My Final Definition

Poetry (n.): A Trick of Light

When I first began this semester of exploration, my definition of poetry was this: 'poetry defines the undefinable. It says what cannot be said by taking the deepest feelings or ideas closest to the human core and attempting to define them. Poems can make us laugh, cry, and get to the meaning of what is truly important in life. They take that summer night when you were nineteen and kissing the very first boy you ever let stick a tongue down your mouth and they let you feel it on the page; the sweat dripping down his shoulder, the corn whispering behind you, the curled love there in your stomach, the same kind of love in all those words.' That is a large, grand definition for a word that is so important to me. Yet throughout these few months, I have come to find that exploration of poetry is one way of also discovering myself and my world as a writer. In September, I thought I knew what a poem was. Now I am aware that I am on a journey with words and my definition of poetry continues to grow and change as I read and live and write. Today, my definition of poetry is 'the unspoken truth.'

For the first day of class, I chose the poem “I Go Back to May 1937” by one of my favorite poets, Sharon Olds. It was hard for me to pick a favorite poem but I would say Olds' work has always been, and will remain, a body I connect with deeply. Her work speaks to me because she writes about subjects that resonate, such as love, childhood and parents, and she writes with a breathless vibrance that immediately makes me forget where I am. Her style – free verse, unrhymed, experimental in language and form – was essentially my definition of poetry. I considered metered and rhyming poetry as the kidney stones of poetry, something I could do without. This resistance came from years of badly-taught poetry in elementary and middle school, as metered verse was all we discussed and wrote ourselves. Once I realized as a senior in high school that there was such thing as free verse, a kind of poetry I could inhale and glean such strong emotion from, I didn't look back. I barely gave formed poetry a second glance – I just wanted freestyle. However, based on our studies, I soon realized I had overlooked a vital facet of the poetry realm.

Each poem we studied added a new facet of what poetry means to me, a sort of collection of wisdom nuggets. Each poet brought new words to love, new ideals to challenge me and a different way of looking at process, form and what it means to create. First, the classic and wonderfully bold Emily Dickinson, who is widely read and, in my opinion, misunderstood, taught me to slow down and appreciate what I would deem “historical poetry.” Her structured verses, often short and contained, with smart, snappy rhymes, were rich with wisdom and meaning when dug through. She showed me that rhyming poetry is not stupid and worthless, as I had once (ashamedly) thought. In fact, rhyming poetry takes more effort because a certain form must be followed, thought about, then appear as effortless. Her poem “Hope Is the Thing With Feathers” taught me that more formally structured poetry can be incredibly deep and full of life. While Dickinson may have lived as a recluse for most of her life, what her poetry brought to the world has lasted for over a century and should not be ignored. I have a newfound respect for poetry with form, because it tackles the same sorts of ideas as unrhymed poetry, while being beautiful to the ear and the eye in a different way from the unformed verse.

A second teacher who added to my definition of poetry was guest poet Peter Fallon. During his talk, Fallon said, “There was a time when I thought I would learn how to write poems – with practice – but you don't know anything when you start again. If you're lucky, you try to finish.” This spoke to the ungraspable nature of poems, and how not even poets can quite put their fingers on what it means to be a poem. The definition is there, spelled out, after the long, muddled search that is writing. A poet must write and write and rewrite in order to “find” the poem amidst a world of language and when one does, it is easy to read and say, there – that's poetry. Fallon reminds us that there is no set formula for poetry, that a poem can appear in so many different ways, and that when one does find that magic combination of words to create something meaningful out of them, it makes all the searching worth it.

I learned from Anne Sexton, the poet I researched in-depth for my individual poetry project, that almost any subject in life can make a great poem. Sexton struggled to be happy for most of her short life, and while she spent much of her time feeling suicidal, her poems reflect the moments in which she really lived – and they are such simple, relatable moments. In “The Fortress,” Sexton writes of taking a nap with her daughter and the reader gets a picture of a daughter's bare feet on a mother's back – a simple pleasure, but one that tugs at an undefinable chord in the human core, a moment that shimmers with life when put into a poem, and a moment worth freezing in time because the language catches the essential reality of the human spirit. Sexton writes poetry as it should be written: real.

