"We are in a Book" by Mo Willems. It's Prospero addressing the audience. It's Wallace Stevens and the sound of words. There never was a world for her except the one she sang-
And it gives pleasure.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X93c86EYnco&feature=related
Monday, October 22, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
The poem as an Act
Poetry is. . . . I've seen this unfinished sentence all my life in school and the answers usually range in the "poetry is a bunch of words, which have rhythm and is beautiful" "Poetry is music" and "poetry is emotional." It's a little different than "A poem is a meteor" "Poetry is not personal" "poetry is a means of redemption" "a poem is a pheasant." But I guess they are kind of similar too.
I was flipping through Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction and Stevens has things to say about what poetry is or what it has to be:
It must be abstract
It must change
It must give pleasure
"but play you must,/ a tune beyond us, yet ourselves,/ a tune upon the blue guitar/ of things exactly as they are."
I cheated and threw in some Blue Guitar.
"but to impose is not to discover. To discover an order as of a season, to discover summer and know it, to discover winter and know it well, to find, not to impose, not to have reasoned at all."
We've had some discussions about seeing thing for what they are and my mind floats from getting it and not getting it. Right now, I'm in the getting, because it's something I remember from a previous class-- to impose is not to discover, which came up in the Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction. And I think we might have talked about it too. Stevens makes a distinction between people and poets, impositions and discoveries. A guy named Merle D. Brown talks about it in his book Wallace Stevens: the Poem as Act, and he says even though men and poets approach life in different ways, they kind of revolve around two things: change and feeling.
Merle says "fiction results from feeling." I took that as reaction. We create from our emotions- our desire. We may not always feel pleasure (not necessarily happiness) from a thing, but ordinary people can impose our desire for pleasure on something, while a poet looks deeper and finds the pleasure in the thing itself. It's imposition versus discovery, but both involve a kind of art. Change took Merle too long to explain, but I think he was saying that people are frightened of it and we try to stop it or control it with words, we seek to "impose orders to 'stop the whirlwind.'" Poets revel in change, but at the same time, they find themselves kind of stuck in repetition or permanence. Or maybe not stuck, but they make an art of the patterns in changes or the changing patterns or something. But I was thinking of this "change" in the romantic sense. And it took me here:
"Mutability," by William Wordsworth
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail:
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time
Harmonium. It's katabosis and anabosis. Mrs. Alfred Uruguay. It's a seesaw.
In our discussion on Monday, I kept thinking of this toy. In its ascent and descent and in the very name. "See" and "saw." According to Wikipedia, the name comes from "a direct Anglicisation of the French ci-ça, meaning literally, this-that, seemingly attributable to the back-and-forth motion for which a seesaw is known." Neti, neti, except no not. I hope Wikipedia is telling the truth.
I never really liked these things (seesaws, not Wikipedia) when I was little, because my school's playground had really lame ones, but a few years back, I found a seesaw with a gigantic spring fulcrum and it was amazing, I mean my friend Emily and I got some serious height, but it's weird to think you could have so much fun on something that is so repetitive. We go up and come back down over and over and over again. We know what's going to happen, but we're still excited to see the world from a new angle and then whoosh back down so we can launch again. We see and then we saw and we do it again and the view is a little different each time. There's a poetry to it. Or it is poetry, "the finding of a satisfaction, and may be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman combing, me seesawing.
The poem of the act of the mind"
I was flipping through Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction and Stevens has things to say about what poetry is or what it has to be:
It must be abstract
It must change
It must give pleasure
"but play you must,/ a tune beyond us, yet ourselves,/ a tune upon the blue guitar/ of things exactly as they are."
I cheated and threw in some Blue Guitar.
"but to impose is not to discover. To discover an order as of a season, to discover summer and know it, to discover winter and know it well, to find, not to impose, not to have reasoned at all."
We've had some discussions about seeing thing for what they are and my mind floats from getting it and not getting it. Right now, I'm in the getting, because it's something I remember from a previous class-- to impose is not to discover, which came up in the Notes Towards a Supreme Fiction. And I think we might have talked about it too. Stevens makes a distinction between people and poets, impositions and discoveries. A guy named Merle D. Brown talks about it in his book Wallace Stevens: the Poem as Act, and he says even though men and poets approach life in different ways, they kind of revolve around two things: change and feeling.
