more likely to question ways of thinking and develop their own points of view before society can mold them as they get older. Although we have been taught to “see” a certain way, it is not exactly what we “see.” The big qustion is whether or not we experience the world through the eyes that have been shaped by our environment or do we watch as individuals.
Marianne Moore: “Baseball and Writing”
Fanaticism?No.Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do;
generating excitement–
a fever in the victim–
pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter.
Victim in what category?
Owlman watching from the press box?
To whom does it apply?
Who is excited?Might it be I?
It’s a pitcher’s battle all the way–a duel–
a catcher’s, as, with cruel
puma paw, Elston Howard lumbers lightly
back to plate.(His spring
de-winged a bat swing.)
They have that killer instinct;
yet Elston–whose catching
arm has hurt them all with the bat–
when questioned, says, unenviously,
“I’m very satisfied.We won.”
Shorn of the batting crown, says, “We”;
robbed by a technicality.
When three players on a side play three positions
and modify conditions,
the massive run need not be everything.
“Going, going . . . “Is
it?Roger Maris
has it, running fast.You will
never see a finer catch.Well . . .
“Mickey, leaping like the devil”–why
gild it, although deer sounds better–
snares what was speeding towards its treetop nest,
one-handing the souvenir-to-be
meant to be caught by you or me.
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral;
he could handle any missile.
He is no feather.”Strike! . . . Strike two!”
Fouled back.A blur.
It’s gone.You would infer
that the bat had eyes.
He put the wood to that one.
Praised, Skowron says, “Thanks, Mel.
I think I helped a little bit.”
All business, each, and modesty.
Blanchard, Richardson, Kubek, Boyer.
In that galaxy of nine, say which
won the pennant?Each.It was he.
Those two magnificent saves from the knee-throws
by Boyer, finesses in twos–
like Whitey’s three kinds of pitch and pre-
diagnosis
with pick-off psychosis.
Pitching is a large subject.
Your arm, too true at first, can learn to
catch your corners–even trouble
Mickey Mantle.(“Grazed a Yankee!
My baby pitcher, Montejo!”
With some pedagogy,
you’ll be tough, premature prodigy.)
They crowd him and curve him and aim for the knees.Trying
indeed!The secret implying:
“I can stand here, bat held steady.”
One may suit him;
none has hit him.
Imponderables smite him.
Muscle kinks, infections, spike wounds
require food, rest, respite from ruffians.(Drat it!
Celebrity costs privacy!)
Cow’s milk, “tiger’s milk,” soy milk, carrot juice,
brewer’s yeast (high-potency–
concentrates presage victory
sped by Luis Arroyo, Hector Lopez–
deadly in a pinch.And “Yes,
it’s work; I want you to bear down,
but enjoy it
while you’re doing it.”
Mr. Houk and Mr. Sain,
if you have a rummage sale,
don’t sell Roland Sheldon or Tom Tresh.
Studded with stars in belt and crown,
the Stadium is an adastrium.
O flashing Orion,
your stars are muscled like the lion.
This poem took a lot of re-reading to finally gain a grasp on. It seems to me that Moore was inspired to write this poem while listening to the pressbox “owlman” commentated the game on the radio. Because she cannot see the game, she has to rely on only the commentator. This is the same as writing – the audience can rely only the author. Perhaps this is what makes it so exciting, so thrilling, and so suspenseful.
My first attempts at understanding were made when I began to organize each stanza by player. When Moore mentions the “victims” – pitcher, catcher, fielder, batter, I started to see how every stanza described actions by a different position. There was no specific order to these stanzas however – catcher, fielder, catcher, batter, pitcher…. but then I began to realize that if she is writing according to a game, then games are always spontaneous so her writing must be too. Then I researched the 16 different names mentioned in the poem for similarities or differences – all players are from the Yankees and Moore was an avid Yankee fan.
Another thing that I became aware of was Moore’s usage of animal and star imagery. When describing the players, Moore refers to their “killer instinct,” “puma paw,” “muscled like a lion,” bird imagery, and the deer imagery refering to Mickey Mantle. Many of the actions are preditary. Moore talks a lot of the “galaxy” of nine and the consetllations.
