340 and counting

reflections on a class well spent.

2008-04-23T10:22:00.007-04:00

This will be my last post as an English 340 forker. I must say it has been great. quite an experience. I am now embarking on a new journey, one that has yet to be written.

I have a newly active word in my vocabulary.
Frame. Framing. Framed.
It's a noun. It's a verb.
an adjective too, I suppose.
I guess it depends on how you frame it.

There's another one too.
Also begins with an F.
Fork.
I learned it's a theory.
but that it's limited.
and that I can't trust the spoon.

I like to learn new words.
especially when they come with mardi gras beads.

finding symmetry in "America" by Allen Ginsberg

2008-04-22T16:03:00.009-04:00

another response to symmetry hunting.

He's carrying on about America (we can only assume the United States of America, although he fails to specify exactly which part of America he is speaking to...), questioning it, commanding it, calling it out. He wants something. But then he says this:

It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
(p. 368, Poems for the Millenium)

Symmetry. This idea of speaking only to oneself, of being the very entity you are fighting against, reminds me of three posters on my wall. These posters were acquired at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Detroit during an exhibit entitled Words Fail Me. The poem below explains the symmetry I have found...

I have three posters on my bedroom wall.
One in each of three languages.

Arabic.

English.

Hebrew.

I like them because they say the same thing,
because their meaning is symmetric,
meaning we are all saying the same thing,
all hoping to die for our homeland,
a wish, a dream that leaves us all dead
and a bunch of land with no inhabitants
and no visible borders
only a near-forgotten memory of political separatism,
human division.

finding symmetry in "The Culture of Saving Cindy's Face"

2008-04-22T15:41:00.003-04:00

another response to symmetry hunting.

Here the symmetry of faces travels throughout.

The face, the feature we so prominently display
to the world, perched atop the body,
an untilted globe,
symmetric.

Two eyes, two ears, two nostrils.

Medical students cut right down through the middle
of the face, to find the brain,
also symmetric.

The face is repeated.
Spacial symmetry. Each
of us born with a face
somehow learns to resemble all others.

I imagine Cindy Song much resembled me
and you
and all the characters Moss lays out
in The Culture of Saving Cindy's Face.

one week in a city. several weeks of contemplation. this is what you get.

2008-04-21T17:48:00.012-04:00

This is my (semi)final project for English 340. Included are the both the sonic and text versions of my work.

I have always been a poet. at least since the day I first began to think. It was difficult for me to take my poetry from the page to audio. I like paper. I like poetry on paper. I feared what such a translation would mean. I feared what my work would lose. I wondered what it could gain. Taking my work from paper to the air has been both constricting and limiting. I want so much to convey all the meaning, for each word to be hear and understood. I suppose that's the same with paper. And the fact of life (the life of a poet, that is...) is that we will never be understood fully. I have taken the simplicity of the world, and found in it the metaphor, the meaning, the symmetries and the beauty and tried to express as well as I find myself able, all that is on my heart. readers, listeners will hear what they will hear, they will think what they will think. I have done what I can, tried to help the world see through my eyes the wonder, the despair, the hope.

I spent the week of February 24th in the city of Detroit, MI. There I experienced the highs and lows that come with a time of service in a city as troubled, yet hopeful, as Detroit. I was inspired. deeply inspired. and here is the result. both for your ears and for your eyes.

I would say that this piece itself is finished. It took a great deal of time for me to find resolution within the work, but one afternoon, it came, and I knew it was finished. (although the investigation of translation I have undertaken is far from finished)

I longed to find hope in the city of Detroit. I wanted to express that. I hope this can affect you emotionally and inspire you to never lose hope. Please enjoy, it was certainly a pleasure to create.

I first learned of the earth as a globe
in my youth. I worried
that seeing the world as a rotating sphere
would remove all the mystery,
all the wonder,
from the sunsets
I cherished on the shores
of what I’m told are great lakes.

There was little reason for me to fear.

