A Saint, A Sinner, & A Psychopomp

Where the moon rises in the daytime

And the sun shines at night.

Where the breeze can whisper secrets

& You can hopscotch across the sea,

Where you can find a quiet place to write,

Here, on the little Island of Me.

Here is a world that is standing on its head &

Laughing with its logic perched on a razor’s edge.

Here I find the characters

That turn the wheels of thought;

One is a saint,

One a sinner,

& One a psychopomp.

One is not a liar.

One always speaks the truth.

One knows there’s more to life,

Unlike the other two.

One bickers with another

& One bickers with none,

Because some days the one is three

& Some days the three is… I,

As in the Island of Me.

So some days I’m a blowtorch

Some days a wildfire;

Some days I burn myself

& It just makes me all the wiser.

Some days I’m feeling radiant.

Some days I’m feeling hollow.

Some days I get bent

While I’m waiting for tomorrow

Because I know some days are different

But some days are all the same

And I find this very funny yet also slightly strange

Because I never was a psychopomp, a sinner, or a saint

There was never such a bunch

& One was never three

I was always I

On the Island of Me

            

Response 3

The man with the Blue Guitar

Despite its incredible length, the man with the blue guitar was one of my favorite poems. It had an interesting narrative accompanied by a Picasso painting both of which I found inviting.  I also found structure in the repetition of “things as they are” and “blue guitar.” The length asks a lot to be invested of the reader and makes me wonder about the significance of having 33 verses. It’s almost like an epic yet song like as well. That being said I cant see the necessity for so many verses. Once some of the language begins to get confusing, such a long length seems daunting. However the poem does invite you to complete it with its aura of insight. It’s written in such a way that implies a lesson or metaphor awaits you in the end.

The Man with the Hoe

The Man with the Hoe seems to be written in a similar fashion to the man with the blue guitar, in, for example, the sense that it is lengthy and seeming insightful. However what I found to be a fatal difference is this: a man with a gardening tool is not nearly as alluring as a man with an instrument of notable coloring. Like two adjacent paintings in a gallery I view these two pieces in relation to each other because of their proximity and similarities. The language in this one also seems older or at least there seems to be a time difference between the two. I feel as though this piece is very descriptive but at times I can’t figure out what exactly is being described.

Cezanne’s Ports

Allen Ginsberg’s “Cezanne’s Ports” was definitely one of the most well done of the visual poems he writes about and directly described the painting but he used his words to call the viewer and the reader to look at both in a new way. It is also probably one of the shortest pieces that speaks directly about the painting. The image and insight are succinctly packaged within the language making it easily digestible. Without the painting, the poem seems to rely on insight but because the painting has such an importance, I see that the poem is actually a seamless blend of image insight and imagination. A literal image incites the imagination, which generates the insight about the metaphorical image implied by the literal one.

The Red Studio

The lines that finally grabbed me in The red studio poem were ”his own room drank him. /What else could generate this Terra cotta raging through the floor and walls” By describing it in this way, it removed the environment from the range of events I would deem normal or expected. As the poem goes on it speaks about the paintings flatness which on one of the elements of 20^th century painting. The language deliberately describes the physical space as alternative to everyday life. It talks about passing through the space and things not being real which is a visual effect resulting from flatness. The “real” objects in the room described are the ones that have been modeled to be more three dimensional, adhering more to rules of linear and atmospheric perspective; two structural elements of renaissance illusions of space.

American Gothic

The American Gothic poem was like an interesting little stream of consciousness. The tone and diction were of someone speculating about all the things possibly in the situation, but not depicted visually in the painting. The poem even starts with the phrase “Just outside the frame.” However, personally I’m really not into this particular painting; so the poem is interesting because it’s like I’m peering into the rambling mind of someone else looking at this painting who is perhaps also not so into it. The poem ends on a note that is darkly comic and in my own mind I imagine the ending of a little ditty that would’ve gone along with it to emphasize the morbid humor.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

Because Thirteen ways of looking at a black bird is in so many parts I am remind of the man with the blue guitar. However this poem is much shorter in the length of its stanzas as well as the number of parts it is in, making it easier to read through. The stanzas are however non sequential which sets it apart from man with the blue guitar and frees it from having a plot structure influence its length. This liberty was utilized by using such a symbolic number as a limitation. The visuals seemed arbitrary to the point where I would have overlooked them if their arbitrariness didn’t catch me. I wish the visuals interpreted the title in some metaphorical or engaging way as in thirteen ways of “looking”. Otherwise why have the pictures if they aren’t adding to or informing the text.

