Is there Only Forward?
Amanda Zalud
Maybe they’d told the Neighborhood I was dead.
It’s an odd kind of relationship,
but then
what isn’t?
“You’re fine.”
Your journey will be free,
with no cash or credit transaction involved.
Let me put it this way.
There was still nothing to see,
But I knew it was coming.
Whoever
was on the other end
clearly didn’t know how I felt,
wasn’t empathizing very well.
But have I got a life?
I have hidden depths.
I can look like a person who belongs.
That’s not what the feeling had been about.
I told you
things would start happening.
After all,
I had known about it
beforehand.
There was no other way.
Discussion: To create my poem, I took the title of my favorite book, Only Forward by Michael Marshall Smith, and assigned a number value to each of the letters that constitute the title. I started with A equaling one and moved down the line in order. The title then became 15 14 12 25 etc. If a letter repeated, I doubled the initial value (ex: the second O became 30). The goal was that no two numbers were the same. If two numbers were the same, I took the second number and added the initial value until the result was a new number (ex: if there had been a third O, I would have added another 15 to 30 to get 45). Each number then became a page number in the book. I would turn to that page, close my eyes, and put my finger on a spot. I could either use that sentence, the sentence above it, or the sentence below it. If all three options had something specifically to do with the characters or places within the novel, I allowed one more sentence in either direction until a sentence could be found without specific references to the novel. I also added three “wild pages” (one to the beginning, one between the two title words, and one at the end). For the wild pages, I would simply open the book to wherever and perform the same procedure as with the number value pages. In this manner I collected all of the lines that created my poem. I only changed two words within the poem to make the lines more universal. I also played with the spacing and arrangement on the page (although all of the lines are in the order I picked them from the book) to try to achieve different meanings within the lines themselves.
This poem challenges the mainstream conception of poetry in a number of ways. Traditionally, a poem is entirely the work of the poet’s and the poem conforms to some structure to convey the message behind the work. First off, the poem has no rhyme or meter. There also is no structure within the poem. Instead, the poem relies on form, shape, space, and content to evoke emotion in the reader. Each reader will approach the reading differently due to the breaks present between lines and the words affected. The work also challenges the mainstream in that it is not entirely my original work. I borrowed all of the lines from a piece of literature and decided how to arrange them on the page to best suit the emotions I feel while reading the lines together.
Personally, I feel that my poem falls short of stickin’ it to the man. In my personal view, there is not much that can be proved with a poem that is not entirely the poet’s. Because of this, I would feel uncomfortable declaring the poem as entirely mine, and consequently I have a hard time believing that I am breaking down any barriers.
I also disagree with the concept that the more abstract a work is, the more feeling/emotion/meaning can be pulled from the work. Call me old fashioned, but I believe in a poem being as artistic as the poet can be, but without being pseudo philosophical and so abstract even the poet forgets the original meaning. Since I had no original intent behind my poem, I feel like the poem is a little emptier than a poem that I would have labored over from scratch. The reader can find their own meaning behind their readings, but, without my original intent, I feel like the poem is just naked.
Overall, I feel like the poem is not a bad poem. If I were reading it, I would find it more accessible than most experimental poetry and that would make me more inclined to read into the poem and try to interpret it. I think that my poem might succeed in being a transition from more traditional poetry to experimental poetry, but I also feel like it could stand alone and be its own thing.
Fin.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Modeling Poem #2
“Long Walk Home”
Amanda Zalud
Hey Mom
It’s me
It’s 3:10 on a Wednesday
And I’m walking back
And the weather hates me.
Well, not just me.
The weather hates everyone.
But it’s October
And if I were October
I’d hate everyone too.
And it’s cold.
And I’m sweating.
Which is weird.
And it makes my coat useless
Because it’s supposed to keep
Moisture out, not in.
And some girl walks by in a sweatshirt
And some other girl with a cigarette
Smoker tells sweater to put on a coat—
She’ll get sick.
I want to tell smoker to put out her cigarette—
She’ll die.
But I keep walking.
