The Funny Thing About Poetry

In my Poetry and Drama class, my professor asked us to read "Nantucket" by William Carlos Williams. The poem goes like this:

"NANTUCKET" by W.C. Williams

Flowers through the window

lavender and yellow

changed by white curtains-

Smell of cleanliness-

Sunshine of late afternoon-

On the glass tray.

a glass pitcher, the tumbler

turned down, by which

a key is lying-and the

immaculate white bed.

We then started suggesting possible interpretations of the poem, saying that the images in the poem represent possibilities, new beginnings, escape, refuge, etc. We spent two whole hours discussing what we thought the poem means. 

Later that day, my classmates and I were required to attend a master lecture on the importance of imagery and statement in poetry. There, in the class, the speaker recited a poem by W.C. Williams and said that Williams believed that poems shouldn't have deep images and that they should simply capture the visuals of an object or a moment in life. So many of his poems, like "Nantucket", were full of images which, to W.C. Williams, didn't represent anything. At this point, my professor, who was seated in front of us, turned around and smiled at us. 

That's the funny thing about poetry. Everyone thinks that poets always write about deep truths and heavy emotions and that poems are always full of symbols, so they always go crazy looking for a meaningful interpretation. What people forget about, the speaker said, is that sometimes the poet writes a poem simply because he or she feels like writing it.

The speaker, however, said that W.C. Williams poems don't have meaning just because he (the poet) didn't intend to put any in them. Meaning and interpretation in poetry, and in the rest of literature, depends on the reader because reading is a personal experience. So while the poem doesn't mean much to W.C. Williams, it can mean something to his readers. So remember that when you're reading poetry.

That was just a silly anecdote I wanted to share. With university being what it is, all of my anecdotes nowadays are school-based.

Until always,

Lemonjuicesodapop

"THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS" by W.B. Yeats

Here is another poem we discussed in Literature 14: Poetry and Drama. It's a beautiful poem by the Nobel Prize-winning Irish poet William Butler Yeats when he was obsessed with occultism and Irish legends.

"THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS" by William Butler Yeats


I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut an peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
and moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hallow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

A Wednesday of Life Lessons

Hey, everyone!

I'm sorry for being M.I.A. again. I'll try my best to post at least once a week but with the Christmas break coming up though, I'm sure my professors will try to squeeze in as much work as possible. :(

Last Wednesday, two professors gave very inspiring and enlightening lectures about the same thing: living life.   The first of the two professors was my Literature 14: Poetry and Drama professor. He started the lesson by discussing the poem "When Spring Returns" by Fernando Pessoa. Here is a copy of the poem for those who have not read it yet:

"WHEN SPRING RETURNS" by Fernando Pessoa

When Spring returns
Perhaps I will no longer be in the world.
Today I wish I could think of Spring as a person
So that I could imagine her crying for me
When she sees that she's lost her only friend.
But Spring isn't even a thing;
It's a manner of speaking.
Not even the flowers or green leaves return.
There are new flowers, new green leaves.
There are new balmy days.
Nothing returns, nothing repeats, because everything is real.

A wonderful but sad poem, isn't it? My professor stated that the speaker is a morose and forlorn person who is probably dying from a terminal illness. His (the speaker) confrontation with mortality is a lonely and diminishing one. In the beginning of the poem, the speaker has a negative perception of spring. However, in the 6th and 7th line of the poem, the speaker has a poetic epiphany wherein spring, to him, is no longer a measure of time (a season) and is now a state of mind. by the end of the poem, the speaker's tone goes from lonely, hopeless, and sombre  to enlightened and accepting of his inexorable death.

My professor followed up this discussion on the speaker's change in his perception of spring by saying, "When we change our perspective, the world changes and renews itself in our eyes."* He then explained that when we focus on the "darker" side of our mortality, the beauty of life and the world is lost on us. He used this to segue into a discussion on about time and living in the present. He said that he wanted to avoid using the phrase "Carpe Diem" in order to avoid comparisons with Robin Williams's character in Dead Poet's Society. Instead, he said, "Time is not yesterday or tomorrow. Time is now. The only certainty we have is the here and the now."*

He explained that the past is uncertain because our feelings and perception of what happened to us in the past changes as we grow and mature. The future is uncertain because, even if we make plans, we are never fully certain of what will happen to us. The only certainty is now. 

Our professor ended the discussion by encouraging us to use the fact that we will die as a reason to live life to the fullest, rather than moan about it the way the speaker did in the first five lines of the poem.

The second professor to have a discussion along these lines was another member of the school's English department. This time, he used the video game series Assassin's Creed as the springboard of the discussion. Knowing that I am a fan of the video game, he asked me what one of the major themes of the series is. I replied by saying, "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."