Merle says "fiction results from feeling." I took that as reaction. We create from our emotions- our desire. We may not always feel pleasure (not necessarily happiness) from a thing, but ordinary people can impose our desire for pleasure on something, while a poet looks deeper and finds the pleasure in the thing itself. It's imposition versus discovery, but both involve a kind of art. Change took Merle too long to explain, but I think he was saying that people are frightened of it and we try to stop it or control it with words, we seek to "impose orders to 'stop the whirlwind.'" Poets revel in change, but at the same time, they find themselves kind of stuck in repetition or permanence. Or maybe not stuck, but they make an art of the patterns in changes or the changing patterns or something. But I was thinking of this "change" in the romantic sense. And it took me here:
"Mutability," by William Wordsworth
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail:
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time
Harmonium. It's katabosis and anabosis. Mrs. Alfred Uruguay. It's a seesaw.
I never really liked these things (seesaws, not Wikipedia) when I was little, because my school's playground had really lame ones, but a few years back, I found a seesaw with a gigantic spring fulcrum and it was amazing, I mean my friend Emily and I got some serious height, but it's weird to think you could have so much fun on something that is so repetitive. We go up and come back down over and over and over again. We know what's going to happen, but we're still excited to see the world from a new angle and then whoosh back down so we can launch again. We see and then we saw and we do it again and the view is a little different each time. There's a poetry to it. Or it is poetry, "the finding of a satisfaction, and may be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman combing, me seesawing.
The poem of the act of the mind"
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Midnight musings-the universe is in knots
When I was a kid, I was up to date with all the trendy school yard games: state tag and kickball and double dutch (I couldn't actually do that one) and buttball and a recurring favorite cat's cradle. I remember playing that game for three hours with my best friend on a car ride and the string got tangled. I tried to pick it apart and somehow made it worse. Every loop and knot I'd loosen would beget another knot until eventually I had a large mess of string.
That's kind of how I feel about Wallace Stevens right now. My mind's all jumbled about it, because everything connects, and everything is a lot of stuff to unpack. Here's the strings I've got from tonight:
I was reading some blogs and I stumbled on Lace's post and poem, which was incredible. I thought her titles for post and poem were perfect-- "no words to describe it" "silence," described by words. It's Beckett. Either “Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness" or “Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on." It's the words- the words are all we have. (Beckett might have said something like that too). To create illusions to create a "reality" to fill the void.
It connects to Jenny's blog "Stirrings," which discusses the link she sees between Stevens and Beckett. It connects to our discussion of God and the Bible-- It just occurred to me tonight that though we've been going through our blue bibles from the beginning onward, most of us are reading it like I've been taught to read the Christian Bible- sporadically. Walter was walking by the library counter tonight and asked what I was reading- I had flipped to "On the Road Home" two minutes earlier; and Walter was like, "We're already on Parts of a World?" and I said, "I think so, but I've just been skipping around." And I thought that's the Bible for you. It's something that speaks to you or has something to say whereever you land in it; because it's life, the Word. The words of Lace's blog. After Walter left, I looked down at that "On the Road Home" and it took me right into Lace's blog, which seemed to originate on her journey home.
The poem reads like this
On the Road Home
It was when I said,
"There is no such thing as the truth,"
That the grapes seemed fatter.
The fox ran out of his hole.
You. . . You said,
"There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth."
Then the tree, at night, began to change,
Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.
It was when I said,
"Words are not forms of a single word.
In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts.
The world must be measured by eye";
It was when you said,
"The idols have seen lots of poverty,
Snakes and gold and lice,
But not the truth";
It was at that time, that the silence was largest
And longest, the night was roundest,
The fragments of the autumn warmest,
Closest and strongest.
I don't mean to say it's saying the same thing or is exactly the same, but something's there.
Truth. Word. Silence.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' . . . "the way and the truth and the life"
And then things get messy with God, the Supreme Fiction and a little bit of Faust and fin de siecle and everything I'm doing, reading, seeing gets stuck in this cat's cradle of thoughts. It's like that video game called Katamari Damacy, where that little Prince tries to collect material for a new sky and planets and stuff (which had all been destroyed somehow, maybe by a drunkard) with a magic ball he rolls around. Smaller objects, like little squares and erasers, stick to the ball making it grow and collect bigger stuff, like people and later, cities.
