Poetry Blog - Emily Salamanca

Selected Poems by E.E. Cummings

Cummings was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts on October 14, 1894. Although his father was the professor of his family, it was his mother who taught him a love of language and literature at a young age. His father taught at Harvard, where Cummings would earn both his M.A. and B.A. Later, he served in World War I as a volunteer for the ambulance corps, though he was a known pacifist. At one point, he was arrested in France because of the letter he had written back home. He documented this experience in his 1922 autobiographical novel The Enormous Room. He wrote traditionally styled verse such as sonnets, but did so with a proclivity for wit and whim. He focuses on nature, sexuality and love, in both a sensual and a spiritual way.

            Selected Poems explores his odd, Cubist style of writing. In Poem 4, he uses line spacing in order to break up his thoughts in a seemingly random way. This makes us pause to consider each line and how it relates to the subject. We treat adjectives like nouns in this way. They are their own thoughts. They carry their own weight. In Poem 2, he capitalizes irregularly. He begins with, “O It’s Nice To Get Up In…” then continues with regular capitalization until the third stanza. In this way, we connect the two capitalized phrases, “…In The Good Old Summer Time.” In Poem 4 of Spring, he switches into French mid-way through the poem. This makes the poem appear choppier, but also preserves his original thoughts without losing meaning through the translation. The French is actually quite vulgar, so his disguise in the other language provides a shelter for his true thoughts. Words like ‘putain’ and ‘cul’ are considered exceedingly rude within society. Switching languages, odd capitalization, and large spaces make his writing Cubist, in a sense. He makes a coherent thought using disparate pieces. His voice becomes apparent, despite the phenotypic oddity of the poems.

10

as if as

if a mys

teriouSly(“i am alive”

)

 brave

ly and(th

e moon’s al-down)most whis

per(here_inge r O

wing;ly:cry.be,gi N s agAains

t b

ecomin

gsky?t r e e s

!

m ore&(o uto f ) mor e torn(f og r

e

elingwhiRIs)are pouring rush fields drea

mf(ull

          y

            are.)

&

som

ewhereishbudofshape

now,s

tI

r

ghost

?s

tirf lic;k

e rsM-o

:ke(c

        1

i,

m

   !

b

  )&it:s;self,

mmamakmakemakesWwOwoRworLworlD

(page 44)

This poem rejects rhyme, meter, and even the typical poetry canon. Punctuation is somewhat random. Spacing is random. The words seem random. The random letter are, well, random. However, upon closer inspection, the reader actually attains meaning, despite all of the ‘noise.’ It begins with the speaker wondering about his existence. He repeats, “As if…as if…” in a mysterious manner, then projects, “I am alive.” The parentheses indicate his uneasiness, the quotes represent his lack of confidence. He is quoting someone else. His words are not his own. Then, he juxtaposes this with, “brave..ly.” He whispers, again a sign of his uncertainty. He confronts his childishness and nature and has a sort of existential crisis. What is his role in the universe? Is he becoming nature, or decomposing into it? He is torn. His dreams torment him. However, he knows that there, “…are pouring rush fields…heishbudofshape.” No exactly here, but here-ish. Ghosts flicker. Finally, he accepts, with a child-like babbling, “mmamakmakemakesWwOwoRworLworlD.” Mama makes the world.

I rarely, if ever write poetry, but I do have a fascination with art. Cummings uses visual clues as much as literary ones in order to advance the theme of his poems. While other poets use traditional styles to project their ideas, Cummings rejects the canon and chooses to write however he wants. Readers are not only amazed at the content of his poems, but also their layout. In this way, Cummings is a visual artist. He is puzzling. One can get enough meaning from just viewing his work as actually reading it. Cummings intentionally plays with tradition. And it’s wonderful.

Cummings, E., & Kennedy, R. (1994). Selected poems. New York: Liveright.

E.E. Cummings Biography. (n.d.). Retrieved January 13, 2016.

Avery B. Frickin' Poem Post

Bury My Clothes: Roger Bonair-Agard


This collection of poems titled Bury My Clothes is the third written collection of Trinidad native, Roger Bonair- Agard. He lives in Brooklyn, New York and teaches at a juvenile detention center. His poems usually focus on family and of religion. Many of his poems mention protection of his mother, or conversing with his father; as well as spirits and God. He now lives in Chicago and is a performance artist. Bonair has led countless workshops as well as performed in Germany, Jamaica, Milan and Switzerland.


In his poem "A Time of Polio" Agard talks about his Uncle Edmund (family theme) and how his polio made it difficult to eat the food that Agard and his grandfather took to him. He also has religious references. (Sunday morning, All Saints Day). In his poem "Luck"
"On asking a Black Woman if you might touch her hair"
"The Bible Tells Me So"
I find some of his poems and titles of poems very amusing.