A Red Figured Cup of the Onesimos Painter

I almost wish he just didn’t if the text hadn’t added so much to the piece by limiting the interpretation to the point of being intentional.  The imagery is vivid almost too vivid. The imagination is addressed in its lack there of. It addresses a stark and taboo realism that act as a sort of historical allusion creating insight for the viewer and reader into an actualized situation. The language is almost grotesque but I can’t overlook the fact that the blend is well done.

Starlight

I wish

I were made of starlight

Barreling across the cosmos

I would graze the surface of earth

Like a flesh wound and

All the people in their big

Cities and fancy cars

Would finally move

Slowly like glacial fragments

Complimenting their

Arctic personalities and I would

Walk amongst them with a

Spectral presence like a shard of the sun

Refracted by the gaze of a few

Warm enough to notice me like

Déjà vu appearing twice

Within the same nanosecond

Before moving on.

Of Rained on Reason & Cloudy Eyes

Buildings wear fog

Like hats on their heads &

Each breath floats like
Ghosts in the cold

Crumpled expressions

On people who pass

That these street lamps
Unmask with their glow

Waterlogged traffic

Whines as it creeps

Along the sleek ribbon road &

The air has been steeped in

The grayest of grays; but

My, what a beautiful day.

Softly the dragging

On sagging eye lids

Edgeless and easy

The weightless mind is

Simple and sated and

Full and inflated with

Bliss

Blue Grass

The grass isn’t greener 

On the 

Other 

Side. 

It’s bluer 

Because 

You aren’t 

There 

Yet. 

Figurative Food

Once upon a time

My mind became a mashed potato

And I fell asleep in peanut butter

Only to dream of bacon bits

(The non-artificial kind)

And my greasy fingers failed to grasp

The passing powdered donut

That rolled on in a rather relaxed manner

Only to disappear behind the oxtail soup,

Which wafted the delicious odor of onions

Through the

Abnormally arbitrary airspace

Where adverbs and adjectives

Had use and meaning

and relevance and reason.

So I found myself using words
Like volant and volubly

Until the overproduction

Of thoughts

Distilled a decadent mental vodka

Which I poured out of my
eye sockets
into shot glasses for myself

and the powdered donut which

I had intended to find and befriend

For further adventures in this

Autonomous airspace

Poetry response dump 2

Unfortunately I feel the same way about X.J. Kennedy’s piece as I do about Hirsch’s. Except this time its worse. The piece is much shorter but also much more convoluted. The words are so roundabout that the image offers a restful alternative. And unlike the previous poem, there is no obvious insight about the painter and his relation. It is purely imagistic which almost seems like a redundancy when there is an actual image not two inches from the words. The immediate context is too much a competitor for the poem because after reading it a second time while covering the image, I find it quite nice. The title alone is enough to provide the context.

My favorite part about Robert Kelly’s Love Songs was the way he expressed a penchant for the ordinary. I find the counterintuitive nature of it to be appealing. The ordinary is overlooked, but Kelly calls us to revisit and even rediscover that which we take for granted. I could have done without the first two lines though. Not knowing at first what grunions are, I read on to find the poem open to interpretation. However after looking this word up the poem dulled ever so slightly and I moved on to “Love Song 2.” I didn’t like it as much as the first sans the grunions, but it was the same idea expressed in a more familiar way; more easily identifiable.

I’m at a loss for Wallace Stevens’ poem. I have no idea what its about and find nothing particularly interesting about it save the tigers and baboons. The accompanying video, although I do not like supplemental stimuli in addition to poetry, does shed some light on it, suggesting the piece is about dreaming. However this is only a suggestion and a slight one at that. Because even if this were the case that would lead me to assume that the title is implying disappointment that people are all the same in their dreams and only this one old drunk guy has interesting dreams or ideas about his head. I don’t feel like them poem stands on its own.