My blue bible is the magic object and life is uprooted, revealing ideas of reality and imagination, turning me back to everything.
.
That's kind of how I feel about Wallace Stevens right now. My mind's all jumbled about it, because everything connects, and everything is a lot of stuff to unpack. Here's the strings I've got from tonight:
I was reading some blogs and I stumbled on Lace's post and poem, which was incredible. I thought her titles for post and poem were perfect-- "no words to describe it" "silence," described by words. It's Beckett. Either “Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness" or “Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on." It's the words- the words are all we have. (Beckett might have said something like that too). To create illusions to create a "reality" to fill the void.
It connects to Jenny's blog "Stirrings," which discusses the link she sees between Stevens and Beckett. It connects to our discussion of God and the Bible-- It just occurred to me tonight that though we've been going through our blue bibles from the beginning onward, most of us are reading it like I've been taught to read the Christian Bible- sporadically. Walter was walking by the library counter tonight and asked what I was reading- I had flipped to "On the Road Home" two minutes earlier; and Walter was like, "We're already on Parts of a World?" and I said, "I think so, but I've just been skipping around." And I thought that's the Bible for you. It's something that speaks to you or has something to say whereever you land in it; because it's life, the Word. The words of Lace's blog. After Walter left, I looked down at that "On the Road Home" and it took me right into Lace's blog, which seemed to originate on her journey home.
The poem reads like this
On the Road Home
It was when I said,
"There is no such thing as the truth,"
That the grapes seemed fatter.
The fox ran out of his hole.
You. . . You said,
"There are many truths,
But they are not parts of a truth."
Then the tree, at night, began to change,
Smoking through green and smoking blue.
We were two figures in a wood.
We said we stood alone.
It was when I said,
"Words are not forms of a single word.
In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts.
The world must be measured by eye";
It was when you said,
"The idols have seen lots of poverty,
Snakes and gold and lice,
But not the truth";
It was at that time, that the silence was largest
And longest, the night was roundest,
The fragments of the autumn warmest,
Closest and strongest.
I don't mean to say it's saying the same thing or is exactly the same, but something's there.
Truth. Word. Silence.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.' . . . "the way and the truth and the life"
And then things get messy with God, the Supreme Fiction and a little bit of Faust and fin de siecle and everything I'm doing, reading, seeing gets stuck in this cat's cradle of thoughts. It's like that video game called Katamari Damacy, where that little Prince tries to collect material for a new sky and planets and stuff (which had all been destroyed somehow, maybe by a drunkard) with a magic ball he rolls around. Smaller objects, like little squares and erasers, stick to the ball making it grow and collect bigger stuff, like people and later, cities.
My blue bible is the magic object and life is uprooted, revealing ideas of reality and imagination, turning me back to everything.
.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Thinking
I've been reading Breanna's post- her poem "Flying Wings," which does cover a lot of what we talked about on Monday and Anne's notes on what we talked about: “...the final belief is to believe in a fiction which you know to be a fiction because there is nothing else.”
We need to give up illusions and replace them with fictions. I guess the difference would be knowing it's a fiction rather than being stuck in a fantasy you didn't create. This is an excerpt from Woyzeck. I posted this on Facebook, because I thought it was funny in the context of the translation I had, but also because it stirred something in me. I don't know what it is about it, but it seems to sit in that illusion/ fiction discussion. I just can't figure out which is the illusion and which is the fiction. Was it the world before or the nothing afterward?
I hope when we strip away illusions, they won't all be this depressing.
"Once upon a time there was a poor little girl. She had no father and no mother. EVERYTHING was dead. NO ONE was left--in the whole world. Everything. Dead. So the little girl went out and searched night and day, and since, on earth, there was no
We need to give up illusions and replace them with fictions. I guess the difference would be knowing it's a fiction rather than being stuck in a fantasy you didn't create. This is an excerpt from Woyzeck. I posted this on Facebook, because I thought it was funny in the context of the translation I had, but also because it stirred something in me. I don't know what it is about it, but it seems to sit in that illusion/ fiction discussion. I just can't figure out which is the illusion and which is the fiction. Was it the world before or the nothing afterward?
I hope when we strip away illusions, they won't all be this depressing.