If I was writing a poem I would write about philosophical things. Abstract ideas. And random stuff. Because I find it amusing in writing when authors and poets complicate the simplest things. Or when anyone does really. But its funny because I dislike when things are complicated but to see something as simple as a pencil or as a leaf and turning into something completely out of the ordinary.

Poetry Collection - Kate Sommer

The collection I selected is Big Towns, Big Talk by Patricia Smith.
Patricia Smith is an African-American poet, spoken-word performer, playwright, author, writing teacher, and former journalist. She has published poems in several literary magazines and journals and has been featured in many anthologies such as American Voices and The Oxford Anthology of African-American Poetry. She works for the Stonecoast MFA Program in Creative Writing and the Low Residency MFA Program in Creative Writing at Sierra Nevada College. She is also a four time National Poetry Slam champion.
The collection Big Towns, Big Talk focuses on life after you've grown up. It tends to take adult activities and liken them to children's activities or position them next to a child to exaggerate the differences between childhood and adulthood. For example, the poem "Dolls" compares real life to the life of Barbie and Ken dolls. It compares a young girl getting a young boy to play dolls with her to an older couple's relationship. The poem shows differences in opinions on kids and at the end connects the two by saying "i  know you would still rather play ball but baby the game is over". Another example comes from the poem "Annie Pearl Smith Discovers Moonlight". This poem focuses around a woman refusing to believe the moon landing is real because she thinks it means heaven isn't real. This is similar to a child growing up and realizing certain things they thought when they were younger aren't true, such as belief in Santa Claus.

Trying on Wedding Dresses in Filene's Basement

Later, I laughed with my husband about the crowds,
the proper dames with their studied Boston curves,
hissing at price tags and leading with their nails.
Flustered mothers fluffed and swirled thick silk,
while their daughters compared diamonds. "Nothing
on the rack over $200, my gawd they're practically
giving them away. Honey hold your stomach in.
It's the only one left in your size. Just get married 
in it, you can breathe later." Feeling smug and domestic,
I flashed my wife face at a pimpled coed crammed
into a silk sheath. Something in me ached to twinkle.

I was married in gold that winked when I walked,
a dress that once moved slowly through another man's
fingers. Innocent fabrics are wrong against my skin. 
My soon-to-be husband, caged in
unaccustomed collar, held his breath, his eyes shining with ritual,
his feet folded into black shoes. There was no part of
him I didn't want freed, no skin I didn't want rubbed
raw, but the ceremony called for touch only twice.
The gold dress grew nervy, moved even when I didn't.

My mother's best friend snapped pictures neither my
husband or I have seen since. Our faces,
dark and bloated in Polaroid, seemed only slightly married.
I had a diamond, but nothing perfumed and precise,
nothing with angels. Real brides, I knew, choke on their love,
have their faces scrubbed clean, wonder why words
feel plump in their mouths. Even pulse inspires them.
The gold dress branded me pretender. Damn Barbie and
her stiff, snowy lace, her veiled inscrutable eyes.

I laughed with my husband about June brides gunning
for the ultimate bargain. But I didn't tell him 
about the dresses I tried on. Pulling hard at faux pearls
and golden zippers. I felt old, sneaky, slippery as glass.
The first dress, gasping chiffon, flopped at my shoulders. 
Buttons carved like fists slid from their opening,
and a flash of lacy black bra changed the room's geography.

I reached for my sequinned second choice, an explosion
of ivory light and thin netting, and stepped into its
monstrous weight. Sweeping the train 'round front, 
I pulled myself the full primp in the mirror and waited for
a cacophony of bells, rose petals at the toes of my gym shoes.

Instead, I imagined my husband's beautiful hands at my neck
popping the first button, then - Barbie be damned - the second.

The poem "Trying on Wedding Dresses in Filene's Basement" compares the sensation of wedding dress shopping to dressing up as a child and also talks about how when you;'re older you have to put on a show or do things you'd rather not to do to please others. The second stanza of the poem describes the narrator's wedding. It tells of how she had to do things according to the tradition of the wedding but she would've rather done things her way. This shows that as you grow up you sometimes have to do things a different way than how you want them in order to please everyone else. It's a sad fact of life but it is a true one. Towards the end of the poem it talks about the joy that she felt when trying on dresses even though she was already married. I saw this as being likened to a child playing dress up and them pretending to be a bride and the amount of joy they get out of playing like this.

