Poem In The Modern Style
Hemingway's passage about men drinking together
on the eve of battle during The Spanish Civil War
describes two men comparing pistols
the length of the barrels
the size of the bullets.
This is always taught in college as a discussion
of dick sizes. Oh, sorry, I meant a macho
discussion of phallic symbols
a display of penis envy
among real men.
This literary interpretation is glaringly wrong,
and I have always wanted
to write this wrong.
The Professors of English Lit who light
our precious children mostly don't
know of war. I do
know of war.
Hemingway had experience, an ear for dialogue
an eye for the color of stress, for the things
men say when they go to kill other men.
It is good to drink and get blind before battle
but everyone mist know who has which
weapon when the dying starts.
Larger bullets and longer barrels mean death
from greater ranges and better chances
of killing quick close up.
Those of us who are better killers will take
guns and bullets and will know
from the muzzle length
from the bullet size
the killing abilities
of your choices.
I know that you will die, and after
dirt paintings of your blood
harden with the sun,
I will take your bullets and use them,
killing others with your gift.
When Hemingway meant phallic, there were women in the picture.
PoetryWriting
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Little things, with some structure
Some rough, some smooth, and here's 2 tries at Cinquains, one old, one new.
Sometimes the image is only a gentle touch
Among quiet hours
When cold harsh lights
Will not intrude the dusky softness.
Sometimes the image is a necessary calm
A child‘s smile.
Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,
Softly dressing a silken minute.
Delicious is quite a pretty color,
Lightly wrapping the quiet hours.
Touchings, soft as fur and hard
as diamond saturate our senses,
overwhelm perception, breathing
life into spaces found between us.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUBADE, CINQUAIN. 1984
The sun
In sudden grace
Arrives, awakes in May
With winter done, a warmer place
Birth Day!
HAPPY NEW YEAR, CINQUAIN 2003
New Year’s
portends, like Moons
in kissing dreams, a chance
And drinking vows, arriving soon
New Days!
BABY RAP FOR RHYTHM ROWS
(Ya know, like corn rows, gotta practice style once in a while, baby)
listen to a Rap,
get yo head round dat beat
da rhyming beat, meat, feet
But the word come from da street
my friend fall out like heat
on a Corner in an L-A- night
Around the hood
where the word, bro, Word
is yo, what’s down is good.
PoetryWriting
Sometimes the image is only a gentle touch
Among quiet hours
When cold harsh lights
Will not intrude the dusky softness.
Sometimes the image is a necessary calm
A child‘s smile.
Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,
Softly dressing a silken minute.
Delicious is quite a pretty color,
Lightly wrapping the quiet hours.
Touchings, soft as fur and hard
as diamond saturate our senses,
overwhelm perception, breathing
life into spaces found between us.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AUBADE, CINQUAIN. 1984
The sun
In sudden grace
Arrives, awakes in May
With winter done, a warmer place
Birth Day!
HAPPY NEW YEAR, CINQUAIN 2003
New Year’s
portends, like Moons
in kissing dreams, a chance
And drinking vows, arriving soon
New Days!
BABY RAP FOR RHYTHM ROWS
(Ya know, like corn rows, gotta practice style once in a while, baby)
listen to a Rap,
get yo head round dat beat
da rhyming beat, meat, feet
But the word come from da street
my friend fall out like heat
on a Corner in an L-A- night
Around the hood
where the word, bro, Word
is yo, what’s down is good.
PoetryWriting
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Thoughts on other poetry (Frost, Bai, etc).
A Chinese student, studying English, asked me; ”What is an instep arch, and why does it ache, and what is the ice, and what are the other meanings in Robert Frost’s poem ‘Apple Picking Time’ ?“ (The Chinese students always seem to ask these ‘efficient’ questions, where they ask everything quickly and deeply, so as to get an answer that will teach them everything at once).
So I spent a lot of time replying, and for once I think I wrote something worthwhile, although the English student needed a couple of books and weeks of studying to understand this reply.