From Czeslaw Milosz, an deceased Polish poet, I learned that poetry can make a difference not just for one reader, but for large masses of people. Milosz used his beautiful poetry to capture the feeling of war and much of his poems are subtle political messages without being too preachy. While the poems that used to stick with me were the ones I related to, the ones about eating cereal in a blue bowl while the cat goes around your ankles, Milosz helped me to realize that poetry can be a pleasure to read and also be life-changing. Poets are given such a wide, powerful platform; why not use it to do some good? Why not write poetry that will aid in the spread of comfort, change or justice?

Finally, I learned that poetry can come in so many different forms and still twist that same hidden chord I have come to love. We have studied a wide variety of poems this semester but there is a quality of life and necessity about each one that works; Jena Osman's “Dropping Leaflets” was put together from old 9/11 articles but it contains just as much momentum and feeling as Emily Dickinson's classic, rhymed and dashed poem “I Am Nobody, Who are You?” When I say poetry is an unspoken truth, I mean that it serves to put a finger on life – to capture it in time, on a page, to preserve something as small as a man looking out his window or as large as World War II. Poetry aims to present the world to readers as it should be seen and to also reveal the secrets of life everyone wishes they could put into words but never had words for. These secrets of time are what poets spend their lives searching to find the right words – they are the truth-tellers who take years to capture what we as humans fail to say with the tongue alone. In the opening of Against Forgetting, Carolyn Forche sums up why it is we need poetry: “If we have not, if we do not, what, in the end, have we become? And if we do not, what, in the end, shall we be?” (47). In the end, we must write poems and we must read them, if only to remember why it is that we exist. We must write to tell the truth, because who are we without words to help define our lives? Who are we not to search them out in the late night in order to remind another soul at a kitchen table feeling hopelessly lost that he is not alone? The words tell him that there is someone else who took the time to name his unspeakable core – someone else who feels it, too. 

What the Dead Know for Sure

 

Anne Sexton's "The Truth the Dead Know" is a poet's exploration of death following the passing of her parents. The poem is the opening work of her third book of poetry, All My Pretty Ones, which was published in 1962. The poem seeks to uncover the secrets of death through an honest and unflinching narrative of Sexton's feelings about life and loss.

“The Truth the Dead Know” is written in first-person, much like a letter of mourning to a friend or a diary entry and is dedicated to her mother and father, who died several months apart in the same year. The level of detail is very personal and Sexton seems to almost bare it all – she does not hold back on her feelings. The poem is composed of four quatrains, with lines of similar length to give the stanzas and the overall poem a compact and organized feeling. Most lines are enjambed but the last line in each stanza is end-stopped, so that each stanza feels like a complete thought. The meter is irregular and the rhyme scheme is abab, cdcd, efef, gege. Most of the end rhymes are exact: grave and brave, sky and die, stone and bone, shoes and refuse. Two of the rhymes are slant rhymed, such as stones and alone, and church and hearse. While the poem rhymes, it is not constricted by those rhymes – the poem is still very much free verse, and unless one stops and takes the time to analyze, one might not notice the rhyming, as it blends in seamlessly. The first letter of each line is only capitalized if it is the beginning the sentence. The first stanza is made up of three sentences; the second, three; the third, three; and the fourth, four. Due to the compactness of the structure and the regularity of the rhyme scheme, the poem is given a very flowing and comforting movement.

From the very beginning, the poem has an unflinchingly honest tone. “The Truth the Dead Know” has a dedication to Sexton's parents at the top, so the reader is immediately thrown into that context before the poem even begins. The first lines convey in setting what the reader began to imagine from the dedication: “Gone, I say and walk from church, / refusing the stiff procession to the grave, / letting the dead ride along in the hearse. / It is June. I am tired of being brave.” Sexton is presumably at one parent's funeral, or perhaps a metaphorical funeral of both, as the weight of two parents gone in such a short time is clearly wearing on Sexton. She is tired of trying to hold it together. Since “it is June,” the reader also knows that it is the death of her father, who died after her mother, which means that this is the second funeral and second loss she has attended in three months. The opening tone conveyed is one of sharp honest and also sharp despair.