And I suppose I’m really calling
To hear you tell me that you love me
Because I’m an adult
And things haven’t been going how I imagined
And at the end of the day
The only one you still have is your mom.
Hello, you’ve reached…
I guess you’re busy.
I wish you answered.
Discussion:
My poem is styled in the manner of Frank O’Hara. Like with my last modeling poem, I tried to take various elements of O’Hara’s poetry to try to create a poem that echoes his work, but does not completely copy it. As with before, I feel this method more closely resembles what the contemporary poets we are studying have done.
As we discussed in class, O’Hara once described poems as little phone calls. “Long Walk Home” takes this idea and is literally a phone call to the persona’s mother while walking “back” (line 4). The phone call is casual and what a reader might expect a bored phone call to your mom to be like. The poem maintains this casual tone until the end of the poem when the reader discovers that the conversation they thought was taking place with the persona’s mom, is actually taking place in the persona’s head as the persona waits for the mom to answer.
By starting the poem with an offhand, casual conversation, the poem’s mood switch at the end of the poem becomes a little more pronounced. The persona does not start the poem by stating depression, nor do they state it after the switch in tone occurs. However, it is because this switch occurs so subtly that the switch is noticed. O’Hara does something similar in “The Day Lady Died.” O’Hara’s poem starts offhand and casual, telling the reader about his average day. However, when O’Hara sees that Billie Holiday died, the tone of the poem shifts from casual tone to a bit more meaningful of a tone as O’Hara contemplates the death of the jazz singer. In “Long Walk Home,” the tone change is due to a combination of the persona admitting the real reason for the phone call and that the persona’s mother does not answer the phone call. While not as sobering for the reader as a death, the depression present should still be relatable as a negative force within the persona’s life.
I also tried to recreate the flowing, almost stream of consciousness story that I feel like O’Hara definitely creates in his lunch poems. To try and achieve this, the persona talks about what is happening around them as they walk on the phone. The events are spilling out from the persona as the events are occurring, which gives a bit of a flowing feel to the walk. While the persona is walking, we are walking with the persona and seeing everything that the persona is. Sometimes the topic seems a bit random and a little rushed, but because that is the case, we as readers are better able to relate to the walk and imagine the walk actively happening. O’Hara employs this technique in “Poem,” “A Step Away from Them,” and “The Day Lady Died.”
O’Hara does not seem to rely on a rhyme scheme, so I tried (and succeeded) to stay away from rhyming at all within the poem. In place of rhyming, O’Hara creates a flowing stream of words. As previously stated, I attempted to recreate this flow in “Long Walk Home,” but with varying results.
While the finished product was rough, I felt like “Long Walk Home” could be considered in the style of O’Hara for all of the little nuances that make O’Hara’s poetry enjoyable.
Fin.
Amanda Zalud
Hey Mom
It’s me
It’s 3:10 on a Wednesday
And I’m walking back
And the weather hates me.
Well, not just me.
The weather hates everyone.
But it’s October
And if I were October
I’d hate everyone too.
And it’s cold.
And I’m sweating.
Which is weird.
And it makes my coat useless
Because it’s supposed to keep
Moisture out, not in.
And some girl walks by in a sweatshirt
And some other girl with a cigarette
Smoker tells sweater to put on a coat—
She’ll get sick.
I want to tell smoker to put out her cigarette—
She’ll die.
But I keep walking.
And I suppose I’m really calling
To hear you tell me that you love me
Because I’m an adult
And things haven’t been going how I imagined
And at the end of the day
The only one you still have is your mom.
Hello, you’ve reached…
I guess you’re busy.
I wish you answered.
Discussion:
My poem is styled in the manner of Frank O’Hara. Like with my last modeling poem, I tried to take various elements of O’Hara’s poetry to try to create a poem that echoes his work, but does not completely copy it. As with before, I feel this method more closely resembles what the contemporary poets we are studying have done.
As we discussed in class, O’Hara once described poems as little phone calls. “Long Walk Home” takes this idea and is literally a phone call to the persona’s mother while walking “back” (line 4). The phone call is casual and what a reader might expect a bored phone call to your mom to be like. The poem maintains this casual tone until the end of the poem when the reader discovers that the conversation they thought was taking place with the persona’s mom, is actually taking place in the persona’s head as the persona waits for the mom to answer.
