Thursday, December 9, 2010

Donald Caswell

wasn't a poet that I was familiar with until recently. I made a trip to the "leave a book-take a book" shelf outside our campus library, which I peruse often and am ashamed to admit take stuff from without leaving anything in return. You see, I am a collector of literature which means I have two problems---that I don't like to give away books, and that I can't pass up books that are free (for instance, I found a copy of "Guns, Germs, and Steel" on that shelf the other day and I grabbed it, despite having a copy already). Anyway, whether that makes me a horrible person or not, among the many gems that I've found on this shelf were several old copies of Poetry, an academic journal that publishes single poems by various writers every month. Upon flipping through one of the journals I came across several poems that had a red check mark next to the title--marginalia from one of the journal's previous owners--and decided to read each one. After a while I closed the journal and moved on to another one, and then shoved them all back into my bag and walked back up to housing. I have only opened them one or twice since, but there's one poem in specific that kept lingering in and out of my memory, so today I started flipping through my various, multi-colored copies of Poetry in search of it. Here it is:

How It Works

When I step into a brook
I become a brook. Fish
cannot burrow
into the soft rock
of my feet. Lying on a hillside
I become the hillside. Rain
runs from the hill that is me
and into the valley I will be
if I move. Window,
door, pathway, light: it's all
a matter of positioning. I am
always becoming
the world. We
create it every day. You know
this is true
and will always be true
whether I write these words
or go to sleep.
Whether we make love
or argue late into the night
about things
that do not matter
that will not matter
that cannot matter
unless we argue.

* * * * *

"I am always becoming the world"
"We create it every day"
This is an excellent poem because, for me, it's about so many things that I admire. It's about new perspective, and creating your own life, and the truism that we create our own world. The last few lines where the writer uses repetition are very effective, and happen to be the reason why I remembered the poem. It wasn't the successful use of repetition alone, but also the context. The last bit deals with something I find myself questioning when I'm in an argument with someone that I love or when I see two people who care about each other get into an argument about something that seems very frivolous. We sometimes fight and we sometimes argue because we care. Anyway, that's a bit about my personal understanding of the poem and why I like it.

I did a little more research on this poet, and I found another piece of his work that I really enjoy. I think it provides a really good depiction of Caswell's own personality and the personality found in his writing.

Why I Am a Poet

    I am a poet. I am not a carpenter. Sometimes I think I would rather be a carpenter, but I am not. For instance, Gene, my carpenter friend, is building a house. I drop in. He gives me a hammer and says, "Start pounding." I pound; we pound. I look up. "Where's the roof?" "I'm not that far, yet," he says. I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The roof is up and I go and the days go by and I start a poem. I am thinking of stars and I write a poem about stars. I grab a typewriter and start pounding. Soon there are pages, acres of words about stars and the coffee is gone, so I go to a restaurant. And I buy a beer and the woman next to me tells me how she was raped by her stepfather when she was twelve, so she ran away with an ex-con who got popped again for cocaine and left her pregnant, so she married a GI and moved to Germany, where the baby died of kidney failure, so she came home to live with her mother. And I drink a lot of beers. Then I go outside and lie in a vacant lot looking up at the stars, thinking how many they are and what a wonderful poem they would make. And I fall asleep with a beer in my hand. In the morning, the beer, the stars, and my wallet are gone, so I go to see Gene, and the house is finished. A family is living there, and they show me their dog. There are flowers blooming; cabbage is cooking in the kitchen. So I go home and write another poem. And one day Gene drops in. He looks at the poem and now it is twelve poems, all neatly stacked and ready to be read and he asks, "Where are the stars?" And I say, "I'm not that far yet."






Tuesday, December 7, 2010

"Ancient Music"-A Parody

I love this poem by Pound for so many reasons.
It's a parody of this Anglo-Saxon poem:

Cuckoo Song

Sumer is ycomen in,
Loude sing cuckou!
Groweth seed and bloweth
meed,
And springith the wode now.
Sing cuckou!

Ewe bleteth after lamb,
Loweth after calve cow,
Bulloc sterteth, buck vereteth,
Merye sing cuckou!
Cuckou,cuckou:
Ne swik thou never now!

*****
Now for Mr. Ezra Pound's rendition:

Ancient Music-Ezra Pound
Winter is icummen in, 
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.



Sunday, October 31, 2010

Breaking Up


I don't know why I've carried this poem with me for so long. It seems that it's one I quote often, and it carries a lot of sentiments that I so cynically find myself agreeing with---the general one being the ones who love us hurt us.
I've had a rough past month, especially last night, and here I find myself reading it over and over again...
It's a very raw poem. Maybe that's why I like it. Maybe that's why I always come back to it.


