Sunday, April 25, 2004
Before I start describing the actual reading, I just want to say what a truly great and difficult thing a poetry reading is. First, I really enjoyed hearing the poetry read, as it is such an illuminating way to experience poetry. I got so much more than I ever could from just the words on the page, from the complex scientific diction used by Karen Anderson to the intense emotion conveyed by Gina Franco. The way they spoke: Anderson with a rhythmic pace, either fast or slow, that strung the words together so beautifully and smoothly; and Franco with the tremendous pain and sadness of a life-altering experience and its resulting frustrations, really brought the words to life in much better fashion than my imagination ever could. Yet despite this I was frustrated, in part with my own failure in conjunction with that of readings in general, at the difficulty in grasping the full effect of poetry: in a sense I guess those of the poem and poet. I feel that when we read poetry we really get a great sense of the poem and that is what affects us most, yet at a reading we can really only get the effects of the poet as I described before. Since I have so much more time to spend with written work I allow myself to digest the meaning of metaphors and similes and images, but at the reading I found myself quickly struggling to copy down a line or two from each poem so that I could retain some of the words as well as the rhythm and feeling. Of course I could always go to Amazon.com, type in each author and buy copies of each work, but that would just be an all-together too easy solution. I guess I really just ask too much.
Anyways, last Friday I attended the poetry reading by Karen Anderson and Gina Franco entitled “Telling the Bees.” Reflecting the superstition that in beekeeping the hive must be told when the keeper dies, this title also took on so much more meaning in the context of the reading. The first poet to read, Anderson, created a fusion of poetic devices, biological terminology and knowledge of bees into some truly amazing work. In this manner she made numerous comments on society by relating the human world to that of a bee hive and in doing so perhaps “telling the bees” of the audience that we have much more in common with the insect world than we could ever imagine. I think the title was more geared towards the second poet; however, as Franco’s work more directly engaged the title. She, in her poetry, sets herself as the messenger of death. Putting superstition aside, I feel Franco engages a much more serious and painful task than simply telling bees, as she must struggle to tell not only her intimate relations about the death of someone she cared for, but also to express to the world the story of a remarkable woman.
I like so much of what each poet had to say, but I was more engage with Anderson perhaps because she read first or maybe because her style intrigued me more. I was struck by many aspects of her work: the tremendous effects of the biological environment, the ease at which she explained her poems and the straightforward manner in which “meaning” came out of them, and the striking diction and imagery involved in each. To just cite some of my favorite examples, she writes that “wrath is the strapless dress for draining riches of their meaning,” and later that bees are “quiet little feasters that will really bleed you.” Although these examples come from different works, they exemplify how Anderson at once creates insightful metaphorical connections and still uses simple diction that conveys the same kind of power. I found quite a few other examples of the uniqueness of her work: the way she used rhythm and tone to convey the emotions carried by the words, the lyrical quality that her poems take when she mixes poetry with scientific jargon and the ever-present feminine qualities of the diction.
Franco, I think, was able to engage me less because of the way her work refused to take on qualities of conventional poetry and relied on feelings and diary entries.
Still though, I was struck by the manner in which she was able to not only express her own emotions and feelings, but also the experiences of her subject. Franco’s poetry described the world exactly as she experienced it; a mixture between her experiences caring for the Katherine, her diary entries and her emotions associated with trying to reconcile the two. At the same time this was the strongest aspect of the pieces, it served to give the poems a style and convention that bore little resemblance to conventional poetry which I cannot say is at all a bad thing, it just seemed to make her poems more like stories than poetry.
Anyways, last Friday I attended the poetry reading by Karen Anderson and Gina Franco entitled “Telling the Bees.” Reflecting the superstition that in beekeeping the hive must be told when the keeper dies, this title also took on so much more meaning in the context of the reading. The first poet to read, Anderson, created a fusion of poetic devices, biological terminology and knowledge of bees into some truly amazing work. In this manner she made numerous comments on society by relating the human world to that of a bee hive and in doing so perhaps “telling the bees” of the audience that we have much more in common with the insect world than we could ever imagine. I think the title was more geared towards the second poet; however, as Franco’s work more directly engaged the title. She, in her poetry, sets herself as the messenger of death. Putting superstition aside, I feel Franco engages a much more serious and painful task than simply telling bees, as she must struggle to tell not only her intimate relations about the death of someone she cared for, but also to express to the world the story of a remarkable woman.
