The Sun Also Rises vs The Age of Innocence & others

For the past few days, we've been reading Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. For me, it's a welcome break from the many English novels we've read in class. There is a common trend in the way The Age of Innocence, Pride and Prejudice, and Jane Eyre are written. They all share a similar older style of writing. The syntax, vocabulary, and overall feel to Hemingway's TSAR reminds me of a much more modern style. Personally, I prefer his straightforward sentences and pages of dialogue. That's not to say that there is no underlying meaning or hidden implication, but at least it's not buried beneath layers of complicated metaphors and detailed descriptions about each room or dining table. I enjoy not having to look up the meaning of a word every other paragraph. Sometimes it does get confusing as to who exactly is speaking, but it's better than having no speech at all.
Hemingway's paragraphs can range from being a collection of a few small, choppy sentences to half a page going by without a single period. Characters tend not to speak more than a handful of words at a time that are usually straight and to the point, and Hemingway does a great job illustrating the level of a person's intoxication through the use of the written word. If someone is "tight," they will tend to repeat questions or statements multiple times. The language used in TSAR is much like what we would use today, with the exception of a couple words that have evolved over the past 90 years. I appreciate this because it is much easier to understand than many of the terms used in Jane Eyre for example. We also have as clear a look into what Jake is thinking as we did with Newland Archer, though Jake's thoughts are not as explicitly stated as Archer's were. Somehow Hemingway is able to convey Jake's inner thoughts through conversation with strangers or even through everyday actions, like trying to tip a Spanish waitress or acting as the middleman between Mike and Cohn.
To conclude, the writing of TSAR is much preferable (in my opinion) to the kind used in past novels. Instead of long, meandering sentences, we have frank dialogue that cuts to the point. Short, simple descriptions replace paragraphs of long-winded explanations about the social scene of New York. What kind of writing do you prefer?
peace out <3 syd

"Hills Like White Elephants": What the heck is going on???

Last class, we finished discussing the short story, "Hills Like White Elephants", by Ernest Hemingway. While I thoroughly enjoyed the story and the writing, the dissimulation of the conflict was frustrating. Hemingway's "tip of the iceberg" technique, by which he reveals only one-eighth of the situation while the other seven-eighths are beneath the surface, keeps the reader fixated on each word. In this manner, our class noted the importance of his details, such as where the characters are looking and their actions, the positioning and space between objects, and especially the conversation. We learned that "the conversation is the relationship", and how the characters speak to each other, or don't speak for that matter, is very telling of their connection to each other. In this case, the man does the majority of the arguing while the girl frequently looks at the ground. This interaction displays the inequality in their relationship: he is confident in what he wants and convincingly tries to persuade her while she is unsure and uncomfortable. This leads me to the question of the dreaded argument. What on Earth are the two characters talking about? Hemingway never explains the situation! However, evidence points, I think, to the argument being about abortion. Comments such as "an awfully simple operation", "just to let the air in", "every day we make it more impossible", the world "isn't ours anymore", and "but I don't want anybody but you", insinuate that the girl is pregnant with a baby that they don't want and are debating if she should get an abortion before it's too late. The title also alludes to this. A "white elephant" is defined as "a possession that is troublesome or difficult to get rid of; unwanted", and hills resemble the shape of a pregnant belly; therefore, "Hills Like White Elephants" could be a metonymy for a pregnancy that is unwanted. Nevertheless, reading this was a very helpful and informative introduction into Hemingway's writing style, and we will now know what to look for and how to better interpret his prose.

"The Names" by Billy Collins

Always helpful to hear a poet on his craft, and particularly as he reads and discusses this poem.

"The Builders" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.

Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Just from glancing at the title of this poem, you assume that something is being built... but what? From my understanding, we are the builders and the structures that we raise are our lives. The premise as a whole is that each day is a block we lay down to build the characteristics of our life. What blocks we lay down are up to us; At the end of the day, our life is based off the blocks choose. However, a skyscraper isn't built over night. Similarly, nor are our lives. It takes time, hard work, and resilience. Longfellow uses anastrophe to say, “Time is with materials filled” to underline that building something worthwhile takes time. Time is also mentioned another time to reiterate that it is imperative to make the most of what time we do have.  