By starting the poem with an offhand, casual conversation, the poem’s mood switch at the end of the poem becomes a little more pronounced. The persona does not start the poem by stating depression, nor do they state it after the switch in tone occurs. However, it is because this switch occurs so subtly that the switch is noticed. O’Hara does something similar in “The Day Lady Died.” O’Hara’s poem starts offhand and casual, telling the reader about his average day. However, when O’Hara sees that Billie Holiday died, the tone of the poem shifts from casual tone to a bit more meaningful of a tone as O’Hara contemplates the death of the jazz singer. In “Long Walk Home,” the tone change is due to a combination of the persona admitting the real reason for the phone call and that the persona’s mother does not answer the phone call. While not as sobering for the reader as a death, the depression present should still be relatable as a negative force within the persona’s life.
I also tried to recreate the flowing, almost stream of consciousness story that I feel like O’Hara definitely creates in his lunch poems. To try and achieve this, the persona talks about what is happening around them as they walk on the phone. The events are spilling out from the persona as the events are occurring, which gives a bit of a flowing feel to the walk. While the persona is walking, we are walking with the persona and seeing everything that the persona is. Sometimes the topic seems a bit random and a little rushed, but because that is the case, we as readers are better able to relate to the walk and imagine the walk actively happening. O’Hara employs this technique in “Poem,” “A Step Away from Them,” and “The Day Lady Died.”
O’Hara does not seem to rely on a rhyme scheme, so I tried (and succeeded) to stay away from rhyming at all within the poem. In place of rhyming, O’Hara creates a flowing stream of words. As previously stated, I attempted to recreate this flow in “Long Walk Home,” but with varying results.
While the finished product was rough, I felt like “Long Walk Home” could be considered in the style of O’Hara for all of the little nuances that make O’Hara’s poetry enjoyable.
Fin.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Oct 20 - 26:
Since I’m never sure the best way to broach my thoughts with the studio audience, my blog this week will be praising Frank O’Hara and his wonderful work.
To kick this blog off right, let me start by saying that I really enjoyed O’Hara’s casual tone present in all his work that we read. The pseudo joke was made in class that everyone that met O’Hara thought that they were his best friend (and they were). Reading O’Hara’s poetry made me feel like I was casually chatting with a really good friend that I hadn’t seen in forever. I liked how some O’Hara poems were almost stream of consciousness (which is definitely how some of my friends talk with me), and I really enjoyed how, in others, O’Hara seemed to be answering the questions, ‘Oh, how did your day go? What did you do?’ To risk sounding slightly cliché, O’Hara’s poems really could just be a casual phone call because you were bored, he was bored, why the heck not?
Along those same lines, I enjoyed that O’Hara’s subject matter was generally light-hearted and things I could go through in a day. It helped me to better imagine the content of his poems to be like, ‘oh... I sometimes do/see others do those actions, too!’ As someone who likes to be able to relate to poetry (and does NOT dig the really obscure/”deep”/whatever poetry), O’Hara’s ‘Hey, I’m an average guy, hangin’ out’ style appealed to me.
In particular I enjoyed the content of “Why I Am Not a Painter.” In addition to the slightly humorous story, I felt like the poem related some images of life. I know that last part of the statement sounds like, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, Amanda, way to pull out some more standard clichés...’ However, after I finished reading “Why I Am Not a Painter,” I thought, ‘Yeah... Isn’t that the way it goes... You start with this really amazing concept, and then, in the end, your finished product has little to nothing to do with your original idea...’ I also felt like the idea that each person feels like the grass is always greener on the other side was present in how O’Hara says that he’d “rather be/ a painter, but [he] is not” (lines 2-3). Both concepts were concepts that I thought even Joe I-don’t-like-poetry-but-have-to-read-it-for-this-class Schmoe could appreciate and respect.