I feel like I should apologize to Mr. Williams, as I lost interest after the first line. His poem offered nothing the painting did not already have. It seemed more like a literary exercise for himself than an actual poem. I wish he had given his own parable of the blind for us readers to take something new from. The poem directly references the painting more so that the other poems and without the painting there you don’t know what he’s talking about but tragically with the painting there, you have no use for the poem. All his words have already been composed into brush strokes. I would normally expect words to overpower an image but this case is the opposite.

The thing that struck me first about “Ghost in the Land of Skeletons” was that it had structure like prose yet was wholly poetic. Although its imagery was not too enticing, the insight and train of thought were beautiful. I am immediately grabbed by the description in the first phrase; “flesh’s pretty paint.” It lends itself to the other ideas in the poem making it seem as if bones are what make us human and the skin is like a vinyl decal. Through the middle of the poem, we stroll through the poet’s thoughts as he leads us to a conclusion that is truly like a punch line. Not so much in that it’s almost like a dark joke but more in the sense that it really has an impact and leaves an impression

Poetry response dump 1

For me, “Jungle” was a “last line poem;” its significance and weight are hinged upon the last line, “A jungle has not heart. The core of it is to be more.” I found the preceding lines a bit confusing in their syntax and spacing. I wasn’t sure how it was supposed to be read or supposed to sound. Perhaps it was to convey the chaotic environment of a jungle, but I think the image could have been simpler or pertained more to the last line. The last line however really resonated with me. It had a very distinct image and feeling about it, likening a jungle to a sort of biological vacuum that consumes its surroundings in order to grow.

The explanation accompanying The Cuban Doctor really helped my understanding of it making it more insightful. I found the mixture and comparison of cultures interesting. The title is ambiguous and the explanation at the bottom does little to elucidate however I suspect the title is the key to understanding the poem. I think the “Cuban doctor” is referring to shaman who induces a spiritual journey resulting in the imagery and insight of the poem itself. The trip opens his mind to the analysis of these concepts and comparison on a poetic platform

Naked girl with a mirror

This poem was one of the most beautiful ones so far. The descriptions in the first stanza grabbed me immediately only to build upon my initial amazement. As it unraveled the insight of the poem really spoke to me. For me, it referenced a few concepts that I myself have been contemplating, such as the separation of or distinction between the body and soul. The variation of emotions within the poem gave it an almost musical quality, between joy and bewilderment, a retrospect on simplicity and a prospect of sadness. The author truly expresses a facet of the human condition

This poem felt pretty anticlimactic. The list structure was a good build up, but there was no release and perhaps it was intended through the wording of its conclusion, but it failed to leave me with a lasting impression. The description of the hand in all its parts was vivid and made me want to look at my own hands in a new way, but which way? The poem failed to strike me with an insight or even entice me towards one. Instead I would like to have seen this poem as pure image. A poem about all the different ways to look at hands rather than the list of what a hand is not leading up to nothing in particular.

I think it would’ve been interesting to read “Edward Hopper and The House by The Railroad” without a visual. I can’t imagine all the other people who happened to read this poem having such a specific and immediate context for it. It’s a bit dampening to the strength of the poem. The visual acts as competition and the poet’s words become arguable. It is unfortunate because the narrative of the poem is quite interesting. It depicts a colorful interpretation of not only the specific elements of the painting, but the painting itself and its relationship to the painter as well. Yet the poem seems lengthy next to the accompanying picture. If all this text is about this picture, why would I want to read all that? Why wouldn’t I just look at the picture and take from it what I will? But alas it is the words I am responding to not the picture.

Spontaneous Combustion

As if I were made

Of cotton fiber flesh

And blood like kerosene,

With Sulfuric skin cells

And phosphorous fingertips

I might explode at any moment.

Comfortably combustible,

I’m a calm collected casualty,

A meandering mishap

With tragic topography.

Friction finds me frequently

And I detonate on cue

Reduced to ashes in a flash

Only to be born anew.

Recurring like a sunset &

Still frighteningly flammable

Looking for a friction fix

To be again intangible.

I’d fight a phoenix for its flame

Then steal its symbolism

And wear it on my chest to

Cauterize my cynicism &

Rise up like the dawn

Freshly bright in bloom

Eternally ascending to

The advent of afternoon

Definitions

Definitions
by logic are boxes &

Ingestion
may prove to be toxic so

Please make your proceedings with caution.