I like so much of what each poet had to say, but I was more engage with Anderson perhaps because she read first or maybe because her style intrigued me more. I was struck by many aspects of her work: the tremendous effects of the biological environment, the ease at which she explained her poems and the straightforward manner in which “meaning” came out of them, and the striking diction and imagery involved in each. To just cite some of my favorite examples, she writes that “wrath is the strapless dress for draining riches of their meaning,” and later that bees are “quiet little feasters that will really bleed you.” Although these examples come from different works, they exemplify how Anderson at once creates insightful metaphorical connections and still uses simple diction that conveys the same kind of power. I found quite a few other examples of the uniqueness of her work: the way she used rhythm and tone to convey the emotions carried by the words, the lyrical quality that her poems take when she mixes poetry with scientific jargon and the ever-present feminine qualities of the diction.
Franco, I think, was able to engage me less because of the way her work refused to take on qualities of conventional poetry and relied on feelings and diary entries.
Still though, I was struck by the manner in which she was able to not only express her own emotions and feelings, but also the experiences of her subject. Franco’s poetry described the world exactly as she experienced it; a mixture between her experiences caring for the Katherine, her diary entries and her emotions associated with trying to reconcile the two. At the same time this was the strongest aspect of the pieces, it served to give the poems a style and convention that bore little resemblance to conventional poetry which I cannot say is at all a bad thing, it just seemed to make her poems more like stories than poetry.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I’m from Macedon, NY, a quiet town located in the southwest corner of Wayne County which lies south of Lake Ontario and in between Rochester and Syracuse. Before Macedon’s settlement, however; the land was inhabited by Native American tribes who used the area for hunting and fishing even after they had moved further south. The founders, Webb and Hannah Harwood were drawn to the area because of the presence of two Erie Canal locks and Macedon was subsequently created in 1823. Any events of historical significance have thus far evaded my internet search and my Grandpa’s memory, although the neighboring town of Palmyra did witness the founding of the Mormon religion. The story goes that Joseph Smith, at the age of fourteen, was visited by both God and Jesus in what’s termed “The First Visitation.” Supposedly, about seven years later he was again visited, this time by the angel Moroni who gave to him the golden plates which were to become pillars of the Mormon faith. This is easily the most interesting and distinguishing fact about my town and their seemingly backwards traditions were the butt of many of our adolescent jokes. This is pretty off-topic, but I was always amazed at our friend Bridgette who would get up around five every morning to go to seminary and still show up at school ready for the prom. Last I heard, she had finally found her future husband and is now simply waiting for him to turn 21 and go on his mission so that he can come home to marry her. It may not be ideal for most(or anyone for all I know) but at least she has her life in good order. Now comes the part I hate: getting back on topic. Thinking about it, the Erie Canal really made Macedon what it is. The long and gruesome process of canal work drew legions of workers who often settled in quite meager dwellings. This influx of workers especially heightened Irish population of the town, thereby setting the religious and socio-economic standing of the inhabitants. Because the town was founded mainly for canal work, little industry developed and after the completion of the canal many citizens took up farming. As it is today, Macedon lies right along the border of the Rochester suburbs and the rural expansion which is much of the rest of central and upstate New York. In that way I have become accustomed to the know everyone, rumor spreading, tractor-loving small town atmosphere that defines Macedon and the rest of Wayne County, while still being a faithful bagel-shop, mall-rat and coffee-house Rochester suburbanite. Having to go to school in Palmyra, closer to the Wayne County rural abyss , I could never escape the small-town feel, even when any family activity or night with my friends led in the opposite direction. I don’t think of myself as a small-town person, mainly because I always referenced that fact to the farms, trucks and tractors of Wayne County- all things that do not come close to registering on my personality- but of course that’s just what I am. Nothing really ever brought me to an epiphany; it is really just easier to look at things from the outside in.