"Once upon a time there was a poor little girl. She had no father and no mother. EVERYTHING was dead. NO ONE was left--in the whole world. Everything. Dead. So the little girl went out and searched night and day, and since, on earth, there was no
one left, she thought she'd take a trip into the sky. The moon seemed to be giving her a friendly look but, when she came to the moon, it turned out to be just a piece of rotten wood. So she went on to the sun, but when she got to the sun, it turned out to be just a withered sunflower, and when she went on to the stars, they turned out to be just small golden flies stuck to the firmament-- the way a shrike sticks flies to a thornbush all in a bunch. And when she tried to return to earth, she found the earth was now just a pot upside down. She was now REALLY alone, and she sat down and cried. She's still there. Sitting. Really alone."
Monday, September 24, 2012
Beards, Naturalism and a little Blue Guitar
"But play, you must,
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves"
So I'm hanging out at work at the library, talking with a co-worker, Scott, getting to know him better by creeping on photos with him on Facebook. We're helping patrons and then back on Facebook and then back to patrons and so on. For whatever reason, Scott has a few buddies studying in the library that day, and they keep stopping by too. Looking at those friends and then looking at Facebook, I realized Scott and his friends all had one thing in common: beards. Granted, some beards were more like scraggly patches here and there, but some had legitimate, bushy, mountain man beards. From that realization, we moved to the workplace, and we discovered that all the men closing the library that night either had a beard or was able to grow a nice Santa Claus kind of beard. We had a long conversation about this bearded discovery, when we decide it's time to do something more productive. I flip open Wallace Stevens and I read, "The Well Dressed Man with a Beard," because obviously it had to happen that way. I started laughing and I say, "Hey Scott- Wallace Stevens wrote a poem about you." And he says, "Of course, I'm awesome." And then more co-workers show up and ask, "Is it all about Scott? Is it like him?" and to answer that question, another English ed major, Michelle, reads the poem out loud for everyone, and the reaction is almost unanimous: ????? and "I guess not." My first thought was, "This has nothing to do with bearded men," but then immediately, "But then again, it probably has everything to do with them and us." Scott re-reads it and I re-read it and I don't know his thoughts, but the last line stuck out (for me) "it can never be satisfied, the mind, never."
After several readings of the poem, I got that modernist sense again of just trying to find "what will suffice." He's sliding thing in and out of view to find a world in which he can sleep and find rest. But then I was reading a paper by Ph.D. Justin Quinn about Nature and Ideology in Wallace Stevens-http://colloquium.upol.cz/coll00/quinn.htm It has an interesting look at the idea of landscapes and how Stevens's poetry dealt with reality of the time (something we saw in the TVA anecdote of the jar and in other poems we've unpacked). In it, Quinn discusses landscapes and the difference between Stevens and naturalist poets of his time, especially Robinson Jeffers. Jeffers' poetry dreamed of returning to a time where nature bloomed free from humanity's sordid touch. He can't wait until humans are wiped off the earth. Stevens's poetry contrasts greatly with this view, as his poems "sings the praises of the major man." He seems to criticize the idea of nature without man, because in order to write poetry or see nature as it is, man has to be an agent in the landscape.
"a thing supposed
In a place supposed, a thing that he reached
In a place that he reached, by rejecting what he saw
And denying what he heard"
Quinn applies that to Jeffers, saying his truth is a rejection of what is perceived- a kind of denial of the things as they are. With this idea in mind, Quinn looks as a "Well Dressed Man with a Beard," as Stevens saying "If" I looked at the world like these other nature poets, "If" I tried to create a nature or world the way I want by hiding the nature of things, I might be able to hold onto that beautiful landscape "out of a petty phrase, out of a thing believed." But then the mind would never find satisfaction. Reality and imagination are entwined together, and the things cannot be tucked away or hidden. Or at least, that's how I'm reading things.
Things as they are may not be what we'd like to see- the things we've imagined; but poetic imagination can simultaneously expose the truth, that seems beyond our grasp and keep things real. So poems like "The Well Dressed Man with a Beard" are songs "beyond us, yet ourselves."
Maybe.