When I read this poem for the first time, I liked that there was a consistent rhyme scheme of abab. Not only did it make it easier to memorize, but it also added a nice flow. But when I reached the final stanza, I had no idea what a turret was. After googling it, I learned that it was a high tower, typically seen in castles or ancient buildings. As the poem says, it is only from higher perspective or a wiser angle, that we can see what's worth building our lives around.

The final lines that say, “Where the eye sees the world as one vast plain and one boundless reach of sky” are akin to the grasp of infinity found in William Blake’s lines. To see the truth, beauty, and life is things, you'll find that it takes a different perspective or vantage point to discover them. 

"The world is too much with us" by William Wordsworth -- Shelby Nutter

"The world is too much with us" by William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bears her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune:
It moves us not. -- Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising form the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Last year in British Literature, we studied this poem, and because I really enjoyed it, I decided to pick it to memorize. The language is beautiful, but I found myself more drawn to the passion which Wordsworth conveys in this Italian sonnet. This topic is something I feel a propinquity to because even though he wrote the poem in 1807, I see its effects in 2015. Wordsworth grieves that we, as a human race, overwhelm the beauty of the earth and do not pay it the respect it deserves. We have become so concentrated on ourselves that we no longer possess the heart or the ability to be affected by the wonders of the world.

Memorizing this poem was slightly challenging due to some unusual word order. Instead of "we lay waste to our powers", Wordsworth writes "we lay waste our powers"; and additionally this is not a commonly used phrase. "Little we see in nature" instead of "We see little in nature", "up-gathered" to replace "gathered up", and "it moves us not" in substitution for "we are not moved" are a few more examples of Wordsworth's unconventional syntax.

This poem is brimming with notable details and moments that could be easily overlooked. Personally, however, every time I read this poem, the line that jumps out at me is "for this, for everything, we are out of tune". After a list of nature imagery, Wordsworth laments that humanity is in a whole other key from the world. We are so entranced in our own affairs that "for everything" we are detached. The beauty and wonder of nature are unable to change us because the industrialization of the world consumes all our attention. Not only nature but everything else that could amaze us is lost.

This poem gives me a sense of nostalgia for lost humanity; we are capable of so much more, being a part of nature that is so much greater than us, but we ignore it.

"Because I Could Not Stop for Death -" by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death – 

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility – 

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring – 

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

We passed the Setting Sun – 

Or rather – He passed us – 

The Dews drew quivering and chill – 

For only Gossamer, my Gown – 

My Tippet – only Tulle – 

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground – 

The Roof was scarcely visible – 

The Cornice – in the Ground – 

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity – 

I have always been fascinated by Emily Dickinson, and thus “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” seemed like the perfect choice. The poem is interesting because of the personification of death. The way she likens the phenomenon to a chauffeur makes the end come alive all too soon. The contrast between immortality and mortality draws the reader’s attention to the possibility of an eternal end. Many people see life as a journey however Dickinson illustrates the journey of death. We feel as if we are on this journey with her as she describes passing the fields where children “strove” (notice the past tense, perhaps Dickinson is using some foreshadowing here), she passes the fields of gazing grain, she passes the setting sun, all heading to eternity. Dickinson leaves the readers grappling with this contrast: is she saying death is the end or the beginning? The character of death seems to be driving this carriage, and “the Horses’ Heads / Were toward Eternity -” In my opinion, the most compelling part of the poem is the capital way she describes him. Death almost sounds friendly at some points and yet equally chilling. Notice that she writes that He “kindly” stopped for her. He didn’t just grab her like many people would describe mortality. Additionally, he “knew no haste” implies that he is gentle, he takes his time. Death does not rush nor steals you from your life, but is almost a taxicab to take you to your next destination – eternity. And yet, she includes the line, “The Dews drew quivering and chill,” which automatically puts the reader’s fear of death back into place. I almost imagine death to be civil and polite, however cool and civil.

Notice that she capitalizes “Setting Sun” and continues to say that “He passed us” rather than they passed it. The Setting Sun is conspicuously synonymous with death.  The Setting Sun serves as a concrete metaphor for death, which is why it makes sense that he passed her. It is easy to overlook the fact that death passed them because it is put in the next stanza, separated from the notion that they passed the Setting Sun. However, the space between the two lines also manages to highlight the notion.