The instep arch. Before we speak of meaning in poetry, think of your foot. The middle of the bottom of the foot is the instep. The part of the bottom that curves upward between the big toe and the heel is the arch, the instep arch. The Instep Arch. If you are standing on a round thing on the instep arch, such as the rung on a ladder, it will hurt after a little while. If you must continue standing on it, your muscles will work hard to maintain your posture and balance, and that is a form of pressure, and can make you tired.
Now, I can tell you what each line means, individually, but that won’t let you understand the poem. First, please think of the poem as a whole. It has many meanings. It is about a person collecting apples, it is about a person getting old, it is about a long life and facing death in old age, it is about wondering if life was enough, and wondering if the time is too soon. It is about regret and hope and the past and future.
Learning about a language and culture through poetry is a wonderful endeavor, but it may mean that some things must be accepted without understanding. There is great ambiguity in great poetry, and even for Americans, we need to read Frost many times before we feel comfortable with more than a few of those many meanings.
Poems always have many meanings, and good poems have deep meanings on many levels. I will try to acquaint you with some of the meanings Frost placed into his poems, but you may want to remember that even for native speakers of American English, and even for people who are part of the New England gentry with small apple orchards, it is still hard to understand all the meanings of this poem.
Robert Frost was an intellectual, who wrote poetry as if he were a farmer, or rough hewn laborer. He identified with these people, the hard working New England farmers and laborers, and indeed, he loved them and wrote much of his poetry from their perspective. I lived and worked in Frost country when I was young, and have read his poetry many, many, times, and have hoped to write poetry that approached his genius. So I will explain this poems as a poet would, not as a teacher of English.
The poem begins its work on two levels. First, there is the sweetness of the rhythm, the flow of the words and the song of the sound the words make. For Frost, especially, we have to think of the native New Englander accent, which may be difficult for a Chinese person. Think of the voice of a farmer from Sichuan Province, old, who smokes too much and pushes his words quickly. First, read the poem with that kind of sound, and make each line roll against the next, pacing for breath and musical timing.
The words here set pace with the swing of the arms, and the pluck of the apples, and the sway of the tree as it is lightened of its load of apples in an autumn wind. And here is the second part of the poem’s structure. The sound and rhythm and meaning of the words leads to an understanding, a picture, an image of what the poet describes. Here is all those things that make a day of work and rest; awakening, facing the work, working through the day, filling the storehouse, being done, and ready for a rest.
Also, we know many small images and emotions in the words. We see the ice on the water, a sort of unexpected mirror, feeling youth fly away before we are ready, not understanding the images, finished with life’s daily routine, seeing the past with satisfaction and fear together, like the small animals facing winter, and perhaps like all other humans facing eternity, tired but ready and dreaming of what was and will be.
So the rhythm of the poem and the meaning of the poem lead to a gestalt of meaning and pictures. In this poem, and in many of Frost’s poems, that gestalt leads to other, deeper meanings, and many lines have more ambiguous meanings than we at first imagined.
As we think of more sets of meanings, we are driven to look for more meaning in the poem, and our clarity is lost. We can see where the verses refer back and forwards to preceding and following verses, referents that were not there at the first reading. If we add all the meanings, we begin to see the small story of a life and a way of living and dying in the story of the apple picking.
And we can also see a beautiful way of speaking about these lives, in the rhythm of the work, and in the smooth rolling cadence of the words, phrases, lines, and images as the poem envelopes our thought, and presents Frost’s lives to our wonder.
Another student discussed the Chinese Poetry of love, and brought up Li Bai, and "A Song of Chang'an". So we discussed the ideas and ideals of love in poetry and song in English culture, and then we looked over the 2 poems, the Chinese Version by Li Bai, and the English Version By Ezra Pound. Pound's version is a translation of a Japanese Translation, but it is amazingly faithful to the original, not only in meaning, but in beauty, and in its cultural expression of time and circumstance, and love.