Monday, April 12, 2004
It’s really quite strange but as I find myself reading week after week of everyone’s blog entries I never really consider that anyone is actually reading mine, at least until reading the latest entries. I guess I always kind of write to some sort of nameless entity that appears via the syllabus and rarely eve conceive of the fact that I have an audience. In a way that shattering of my fragile illusion in a little disconcerting, yet it seems to give quite a bit more purpose to the entries to kind of address them in a way. So I guess I want to address this one to Jill and her blog entry from March 3rd which happened to be about the what, where and dimension(s) of writing. Now when doing this blog myself there was already quite a bit that got me thinking, but much of what Jill wrote made me think in a totally different matter, from another perspective or about something that had previously been absent from my thoughts. Her entry really caught me when she wrote i'm always writing in my head, sometimes i'll just be walking along and then i'll have a really great opening line for a story. or just a great line to use within the story, one thats not a cliche and should be published, and i feel so lucky to have it be my own. sometimes it'll be conversations i have in my head between two people and i'll think, i have to write that down, thatd be great in a story of friendship and self-discovery (of college), but then i don't. Somehow, previously unrealized until pointed out by Jill, I quite often write in my head and thinking back on it, I remember coming up with things while walking along that have absolutely nothing to do with anything around me. The greatest part about that selection is her confidence that her great lines should certainly be published- Not only do I often struggle with clichés and trying to express something that’s been talked about countless times in a completely new light, but when I manage to stumble upon something that is nearly worthy of being called “original” I also feel that ya know what, there is no way this shouldn’t be published. Even small things like bits of dialogue, a single image, or a new description bring a unique feeling to not only writing but the dimension of writing. She also asserts something which I certainly feel and I am sure all writers feel, whether spoken or unspoken, that great pleasure in having created something all their own. I am not sure how common it is, but I also engage in a great deal of mental conversations with myself(in fact, I am even enjoying one right now). I think this dimension and method of analysis allows for so much expression and creativity in writing, bringing a much different feel from the times I sit down to write with some kind of purpose. That’s what I truly like about Jill’s blog, not only the way her entries evoke such a smooth and personable feel, but also the implications this allows her to make for writing in general. And maybe that’s not such a bad way to even write a whole story, with snaps of mental dialogue strung together by “great lines”- leaving a personal, easy and free-flowing piece of work.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Lawrence Ferlinghetti, by breaking the “description rule” in his poem, “[In Goya’s greatest scenes we seem to see], not only manages to capture the intensity and chaos of Goya’s images, but also creates new descriptions that tie the artwork into our world today. The manner in which Ferlinghetti treats the painting shifts from the somewhat straightforward declaration that “they are so bloody real,” to the metaphoric statement that “they writhe upon the page in a veritable rage of adversity.” It would seem that most authors would want to avoid much of this type of description as it is not only the most obvious way to convey the painting to the world, but also because the painting is able to stand alone as a form of expression. The great thing about poetry, though, is that I feel it truly can bridge any gap between forms of art or any other such dichotomies. The poet’s descriptions serve to bring the artwork directly to the reader and express the feelings of distress, disorder and “the imagination of disaster” of the original work. The images themselves, of course, cannot be discounted in the least as the primary source of these emotions or even as a much better expression of such feelings. Still, the way that Felringhetti places the words on the page help to create an image of his own; thereby leaving the words to mingle with the structure and further the disarray of the poem and artwork.
On a totally different note; however, I really like Ferlinghetti’s placement of the images under the heading “bloody real.” I am fairly certain this bears no hint of British dialogue and aside from the obvious bloodshed I think it conveys a sense of sadness that yes in fact these images still persist and that they are all around us. This helps shift the poem from the realm of morbid descriptions into an almost scathing look at society’s “imbecile illusions of happiness.” The poet condemns his society plagued by “false windmills” and living on “a concrete continent.” These descriptions render two disparate criticisms of society; the first commenting on the recreation of Cervantes’ windmills to torment the citizenry, while the latter exaggerates the process by which humanity is slowly destroying the natural Earth. His society does not suffer from the torment of war and destruction, but rather from the incessant reminders of Man’s domination over the Earth; cars, freeways and billboards serving as evidence that “the landscape has changed.”
Ferlinghetti, by comparing Goya’s landscape to the backdrop of America, creates a truly strong message about the direction that commercialization and authority (the “painted cars” I take to be police?) are taking America. If he were a painter I could imagine his Goyaesque scene: a large freeway pile-up, bodies strewn and mangled over the road set against the grimy grey sky that barely allows the buildings and billboards to peer through. I find this work to be another one of the amazing, and extremely unique, ways in which works of any art form can transcend time and be put into the context of the present society.