“The Day Lady Died” appealed to me in how O’Hara makes an average day for him a eulogy for Billie Holiday. People (sometimes famous) die everyday. However, I never think to myself, ‘Self... I should write a poem about my average day to convey my feelings concerning the death...’ I can’t help but step back and admire O’Hara’s poem for doing just that. At first, the poem is really, okay, this is what I did today, and I was like, come on... thought someone was dying! This doesn’t seem that sad at all! O’Hara is only setting up for the, ‘And you thought the day was going so well...’ that happens to all of us at least once in our lives. By going through what he was doing that day, O’Hara manages to better convey his depression over the death than if he had merely said, “One of my favorite jazz singers died... I’m kind of upset by that...”
Such is the beauty of Frank O'Hara.
Fin.
To kick this blog off right, let me start by saying that I really enjoyed O’Hara’s casual tone present in all his work that we read. The pseudo joke was made in class that everyone that met O’Hara thought that they were his best friend (and they were). Reading O’Hara’s poetry made me feel like I was casually chatting with a really good friend that I hadn’t seen in forever. I liked how some O’Hara poems were almost stream of consciousness (which is definitely how some of my friends talk with me), and I really enjoyed how, in others, O’Hara seemed to be answering the questions, ‘Oh, how did your day go? What did you do?’ To risk sounding slightly cliché, O’Hara’s poems really could just be a casual phone call because you were bored, he was bored, why the heck not?
Along those same lines, I enjoyed that O’Hara’s subject matter was generally light-hearted and things I could go through in a day. It helped me to better imagine the content of his poems to be like, ‘oh... I sometimes do/see others do those actions, too!’ As someone who likes to be able to relate to poetry (and does NOT dig the really obscure/”deep”/whatever poetry), O’Hara’s ‘Hey, I’m an average guy, hangin’ out’ style appealed to me.
In particular I enjoyed the content of “Why I Am Not a Painter.” In addition to the slightly humorous story, I felt like the poem related some images of life. I know that last part of the statement sounds like, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, Amanda, way to pull out some more standard clichés...’ However, after I finished reading “Why I Am Not a Painter,” I thought, ‘Yeah... Isn’t that the way it goes... You start with this really amazing concept, and then, in the end, your finished product has little to nothing to do with your original idea...’ I also felt like the idea that each person feels like the grass is always greener on the other side was present in how O’Hara says that he’d “rather be/ a painter, but [he] is not” (lines 2-3). Both concepts were concepts that I thought even Joe I-don’t-like-poetry-but-have-to-read-it-for-this-class Schmoe could appreciate and respect.
“The Day Lady Died” appealed to me in how O’Hara makes an average day for him a eulogy for Billie Holiday. People (sometimes famous) die everyday. However, I never think to myself, ‘Self... I should write a poem about my average day to convey my feelings concerning the death...’ I can’t help but step back and admire O’Hara’s poem for doing just that. At first, the poem is really, okay, this is what I did today, and I was like, come on... thought someone was dying! This doesn’t seem that sad at all! O’Hara is only setting up for the, ‘And you thought the day was going so well...’ that happens to all of us at least once in our lives. By going through what he was doing that day, O’Hara manages to better convey his depression over the death than if he had merely said, “One of my favorite jazz singers died... I’m kind of upset by that...”
Such is the beauty of Frank O'Hara.
Fin.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Oct 6 - 12: Bruce Covey
Sorry guys, no pun of a title this week. I really enjoyed Bruce Covey and felt like I’d be something a punk to make a pun out of his name. I’m also going to start by warning the reader that I slightly feel like I keep repeating myself concerning how much I enjoyed Bruce’s performances. I apologize in advance.
So, to start off very stereotypically, I was surprised when I first met Bruce. Lee (I apologize if that’s too familiar of an address!!) brought Bruce into my place of employment for lunch and introduced me to Bruce. He was very polite and soft spoken. From his picture on the posters, I definitely imagined him behaving differently (don’t ask—it’s a me thing that’s hard to explain). Normally I’m somewhat apprehensive about guest presenters. It seems like, without fail, the presentation is very dry or the presenter doesn’t quite get what’s going on or a million other things that make me go, ‘oh… guest presenter… *sigh*’ However, Bruce was very approachable and that made me feel a whole lot better about the class period ahead.