                

"Preludes" by T.S. Eliot

"Preludes"

By T.S. Eliot

I

The winter evening settles down

With smell of steaks in passageways.

Six o’clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney-pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness

Of faint stale smells of beer

From the sawdust-trampled street

With all its muddy feet that press

To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades

That time resumes,

One thinks of all the hands

That are raising dingy shades

In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,

You lay upon your back, and waited;

You dozed, and watched the night revealing

The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted;

They flickered against the ceiling.

And when all the world came back

And the light crept up between the shutters

And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,

You had such a vision of the street

As the street hardly understands;

Sitting along the bed’s edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair,

Or clasped the yellow soles of feet

In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies

That fade behind a city block,

Or trampled by insistent feet

At four and five and six o’clock;

And short square fingers stuffing pipes,

And evening newspapers, and eyes

Assured of certain certainties,

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled

Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle

Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;

The worlds revolve like ancient women

Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

“Preludes” by T.S. Eliot is a four part poem, but for the sake of brevity in both my blog post and my recitation, I chose to focus on the fourth and final part. (I think it was fate for me to come across this poem, as a piano prelude by Chopin had just graced my shuffled Spotify playlist. How pretentious does that sound?!). “Preludes” provides four glimpses into city life, each one with a looming sense of grime, clutter, and an overall melancholy. The whole poem is stacked like a crowded city street, with portraits of daily life framed in blackened vignettes cast by urban gloom. Getting this bleak vibe from the poem wasn’t too tough, and neither was realizing that Eliot is, if not cynical towards urban life, then at least disillusioned by its wilted masses.

The “His” that kicks off the fourth part is more than a little confusing, however. Perhaps this is a product of both being raised in a predominantly Christian community and having gone to an Episcopalian school, but God comes to mind when searching for the antecedent of “His”. With the sordid wildness that (ironically) seems to come hand in hand with a developed, industrialized society, God, or His holy influence, presence, what have you, has become stretched tightly across the city, and trampled beneath its occupants, “tightly” in this sense not meaning firmly, but rather meaning “precariously” or “thinly”. What do you think, dear reader? Am I totally misreading this? Though “Preludes” is made mostly of the close-up details of daily urban life, the poem as whole remains broad in many respects…. Perhaps this soul, "His soul", belongs to a city dweller, a nameless man stretched out, beaten down, and worn thin by the city….

The title of the poem also proves cryptic. A prelude is an introduction, a lead-in to a main event. Not only do all of these scenes (save one) take place the end of the day, but they also don’t seem to be going anywhere; they are hollow and uneventful butt ends of a day. I don’t see T.S. Eliot as the sarcastic, sassy type (maybe he is?), but I believe it’s plausible to see sarcasm in the title. These are never-ending preludes to nothingness, to emptiness.

Or maybe the title “Preludes” has a darker message. A line that jumps out is:

The conscience of a blackened street

Impatient to assume the world.

Somewhat similarly to Prufrock’s “Streets that follow like a tedious argument/ Of insidious intent”, these streets haunt ominously, waiting to “assume the world”. This could be interpreted as the impending spread of urbanization throughout the world. In a literal sense, these streets will increase in number and riddle their way into domination across the globe; in another sense the “conscience of a blackened street”, aka the morals and values of urban society, will also soon pervade human society.

Well, I’ve spent a characteristically long-winded couple of paragraphs trying to polish Eliot's soiled and stomped-out city.

Do y’all have any thoughts on “Preludes”?   

The Summer Day

The Summer Day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver

            The Summer Day by Mary Oliver reflects my understanding of life summed up in a nineteen-lined poem. The poem serves as a metaphor for how short life is. The beginning starts with the existential question: “Who made the world?” Oliver compares the beauty of the swan and the power of the black bear. Then Oliver begins to focus on the grasshopper which seems ordinary in comparison to the majestic swan and the aggressive bear. The poem emphasizes how unique each act is to the grasshopper like “thoroughly washing her face”. On the other hand, humans are caught in the routine of a simple act of washing one’s face and take it for granted. The grasshopper continues to appreciate life and finds joy in simple things like “chewing back and forth instead of up and down” as well. This grasshopper isn’t extraordinary but makes herself stand out with “complicated eyes”. Oliver is emphasizing the importance of individuality. My favorite line from The Summer Day is “the one who has flung herself from the grass”. This line jumps out to me because the image of a grasshopper jumping from the ground – making herself known to the world – is one in a million the narrator notices. I think everyone should strive to be exceptional. There is also a religious aspect to the poem with the images words of “blessed, prayer, falling down, kneeling down”. There is a greater power that created everything and humans do not know the half of it. Everything does die and Oliver’s message is to live each life to the fullest, spring from the grass, be the one grasshopper someone notices.