That week, in the Cold City
there was no subconscious relief
from trivial pursuits or petty concerns.
Twilight or dawn,
sunset or sunrise,
it made no difference,

I ceased to inhabit that secret world of slumber
and found my home on a cold carpet
and shivered silently through each night.

I have insomnia in a city that’s been sleeping for years.

We situated ourselves atop the wall,
the canal lined with the stone-cold hearts of man,

letting our toes dip into the separating sea,
feeling the cold and hopeless weeping
of eyes brimming with injustice,
we cried,
the light was gone.

We held our breath through tunnels as we retreated
to coffee shops a thousand times more arrogant,

as we lined up to cross the bridge of prideful steel,
we took the second way on a one-way street
and jumped in horror as the autos flew toward us
just as fast as the industry flew
just like the white people flew
right out of this place
so few years ago.

I don’t know why we were surprised.

Our tongues burning
with that bittersweet taste of automobile success,
with that pungent air we propelled across invisible borders.

Our eyes failing us,
endeavoring to gauge the void,
unable to grasp the distance,
deceptive.

We’ve encountered the fallacy of the other world.

In one world,
one life,
I am safe
while in the next
I must
never
be
alone.

We’ve been taught to describe these as
places worlds apart
but somewhere these worlds are divided by
a single line,
a single language,
a single border,
a single street I should not cross,
lest I find myself in another world.

How fitting they call it Alter,
it changes everything.

The windows are empty,
empty as the hearts of our leaders
who guide us nowhere but astray.

Ornate doorways, walls, and rooms fall in line
places where life once thrived
places where people once longed to be
but divided themselves along lines of colors
and flew away like birds at the first sign of winter
in hopes of forgetting their sisters and brothers
in hopes the remnant would steadily kill one another,

only to return to the bloodstained streets
and have the world for themselves.

Somewhere between sunset and sunrise
between yesterday and tomorrow
between Telegraph and Alter
we disregard the meaning of humanity.

Yet, there is no reason for me to fear.

Speramus Meliora; Resurget Cineribus.
We hope for better things; it shall rise from the ashes.

The earth as a globe doesn’t have
a single divisive line,
and the sun rises everywhere,
just not at the same time.

By the light of the morning sun
the dark alleys would illuminate
calling out the beauty from the profane
and symbols would no longer divide,
the walls of the crack houses would melt away,
the shards of glass from shattering flight dissolve,

our human skin,
broken and spilling
like milk on a kitchen floor
the died red blood of hope
and life long lost,

our wound
would heal.

I’d forgotten how to sleep but never how to dream.

I laid in bed long enough to watch the shadows change
long enough to watch the sun fall out of the sky
long enough to watch the sun run and hide
long enough to see the shadows disappear into themselves
folding inward like this city once collapsed on itself,

but soft and calm is the morning light as then
the sun began to rise.

SuperVision.

2008-04-19T16:51:00.004-04:00

another response to symmetry hunting.

Such a book opens windows I've never opened before. I've never thought of symmetry as nature repeating itself before. It's intriguing to see the patterns that all objects have taken on, the ways that (with slight addition of color) we can see the some of the greatest artworks of all time already occurring in nature, painted by God's own hand.

Here is a poem inspired by the symmetry found between the art of Van Gogh and the super vision of Ivan Amato.

Patterns.
Symmetry.
It's all repetition.
repercussion.
reverberation of the soul's cries.

If a sunflower painted by a man long dead
can equal the moss growing, rootless on cables;
If a night shining, swirling, by light of far flames
can equal the cancerous cells of canine skin;
cannot the cries of a broken heart be dismissed
as echos of crickets in fields dampened with dew?
cannot the ache of separated souls be blurred
as the soothing murmur of the hummingbirds' wings?

symmetry hunting.

2008-04-19T16:23:00.004-04:00

a response to symmetry hunting.

I decided to hunt for some symmetry of my own. This is what I found. man-made symmetries, things we've convinced ourselves are pleasing to the eye. I can't help but wonder how different our world would look if we had chosen to like asymmetry more.