Sexton's contemplation of and relation to death continues throughout the poem. It is clear she is lost in misery, though there is a breath of fresh air in the second stanza, a lightening, when she visits the shore. The sea, however, though beautiful, reminds her of faraway lands across the water and that in those places, people are dying, and that people die everywhere (“in another country people die”). It seems that no matter where Sexton goes, no matter what she is looking at, reminders of death are everywhere and her parents are always on her mind. It is also in the second stanza that Sexton begins to talk to someone – she says “we touch,” and continues in the third stanza by directly addressing “my darling.” While there is only a hint of this someone in the second stanza, the third seems to be a reminder that while death may surround, while everything may feel bleak, no one is truly by themselves. As Sexton says, “when we touch we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.” This third stanza shows a contrast between the second and the first, where Sexton walks by herself and feels very hopeless and isolated. Now, she is bringing in a loved one, who reminds her of the humanity of living; as long as one is alive with others, one is not alone. This contrast of death and her deceased parents with her ability to recognize that she is very much alive, however deep in grief, begins to manifest itself. In the last stanza, Sexton turns back to the dead: “They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse / to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.” Here it is clear that Sexton is imagining again the contrast between life and death and struggling to imagine what it would be like to die. It is presumable that by “the dead,” she is speaking of her parents. To her, they could not be touched now, as they are turned to stone. While they cannot be blessed with touch, with the air of living, Sexton seems to be coming to terms with their death and death itself through the writing of the poem. 

What exactly is “the truth” the dead know? Sexton attempts, in this poem, to find it. Perhaps it is that they will never live again and will lay still and somber forevermore; perhaps they are carried in their stone “boats” out to the sea Sexton imagines. Whatever the truth, Sexton works to find some element to latch onto, some meaning in the face of an unspeakable tragedy that the human mind must work to overcome. Death cannot be prevented and is strong as a stone, and Sexton reminds us of this and of the fragility of life through her processing of death.

Individual Poetry: A Tale of the Madly Brilliant

I have chosen Anne Sexton's All My Pretty Ones for my individual poetry project.

Sexton was a poet born in the late 1920's who battled severe depression for most of her short life. After getting married and having two children, Sexton began writing poetry at the urging of a physician and discovered a ravishing talent; she was awarded a Pulitzer prize in 1967 and was close friends with Maxine Kumin. They collaborated on several projects, including a few children's books. However, Sexton's success was not enough to quell her unhappiness and she committed suicide (her second attempt in twenty years) in the early 1970's. She was 46 years old.

I chose Sexton in part because I am fascinated with her gorgeous words and in part because I am fascinated with her life and the tragic way in which she lived -- and how all of that suffering informed her art. No matter how strange, there is something alluring about a severely troubled beauty who shares her life so openly with the world.

What would she have become if she had lived? What great works would she have created, what were we robbed of with carbon monoxide and a few sleeping pills?

It is part of that wonder that led me to explore her life and works further. That, and Sexton is so entertaining to read, it almost doesn't feel like work.

Wisdom from the Irish

"Out of all these things we think, feel and imagine, why do some lodge with us -- haunt us -- and need to have shape given to them? Why must we write about them?"


Peter Fallon was spectacular. I expected a short, cute and contemplative Irish gentleman, full of wisdom and with one of the best accents known to man. What I got was that -- and more. Not only was Peter Fallon wise and statueresque, he was also completely relatable at the same time, like a grandfather. He had a calmness about the way he read that immediately lulled me but still had me hanging onto every word. I loved that he remembered my name after I'd only been introduced to him once. I loved his small L.L. Bean backpack. I felt a sense of hope to know that there are great poets like him still out there creating extraordinary works, yet that they are so normal and lead lives much like the rest of us do.

Here are a few of his best gems:

"When I write poetry, I am most myself."