I enjoyed the themes of this collection because it focuses on the differences between childhood and adulthood but also the influences that your childhood has on you as an adult. Being seniors in high school, we are currently at that transition period between child and adult. We are at the beginning of our journeys to find who we will be as adult and who we were as a child will play a large role in that discovery whether it's sticking close to who you were or trying to steer in a different direction. I would be very interested to explore more on how our childhoods transfer into our adult lives.

Smith, Patricia. Big Towns, Big Talk. Hanover, NH: Zoland, 1992. N. pag. Print.
"Patricia Smith." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 10 Jan. 2016.
"Patricia Smith (poet)." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 26 Sept. 2015. Web. 10 Jan. 2016.  
 

Robert Hayden Selected Poems - Gates

"Robert Hayden was an American poet, essayist, educator. He served as Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 1976–78, a role today known as US Poet Laureate. He was the first African-American writer to hold the office."

In his book of Selected Poems, I saw that almost all of the themes involved an intimate darkness, and many of them involved love. In his poem "The Lions," I think he creates an analogy for the greed humans have for power. He uses the lions as kings of the kingdom, and how he wishes to be a king and to have "Holy Holy" cry before him. This was hard.

"Robert Hayden." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, n.d. Web. 08 Jan. 2016. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Hayden>.

Poetry Collection-Sydney Taylor

Phenomenal Woman-Maya Angelou

Born Marguerite Annie Johnson on April 4, 1928, in St. Louis, Missouri, Maya Angelou was a multi-talented child that experienced hardships like her parents divorce and rape at the hands of her mother's boyfriend, and discrimination while living in Arkansas. Her legacy is as an author and activist best known for her memoir I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings-the first nonfiction bestseller written by an African-American woman. Her collection of poetry Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water 'fore I Die was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. She wrote and recited her famous poem, "On the Pulse of Morning" at President Bill Clinton's inauguration in 1993.

The tone of the poems in this collection is a strong, independent woman who knows her self-worth and isn't concerned with what others think of her. "Still I Rise" exemplifies the power in some one who can look past what others think of them and rise above to be a stronger person and "Weekend Glory" shows the pride people, specifically women, can have in a certain job and lifestyle even if others judge them for living "week to week".

Phenomenal Woman

BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   

But when I start to tell them,

They think I’m telling lies.

I say,

It’s in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,   

The stride of my step,   

The curl of my lips.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,   

That’s me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,   

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.   

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.   

I say,

It’s the fire in my eyes,   

And the flash of my teeth,   

The swing in my waist,   

And the joy in my feet.   

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered   

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can’t touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,   

They say they still can’t see.   

I say,

It’s in the arch of my back,   

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Now you understand

Just why my head’s not bowed.   

I don’t shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.   

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It’s in the click of my heels,   

The bend of my hair,   

the palm of my hand,   

The need for my care.   

’Cause I’m a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That’s me.

Phenomenal Woman shares the idea that women are phenomenal by simply being themselves. "I’m a woman/Phenomenally./Phenomenal woman,/That’s me." The first poem in the collection and the one it is named after, shares the ultimate themes of strength and independence. When expressing my own concerns through verse, I could include my own insights on being an independent woman, talking about my own experiences.

Allen, Austin. "Phenomenal Woman." Poetry Foundation. Poetry Foundation, n.d. Web. 07 Jan. 2016.

"Maya Angelou." Bio.com. A&E Networks Television, n.d. Web. 07 Jan. 2016.

Poetry Collection Blog Post - Kayla Beebout

Death and Taxes by Dorothy Parker

Dorothy Parker was born in 1893 in New Jersey.  She grew up used to tragedy, because her mother and step-mother both died when she was young, her uncle died on the Titanic in 1912, and her father died the following year.  She only attended school until she was 14.  She sold poems to Vanity Fair and was an editor for Vogue.  She was one of the first editors of the New Yorker, and published three anthologies of poetry: Enough Rope (1926), Sunset Gun (1928), and Death and Taxes (1931).  She also published several short stories.  She was widely acclaimed while alive, but suffered from depression and alcoholism.  She had three marriages (although one was a remarriage to her first husband).  She died of a heart attack at age 73, leaving her literary estate to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The selection Death and Taxes focuses on death and issues like love and the “taxing” things of life.  The series of short poems “Tombstones in the Starlight” discusses the relative worth and fates of the owners of several tombstones.  She uses this to comment on the uselessness of extravagance by saying that a rich man who would “have the best, and that was none too good” (l. 9) would end up “[entertaining] the most exclusive worms” (l. 12).  Although he wanted everything a certain way in life, he gained nothing from it in the end.  She also comments on the hard work of poets, the flightiness of some women, and the irritability of critics.  Her poem “Distance” focuses on what she sees at the irony of love: that “it were a sweet and gallant pain/ To be a sea apart;/ But, oh, to have you down the lane/ Is bitter to my heart” (ll. 5-8).  This twist on the ideal of love shows her own ideals.  Her poem “Ballade of a Talked-Off Ear” delves more into the annoyances of life, discussing the useless things people tend to talk about and pleading for them to give her a moments’ peace.