Li Bai (李白), wrote of a relationship in the poem called 長干行, and Ezra Pound translated it into a sweet song of discovery. In Chinese, it reads like a story of duty discovering love, and in English it reads like a story of romance discovering shared purpose (a subtle difference).
For everyone’s enjoyment, here are the two versions:
李白
長干行
妾髮初覆額， 折花門前劇；
郎騎竹馬來， 遶床弄青梅。
同居長干里， 兩小無嫌猜。
十四為君婦， 羞顏未嘗開；
低頭向暗壁， 千喚不一回，
十五始展眉， 願同塵與灰；
常存抱柱信， 豈上望夫臺？
十六君遠行， 瞿塘灩澦堆；
五月不可觸， 猿鳴天上哀。
門前遲行跡， 一一生綠苔；
苔深不能掃， 落葉秋風早。
八月蝴蝶來， 雙飛西園草。
感此傷妾心， 坐愁紅顏老。
早晚下三巴， 預將書報家；
相迎不道遠， 直至長風沙。
Li Bai
The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played at the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out,
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-sa.
Translated by Ezra Pound
PoetryWriting
So I spent a lot of time replying, and for once I think I wrote something worthwhile, although the English student needed a couple of books and weeks of studying to understand this reply.
The instep arch. Before we speak of meaning in poetry, think of your foot. The middle of the bottom of the foot is the instep. The part of the bottom that curves upward between the big toe and the heel is the arch, the instep arch. The Instep Arch. If you are standing on a round thing on the instep arch, such as the rung on a ladder, it will hurt after a little while. If you must continue standing on it, your muscles will work hard to maintain your posture and balance, and that is a form of pressure, and can make you tired.
Now, I can tell you what each line means, individually, but that won’t let you understand the poem. First, please think of the poem as a whole. It has many meanings. It is about a person collecting apples, it is about a person getting old, it is about a long life and facing death in old age, it is about wondering if life was enough, and wondering if the time is too soon. It is about regret and hope and the past and future.
Learning about a language and culture through poetry is a wonderful endeavor, but it may mean that some things must be accepted without understanding. There is great ambiguity in great poetry, and even for Americans, we need to read Frost many times before we feel comfortable with more than a few of those many meanings.
Poems always have many meanings, and good poems have deep meanings on many levels. I will try to acquaint you with some of the meanings Frost placed into his poems, but you may want to remember that even for native speakers of American English, and even for people who are part of the New England gentry with small apple orchards, it is still hard to understand all the meanings of this poem.
Robert Frost was an intellectual, who wrote poetry as if he were a farmer, or rough hewn laborer. He identified with these people, the hard working New England farmers and laborers, and indeed, he loved them and wrote much of his poetry from their perspective. I lived and worked in Frost country when I was young, and have read his poetry many, many, times, and have hoped to write poetry that approached his genius. So I will explain this poems as a poet would, not as a teacher of English.
The poem begins its work on two levels. First, there is the sweetness of the rhythm, the flow of the words and the song of the sound the words make. For Frost, especially, we have to think of the native New Englander accent, which may be difficult for a Chinese person. Think of the voice of a farmer from Sichuan Province, old, who smokes too much and pushes his words quickly. First, read the poem with that kind of sound, and make each line roll against the next, pacing for breath and musical timing.
The words here set pace with the swing of the arms, and the pluck of the apples, and the sway of the tree as it is lightened of its load of apples in an autumn wind. And here is the second part of the poem’s structure. The sound and rhythm and meaning of the words leads to an understanding, a picture, an image of what the poet describes. Here is all those things that make a day of work and rest; awakening, facing the work, working through the day, filling the storehouse, being done, and ready for a rest.
Also, we know many small images and emotions in the words. We see the ice on the water, a sort of unexpected mirror, feeling youth fly away before we are ready, not understanding the images, finished with life’s daily routine, seeing the past with satisfaction and fear together, like the small animals facing winter, and perhaps like all other humans facing eternity, tired but ready and dreaming of what was and will be.
