norton hears a who

But I, a man, must swat you with my hate,
Slap you across the air and crush your flight,
Must mangle with my shoe and smear your blood,
Expose your little guts pasty and white,
Knock your head sidewise like a drunkard’s hat,
Pin your wings under like a crow’s,
Tear off your flimsy clothes
And beat you as one beats a rat.

Then like Gargantua I stride among
The corpses strewn like raisins in the dust,
The broken bodies of the narrow dead
That catch the throat with fingers of disgust.
I sweep. One gyrates like a top and falls
And stunned, stone blind, and deaf
Buzzes its frightful F
And dies between three cannibals.

I cannot believe Shapiro could find that much to say about a fly. Before these two, there were four more stanzas chock full of dense description about the little flying monster.
If I could revise this poem to my own liking, I would make it episodic. Instead of one big showdown with the fly, it would be an epic battle. The tension would grow and there would be some victory for the fly beyond the disgust its death instilled. The fight would take something out of the man, he would be not be 100% conquering hero.
Reading this reminds me of my unparalleled fly killing record at Sno-to-Go, and also rekindles my hate for crickets.

voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

Voyage through death,
voyage whose chartings are unlove.

Hayden writes of slavery, both the European and African perspectives. He was criticized by fellow, more politically extreme, African American writers for This poem is long, rambling (in a good way), and complicated, but what I take away from my reading of it are these lines. The first is simple and true, but I guess that’s why it gets to me more than the allusions and multiple voices. I love when poems can say universal truths with such elegance. In class the other day I commented that I think mostly in words, and in poetry, the adage should be changed to: “A verse is worth a thousand words.”
The second line, although similar to the first, challenges my comprehension and interpretation faculties a bit more. Much of the poem has descriptions of intense hatred, but that word, unlove, makes me re-evaluate the feelings of the whites in charge of the slave ships. Something that marks Hayden apart from many others that wrote about slavery is his insight that although many of the whites’ actions against the Africans were about hate and fear, some actions came from pure indifference. The whole idea that slaves had no humanity to consider but were only expendable bodies for labor is concentrated in Hayden’s selection of a word that is not a real word.
That’s another great thing about this poem. Its length does not preclude the heavy use of complicated, potent words. So although it is a chore to fully “get” most of the lines, I shall change the adage once again to: “A poem is worth a thousand books.”

“A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep.” (Salman Rushdie)

“Poetry makes nothing happen.” (W.H. Auden)

I agree with both of these statements. I know they contradict themselves quite strongly, but the limited audience of poetry makes both of the statements true. Poets are gifted at describing the indescribable; they are cynical, opinionated, powerful, and provocative, but they demonstrate these qualities mainly within their own small circles of influence. War poetry reached out to more of the general public, but it did not directly affect any military decisions. Poetry is such a small part of American culture because it is seen as too dense, complicated, or useless by most people. However, it can change the lives and thoughts of the few who take the time to give it their attention. Some of these few, since they are likely to be intellectually active, may spread the effects of poetry into their own spheres of influence. In the general scheme of things, poetry is impotent and inert, the very artistic craft that makes it moving making it inaccessible as well.

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift
how will I hide?

This poem is addressed to a person referred to in the text only as a “horse,” “hound,” or a “dog.” The way Swenson expresses a common feeling of uncertainty and abandonment in response to losing a person is so oblique and beautiful. We could take these lines for many different situations involving loss, like moving somewhere unfamiliar, watching your house burn to the ground, or even the complete destruction of a culture. These words could be uttered by so many people…they strike me as perfectly poetic (in the common perception of poetry). They require unpacking, display cohesive imagery, and produce musical, pleasant sounds when read aloud.
This poem is only 5 stanzas long, but the emotion these last 2 stanzas express could stand in for countless stanzas in countless poems.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster

–Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I really hope that everyone reads this poem at some point in their lives. This was a poem that I adored in high school, but I’d forgotten it through college until now. It is casual, but not. It is catchy and rhymes, but by the end it overcomes its initial trite appearance. I love how she packs so much story and character into such a small poem (one that begins as if to be a general aphorism in verse).

Personally, I also love her use of parentheses. I wish they were more acceptable in essays!

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry
and panic, and a weak mailed fist
clenched ignorant against the sky!

this poem is about fireworks. this poem is also amazing . any other poet writing about fireworks (i don’t know if there are any) would sound conventional next to this . i wish i had the patience to type out the whole poem, but trust me…it is just as cryptic and yet accurate . sometimes she takes a piece of life and views as if it is a film negative . the reader can make out what the content is, but the form is of a different quality all together than you expect of a concrete representation of the content.

