Monday, April 14, 2008

Public Domain Poem: "The Flea" (John Donne)



Marke but this flea, and marke in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
Me it suck'd first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled bee;
Confesse it, this cannot be said
A sinne, or shame, or losse of maidenhead,
-----Yet this enjoyes before it wooe,
-----And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two,
-----And this, alas, is more than wee would doe.


Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
When we almost, nay more than maryed are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloysterd in these living walls of Jet.
-----Though use make thee apt to kill me,
-----Let not to this, selfe murder added bee,
-----And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three.


Cruell and sodaine, has thou since
Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence?
In what could this flea guilty bee,
Except in that drop which it suckt from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and saist that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor mee the weaker now;
-----'Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee;
-----Just so much honor, when thou yeeld'st to mee,
-----Will wast, as this flea's death tooke life from thee.

Forum Thread: Does the Difficulty of Modern Poetry Mask Its Underlying Superficiality?

In 2008, The Writer's Chronicle published a timely article: "On Difficulty in Poetry," by Reginald Shepherd. In his introduction, Mr. Shepherd says, "It's been the fashion at least since the Modernists to complain that contemporary poetry has become difficult, and that this difficulty has alienated the readers who used to flock to poetry as they now flock to John Grisham novels and American Idol" (8).

Then he refers to enduring difficult poets of the past: Shakespeare and Donne--though I would contend that these poets were not considered difficult back when they were writing their plays and poems. They're considered difficult now because their works are written in English not commonly used today.

Shepherd believes that poetry ought to challenge the reader and that total understanding of a poem is not necessary. Sometimes it's enough to appreciate the language, allusions, and structure, even when meaning eludes. He even says, "...the poem that alludes frequently eludes" (10). In other words, meaning is secondary to how a reader experiences a poem, intellectually, emotionally, and sensually.

Up to this point, I agree. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" is definitely an elusive poem worth reading and rereading and pondering because underneath all the fancy language, allusions, metaphors, there is substance, a universality of human experience and mortality.

However, as I read some modern poems, I get the distinct feeling that they hide their underlying superficiality behind difficult language--that a poet's walk down Fifth Avenue, during which his contemplation of his grocery list has been interrupted by an ill-timed bomb by an overhead bird will not be enhanced by complicated allusions to Prometheus.

Shepherd says, "Poems considered difficult often allude to material outside the common literary or intellectual frame of reference. Modern poetry is particularly difficult in its wide range and idiosyncratic, often inexplicit, deployment of allusion" (13).

Perhaps that is debatable; what I see in modern poetry is a tendency toward sameness, a flat affect, a self-indulgent contemplation about nothing masked by high-toned literary language: all style, little substance.

The question posed here: "Does the Difficulty of Modern Poetry Mask Its Underlying Superficiality?"

Feel free to comment.

___________________________________

Shepherd, Reginald. The Writer's Chronicle," May/Summer 2008, Vol. 40, Number 6, 8-14.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Public Domain Poem: Sonnet 18 (William Shakespeare)

.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

_______________________________

As a graduate student at the University of Florida (about a million years ago), I had to memorize this sonnet.

But I don't hold that against this cool poem--it's still a fave.

Forum Thread: Good News and Bragging Rights!

This happy thread is reserved for your good news and bragging rights.

Enjoy!

Poetry Critique: Submit Your Poem-in-Progress

You may submit a poem-in-progress, any form or style, for critique by the Poets.net community. Because of copyright issues, submit ONLY your own work. As the admin, I need to know your real identity, although (if you wish) I can post the poem anonymously.

Please limit the length to 40 lines maximum, and, if applicable, specify the form (sonnet, villanelle, sestina, pantoum, etc.).

Submit only in-progress poems. It does little good to submit a poem that you feel is ready for publication.

In your submission, it would be helpful if you wrote a short narrative regarding the kind of help you are seeking.

For example,

1. Are you seeking a line editing or an entire re-envisioning of the poem? Something in-between? Not sure?

2. What do you like best about your poem? The least?

3. Where are you having the most difficulty? For example, in the poem I posted on April 12 (not for critique, though; I'm not sure I'm going anywhere with this poem), I had difficulties with choosing the right word for how the mother "quiets" her child. I'm still not satisfied, so if I were to post this poem for critique, I would ask for help in this area.