The eardrums beat words
through due process &

The system may make a synopsis but

This knowledge
Is just theory in progress.

Samsara

A fool, a philistine

And a marionette

Tied together with tension twine

Bent nerve endings

Welded and mended

Structural function

Composite contentment

Spur the sentient chordophones

Strung up and cobbled

With chromosomes

Dining out on dopamine

These fancy little figurines

Who dance with dice

The size of life &

Pave their ways with

Broken things

Found poem

Flores?

Flores.

Eu gosto de flores.

I’d be lost

Without my friends

Especially the ones

I’ve never met.

Wavelength like string

Sanctuary on the edge

My brain does not

Feel feebler these days

immediate haiku

Crisp red Flower sails

Past noontide moon’s reflection

Rippling smooth surface

Incense Haiku

Shadow of smoke plumes

That Crawl along the walls like

Fragrant midday ghosts

Untitled(freedom...)

Freedom is a fire on

My fingertips at night,

By day a distant dancer

On the peripheries of sight;

But when the evening comes,

She turns into a flame,

Burning up my irises

Beckoning my gaze.

And this I gladly give,

This little I can do,

For the fire is impalpable

& Her dance is but a ruse.

Yet wittingly, willfully,

I foolishly look on,

With the hope of slipping through

My soft synaptic bonds

Before I waste away

To a raisin of a soul &

My blood becomes stardust &

My heart reverts to coal.

Shearing Time

How curious that each note

Is a drop of codeine.

As if by some accident

Of time

Or tragedy

Of spirit,

The brain on a bed

Of ruffled nerves,

Seemingly comatose,

Sips sweetly

On intravenous melodies.

≥ I ≤

It’s like this book I’m reading,

Where when I stop I mark my place.

I don’t know how long I will be

Before it is finished,

But there are only so many pages.

I’ll get there eventually, but this place

Is charged with electric excitement.

I am surrounded by complex and colorful personas

Shrouded in ethereal soliloquy

The air is shifting in measureless phrases

Molecules shaking like sound waves

To metaphysical music

This place I’ve marked

Is a deep indigo

Enigmatic and oceanic

Light comes to roost in places it shouldn’t

Things become real and lose their meaning

Replaced with nonessentials

Imagination faces a limitation

And waits for you on the other side of it

This place I’ve marked

Is where I lose.

My form, my mind, and my sense of self

The illusion of the individual

Thaws and trickles away

Ceasing to be the person I was

To become the people around me

Poking peepholes in their walls

Of flesh and blood and skin and bones

I look in and see

They too are reading books

Marking their places.

And flipping through the remainder

Of my own pages I find

I’ve already read this story

Poetry Response 1

 Poetry Response 1

The Red Dress by Kim Addonizio

My favorite aspect of this poem is what it talks about but doesn’t say. When I read this poem, the narrator’s red dress is her persona. She wants the perfect persona to address the world in. There isn’t anything special about the dress itself, it’s what the dress does to her, how she wears it. The dress empowers her through the world, yet the outside world has no power over her. She walks past all the working class people at their blue-collar jobs because she can have anything she wants and hasn’t a care about anything else, all thanks to her red dress.

The Street Stephen Dobyns

What strikes me about “The Street” by Stephen Dobyns is the imagery. As soon as the poem begins, Dobyns starts in describing the scene. His descriptions are very real and seemingly exact yet I happened to find them simultaneously dull and strange. Usually, strange would mean interesting but Dobyns seems to have painted a dull world then placed characters in it doing thing that are either abnormal or described unusually. Or perhaps the world is not so dull but the tone. Regardless of what exactly it is, the poem, despite the unusual events taking place, the poem feels boring up until the last two stanzas in which all the preceding stanzas are strung together and the poem takes on a whole new life. Up until that point, it feels as if we exist in the black space, watching these twinkling stars like passing lights. However once we reach the end, we see the black space and the stars as a whole with all the parts woven together in a midnight tapestry. Without the last two stanzas, I would have missed the beauty of this poem. Which is to say I would be missing out on the beauty of life if I neglected to see how I fit in to everything else happening around me.