These benches are not the same. But their images are somehow symmetrical. Could it be the reflective symmetry that was created when the second bench was flipped?

I think we like symmetry because it seems to balance. When the world is symmetrical, we don't fear that we'll tip over.

merging.

2008-04-15T10:12:00.000-04:00

another response to surface delights.

Yannis Ritsos: The Meaning of Simplicity (p.92-93, poems for the millenium)

I hide behind simple things that you may find me;
if you don't find me, you'll find the things,
you'll touch what my hand touches,
the imprints of our hands will merge.

The August moon glitters in the kitchen
like a pewter pot (it becomes like this because of what I tell you)
it lights up the empty house and the kneeling silence of the house-
always the silence remains kneeling.

Every word is a way out
for an encounter often canceled,
and it's then a word is true, when it insists on the encounter.

I really enjoy this poem. It makes me wish I knew Greek like I do French so I could go to the original text and experience it as it was created. The idea of a surface being able to carry the touch from one person to another is fascinating. I am currently seated in an old chair my roommate bought at a garage sale. The bottom is stamped Jan 15, 1959. I am unaware of the number of individuals who have seated themselves on the very vinyl I am now touching. But I touch what they touched. The imprints of our bodies have merged. I wonder, who I sit with, whose imprints mine have merged with.

translation.

2008-04-15T09:33:00.000-04:00

a response to surface delights.

Saisir.
to grasp.

That's a translation, you know?
a poem. conceived of and written in French.
read and considered in English.
Something has been lost here.
lost in translation.

Is it irony?
that he speaks of translating the messages of the universe?
he translated it into French.
and someone translated his translation into English.

Something has been lost here.
lost in translation.

My project is about translation. the translation of a print poem from the page to the air in the form of spoken word. something is bound to be lost. i long to know if in losing, we can gain. it seems that saisir, although losing its original language, has been translated so that many more can understand, many more can partake of the work by Michaux. so in losing, we have also gained.

The art of translating involves the interaction of surfaces. Where languages overlap, all is well and good, translation flows like gentle rivers. But when the surfaces that are each language do not overlap, when words in one do not equal words in the other, there is no point of contact, one must be found, created.

But what does that mean? It means many words must be used in place of one. it means one word is used in place of many. it means we get it wrong because it can't be gotten right.

The snow is gone and so are the men.

2008-03-31T19:00:00.000-04:00

a response to the ostrich culture of snowmen.

It was twenty-eighth of March
as warm as Michigan pretends to be
and I was walking
long since forgetting to wear a watch.

It was just after five-o-clock
when I was run down by the tremendous vehicle
as white-as-snow.

I had thought myself safe from white dangers
as snowflakes were losing their crystalline structures
and bleeding into the ground.

They were not made to last.

And neither was I,
a fact that made the bright white SUV
speeding around the corner at my
mortal body
frightening.

(although not as frightening as
the existence of mascots
which is itself a difficult
story).

My eyes, yearning to forget the sensation
of hot light reflecting off the
white, bright snow,
were surprised by the burning of the retina,
I squinted.

Another white light, this in the form of a stick man,
walking,
was illuminated on the other side of the street,
indicating my permission,
my authorization,
my sanction to cross.

I was almost sure the driver would have seen the red
light, no doubt, that revoked such rights
from persons inhabiting motor vehicles
of any color.

But the snow was gone
the only white left in the world either of the clouds
or made of man.

And I was run over by the white
built of hardened, packed and bitter snow,
of human hearts turned cold as ice.

I dare say there is hope in that rising sun.

2008-03-30T22:33:00.000-04:00

We passed many days in a very cold city
It seemed fitting
that my body shivered as I
walked the heart-broken streets
learned of failure
lost hope in redemption.

I slept little and dreamed much
tossing and turning
in my bed of carpet and frozen air
wondering at what this city could be.