Still befuddled, I went through the poem line by line to see what I could figure out. Moore leaves a lot up to interpretations, such as “victim” in the first stanza. I realized that all players can be “victims” because each position can fall victim if they throw the wrong pitch or fail to get a hit. The owlman can also be a victim if the game is too boring for him to talk about. In the next stanza, she mentions Elston Howeard (the first black player) who was “shorn of the batting crown” – this actually happened when Howard didn’t win the batting title one year because of his race, or a “technicality. Howard was a catcher. The three players mentioned next are fielders, and then in the 4th stanza she assigns Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral (home to the Kennedy Space Center which deals with missiles) because he can handle any missle, which we can assume are pitches. The next few stanzas are staight forward – the game continues. In the 8th stanza, somebody says “yes, it’s work; I want you to bear down, but enjoy it while you’re doing it.” This resonated with me as comparable to writing. Both baseball and writing are difficult and with challenges, but the author should enjoy himself/herself while performing. The same goes for a good reader – it is hard work to read a poem, however it can be enjoyable. Moore also mentioned the “technicalities” of baseball, and how different players are made victims by them. Similarily, writers must always worry about these technicalities as well. When both player and writer must be aware of these technicalities, then they cannot just play/write however they want – so, in essence, a bit of the fun and passion is lost.
The last stanza gave me a lot of trouble because I couldn’t figure out what an “adastrium” was. The stadium is studded with stars, being players, who make up a constellation of Orion with belt and crown. The belt refers to the three stars (the three outfielders) and the crown can be taken to mean vicotry. Orion is also known as the “hunter” which brings together all of the hunting and animal imagery. These players are muscled like a lion, meaning they are strong. I couldn’t find the definition of “adastrium” anywhere, so I began to look into Latin roots. “Ad astra” means to the stars; I knew this from a Latin saying that my teacher had drilled into my head “ad astra per aspera” meaning to the stars through diffculty. This is a good closing to the poem because it brings together all comparisions about writing and baseball: both are difficult, but in the end, the end point is enjoyable and worth it.
Stephen Crane: War is Kind
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom —
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Harsh. Crane questions the value of war: is it worth it? Many of us wonder that from time to time. The level of sarcasm utilized throughout the poem suggests that Crane does not approve of war. Emotions such as patriotism and nationalism, duty to the country, and democratic beliefts are ususally stated as reasons for war, however, Crane believes that these are just emotions that we invent in the future when we are lonely and guilty and wondering why we ever did something so horrible. Governments use these emotions to stir support, but it never lasts. War is not so kind after all.
Silly…
This is silly, but I kept be reminded of it during my reading of Wallace Steven’s Emperor of Ice-Cream
Always Look on the Bright Side of Life
Wallace Stevens: the Emperor of Ice-Cream
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Life, Steven’s explains, must go on, and everybody lives to seize the day. Ice-cream in this poem represents sensuality and pleasure; as ice cream melts, so does opportunity. Although a woman has died and it seems to us that death should provoke sad proceedings, her death brings about an opportunity for a party and for the neightbors to get together. This woman is dead, but they are living and experiencing pleasures such as ice-cream and socializing. “Let the lamp affix it’s beam” appears to encourage a refocusing of the attention not on the gloominess of death, but on the lightness of living. Is this behavior disrepectful of the deceased? Or is it a way of celebrating their life? Personally, I am torn. If I died soon, I would probably want my funeral or wake to be full of people celebrating my life and their own. However, I think there is always time for mourning.
Richard Wilbur: Exuent
Piecemeal the summer dies;
At the field’s edge a daisy lives alone;
A last shawl of burning lies
On a gray field-stone.
All cries are thin and terse;
The field has droned the summer’s final mass;
A cricket like a dwindled hearse
Crawls from the dry grass.
Exuent, in Latin, means they leave. Wilbur examines those last few days of summer as the weather gets chilly, and everything dies. My favorite thing about this poem is the word choice; it’s so dark. Using imagery representing a funeral with words such as hearse and mass, and colors brought to mind by gray field-stone and dry grass, the reader feels transported to those dreadful last few days.
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 23: As An Unperfect Actor On The Stage
As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence.
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
In the beginning, Shakespeare is comparing himself to a fumbling actor or an animal or thing that is too overcome with emotion to articulate what he really means. Because his love is too great to adequately describe, he worries that one that he is trying to profess his love to will not see his love for all that it is. I think that many people (especially teenage boys) can relate to this because although they feel ardently towards somebody, they cannot explain it in words. “I love you! No, really. I do. Please beleive me,” is the best anybody can do, however it does not even come close to how they really feel.
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