She was a girl
no one ever chose
for teams of clubs,
dances or dates,
so she chose the instrument
no one else wanted:
the tuba. Big as herself,
heavy as her heart,
its golden tubes
and coils encircled her
like a lover's embrace.
Its body pressed on hers.
Into its mouthpiece she blew
life, its deep-throated
oompahs, oompahs sounding,
almost, like mating cries.
In all honesty, I am not sure what the poet was going for with this poem. Is he trying to make us feel bad for this apparently unlovable girl who chose the tuba? Is he satirizing the popular culture image of a tuba player or "band geek?" Are we supposed to laugh?
I think he was attempting to paint a serious picture, but the comparison of oompahs to mating calls is so patently stupid that I can't take it seriously. As a farce, it's a bad one, since the tuba is one of the most in demand instruments. If he was talking about Eb clarinet, sure, but tuba is both common and often much needed. Also, encircled? That describes a sousaphone.
Really, every aspect of this poem falls flat for me. Perhaps it is aimed at the hearts of non-musicians who believe band nerd stereotypes, and would actually feel bad for a girl playing the tuba. In my experience, all the girls I've met who play tuba are lovely people, and not strange social outcasts or malcontents who construct a twisted lover's fantasy around their instrument. For shame, Robert Phillips.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Tired As I Can Be - Bessie Jackson (Lucille Bogan)
I worked all the winter
and I worked all fall
I've got to wait till spring
to get my ashes hauled
and now I'm tired
tired as I can be
and I'm going back home
where these blues don't worry me
I'm a free-hearted woman
I let you spend my dough
and you never did win
you kept on asking for more
and now I'm tired
I ain't gonna do it no more
and when I leave you this time
you won't know where I go.
My house rent's due
they done put me out doors
and here you riding 'round here
in a V-8 Ford
I done got tired
of your low-down dirty ways
and your sister say you been dirty
dirty all a your days
I never will forget
when the times was good
I caught you standing out yonder
in the piney wood
and now I'm tired
tired as I can be
and I'm going back south
to my used to be
I mostly know Lucille Bogan as a blues singer, and looking at this text, it is fairly clearly a transcription of a blues she sang. The most remarkable thing about her songs are how blunt and honest they are. With a penchant for being vulgar, her songs are incredibly direct. The unvarnished emotional sentiment in this song is very powerful, and exemplifies what a blues song is.
For fun, Lucille Bogan being vulgar enough to make Flo-Rida blush:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ko2VXpW7_g
and I worked all fall
I've got to wait till spring
to get my ashes hauled
and now I'm tired
tired as I can be
and I'm going back home
where these blues don't worry me
I'm a free-hearted woman
I let you spend my dough
and you never did win
you kept on asking for more
and now I'm tired
I ain't gonna do it no more
and when I leave you this time
you won't know where I go.
My house rent's due
they done put me out doors
and here you riding 'round here
in a V-8 Ford
I done got tired
of your low-down dirty ways
and your sister say you been dirty
dirty all a your days
I never will forget
when the times was good
I caught you standing out yonder
in the piney wood
and now I'm tired
tired as I can be
and I'm going back south
to my used to be
I mostly know Lucille Bogan as a blues singer, and looking at this text, it is fairly clearly a transcription of a blues she sang. The most remarkable thing about her songs are how blunt and honest they are. With a penchant for being vulgar, her songs are incredibly direct. The unvarnished emotional sentiment in this song is very powerful, and exemplifies what a blues song is.
For fun, Lucille Bogan being vulgar enough to make Flo-Rida blush:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ko2VXpW7_g
Saturday, January 5, 2013
The Iceberg Theory - Gerald Locklin
all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
opheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.
I guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn't different enough, and
it's too goddamn american.
of course a critic has to criticize:
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.
at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
to pretend that I'm enjoying.
I am all for liking what you like, regardless of the opinion of others, or of the "expert" opinions of critics. That said, Mr. Locklin can stick it up his ass.