So the rhythm of the poem and the meaning of the poem lead to a gestalt of meaning and pictures. In this poem, and in many of Frost’s poems, that gestalt leads to other, deeper meanings, and many lines have more ambiguous meanings than we at first imagined.
As we think of more sets of meanings, we are driven to look for more meaning in the poem, and our clarity is lost. We can see where the verses refer back and forwards to preceding and following verses, referents that were not there at the first reading. If we add all the meanings, we begin to see the small story of a life and a way of living and dying in the story of the apple picking.
And we can also see a beautiful way of speaking about these lives, in the rhythm of the work, and in the smooth rolling cadence of the words, phrases, lines, and images as the poem envelopes our thought, and presents Frost’s lives to our wonder.
Another student discussed the Chinese Poetry of love, and brought up Li Bai, and "A Song of Chang'an". So we discussed the ideas and ideals of love in poetry and song in English culture, and then we looked over the 2 poems, the Chinese Version by Li Bai, and the English Version By Ezra Pound. Pound's version is a translation of a Japanese Translation, but it is amazingly faithful to the original, not only in meaning, but in beauty, and in its cultural expression of time and circumstance, and love.
Li Bai (李白), wrote of a relationship in the poem called 長干行, and Ezra Pound translated it into a sweet song of discovery. In Chinese, it reads like a story of duty discovering love, and in English it reads like a story of romance discovering shared purpose (a subtle difference).
For everyone’s enjoyment, here are the two versions:
李白
長干行
妾髮初覆額， 折花門前劇；
郎騎竹馬來， 遶床弄青梅。
同居長干里， 兩小無嫌猜。
十四為君婦， 羞顏未嘗開；
低頭向暗壁， 千喚不一回，
十五始展眉， 願同塵與灰；
常存抱柱信， 豈上望夫臺？
十六君遠行， 瞿塘灩澦堆；
五月不可觸， 猿鳴天上哀。
門前遲行跡， 一一生綠苔；
苔深不能掃， 落葉秋風早。
八月蝴蝶來， 雙飛西園草。
感此傷妾心， 坐愁紅顏老。
早晚下三巴， 預將書報家；
相迎不道遠， 直至長風沙。
Li Bai
The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played at the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the lookout?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out,
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-sa.
Translated by Ezra Pound
PoetryWriting
Friday, December 30, 2005
Some stuff for the New Year
Here it is coming up on New Year, and this week we’ve watched rabbits in the snow and cardinals in the trees and found this image there.
CARDINALS FEEDING AT NEW YEARS
New years slide along the white frozen snow
arriving with the edge of winter like rabbits near the forest
One minute the red birds are pecking at snowdrops
And then it is new, sunlight banishes blizzards
We blink our wrinkled eyes, make morning tea anew
here is a another gift, another chance, resolve
to take it, you, embrace it.
Last August I posted an earlier rewrite of this poem (dedicated to Ms. Cindy Sheehan). You may compare this version (the latest), with that one. I sincerely desire any comments on the poetics, but I am lately disgusted to death of politics, and will remove any comments which discuss any political views.
THEY ARE ONLY BOYS, THEY ARE ALWAYS ONLY BOYS
(Lament of the Combat Medic)
The men who die in the patriots noise
Are known by the timbre of stirring words
We ... Who caressed their terror
Who packed their hearts into sterile plastic
We know the dead are not words
Hidden behind glittering golden stars
Huddling, a sad-faced family
A woman, a grim father, other children
Who know the terror of seeing a face
Suddenly among platitudes
Love them all, dead wounded and living
And weep for their sorrow.
Love them more for their honest tries
At hiding grief ... we all hide grief
Bring them home in public, let the children see
Stop hiding the cost and heroic loss
Remember their sweet young faces
Who stood for what they must, who did.