A tune beyond us, yet ourselves"
So I'm hanging out at work at the library, talking with a co-worker, Scott, getting to know him better by creeping on photos with him on Facebook. We're helping patrons and then back on Facebook and then back to patrons and so on. For whatever reason, Scott has a few buddies studying in the library that day, and they keep stopping by too. Looking at those friends and then looking at Facebook, I realized Scott and his friends all had one thing in common: beards. Granted, some beards were more like scraggly patches here and there, but some had legitimate, bushy, mountain man beards. From that realization, we moved to the workplace, and we discovered that all the men closing the library that night either had a beard or was able to grow a nice Santa Claus kind of beard. We had a long conversation about this bearded discovery, when we decide it's time to do something more productive. I flip open Wallace Stevens and I read, "The Well Dressed Man with a Beard," because obviously it had to happen that way. I started laughing and I say, "Hey Scott- Wallace Stevens wrote a poem about you." And he says, "Of course, I'm awesome." And then more co-workers show up and ask, "Is it all about Scott? Is it like him?" and to answer that question, another English ed major, Michelle, reads the poem out loud for everyone, and the reaction is almost unanimous: ????? and "I guess not." My first thought was, "This has nothing to do with bearded men," but then immediately, "But then again, it probably has everything to do with them and us." Scott re-reads it and I re-read it and I don't know his thoughts, but the last line stuck out (for me) "it can never be satisfied, the mind, never."
After several readings of the poem, I got that modernist sense again of just trying to find "what will suffice." He's sliding thing in and out of view to find a world in which he can sleep and find rest. But then I was reading a paper by Ph.D. Justin Quinn about Nature and Ideology in Wallace Stevens-http://colloquium.upol.cz/coll00/quinn.htm It has an interesting look at the idea of landscapes and how Stevens's poetry dealt with reality of the time (something we saw in the TVA anecdote of the jar and in other poems we've unpacked). In it, Quinn discusses landscapes and the difference between Stevens and naturalist poets of his time, especially Robinson Jeffers. Jeffers' poetry dreamed of returning to a time where nature bloomed free from humanity's sordid touch. He can't wait until humans are wiped off the earth. Stevens's poetry contrasts greatly with this view, as his poems "sings the praises of the major man." He seems to criticize the idea of nature without man, because in order to write poetry or see nature as it is, man has to be an agent in the landscape.
"a thing supposed
In a place supposed, a thing that he reached
In a place that he reached, by rejecting what he saw
And denying what he heard"
Quinn applies that to Jeffers, saying his truth is a rejection of what is perceived- a kind of denial of the things as they are. With this idea in mind, Quinn looks as a "Well Dressed Man with a Beard," as Stevens saying "If" I looked at the world like these other nature poets, "If" I tried to create a nature or world the way I want by hiding the nature of things, I might be able to hold onto that beautiful landscape "out of a petty phrase, out of a thing believed." But then the mind would never find satisfaction. Reality and imagination are entwined together, and the things cannot be tucked away or hidden. Or at least, that's how I'm reading things.
Things as they are may not be what we'd like to see- the things we've imagined; but poetic imagination can simultaneously expose the truth, that seems beyond our grasp and keep things real. So poems like "The Well Dressed Man with a Beard" are songs "beyond us, yet ourselves."
Maybe.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Sudden Rightness
I'm slowly making my way through Critchley's Things Merely Are, and so far, I'm enjoying it. It's been helpful and frustrating to read that alongside Dusty's post "That Things Merely Are Not" to get a clearer idea of the philosophical argument surrounding Stevens. I'm not sure what I'm getting out of it all yet, but I have been thinking on the relationship between reality and imagination. Critchley says you can't have one without the other.
For Stevens (says Critchley), imagination is not imagination unless it has a basis in reality. Poetry/imagination transfigures the world from something oppressive to life. Without a base, imagination and poetry move away from "life with a ray of imagination and power," from elevated meaning into the realm of pure fantasy and fiction. The question/problem is what is reality? I don't really want to go there now, but I like how Stevens kind of talks about what is real in his poem- Of Modern Poetry.
"The poem of the mind in the act of finding
what will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words than in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightness, wholly
containing the mind, below which it cannot descent,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.
It must
Be the finding of satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
I love this poem. It is super modernist (from the title, it's obvious), talking about the way things were, the way things were whole and made sense, but how, now the world is in pieces and we have to figure out a "new stage" and find what satisfies us even if it that satisfaction is common or as fleeting as a sound passing by. It's searching for harmony (harmonium) in reality, snatches of it, anyway.