He wrote this down on the board and said that he would get back to that quote. He then started discussing absurdism, wherein life and human existence are thought of as empty and meaningless. My professor, however, said that "life is empty and meaningless not because it is sad and pointless. It is empty and meaningless because it's an empty slate that we can fill up."*

What we fill it up with, he explained, is what will give our lives meaning, but it is up to us if it will be good or bad. We are allowed to do want we want with our lives. This is where the quote from Assassin's Creed comes in. The creed is not calling us to be lawless and totally free, but to be wise.

I hope that I will always be able to remember what my professors said. These are things we are constantly reminded about but easily forget.

Well, here's to the gift of life!

Until always,

Lemonjuicesodapop

"The Destruction of Sennacherib" by George Gordon, Lord Byron

As much as I love reading poetry, I have to admit that I am not well-versed in the works of George Gordon, better known by his title, Lord Byron. I read one of his poems for the very first time in my Introduction to Poetry and Drama class last week, and I absolutely loved it. Here's a copy of his wonderfully written piece about how an Assyrian king and his grand army were defeated.

The Destruction of Sennacherib

By George Gordon, Lord Byron

              The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

              And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;

              And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,

              When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

              Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,

              That host with their banners at sunset were seen:

              Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,

              That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

              For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

             And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;

             And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,

             And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

             And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,

             But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;

             And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,

             And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

           

    And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

             With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:

             And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,

             The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

             And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,

             And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;

             And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,

             Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

For my fellow Byron first-timers, I hope you enjoyed the poem as much as I did!

Until Always, 

Lemonjuicesodapop

"Wasabi" by Andrea Gibson

 Spoken-word has always been an interesting form of poetry. People do not hold many poetry slams where I live, so the internet serves as my source of spoken-word poetry.

Here is a spoken-word poem entitled "Wasabi", written and performed by Andrea Gibson, which I found on tumblr. It is a beautifully written and performed piece!

“Wasabi” by Andrea Gibson

The plan was to play hard to get, that’s right.

I wasn’t just gonna go giving myself away, I’m no easy catch.

Can you really see me in fishnets? No.

I always find myself slipping out the holes,

swimming back out to sea.

I’d never been anybody’s sushi roll.

But she has lips like wasabi.

My eyes water every time we kiss.

Makes me wish we had a porch swing

and a little home

Makes me wish I could right wrongs

instead of poems

The heart is a bullet that’s terrified of blood

Love is a windshield wiper in a hurricane;

Nothing is ever clear

You mistake her name for the moon

Mistake porch lights for the stars

And sometimes they are.

Her constellations lead me home

Ten thousand shades of open

And if there’s one thing in this world

I’ve ever known for sure it’s that this girl

is gonna crush me like a small bug,

leave me so freaking broken there’ll

be body bags beneath my eyes

from nights I cried so hard the stars died

but I’m like, go ahead, I’m all yours.

I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm

cause I’d rather be left for dead than left to wonder 

what thunder sounds like.

I’m not looking for someone who can save me

Liferafts might keep you afloat but they rarely get you anywhere 

and I’ve got places I want to go. 

So break me in two, peel back my ribcage and 

cover every page of my heart with love poems 

that you will burn someday.

The most fertile lands were built by the hands of volcanoes

And I want to know what grows beneath the drone of

hallmark and roses.

I want your goodbye to feel like explosives.

Your lips a burning building without fire escapes,

Your hips the gates of hell if I know if heaven exists,

but this will do just fine.

And I want to feel you like lifelines on the palms of Jesus 

when the nails went through

Is that really, really creepy?

Just in case it is, let me also say that I want you

sleepy-eyed in the morning waking at my side

like a warm summer sky born from

so much softness the horizon cries every time

night fall comes to take you.

Let me also say that I want to make you sandwiches and soup,

and peanut butter cookies—though, the truth is,

peanut butter is actually really bad for you ‘cause they

grow peanuts in old cotton fields to clean the toxins out 

of the soil—but hey, 

you like peanut butter and I like you.

Let me also say I’ve never seen anything more gorgeous 

than you were that night,

the moon bending through the window blinds

I told time by the light casting shadows across your face

while you told me the story. 

My grandparents were married for 63 years.

On the day my grandfather died, he laid in bed and said

Nothing but love love love love 

then he puckered his lips and kissed my 

grandmother for the last time.

Love love love

Love is like sunshine. Sometimes you have to get burned

to know you were there, I want to know that I’m here.

Every single part of me—my heart open as

the river’s eyes the first time it sees the ocean.

My God, look at those waves.

Listen to that thundering tide.

Can you imagine anything more frightening?

Can you imagine anything more alive?

I hope you guys enjoyed this poem as much as I did!

Until always,

Lemonjuicesodapop

INVICTUS

My required readings and textbooks for the first semester of freshman year. Hell Week is over and I have survived! After a week of sleepless nights and countless hours fretting over papers and poring over books, I I can rest!

Here is the poem that kept me going through all of it:

"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Here's to a good break!

Until always,

Lemonjuicesodapop