Mr. Locklin seems to be calling me pretentious, or perhaps worse, a faker, for enjoying things that are not simple and insubstantial. If I enjoy kale or spinach in my salad, or enjoy reading T.S. Eliot, I simply must be pretending. While I would agree that sometimes critics, or more likely, consumers looking to seem refined, will disparage something simple for no reason other than something being simple (not necessarily a bad thing), that does not create a dichotomy.
I can enjoy iceberg lettuce while still preferring spinach greens, just as I can prefer Gerard Manley-Hopkins to a lesser poet whose works are insubstantial, such as Mr. Locklin. Iceberg lettuce is a filler, something you crunch through happily with few cares or concerns. His poem is a quick, unsatisfying read, with not even as much crunch or pleasing moisture as iceberg lettuce. This poem makes me angry, honestly, as its an ode to anti-intellectualism and the pratfalls of subjectivity. Locklin celebrates his own uncritical palate, and seems not to understand that some people have specific and discerning taste. Sometimes bitter leafy greens accentuate the sweetness of a fruit in a salad, but Locklin will not discover that, because iceberg lettuce is "good enough." His loss.
you'd think romaine was descended from
opheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.
I guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
it just isn't different enough, and
it's too goddamn american.
of course a critic has to criticize:
a critic has to have something to say.
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.
at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
to pretend that I'm enjoying.
I am all for liking what you like, regardless of the opinion of others, or of the "expert" opinions of critics. That said, Mr. Locklin can stick it up his ass.
Mr. Locklin seems to be calling me pretentious, or perhaps worse, a faker, for enjoying things that are not simple and insubstantial. If I enjoy kale or spinach in my salad, or enjoy reading T.S. Eliot, I simply must be pretending. While I would agree that sometimes critics, or more likely, consumers looking to seem refined, will disparage something simple for no reason other than something being simple (not necessarily a bad thing), that does not create a dichotomy.
I can enjoy iceberg lettuce while still preferring spinach greens, just as I can prefer Gerard Manley-Hopkins to a lesser poet whose works are insubstantial, such as Mr. Locklin. Iceberg lettuce is a filler, something you crunch through happily with few cares or concerns. His poem is a quick, unsatisfying read, with not even as much crunch or pleasing moisture as iceberg lettuce. This poem makes me angry, honestly, as its an ode to anti-intellectualism and the pratfalls of subjectivity. Locklin celebrates his own uncritical palate, and seems not to understand that some people have specific and discerning taste. Sometimes bitter leafy greens accentuate the sweetness of a fruit in a salad, but Locklin will not discover that, because iceberg lettuce is "good enough." His loss.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Watercoloring - Billy Collins
The sky began to tilt,
a shift of light toward the higher clouds,
so I seized my brush
and dipped my little cup in the stream,
but once again I streaked the paper gray
with a hint of green,
water began to slide down the page,
rivulets looking for a river.
And again, I was too late-
then the sky made another turn,
this time as if to face a mirror
held in the arm of an outstretched god.
As always, the thing I am most struck by with Billy Collins is the way in which he controls tone and pacing. A poem that is as seemingly carefree and light, free-flowing as the clouds in a sun-dappled sky, actually has extremely tight control over its pace, tense, and tone.
We are greeted with a narrator who presumably, is watching the clouds, looking for inspiration to paint. The title, notably, is active. It's an activity. "Watercoloring." The narrator intends to watercolor, not merely to paint. The language is wet and active, mutable. At the start of the poem, the sky is tilting, so the narrator acts decisively. The brush was "seized" rather than picked up. The last line of the first stanza gives the impression of dipping the brush in the cup to mix colors, but carefully, Collins notes that the "cup" is dipped into the "stream", reinforcing the notion of moving water and color.
"Once again" the paper is streaked gray. The narrator has done this before, presumably to little success, given the dissatisfaction expressed in the third stanza. When the page is marked, it is not painted, but "streaked" and water, not color, "slides" down the page. Watercoloring is an activity, and the language of the poem mimics the action of the word. Watercoloring the canvas, water running into rivulets seeking a river, a cup dipped in a stream. The language flows, effortlessly, but that tone is established in the tight diction and pacing words Collins uses.