Yevgeny Yevtushenko


Breaking Up

I fell out of love: that's our story's dull ending,
as flat as life is, as dull as the grave.
Excuse me – I'll break off the string of this love song
and smash the guitar. We have nothing to save.

The puppy is puzzled. Our furry small monster
can't decide why we complicate simple things so –
he whines at your door and I let him enter,
when he scratches at my door, you always go.

Dog, sentimental dog, you'll surely go crazy,
running from one to the other like this –
too young to conceive of an ancient idea:
it's ended, done with, over, kaput. Finis.

Get sentimental and we end up by playing
the old melodrama, "Salvation of Love".
"Forgiveness," we whisper, and hope for an echo;
but nothing returns from the silence above.

Better save love at the very beginning,
avoiding all passionate "nevers", "forevers";
we ought to have heard what the train wheels were shouting,
"Do not make promises!" Promises are levers.

We should have made note of the broken branches,
we should have looked up at the smokey sky,
warning the witless pretensions of lovers –
the greater the hope is, the greater the lie.

True kindness in love means staying quite sober,
weighing each link of the chain you must bear.
Don't promise her heaven – suggest half an acre;
not "unto death," but at least to next year.

And don't keep declaring, "I love you, I love you."
That little phrase leads a durable life –
when remembered again in some loveless hereafter,
it can sting like a hornet or stab like a knife.

So – our little dog in all his confusion
turns and returns from door to door.
I won't say "forgive me" because I have left you;
I ask pardon for one thing: I loved you before.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Motion Poems

Several months ago I posted on my blog about Todd Boss and his Motion Poems project. I checked the website today to see what sort of progress they've made and it looks like they've added a few more poems. I viewed a couple of them and enjoyed them immensely. Check it out for yourself. If you've already picked up "Yellowrocket" and read some of the poetry, then I'm certain you'll enjoy the new animated spin they add to some of the poems found in that collection. There are a few videos up for other poets as well. Enjoy!



Tidal Echoes


That's the name of the literary Journal here at UAS. One of the students on campus came into our class the a few weeks ago encouraging us to submit our artwork or writing.
I've written two things in the past 3 years that I sincerely like and that I'm pretty confident in. I think I'm going to take the plunge and try to get them published in Tidal Echoes. I need to revise my creative non-fiction story, but that shouldn't take too long. The other piece I'm thinking about submitting is the poem I posted not too long ago called "Under the Weather". I know that I don't have a big following on my blog, but if you happen upon the poem let me know if you have any feed back. After all, I do not consider myself a poet by any means. Hell, maybe I'll actually take a few pictures in my photography class that I really like and I'll submit those too. I'm bound to get published if I submit to more than one genre, right?
Maybe not, but it's worth a try!

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Under the Weather.

Outside my window on this Autumn day
There are gentlemen laughing and
Girls clip-clopping away
Down the sidewalk
In their heels

Sounds like a horse-drawn carriage accident in old town

In this town
Who knew
In a place where it rains
And snows most of the time
That there would be so many
Fine people dressed for the
Weather.

I’m here.

Because it doesn’t matter where you are
People will never get it together.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Book Review--Meely LaBauve

In Ken Wells' first novel we are introduced to Emile Labauve, a young boy living in the Cajun-country of lower Louisiana during the 1960's. Known as "Meely" by his family and classmates, this young rascal spends most of his time in a swap that makes up the back yard of a rickety, makeshift shack that he calls home. While Meely's father is off gator hunting and running from the law, readers follow Meely winding their way through his hunting and fishing expeditions in the Catahoula Bayou and the many misadventures he has with his friends and classmates.
Though events in this book are entertaining in their own right, what makes the story an absolute riot is the author's use of humor. Present from page one up until the novel's finale humor is used in both serious and less serious aspects of the novel. By writing the book from the first person point of view Wells highlights the innocence and comical imagination in the mind of young Meely, while at the same time confronting tougher issues like bullying and race relations.

I recommend this book to anyone who is a fan of "The Catcher in the Rye". The humor is there, all of the meaning is there, and the narrative following a young boy's life is there---but with an excellent back-country spin. Which is why I would also strongly recommend this book to Mark Twain fans, especially those who are partial to "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer". In addition, this book is a quick read. If you're looking for a quality, entertaining book but you're worried about the time commitment, this is a good pick.