Oliver’s work is filled with hidden literary devices that casual readers might overlook. The primary device is her use of anaphora. Most of the lines in couplets begin the same: the one, how is, Now she, etc. Oliver breaks the couplets once she reaches her conclusion of “I don’t know”. The use of anaphora might show how the world is fixed and in a set routine but the narrator doesn’t have everything figured out yet. Another device is an anastrophe in the line: “this grasshopper – I mean”. By flipping the order of this phrase, Oliver puts emphasis on the significance of the specific insect the narrator is observing. The third literary device that sticks out to me is the long syndeton when Oliver is describing “this grasshopper”. All of the grasshopper’s unique actions are listed in a run-on sentence without conjunctions. This makes the reader pay attention to the numerous, special traits of the grasshopper. The literary devices all continue to portray Oliver’s message of questioning life and individuality further without using any words. 

"What I Learned Today" by Billy Collins

“What I Learned Today” by Billy Collins

I had never heard of John Bernard Flannagan,
American sculptor,
until I found him on page 961
of the single-volume encyclopedia I have been reading
at the rate of one page each day.
He was so poor, according to the entry
he could not afford the good, quarried marble
and instead had to carve animals
out of the fieldstones he gathered
until he committed suicide in 1942,
the year, I can’t help thinking, I turned one.

Of course, I know what flannel is,
but that French flannel is napped on only one side
is new to me and a reminder that
no matter what size the aquarium of one’s learning,
another colored pebble can always be dropped in.

Tonight a fog blows by the windows,

and a mist falls through the porch lights
as my index finger descends from flat-coated retriever
to flatfish, those sideways creatures—
turbot, plaice, flounder, sole—
all swimming through the dark with close-set eyes,
toothless, twisted mouths,
and a preference for warm, shallow water.

Although I have read Billy Collins's "Aristotle" numerous times prior to this year, it had never resonated with me until this year, and I wanted to delve deeper into Collins's poetry. His writing style is unique as it often tells a story in free verse that illustrates a greater meaning about life. When I first read this poem, I was unsure how to perceive his message and where to begin. However, after analyzing the structure of the poem as a whole as well as each stanza, his message became apparent.

Each stanza is composed of either one or two sentences. The first stanza varies from the last two in that it has a reverse order. The tone is somewhat melancholy but mostly light-spirited until the narrator explores the life of Flannagan. Collins's use of contrast in tone from the relatively uplifting tone to the slower rhythm, denoted by commas at the end of the stanza, reflects the cycle of life and that even though one might be suffering, another is happy and vise versa.

The last two stanzas follow a similar format in that the first part of the stanza, the last two lines for stanza two and the last line for stanza three, both portray a sense of hope. Preceding the last two lines in stanza three is a dilemma in which the narrator is faced: the idea of confusion mixing with understanding. The audience can sense the narrator's confusion as well as confidence in overcoming this misunderstanding of the "French flannel." He clearly points out that we each have space to grow; the colored pebble symbolizes this analogy. Another point of view from an outside source can be beneficial to one's overall understanding of ideas. On the other hand, the third stanza has a more ominous to it as it depicts dreary weather. The imagery used to paint this scene reminds me of the opening scene from "The Wizard of Oz" where it is dull and dusty until a storm brews. Most of this stanza is an asyndeton, and this stanza is one sentence. Collins utilizes the continuous flow of this paragraph to mimic that of the water as well as keep the reader enthralled to figure out this bizarre transformation from weather to ugly fish. Ultimately, the key to acceptance lies in the last paragraph. While obstacles might be placed in front of us and physically have varying attributes, we cannot ostracize or push those aside who vary from us. These awkward and gruesomely described fish would seemingly leave in the deep waters where they would not be disturbed on the ocean floor, yet they find their habitat on the shallow floor, which is often encompassed by many other species.