As I said, the rough stuff, but it occasionally gets smoother. Here is another which was listed below, and has now fallen under the rewrite trap.
WELL, WE’RE AT WAR AGAIN
Sand and bombs and ugly little
desert spiders and a rancid smell
death on the street or fear in the locals?
Sitting in the waiting room at the VA hospital
spinning the new wheelchair smells like a new car
no spiders here no locals and maybe no bombs
but we still watch with the good eye
Talking to the new wounded and comparing
wheels like high school kids.
To be honest, I like the run of the words, but am not sure what structure to impose. I think both this and the one below could use different tools to make it work. Now, here is a new long one, about the old and young wars and who gets to practice what ... Needs a title. For now the working title is
FORGET THE PAST AGAIN
Bits of color flash in the palm, fingers tighten, loosen twist and twitch in nervous candor
Something in brown and tremulous hands held airily or softly or in fear of breakage
Hands sit, not quiet in the lap, the nails white, now moving over a silver chair arm
One to reach past the stumps and test the black wheels, gripping chrome and squeezing
Power in the tendons, but one to stay and squeeze the bits of color paper
Now, the wheels move in arcs the arms in piston pumps and here the paper falls
We run to catch it – pick it up, give it back - the chair is circling and we see it as he speaks
Drab and wretched persons near a wall, children in the dirt and soldiers tall, smiling, armed
A wartime thought that looks like every grey miserable abject sorry picture of a war
Two soldiers, proud, brown and khaki clothes that say America, smiles proclaiming youth
Our acquaintance in the chair is tall, ignoring the people and the children, but happy.
The chair has found its power sliding graceful to our feet, and not reaching but speaking
It is a test, how can we learn to move but never walk, to ride the arms and scorn pity
It is a test to learn acceptance and every day I print a new copy of the old picture........
The chair it spun agile and adroit – we gasped and then was gone in bright daylight
We continue walking shamefully, sunlit skies are not the color of awkward guilt
At home we find we lost the picture, oh well, no sepia war here. White wine, blue fish.
PoetryWriting
CARDINALS FEEDING AT NEW YEARS
New years slide along the white frozen snow
arriving with the edge of winter like rabbits near the forest
One minute the red birds are pecking at snowdrops
And then it is new, sunlight banishes blizzards
We blink our wrinkled eyes, make morning tea anew
here is a another gift, another chance, resolve
to take it, you, embrace it.
Last August I posted an earlier rewrite of this poem (dedicated to Ms. Cindy Sheehan). You may compare this version (the latest), with that one. I sincerely desire any comments on the poetics, but I am lately disgusted to death of politics, and will remove any comments which discuss any political views.
THEY ARE ONLY BOYS, THEY ARE ALWAYS ONLY BOYS
(Lament of the Combat Medic)
The men who die in the patriots noise
Are known by the timbre of stirring words
We ... Who caressed their terror
Who packed their hearts into sterile plastic
We know the dead are not words
Hidden behind glittering golden stars
Huddling, a sad-faced family
A woman, a grim father, other children
Who know the terror of seeing a face
Suddenly among platitudes
Love them all, dead wounded and living
And weep for their sorrow.
Love them more for their honest tries
At hiding grief ... we all hide grief
Bring them home in public, let the children see
Stop hiding the cost and heroic loss
Remember their sweet young faces
Who stood for what they must, who did.
As I said, the rough stuff, but it occasionally gets smoother. Here is another which was listed below, and has now fallen under the rewrite trap.
WELL, WE’RE AT WAR AGAIN
Sand and bombs and ugly little
desert spiders and a rancid smell
death on the street or fear in the locals?
Sitting in the waiting room at the VA hospital
spinning the new wheelchair smells like a new car
no spiders here no locals and maybe no bombs
but we still watch with the good eye
Talking to the new wounded and comparing
wheels like high school kids.