I said to myself: three days
and you’ll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world
into cold, blue-black space,
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them,
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was
…
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?

The particulars belong to Elizabeth Bishop alone, but her description of this kind of experience struck such a chord in me that I was thrown back into the feelings for a moment. I find this hard to explain, and I don’t think that even Bishop’s genius describes it to be universally understood. If you have never had this “out-of-self” experience, you will most likely be baffled by attempts to explain it.
I have had these moments off and on through my life. I think the bulk of them came as I was becoming a teenager, when I was the most conscious of “thinking” about life in what I considered a philosophical manner. Yet, these waves did not come while I was concentrating on anything in particular; they most commonly came when I was looking in a mirror or walking home from the bus stop. They have come at different times too; there are no pre-conditions needed.
When this phenomena happens, I feel like some part of me is missing. My brain scrambles to determine what the difference between the me of now is compared to the me of a second ago. It is something unnamable, but is some integral part of my identity. Without it, I question my existence, my uniqueness, and the placing of this particular mind in this particular body. The two questions “Why should you be one of them, too?” and “Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone?” were the cues in this poem that made me sit up and realize the same thing happened to Bishop.
This feeling ends as abruptly as it starts, as portrayed by the end of this poem:

Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.

1- i’ll follow the sun - the beatles
2- summer is coming - matt pond pa
3- beach party tonight - yo la tengo
4- face like summer - gorky’s zygotic mynci
5- summer babe - pavement
6- summer lovers - beats for beginners
7- like a summer rain - the ladybug transistor
8- it’s summertime - the flaming lips
9- oslo in the summertime - of montreal
10- coney island - death cab for cutie
11- afk (summer in abaddon) - pinback
12- summer days - phoenix
13- a summer wasting - belle & sebastian
14- friendless summer - the lucksmiths
15- in the summer’s when you really know - jets to brazil
16- what will you do when your suntan fades? - beulah
17- the last rose of summer - tom waits
18- the summer ends - american football

(1) some day you’ll know i was the one
but tomorrow may rain
so i’ll follow the sun

in late spring, a girl, who didn’t like people touching her when she was sweaty, dumped our protagonist in anticipation of summer. he, more resistant to the heat, leaves with bemusement and disbelief over the break up.

(2)(good luck - yeah) all we are is friends
i’ll be happy right here to say that you win
the summer is on us the handle is hers
far out past the fences
and no more kind words for seasoned swimmer
old beginners know this is not something

the two meet up again after a time of separation. the girl, lonely, invites her ex for a swim. although she attempts a seduction with a skimpy bikini and striptease, he has ruminated on the breakup and concluded that it was for the best.

(3) instrumental, yo la tengo style

our hero goes to a beach party with his buddies to relax and enjoy his newfound freedom.

(4) so young in years, probably end in tears
but i soon, i don’t mind
cause happiness is so hard to find
and i can still recall, the sun going in,
north wind came along today
and blew my dreams away
and when she lies in the sun,
she don’t cover her skin,
from sun that’s too strong to come in
i know that’s where it begins

after a good soul-searching session, our hero spots a sun-bather. he can see that she is without sunscreen, hat, or umbrella to protect her (he notes with relish) supple young skin. realizing that he is not getting any younger, he remembers that “a man doth not live by sun alone, but on every kiss that proceeds out of the mouth of a cute girl.”

(5) i saw your girlfriend
and she was eating her fingers
like they’re just another meal
…
every time i turn around i find
every time i sit around i find…
you’re my summer babe
summer babe

entranced by her body, he looks further up to see her licking the remains of a melted chocolate bar off her fingers. at this moment, he realizes he’s seen her before, but on the arm of his best friend. he turns to leave, but decides the subject reqires more meditation. addled by dehydration and his hormones, he decides that friends (not females) are often fickle. he descends on the girl with a smile and a bottle of sunscreen…

(6) in love, you gotta move
you move with the times now babe
don’t hang around
you move with the times now
or it just might get you down

with paroxysms of guilt, she leaves her boyfriend for the older man in hopes that she can learn more from his wisdom than cancer/wrinkle prevention.

(7) not a cloud in the sky
when we had a fight
she left me last night
here comes the rain
the summer rain
tears no these can’t be tears
cause i’ve never cried
if she was near
if she don’t come back
i know i’m to blame

self-explanatory i think

(8) it’s summertime
and i can understand if you still feel sad
it’s summertime
and though it’s hard to see its true possibilities
when you look inside, all you’ll see
when you look inside, all you’ll see
is a self-reflected inner sadness
look outside
i know that you’ll recognize
it’s summertime

although raised on a good dose of songs about love lost
let us pause for a high fidelity reference…

(Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?)