Collins's unique story-like style captivates his readers. The constant use of commas creates an asyndeton structure that also resembles one's train of thought as well as change in tone. As a whole, the poem starts and ends with a reflective tone that encourages the audience to contemplate our placement in society. 

Sonnet 104 by Shakespeare: To me, fair friend, you never can be old

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,

For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,

Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,

Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,

Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d,

In process of the seasons have I seen,

Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,

Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.

Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,

Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d;

So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,

Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:

For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:

Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

Beauty's fleetingness is a topic often discussed, but Shakespeare's 104th sonnet has a different take on the matter. The speaker describes how he has known the person to whom he is speaking for three years, and his or her beauty has not changed at all. He uses both personification and metonymy to describe how three years have flowed by. Instead of saying "summer replaced spring," Shakespeare says "Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd," using "perfumes" as metonymy, using perfume to be understood as the sweet smell of spring, representing spring in general. Shakespeare also uses personification when depicting the shift from summer to winter, by describing the forests shaking off "summer's pride," or symbolically leaves. Also, like all Shakespearean or Elizabethan sonnets, it is clearly structured with fourteen lines, and a rhyme scheme of ABAB CDCD EFEF GG, and has a meter of iambic pentameter (five feet of "short long" per line).

The turning point in this poem comes in the lines "Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,/ Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd" which is when the speaker admits that although he sees no change in his object's beauty, people do age and time does flow by like a dial-hand. After this, the sonnet changes from describing the passage of three years, to the speaker ruminating on how it is entirely possible that the beauty of the person he is addressing is indeed moving, or "hath motion." The sonnet is more melancholy, even nostalgic, in this second half. He seems to accept the fact that beauty is ever changing and inherently fleeting, and ends the poem by directly addressing unborn generations, an abstract apostrophe: "hear this thou age unbred:/Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead." This is a warning that there will never again be such beauty in the world when future ages come, because the beauty he admires now will soon inevitably die.

Fata Morgana

A blue-eyed phantom far before

Is laughing, leaping toward the sun:

Like lead I chase it evermore,

I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound:

Goes singing as it leaps along

To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound

A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;

It is so far before, I weep:

I hope I shall lie down some day,

Lie down and sleep.

By: Christina Rossetti

I believe the job of the writer is not to write what she wants you to see, but instead to write in a way that could be interpreted in numerous ways.  I believe that good writing can touch many people-it will affect them in the way they need to be.  I choose “Fata Morgana” by Christiana Rossetti because I believe it does just this.  The title of this poem “Fata Morgana” clearly supports this because a mirage is an illusion that is seen by only one person in a unique way.  “Fata Morgana” found me a few years ago when I was flipping through a poetry book.  I wrote it down in an old journal and tucked it away because I felt something within the lines that I myself wanted to muse over.  When I first read the poem I was captivated by the “blue-eyed phantom” and felt the hopelessness of the narrator as she watched the phantom leap away.

 

Speaking of the context and artistry of the poem, Rossetti uses a very beautiful, almost placid rhythm.  She uses an a-b-a-b rhyme scheme, which I think represents the very rhythmic passing of life and almost seems like someone leaping along.  There is an obvious shift after the narrator laughs and begins to weep in the last stanza.  This represents how quickly humans can become tired and change their perception on life. 

The reason I like this poem so much is the message that I take away from it.  I see the “blue-eyed phantom” as life itself.  Humans continually chase life-never stopping for a break.  We chase our goals, our aspirations.  We chase others and we chase ourselves.  We chase who we wish to be and what we wish our future to be.  The phantom is personified as happiness, but when the narrator cannot quite grasp it, she becomes downcast.  I find this to be a sincere struggle and one that we all face.  Running can make you tired.  We can only chase for so long before we become burned out and by something that is even the essence of felicity and goodness.  We become listless and need a break, but in life there is no break.  Our minds are continually racing with thoughts back and forth and back and forth.  We continually chase on and on until it is time for us to sleep for the final time.  