The tone shift comes at the end, as it often does with Collins. "Again" the narrator was "too late" which we can assume means a failure to capture the majesty of shifting clouds and sunset. The only adequate comparison the narrator can come up with is a god, admiring his or her own majesty in a handmirror. The tone goes from jovial, playfully introspective, to suddenly grand and majestic, much as clouds at sunset, despite being completely mundane, fascinate us without fail, and capture out imaginations and artistic sensibilities.
a shift of light toward the higher clouds,
so I seized my brush
and dipped my little cup in the stream,
but once again I streaked the paper gray
with a hint of green,
water began to slide down the page,
rivulets looking for a river.
And again, I was too late-
then the sky made another turn,
this time as if to face a mirror
held in the arm of an outstretched god.
As always, the thing I am most struck by with Billy Collins is the way in which he controls tone and pacing. A poem that is as seemingly carefree and light, free-flowing as the clouds in a sun-dappled sky, actually has extremely tight control over its pace, tense, and tone.
We are greeted with a narrator who presumably, is watching the clouds, looking for inspiration to paint. The title, notably, is active. It's an activity. "Watercoloring." The narrator intends to watercolor, not merely to paint. The language is wet and active, mutable. At the start of the poem, the sky is tilting, so the narrator acts decisively. The brush was "seized" rather than picked up. The last line of the first stanza gives the impression of dipping the brush in the cup to mix colors, but carefully, Collins notes that the "cup" is dipped into the "stream", reinforcing the notion of moving water and color.
"Once again" the paper is streaked gray. The narrator has done this before, presumably to little success, given the dissatisfaction expressed in the third stanza. When the page is marked, it is not painted, but "streaked" and water, not color, "slides" down the page. Watercoloring is an activity, and the language of the poem mimics the action of the word. Watercoloring the canvas, water running into rivulets seeking a river, a cup dipped in a stream. The language flows, effortlessly, but that tone is established in the tight diction and pacing words Collins uses.
The tone shift comes at the end, as it often does with Collins. "Again" the narrator was "too late" which we can assume means a failure to capture the majesty of shifting clouds and sunset. The only adequate comparison the narrator can come up with is a god, admiring his or her own majesty in a handmirror. The tone goes from jovial, playfully introspective, to suddenly grand and majestic, much as clouds at sunset, despite being completely mundane, fascinate us without fail, and capture out imaginations and artistic sensibilities.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Tilly - James Joyce
He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
Friday, September 2, 2011
A Flower Given to My Daughter - James Joyce
Frail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time's wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair- yet frailest
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blueveined child.
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time's wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair- yet frailest
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blueveined child.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Tears, Idle Tears - Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
The striking repetition of "the days that are no more" are to me, idle tears. They are overwhelming, incomprehensible reminders of the past, which exist in a realm not governed by conscious faculties. Memories and sense memories so powerful that they can reduce us to tears are things that we've all encountered at some point.
The otherworldly imagery employed only heightens the sense of the incomprehensible power of our own memories, and our attachments to the past. It's also some beautiful imagery. I particularly enjoy the passage, "Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,/That brings our friends up from the underworld" It's a very apt description of memory. Our memories can be crisp and clear as the image of sailing on a wonderful day, but at the same time, they dredge up long dead friends, alive forever in the boat of our memory. Fantastic imagery.
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
The striking repetition of "the days that are no more" are to me, idle tears. They are overwhelming, incomprehensible reminders of the past, which exist in a realm not governed by conscious faculties. Memories and sense memories so powerful that they can reduce us to tears are things that we've all encountered at some point.
The otherworldly imagery employed only heightens the sense of the incomprehensible power of our own memories, and our attachments to the past. It's also some beautiful imagery. I particularly enjoy the passage, "Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,/That brings our friends up from the underworld" It's a very apt description of memory. Our memories can be crisp and clear as the image of sailing on a wonderful day, but at the same time, they dredge up long dead friends, alive forever in the boat of our memory. Fantastic imagery.
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