…our hero gives himself a good talking to in the manner of the shrinks he had grown up with as a boy. he decides to take advantage of his free time to go on holiday.

(9) oslo in the summertime
pakistani children play
locked inside of the courtyard all day
pretty people everywhere sun lamp tans and flaxen hair
just tell the american not to stare

for no reason whatsoever, he goes to oslo. trying to escape his memories is quite impossible however, as the pale norwegians are also quite fond of tanning.

(10) sitting on a carousel ride
without any music or lights
everything was closed at coney island
and i could not help from smiling
i can hear the atlantic echo back
rollercoaster screams from summers past.

bored by northern europe, he returns to america to further indulge his reclusive tendencies. drawn to abandoned places that mirrored his heart, he once again could not escape memories of his brief summer love. young and impressionable, her screams at roller coasters had been endearing. the ghostly echoes of strangers’ screams made him squirm with enjoyment at his self-inflicted emotional punishment.

(11) way off sides and i’m almost empty
i’m cracked and stripped like a domino’s crush
send a tell if you’re ever near me
i’m afk and i can’t get by
release me

this vessel’s underway
secure the rigging
tack the sails (headed south)
man the posts

&

(12) i need a good day sailing
to tell the sun and the moon
that i am turning for no reasons too

broken and bruised inside, our man hears a decemberists’ song (i had to include them in some manner!)and decides to sail the open seas to a southern port.

(13) i spent the summer wasting
the time was passed so easily
but if the summer’s wasted
how come that i could feel so free

feeling plucky after his adventure, he simultaneously reveled in his accomplished self-loathing and his separation from both of his recent women.

(14) today of all days you decided
that you’d drop in uninvited
you were ever so excited
you were never so in love

after celebrating with a pack of beer the night before, he woke up to a loud noise at his door. the seductive swimmer has found him, and she begins babbling about her new boyfriend on and on while his head throbs on and on.

(15) southbound those motel towns can mend most broken mornings
there’s citrus groves where no one knows the fruit of truth from evil
and a long walk on a short pier means nothing more than swimming here

in the summer you’ll really know
you’re the only summer that i think i’ll ever know

the feeling that he was safe from his past is slowly dissipating along with his hangover. staring at his former love with his jaw sagging, he feels the stirrings of a passionate love. his former rejection of her haunts him, and he begs her to swim with him again and forever.

(16) smile someday, smile, kid you’re fragile as a scene,
ya know all those things you have
will not make you come undone
tell me tell me you’ll be alright
when you’re in the shade
tell me tell me you’ll be alright
when you start to fade
…
the days are getting shorter
and what will you do
when your suntan is fading
and the summer’s gone?
will you fade away?

thanks to the power of cell-phones, wanderlust and a southern hideaway cannot keep the young tanner away from our hero. despite her turkey-like brown skin, he feels a stirring of affection for her and decides to give her one last fling to stabilize her temperat… emotions.

(17) i love the way the tattered clouds go wind across the sky
as summer goes and leaves me with a tear in my eye

&

(18) so let’s just see what happens
when the summer ends

i’m going to be like john fowles in the magus
and leave you guessing as to who this unnamed fellow ends up with

The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood.

Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence.

I am impressed by the dignity of the latter stanza; dignity that comes in spite of the rhyming while maintaining (very) appropriate poetic meaning. It takes skill to rhyme that obviously without your poem becoming a farce.

I have known the face
of God.
And turned away,
turned
as He did,
his backside

Inside, I am religious. I pray, I have faith, blahblah. However, I am very skeptical of the people who profess organized religion. I am a Catholic in the way my mother taught me to be, and I trust in the dogma and the Pope’s decrees and the like, but I am wary of people and what they say and do while still claiming to be Catholic. I am also wary of other brands of Christianity, because they were created on the basis of people who thought they knew what God wanted better than everyone else. Another thing I dislike is the hypocrisy that abounds…which to me is worse than outright rejection of religion. I could go on forever about this, but what is relevant to this entry is my respect and acceptance for those who are not interested in religion.
This poem expresses what many people have experienced: growing up with a religion and falling away or outright rejecting it. The narrator of this poem once had awe about the “terrrible” and perfect face of God that he envisioned, but experience has disabused him of this notion. God is human to him now, and a spiteful human at that. Personally, I think that this excuse about God being spiteful and not as wonderful as advertised is not well thought out…but it is an easy and common trap to fall into. Oh, I wish I had the patience to write out all my thoughts about this, but I’m sure they will come out with future poems.