"There was no plan. I started with organizing readings, which led to a book, which led to other books; I was following a calling."

"The hard thing is the keeping going, the starting again, the persistence."

"There was a time when I thought I would learn how to write poems -- with practice -- but you don't know anything when you start again. If you're lucky, you try to finish. The restarting thing is the hardest."

"I have no fixed hours or routine: yellow pads and green pens."

"I ask, do I trust that poem? That's what matters."

Halloween Sonnet

In Costume 

I watch the clothes of leaves fall to the ground

dressed up in velvet ears as Minnie Mouse.

A garbage bag I take and leave the house

So filled with awe I do not make a sound.

The sidewalks round the block are tightly wound.

My sister lags behind, a little louse.

With fur, grey dress and paws around her blouse

we search the ground for candy to be found.

The sky turns sweet, a string of purple flame.

We ring the bells and count the chocolate bars.

The sprint through maze of streets becomes a game.

I steal the louse's food; won't take the blame.

As rainbow balls fill bags like tiny stars

I know to take candy is not a shame.

I chose the Italian sonnet form because the iambic pentameter form gives the poem a relaxed feel, which is the mood I wanted for my poem – the childhood wonder of walking around blocks to collect candy. It was difficult at first to be tied to a rhyme scheme, especially once I had chosen my first few end words. I am used to writing free verse and being able to end a line where I want it and to use any words that appeals but in sonnet form, the rhyme definitely has a drive to the poem and limits word choices. However, I discovered that playing with fixed form was a good challenge that strengthened my writing muscles. The poem went places that I wouldn't have gone if I hadn't had a certain form to follow and I expanded my horizons to get a completely new kind of poem that will only improve with practice.  

The Man, The Myth, The Bird

edward thomas:the owl. 

Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;

Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof

Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest

Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.

Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,

Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.

All of the night was quite barred out except

An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,

No merry note, nor cause of merriment,

But one telling me plain what I escaped

And others could not, that night, as in I went.

And salted was my food, and my repose,

Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice

Speaking for all who lay under the stars,

Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

“The Owl” by Edward Thomas is a poem, like many from its World War I era, that draws on experiences from the front lines. A traveler's misery is recounted as he stops for the night and the poem finds its heart in the narrative of a forgotten person who takes comfort in the cries of birds. There are many structural, sound and figurative elements that help to create the poem's tone of dismay and its resolution of hope.

Thomas' structural elements give one the feeling of organization and reassurance – as though mirroring the feeling of the soldier's walk along a straight path. It is narrated in the first person and the traveler is not talking to anyone in particular: he simply recounts. The poem is broken down into four quatrains with similar line lengths. Each stanza is neat and compact and takes on the same general shape, with every new line capitalized regardless of whether or not the sentence ended at the line break. For the most part, line breaks do not come at the end of sentences – the 1^st, 3^rd and 4^th quatrain are composed of one sentence with a period at the final word of the quatrain. The 2^nd breaks this by having two sentences, one ending on the 2^nd line and one on the 4^th. Due in part to this, the poem's rhythm is somewhat unpredictable. However, there are many end-stopped lines and only a few enjambed lines, which helps to give the poem a feeling of stability.

The poem's rhythm is also unpredictable due to its unequal meter. For example, the first line of the word of the poem “downhill” is an iamb while the second line begins with “cold,” a lame foot. There is not predictability or reason to the meter's scheme which adds to the poem's theme of loneliness and unease that the traveler feels – one is not quite sure what to expect. However, the poem still has a sense of purpose for the reader's mouth due to its concise lines of similar lengths and its thoughtful sound elements, as though the poet is trying to keep a panicked feeling under control. The poem follows a “B/B” rhyme scheme – the second line always rhymes with the fourth in each quatrain. The last quatrain sees a sudden abundance of alliteration – “salted, sobered, speaking, stars, soldiers” and adds a soothing quality though the poem's tone is bleak.