On a totally different note; however, I really like Ferlinghetti’s placement of the images under the heading “bloody real.” I am fairly certain this bears no hint of British dialogue and aside from the obvious bloodshed I think it conveys a sense of sadness that yes in fact these images still persist and that they are all around us. This helps shift the poem from the realm of morbid descriptions into an almost scathing look at society’s “imbecile illusions of happiness.” The poet condemns his society plagued by “false windmills” and living on “a concrete continent.” These descriptions render two disparate criticisms of society; the first commenting on the recreation of Cervantes’ windmills to torment the citizenry, while the latter exaggerates the process by which humanity is slowly destroying the natural Earth. His society does not suffer from the torment of war and destruction, but rather from the incessant reminders of Man’s domination over the Earth; cars, freeways and billboards serving as evidence that “the landscape has changed.”
Ferlinghetti, by comparing Goya’s landscape to the backdrop of America, creates a truly strong message about the direction that commercialization and authority (the “painted cars” I take to be police?) are taking America. If he were a painter I could imagine his Goyaesque scene: a large freeway pile-up, bodies strewn and mangled over the road set against the grimy grey sky that barely allows the buildings and billboards to peer through. I find this work to be another one of the amazing, and extremely unique, ways in which works of any art form can transcend time and be put into the context of the present society.
Saturday, April 03, 2004
I've always had a terrible time deciding on subjects for the writing assignments, usually spending the majority of my time sifting through my brain for ideas so I was quite pleased to read this past assignment. I thought that looking at a piece of art would give me a really concrete subject and for once make it easy to get started. This of course was not the case as my indecision would not even let me choose a work and instead led me twice through the museum. I am not really sure what I was looking for because at first I thought I wanted to write about a pretty unambiguous piece of art, but I also found myself looking for some really abstract piece to get creative with. After spending nearly an hour I decided on simply finding something that caught my attention and that I wouldn't mind looking at for an extended period of time. Well this too proved to be a challenge as the first piece that caught my eye was a portrait of a woman with sort of mixed feline features, the most prominent being her face which would surely be that of some of kind of weird genetic mutation between a cat and a human. Instantly ruling that out I moved on and was drawn in by a painting of a strange assembly line type thing in which the only decipherable objects were the shape of a phallus. Seeing that, I ruled that subject out as just a little too odd a subject to form a class writing assignment around. Finally, I decided on a pretty nondescript piece which I had actually walked by a couple times. The piece didn’t really get a hold of me until I stopped and looked for a minute or two, only to be captured by the gaze of the painting’s dominant figure; that of a slave looking off slightly to his right, his eyes to devoted to a small picture of a man who seems to be his master. This look appeared slightly off-putting, as there was just something I couldn’t place. A description of the piece informed me that this work was a vanity in which the artist arranged objects which reflected the arrogance of his contemporaries. Knowing this, I came to understand the gold chains placed about the slaves neck, as well as the look of sad dedication he gave to the small portrait of his master.
The events in my piece are totally disconnected from any even suggested in the artwork, as the connections come only from the thematic elements. That in and of itself says quite a bit about the process of transforming one piece of art into another because at first glance the two might seem quite unrelated. It seems kind of strange to me to be writing about a work of art because what I am really trying to with it was in a sense already done by the artist: to take a subject and evoke some kind of emotion, message or story. That fact displayed how writing has the versatility to be able to mold or reshape another work of art into something different which still stays in the spirit of the original. It is really quite interesting to not only treat the subject of the work, but to also take the intention of the artist into account and then try and make something completely new. A writer is then able to exemplify the manner in which writing can go far beyond the scope of a painting and give words to what can either be observed or inferred from the work. While I believe a painting is able to capture and radiate far more emotion than writing, in many respects I feel like writing has the ability to actually give a more complete picture by including thoughts and feelings in a totally new medium.
The events in my piece are totally disconnected from any even suggested in the artwork, as the connections come only from the thematic elements. That in and of itself says quite a bit about the process of transforming one piece of art into another because at first glance the two might seem quite unrelated. It seems kind of strange to me to be writing about a work of art because what I am really trying to with it was in a sense already done by the artist: to take a subject and evoke some kind of emotion, message or story. That fact displayed how writing has the versatility to be able to mold or reshape another work of art into something different which still stays in the spirit of the original. It is really quite interesting to not only treat the subject of the work, but to also take the intention of the artist into account and then try and make something completely new. A writer is then able to exemplify the manner in which writing can go far beyond the scope of a painting and give words to what can either be observed or inferred from the work. While I believe a painting is able to capture and radiate far more emotion than writing, in many respects I feel like writing has the ability to actually give a more complete picture by including thoughts and feelings in a totally new medium.