I lost the insomniac battle with time
and arose to see the sun rise in the sky
rise from the depths of our debilitating despair
bringing us from darkness into light.

an image of a model of a system.

2008-03-24T20:19:00.000-04:00

This is an image of a model of a system created during class. The system consists of interconnected highways that come to forks, places of decision and bifurcation. This was formed completely from playdough. scented playdough. It is important to note that this is no longer a system, perhaps never was, itself, a system. This is a model. a representation of systematic life. The adaptation in this model is represented in the size of the cars. The cars were too large to fit in the intricacies of the original structure and so we expanded the playdough highway system to operate successfully with the larger vehicle model. Smaller car models were also created to fit within the aforementioned intricacies. Infinite adaptations could have occurred had there been reason or loosening of constraints. This is an image of a model of a system created during class.

senselessly overdue...

2008-03-24T18:22:00.000-04:00

I suppose I have a lot of catching up to do. It has been more than one month since my last post, perhaps the unfortunate result of caged creativity and forgetfulness.

My project seeks to understand the method of poetic interpretation on the part of the reader, the recipient of a piece. As for now I'm not sure if I will try to make a frame and see if the readers truly are guided by it or if I will just write as I would for myself and see if a frame is formed intrinsically. I plan to record at least ten individuals reading aloud a poem I have yet to complete. I may ask them follow up questions about their understanding of the message of my work, emotions it evoked. I am tempted to say it would be impossible to restrict the frame in a fashion severe enough to force readers to take in a single point. Within such temptation is a desire to prove that assumption wrong. I could construct a series of poems with varying degrees of framing to see the diversity of response among readers. or something...

Pondering Style

2008-02-18T20:23:00.001-05:00

Question raised in class in response to STYLE by Howard Nemerov: Is style a framing mechanism?

Similar to my previous post of bitter strawberries as a sonic poam, my project will consist of a print poem written by myself, then read aloud by several different voices, recorded and played strategically in order to represent fully the different perceptions, intonations, interpretations, and styles found within the voices. The motivation for this project comes from my experience hearing others read poetry that I’ve written, hearing the different vocal intonations and rhythms that develop in their readings. I am intrigued by the capacity of a poem to affect each and every reader in a new way each and every time and this project will help to capture that. It’s an interaction of sorts, an interaction of a print poem with the system of the reader’s interpretation and the sonic system of speech.

So all I can think of to answer the question at hand are more and more questions. Is style, or can it be, a framing mechanism? After reading the poem in class, I questioned whether or not it is important to frame my poetry for the readers to interpret in a certain way, or is it better to only write as I see fit, using a personal style, undefined, and allow people to interpret as they would anyway?

And is style stationary? Or can it be altered depending upon the reader? Each person approaches the poem with their own style and interpretation, they read it with differing speed and rhythm. Is the reader’s interpretation a form, a style in and of itself? Can the reader alter the style of the poem through their reading? Or do they only affect the style if its interpretation? Said in another way, is the poem’s style constant/confined? Or is it fluid, malleable, subject to change?

bitter strawberries. a chorus. of sorts.

2008-02-13T19:18:00.000-05:00

When asked in class to find a poem, I instantly thought of one of my old favorites from Sylvia Plath, Bitter Strawberries. Upon receiving our instruction to find poetry somewhere within the walls of the duderstadt structure, I desired to hear another, random voice, read the very poem so many have come to cherish. Seeing as how my computer has a lovely built in microphone I was able to record this desk clerk reading one of my favorite poems. I then proceded to record a friend and myself reading the same poem and interlaying the sounds in order to find a sort of song within the print poem by Miss Sylvia.

For your listening and reading pleasure, I've posted a sound clip of the poem being read by all three participants (in the form of a video [with no actual video, just a blank wall] because I don't know how to post a song) as well as the print form of the poem if you desire to follow along, although I suggest you listen to it first before allowing your eyes to fall upon the words themselves.