Critchley focuses a little on the "invisible audience," ideas that when we construct, through imagination/poetry, life, it has to correspond with the audience's sense of reality, but "real" is subject-dependent, "that which is, is only for the subject to whom it appears, even if what appears is real for us." I may be misinterpreting, but this idea that real is different for every person appeals to my thesis project of dyslexia, synaesthesia and the imagination. Synaesthetes in particular perceive reality in ways, which are real for them, but seem completely fanciful to us. I read a study, where a five year old girl wrote poetry about her morning. It was filled with imagery, which didn't make sense, but the teacher gave her kudos for being imaginative. The girl's response was confusion, because she simply wrote about what she had experienced. From Stevens' poem, I get the sense that as a poet, he must write and write about the things he perceives until he illuminates the aspect of its reality, which everyone understands and can be "satisfied with."
Then again, maybe not; but I'm intrigued to keep looking until I find that "sudden rightness" (or one of many sudden rightnesses), which will illuminate something new.
For Stevens (says Critchley), imagination is not imagination unless it has a basis in reality. Poetry/imagination transfigures the world from something oppressive to life. Without a base, imagination and poetry move away from "life with a ray of imagination and power," from elevated meaning into the realm of pure fantasy and fiction. The question/problem is what is reality? I don't really want to go there now, but I like how Stevens kind of talks about what is real in his poem- Of Modern Poetry.
"The poem of the mind in the act of finding
what will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words than in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightness, wholly
containing the mind, below which it cannot descent,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.
It must
Be the finding of satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
I love this poem. It is super modernist (from the title, it's obvious), talking about the way things were, the way things were whole and made sense, but how, now the world is in pieces and we have to figure out a "new stage" and find what satisfies us even if it that satisfaction is common or as fleeting as a sound passing by. It's searching for harmony (harmonium) in reality, snatches of it, anyway.
Critchley focuses a little on the "invisible audience," ideas that when we construct, through imagination/poetry, life, it has to correspond with the audience's sense of reality, but "real" is subject-dependent, "that which is, is only for the subject to whom it appears, even if what appears is real for us." I may be misinterpreting, but this idea that real is different for every person appeals to my thesis project of dyslexia, synaesthesia and the imagination. Synaesthetes in particular perceive reality in ways, which are real for them, but seem completely fanciful to us. I read a study, where a five year old girl wrote poetry about her morning. It was filled with imagery, which didn't make sense, but the teacher gave her kudos for being imaginative. The girl's response was confusion, because she simply wrote about what she had experienced. From Stevens' poem, I get the sense that as a poet, he must write and write about the things he perceives until he illuminates the aspect of its reality, which everyone understands and can be "satisfied with."
Then again, maybe not; but I'm intrigued to keep looking until I find that "sudden rightness" (or one of many sudden rightnesses), which will illuminate something new.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
A Postcard from the Volcano
The little boys and girls ran around the hilltop. Chasing, stumbling, Catching. Picking up souvenirs, treasures they found in the dirt. A cracked plastic ring, dull pennies, a broken chain, a button, a pen cap-- All left behind by other children before them, or the children before that or those before that. The little ones didn't know or care. They were too busy being the first explorers to sneak into the dark vineyards, tasting the sharp smell of the ripe grapes, blurring the footsteps of their predecessors, intoxicated with their bravery.
Every spring, they gathered by the tree by the old mansion, haunted by the man, who had died alone and angry (or so they say). In their daring, they would tell the story, the legend they always tell, because it has always been that way, of the creaking darkness, the gusts of spirits and dust rattling against the shuttered windows and the raggy tattered dirt of the place until the sky lightened when the giant behemoth blinked and yawned, shuddering in and out the Chinook in rattling gasps, a waking eyesore in the early dawn.
Every spring, they gathered by the tree by the old mansion, haunted by the man, who had died alone and angry (or so they say). In their daring, they would tell the story, the legend they always tell, because it has always been that way, of the creaking darkness, the gusts of spirits and dust rattling against the shuttered windows and the raggy tattered dirt of the place until the sky lightened when the giant behemoth blinked and yawned, shuddering in and out the Chinook in rattling gasps, a waking eyesore in the early dawn.
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