The poem's interpretations are many, but the language and structural elements help to narrow it into more concise terms and modify the mood. At its surface, “The Owl” is about a soldier who is traveling, tired and is ready for comfort. Though desperate, he is still holding onto shreds of hope, as seen in lines such as “hungry, and not yet starved” and “Cold, yet heat within me that was proof against the North wind.” The traveler is able to face the elements and keep his head up, despite his bleak conditions and weary state and yet the wind is so cold, he wants to be inside – “rest...the sweetest thing under a roof.”

The traveler stops at an inn where the bodily needs he spoke of before are met: he has “food, fire and rest.” When he lays down to sleep though, an owl's cry penetrates. Here is the repetition of the title within the poem and here the importance of the poem's meaning begins to emerge. The opening two quatrains merely set the scene. The owl's cry is long and sad (“no merry no, nor cause of merriment) but the soldier is reminded, in this moment, that he is alive to hear the cry and thus, has escaped a fate that many of his fellow companions did not. The cry seems to remind him that he is here in the world; it brings him back to the world, whereas before he seemed to be within himself, almost unaware. It is a bittersweet reminder, for the solider seems to be grateful that he is still alive, yet saddened to be reminded of the others who have died, when it could have easily been himself. The last stanza seems to go further into the owl's cry. The word salted is repeated twice, referencing first food and then the soldier's repose. The salt is perhaps a signifier of tears, which are salt-water. The solider is “salted” by the bird's voice – the atmosphere turns bitter and sad and even his food doesn't taste right. Then, within the bleakness, the final two lines contain a shred of hope. The bird “speaks for all who lay under the stars...unable to rejoice.” Those unable to rejoice could mean people such as the traveler, who finds himself mourning his losses, or could also represent those who have died, those who “lay” under the stars in graves – the owl, in some cultures, is a symbol of lost souls.

As such, the owl's cry is the center and hope of the poem. It is a symbol of mourning and melancholy, a sad sound, as well as a symbol of beauty and life. The owl will always cry out no matter how many people have died in a war and it signals the comfort that life will go on and the world will still exist, no matter how bleak things may seem.  

To Translate or Not to Translate?

The act of reading Death Fugue by Paul Celan in several translation versions impressed upon me the difference that one translator can make. The poem remained fairly similar in idea and thought but even the slightest word change could add a totally different feel to the poem's line.

One section that stuck out to me in the translation by John Felstiner was:

He shouts play death more sweetly Death is a master from Deutschland
he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise then in smoke to the sky
You'll have a grave then in the clouds there you won't lie too cramped

In contrast, the same three lines have many different word choices in Jerome Rothenberg's:

He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie

It fascinates me that an original poem can be translated in so many ways and also shows how word choice in poetry is so important. One word can make all the difference. Felstiner uses "he shouts" instead of Rothenberg's "he calls"; Felstiner's version adds a violence and harshness to the line, while the use of the verb call reminds one of a beckoning, which creates a much gentler image.  Rothenberg uses "gang-boss" instead of "master," which gives one the impression of slang, or a more informal feel. The second line in both is very similar, with just a  few altered words. In Rothenberg's version, we get a specific object, a "fiddle," while in Felstiner's, we just know that someone plays "strings." Felstine's image of "rising like smoke to the sky" is more immediate than Rothenberg's "hover like smoke in the air," yet both give the effect of something slow and thick gathering. As for similarity, it is interesting that both choose to use the word scrape, when they could have picked any number of verbs. Finally, I personally think Rothenberg has the vivid image down pat, while Felstine could use a little work. This is seen in the last line, when Rothenberg uses "scoop out a grave in the clouds where it's roomy to lie." The line has a delicious image, especially because to scoop out the sky immediately brings an unconventional image to mind. Felstine simply says, "You'll have a grave there in the clouds, you won't lie too cramped," and perhaps this is because he did not take as many liberties with the translation and tried to stick to the original as closely as possible.

In conclusion, the translations are both talk about Death and images of the sky and smoke that characterize dying but I personally like Rothenberg's version better due to his use of interesting imagery.

On the heels of a mourning weekend, this poem has brought some comfort, perhaps because it reminds me that in a world of imperfections, to hurt is to eventually heal.