4. What do you wish to leave alone? (Though it might be helpful to be open-minded here.)

Remember this about critiques: in the end, it's your work and your decision whether to accept or reject a critique.

Also, feel free to ask questions if you don't understand something about a critique.

Please note that the administrator of this forum will not be doing any poetry critiques; this is strictly a community service space.

There is no guarantee that your poem will receive any critique, and, of course, Poets.net cannot verify the validity of individual critiques. Also keep in mind that critics may have differing styles: tone, thoroughness, critical experience.

It will be up to the poet to decide what to take (if anything) from a critique.

Post any questions here, but do not submit your poem on this thread here.

Send your poem here.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Forum Thread: The Poetry of Atrocity and Bearing Witness

Back in the 1970s, some poets were excoriated because they would dare to write about atrocities that had little or nothing to do with them. For example, how could a non-survivor of the Holocaust bear witness to an atrocity he/she had not experienced?

It is hoped that the literary community has grown beyond the notion that one should be "censored" from discussing topics one has not experienced directly. While we might not be able to understand the nuances of an atrocity totally, writers are naturally sensitive souls who at the very least need to bear witness to crimes against humanity, even if only from the sidelines.

At a 2008 conference, poet William Heyen read his Hiroshima poem-in-progress based on images observed by a Japanese photographer who (just after the bomb exploded) jumped on his bicycle and rode toward ground zero. One of the most shocking images was that of a young mother who was carrying her infant's severed head in a bucket. A similar image can be found in John Hersey's Hiroshima: for days, a young mother carried her swaddled dead baby so that her husband (who was probably already dead) could see the body before burial. Both Heyen and Hersey are bearing witness to horrific events not experienced directly, but as writers have chosen to depict in their poetry and prose.

At the conference, this question was posed: are some atrocities so shocking and horrible that we should never write about them? No clear answer to this question. On one hand, to write about them might be terribly painful to the survivors and sensitive readers. On the other hand, to ignore them might mean forgetting and committing again.

A more interesting question: if an atrocity has been committed for altruistic reasons, as claimed by the Truman administration and other experts of 1945, should the transgressor be forgiven and given a pass? After all, it has been noted, millions of lives were probably saved, justifying sacrificing the 100,000-200,000 lives to save millions of others--the ends justifying the means.

Mr. Heyen offered an interesting answer: "Poetry will decide."

I felt as though my breath had been sucked out of my body. For me, the answer raised more questions than answers: Who or what is Poetry, and why should Poetry hold so much power to decide who is right and who is wrong?

Then I realized I was reacting too literally, that, perhaps, the body of poetry and art could act as judge and jury. But that is not a satisfactory answer either.

So I have attempted my own answer by writing my own atrocity poem--a familiar ethical dilemma rewritten in a loose poetic form.

Also, bear in mind this poem was written between two conference sessions (a session on Holocaust poetry and a poetry reading), thus, a very rough draft.


The Betrayer

Rustling

in Mother's arms,

swaddled Baby

stretches, kicks.

"En-n-n--"

Father's finger

to mouth--

Mother's offered:

Baby's snuffling.

Silent chorus:

Shush, Baby, shush

Muffled voice:

"Search the house!"

Ten souls

crammed inside.

Windowless passage,

portal obscured

by a cook stove.

"We-ah--"

Baby-face red,

nine paled faces.

Mother tearing--

cups Baby's mouth.

Footfalls clunk

through the wall.

"They gotta be here."

Vulgar voices,

doors slamming--

"En-n-n--"

Rifle cocking,

"What's that?"

Sixteen glinting eyes

drilled on Mother

and Child:

We will die now.

Mother sucks

in breath.

"It's nothing,

just the wind."

Clanging doors,

slung rifles,

Curses.

"Wa--"

Witness this:

Mother

muffles it,

squeezes and--

Silent.

"Nothing here."

William Heyen said something else: "It's okay to like your own poems."

Maybe so. However, the jury is still out on this one.

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