Bitter Strawberries by: Sylvia Plath

All morning in the strawberry field
They talked about the Russians.
Squatted down between the rows
We listened.
We heard the head woman say,
'Bomb them off the map.'

Horseflies buzzed, paused and stung.
And the taste of strawberries
Turned thick and sour.

Mary said slowly, 'I've got a fella
Old enough to go.
If anything should happen...'

The sky was high and blue.
Two children laughed at tag
In the tall grass,
Leaping awkward and long-legged
Across the rutted road.
The fields were full of bronzed young men
Hoeing lettuce, weeding celery.

'The draft is passed,' the woman said.
'We ought to have bombed them long ago.'
'Don't,' pleaded the little girl
With blond braids.

Her blue eyes swam with vague terror.
She added petishly, 'I can't see why
You're always talking this way...'
'Oh, stop worrying, Nelda,'
Snapped the woman sharply.
She stood up, a thin commanding figure
In faded dungarees.
Businesslike she asked us, 'How many quarts?'
She recorded the total in her notebook,
And we all turned back to picking.

Kneeling over the rows,
We reached among the leaves
With quick practiced hands,
Cupping the berry protectively before
Snapping off the stem
Between thumb and forefinger.

the fish symmetric

2008-02-10T22:12:00.000-05:00

i want to be inspired by the fish.
by the fins that swam through waves of air
limp and heavy
resting easy with the germs
of grimy human hands reaching
across time through portals of cold
air and condensation in hopes of finding certain
peace on the other side of the soda machine.

i want to be inspired by the fish.
by the gills that breathed the air
which sometimes offers life but mostly death
to those who forget to bring their water.

i want to be inspired by the fish.
body lying symmetric in the dying
looks much the same as the living
upon piano benches, octaves and fifths.
i want to be inspired by the fish.

shooting blind

2008-01-30T00:09:00.001-05:00

Human Nature says
I am not limited by what you say I cannot do

I am blind and I will
take a picture
offer an image
capture what my eyes were meant to see
in this moment
but don’t and
never will

she wouldn’t listen
the woman with the eyes that don’t see
she didn’t listen when they said don’t worry about
what a mirror is
she held it in her hands
letting it take up the space in front of her face
reflecting on empty eyes

seems cruel
these images of the unseen

and I don’t know whether to feel sad
or grateful

on the surface and crossing huron

2008-01-22T18:42:00.000-05:00

as much as i hate following the trend that has claimed our generation to eliminate the capital letters whenever possible, it’s what i’ve done since my youth so you will have to deal with it. it has taken awhile, perhaps too long (although i prefer to believe it was just long enough) for my first response to find its way to this blog. yes, this is my first response to three hundred and forty. now, recognizing this class to be one supporting the creation of poetry aside from spastic rambling, please read on…

crossing huron.

i am the seal
penetrating the surface
violating the very nature of the waves
i swim for my life
for one more day
one more moment of obscure satisfaction
my reward for crossing huron.

Beware the Great Whites!
i am told
so i swim fast as i know how
i do not know why they are dangerous
i do not know why i tire my lungs with sighs for lack of a better response
to the sharks who lurch
one after another
for my feeble bones
pass after pass my hopes grow faint
i shall surely never make it home.

----------------------------------------------------------------

on the surface.

on the surface
i am everything i tell myself you want
on the surface
i am bound by shrouds of self-imposed expectation

i watched the man sweat at his computer
picturing the
the billion ideas running through his brain
under the surface, invisible

papers lie disheveled as his disposition
scratched and folded
falling

he rises and
cranes dive sharply to the floor
there is no quiet drift
no grace
he is not suave.

rubbing his eyes he paces outside
a welcome pause
from the tension of such frantic work
this document
certainly she must be of great importance
although in his haste he has left her
alone

and i, i cannot help myself from wondering
if this is how he would treat her were she
made of flesh and bones
like me

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and if you’re tuning in to hear about the discussion of the ideal classroom and all that jazz, you’ll have to wait until next time due to the evident delay in my ability to formulate response.