Of a Woman, Dead Young

If she had been beautiful, even,
Or wiser than women about her,
Or had moved with a certain defiance;
If she had had sons at her sides,
And she with her hands on their shoulders,
Sons, to make troubled the Gods-
But where was there wonder in her?
What had she, better or eviler,
Whose days were a pattering of peas
From the pod to the bowl in her lap?

That the pine tree is blasted by lightning,
And the bowlder split raw from the mountain,
And the river dried short in its rushing-
That I can know, and be humble.
But that They who have trodden the stars
Should turn from Their echoing highway
To trample a daisy, unnoticed
In a meadow of small, open flowers-
Where is Their triumph in that?
Where is Their pride, and Their vengeance?

This poem consists of two stanzas of ten lines each, which have no particular rhyme scheme or meter.  In general, the lines contain nine syllables each, but that is not a hard and fast rule, and the lines do not consist of certain types of feet.  The lack of rhyme and meter contributes to her message that the death of the young woman was unnecessary, without rhyme or reason.  More than just talking about this woman, though, she speaks of the deaths of many such people: young, innocent, with no fame or infamy.  She is questioning that such people should die, that the forces of nature which fell so many other things should even bother to cause such little tragedies.  In this anthology, it adds a very poignant note in the midst of some of the poems that talk of matters that are more mundane.  It touches the part of each of us that questions the use of death and tragedy, and does so in a more coherent way than most of us ever do.

When Parker writes in free verse, her poetry style is similar to mine; however, hers is clearer than mine generally is.  She also uses poetry structures that I usually do not, such as the sonnet.  Many of her poems are very short, and mine tend to be longer.  I have also touched on the theme of love, but I have not written much about death in my poetry.  I have written more about nature and themes such as truth and constancy.  I feel compelled to explore themes relating to light and darkness, especially as evidenced in individuals.  People have this constant battle of light and dark within them, and this has started to play a larger role in contemporary storytelling.  I would like to examine this in my own way, maybe looking at a spectrum of it or how it affects people and their actions towards others.  By expressing this through poetry, I could do it through language and imagery that resonates with me in a more succinct way than a story.

Parker, Dorothy. "Death and Taxes (1931)." Complete Poems. Ed. Penguin Group. New York City: Penguin, 1999. 157-97. Print.

Academy of American Poets. "Dorothy Parker." Poets.org. Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 07 Jan. 2016.

Parker, Dorothy. "Of a Woman, Dead Young." Allpoetry.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 7 Jan. 2016.

Poetry Analysis Josh Ehl

Wilfred Owen was born on March 18th, 1893, in Shropshire, England, to Welsh-English parents. He spent his childhood as what many would call a devout intellectual, his two biggest passions being religion and literature, especially that of the Big Six poets, in particular John Keats. Later, as he began to write his own poetry he would draw much of his early inspiration from Keats. In 1915, with the outbreak of WW1, Owen joined up with Artists' Rifles' Training Corps. After several months of training, he was commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Manchester Regiment. Initially Owen had great disdain for the men he commanded, thinking of them as brutish, lazy, and uncultured. However, a series of incredibly traumatic events (For instance, he was blown out of his trench by a mortar) left Owen in a state of shell shock, known today as PTSD. This diagnosis led to Owen being transferred to a regimental hospital in the rear, where he met fellow poet and contemporary Siegfried Sassoon. His friendship with Sassoon would have a huge impact on both his life and his writing, and many consider their meeting to be the impetus of some of Owen's greatest and most famous poems. Owens would go on to win the Military Cross for gallantry in battle in 1918, but was killed in action shortly thereafter, exactly a week before the signing of the armistice that officially ended the war. To date, he is considered the greatest poet to emerge from the battlefields on the Western Front during WW1.

Owen's work features heavily the themes of realism and the abhorrence of war. His poems are incredibly emotional and describe in great detail how horrible really was for the men on the front lines, offering a stark contrast to the romanticized notion of warfare prevalent throughout England and much of Europe at the time. His most well known poem Dulce Et Decorum Est, is itself a biting criticism of the Latin phrase parroted by many of those who were in favor of the war. Another one of his poems, titled Arms and the Boy, sharply contrasts the innocence of the boy with the malicious and hateful nature of the weapons of war.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Owen, Wilfred. "Dulce Et Decorum Est." <i>Poets.org</i>. Academy of American Poets, n.d. Web. 07 Jan. 2016.