"Roshi at 89" Leonard Cohen

"Roshi at 89"
Leonard Cohen

Roshi's very tired,
he's lying on his bed
He's been living with the living
and dying with the dead
But he wants another drink
(will wonders never cease?)
He's making war on war
and he's making war on
peace
He's sitting in the throne-room
on his great Original Face
and he's making war on Nothing
that has something in its
place
His stomach's very happy
The prunes are working well
There's no one going to Heaven
and there's no one left in Hell

I remembered this poem from our anthology last year but while we discussed other Cohen works, we didn't touch on this one. I read it and both the clever rhyming scheme as well as the message Cohen gets across resonated with me. Leonard Cohen is a musician, novelist, and poet from Canada. In the 90s, he retreated to a Zen Buddhist monastery where he served as an assistant to Kyozan Joshu Sasaki Roshi, whose perspicacity left a lasting impression on Cohen, because he refers to the monk in many of his poems. In "Roshi at 89," Cohen is speaking about his Zen mentor's inner thoughts.

To the casual reader, this poem might be about a listless elderly man who has grown weary of the world in his old age and has acquired a pessimistic view of life and the afterlife. Taking a closer look at some of the words Cohen uses, however, reveals that there is a deeper meaning under the poem's surface. "Original Face" is in fact a term used in Zen Buddhism to describe a state of being that points "to the non-duality of subject and object," therefore rendering the two interchangeable. When the mind is cleared of all thoughts, the Original Face appears. It is the true you without any dualities.

Where Roshi makes war on war and war on peace, "war" is the term Cohen uses to allude to Roshi's Original Face, which, when presented with war and peace, sees them as one and the same.

"Hope is the Thing with Feathers" by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

I was especially drawn to the rhythm and tone of this poem, but one part that was difficult for me to interpret was the second stanza.

The poem commences with an obvious metaphor, connecting hope with the image of a ceaselessly optimistic bird—specifically a gale. Upon first glance the poem seems only lighthearted. There are, however, two turns in the poem which appear to be before and after the second stanza. Dickinson does a good job of seamlessly blending these stanzas together through her use of a polysyndeton. The second stanza expresses something baleful that could possibly deter and kill hope, seeming to contradict the first stanza which said the “tune” or hope would never cease to exist. The poem becomes darker when there is a possibility of hope being lost. In the third stanza the author reverts back to her original faith in hope when she expresses her gratitude for its previous work.

Dickinson meant to express the duality and complexity in hope and address the general perspectives about it. I found that the author, however, is in favor of hope and believes that it is only good. We get a glimpse of this in the last stanza of the poem. The first two stanzas have rhyme schemes of a, b, a, b. But, in the last stanza, the rhyme scheme changes to a, b, b, b. This draws attention to the last stanza, insinuating the goodness that hope brings. Furthermore, the last stanza becomes more personal with the addition of the “I” and “me.” This permits us to see the author’s positive experience with hope.

"Novel" by Arthur Rimbaud

I chose the poem "Novel" by Arthur Rimbaud to memorize. Originally written in French, the English translation I chose has been translated by Wyatt Mason. The poem expresses the carefree, unserious nature of the world of a seventeen-year-old, a budding adult. It demonstrates an excitement with life that accompanies the ripe age of someone on the verge of adulthood. The problems one faces at this age seem insignificant and are breezily and quickly forgotten  about.  Rimbaud wrote all of his poetry during his teenage years, so the poem effortlessly retains the emotions that one feels at this incipient time in his or her life. One line in particular perfectly conveys this overarching carefree tone: “Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes” The tone in this line is light-hearted and untroubled. The narrator has no apparent worries or tribulations, only bliss with the simplicities of the world. Rimbaud also uses synesthesia by describing the air as sweet. He touches on the universal, child-like affinity for sweets and adapts it into a description of nature and the outdoors.  The next line continues  with the air and wind motif: “the wind brings sounds – the town is near.” Using personification to describe the wind, Rimbaud further emphasizes the lack of seriousness that the poem celebrates. He then introduces a nearby town, which signifies people, life, and excitement. The poem celebrates the seemingly trivial aspects of life, such as wind softly blowing on one’s face. By using surrealistic language, the reader can relate much more strongly to this lighthearted, cheerful feeling.

I.

No one’s serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

II.

--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

III.

The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
--And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp’s pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father’s starched collar. . .

Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide, 
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.

IV.

You’re in love. Off the market till August.
You’re in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you’re bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!

That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one’s serious at seventeen 
When lindens line the promenade.