To be honest, I like the run of the words, but am not sure what structure to impose. I think both this and the one below could use different tools to make it work. Now, here is a new long one, about the old and young wars and who gets to practice what ... Needs a title. For now the working title is
FORGET THE PAST AGAIN
Bits of color flash in the palm, fingers tighten, loosen twist and twitch in nervous candor
Something in brown and tremulous hands held airily or softly or in fear of breakage
Hands sit, not quiet in the lap, the nails white, now moving over a silver chair arm
One to reach past the stumps and test the black wheels, gripping chrome and squeezing
Power in the tendons, but one to stay and squeeze the bits of color paper
Now, the wheels move in arcs the arms in piston pumps and here the paper falls
We run to catch it – pick it up, give it back - the chair is circling and we see it as he speaks
Drab and wretched persons near a wall, children in the dirt and soldiers tall, smiling, armed
A wartime thought that looks like every grey miserable abject sorry picture of a war
Two soldiers, proud, brown and khaki clothes that say America, smiles proclaiming youth
Our acquaintance in the chair is tall, ignoring the people and the children, but happy.
The chair has found its power sliding graceful to our feet, and not reaching but speaking
It is a test, how can we learn to move but never walk, to ride the arms and scorn pity
It is a test to learn acceptance and every day I print a new copy of the old picture........
The chair it spun agile and adroit – we gasped and then was gone in bright daylight
We continue walking shamefully, sunlit skies are not the color of awkward guilt
At home we find we lost the picture, oh well, no sepia war here. White wine, blue fish.
PoetryWriting
Sunday, August 28, 2005
some new images and a dirge
Enticing, a response to a poem
words try to run away
you seem to have
if not their number
their names.
Oh, there we are…..
Sometimes in the morning we are walking
together with a poem
and only later
it wakes up so we say
thank you!
They are Only Boys, They are Always Only Boys
The men who died in the patriots noise
are known by the timbre of stirring words
But we, who caressed their terror
packed their hearts into sterile plastic
Know the dead are not words or threats.
Know that hidden behind
Glittering gold symbolic stars
Huddles a bare-faced woman
a grim father, who know the terror
seeing that boyish face suddenly
in dreams, and among the platitudes.
I love them all, dead wounded and living
and weep for their sorrow.
I love them the more for their honest tries
At hiding the grief
In social silence, we hide grief.
Bring them home
Remember their sweet young faces
Who stood for what they must, who did.
For Cindy Sheehan, and all the mothers who disagree or agree or simply share her pain. We medics, graves registration techs, and other bearers of the souls of war also feel..
Beginnings
When I was first in China, and then Japan
and other Asian galleys
I, so well beloved of western words
and literary intellectual smug-uggery
couldn't read .... couldn't write
and a preliterate
slave at least had a home.
PoetryWriting
words try to run away
you seem to have
if not their number
their names.
Oh, there we are…..
Sometimes in the morning we are walking
together with a poem
and only later
it wakes up so we say
thank you!
They are Only Boys, They are Always Only Boys
The men who died in the patriots noise
are known by the timbre of stirring words
But we, who caressed their terror
packed their hearts into sterile plastic
Know the dead are not words or threats.
Know that hidden behind
Glittering gold symbolic stars
Huddles a bare-faced woman
a grim father, who know the terror
seeing that boyish face suddenly
in dreams, and among the platitudes.
I love them all, dead wounded and living
and weep for their sorrow.
I love them the more for their honest tries
At hiding the grief
In social silence, we hide grief.
Bring them home
Remember their sweet young faces
Who stood for what they must, who did.
For Cindy Sheehan, and all the mothers who disagree or agree or simply share her pain. We medics, graves registration techs, and other bearers of the souls of war also feel..
Beginnings
When I was first in China, and then Japan
and other Asian galleys
I, so well beloved of western words
and literary intellectual smug-uggery
couldn't read .... couldn't write
and a preliterate
slave at least had a home.
PoetryWriting
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