In class, I thought Bruce did a wonderful job reading. He grabbed and kept my attention throughout the entire period—which is something that rarely happens during guest presentations. It did throw me off a bit when he opened the class period up with a round of questions, but after thinking that over, I decided it was probably for the best. Starting with questions allowed us to connect with Bruce and allowed Bruce to show that he is quite knowledgeable concerning contemporary poetry before he got into his readings.
I also really liked that he read some of the works of the more influential poets in his life. It gave me as an audience member a chance to spring board off a very similar place to what Bruce did to write his poetry. In my humble opinion, a similar starting point ALWAYS helps for understanding a work in new ways.
Bruce’s performance itself was also very enjoyable. Unfortunately I had to leave early for my next class, but what I saw was definitely worth going to see. I pity the poor fools that thought about going, but decided to do something else instead. They missed out on an excellent presention.
My favorite poem of his was the one where the persona was in the restaurant setting similar to Carnival (I forget what his term was exactly). To me, the story line was very relatable and slightly humorous. My favorite part was of this poem was where the persona talked about having various beverages to share… well, maybe not so much since the persona didn’t like them, but hey, the date could drink them since the date liked them! In general, I just enjoyed the concept of even writing with such a setting. It was a setting that definitely would not have occurred to me.
A very close second favorite was his poem (I *believe* the title is correct, but I’m not entirely certain) “Odds.” I felt like it was an interesting concept for a piece of poetry. The poem also had some very sobering items in the list juxtaposed with some very entertaining items.
To conclude my entry, I again apologize to the reader for sounding slightly redundant and not being very entertaining. It’s always more enjoyable for the general populous to read a rant, I’ve found, but I felt the need to share what a great presenter I felt Bruce Covey was. I genuinely had no complaints, save that he couldn’t present longer.
Fin.
So, to start off very stereotypically, I was surprised when I first met Bruce. Lee (I apologize if that’s too familiar of an address!!) brought Bruce into my place of employment for lunch and introduced me to Bruce. He was very polite and soft spoken. From his picture on the posters, I definitely imagined him behaving differently (don’t ask—it’s a me thing that’s hard to explain). Normally I’m somewhat apprehensive about guest presenters. It seems like, without fail, the presentation is very dry or the presenter doesn’t quite get what’s going on or a million other things that make me go, ‘oh… guest presenter… *sigh*’ However, Bruce was very approachable and that made me feel a whole lot better about the class period ahead.
In class, I thought Bruce did a wonderful job reading. He grabbed and kept my attention throughout the entire period—which is something that rarely happens during guest presentations. It did throw me off a bit when he opened the class period up with a round of questions, but after thinking that over, I decided it was probably for the best. Starting with questions allowed us to connect with Bruce and allowed Bruce to show that he is quite knowledgeable concerning contemporary poetry before he got into his readings.
I also really liked that he read some of the works of the more influential poets in his life. It gave me as an audience member a chance to spring board off a very similar place to what Bruce did to write his poetry. In my humble opinion, a similar starting point ALWAYS helps for understanding a work in new ways.
Bruce’s performance itself was also very enjoyable. Unfortunately I had to leave early for my next class, but what I saw was definitely worth going to see. I pity the poor fools that thought about going, but decided to do something else instead. They missed out on an excellent presention.
My favorite poem of his was the one where the persona was in the restaurant setting similar to Carnival (I forget what his term was exactly). To me, the story line was very relatable and slightly humorous. My favorite part was of this poem was where the persona talked about having various beverages to share… well, maybe not so much since the persona didn’t like them, but hey, the date could drink them since the date liked them! In general, I just enjoyed the concept of even writing with such a setting. It was a setting that definitely would not have occurred to me.
A very close second favorite was his poem (I *believe* the title is correct, but I’m not entirely certain) “Odds.” I felt like it was an interesting concept for a piece of poetry. The poem also had some very sobering items in the list juxtaposed with some very entertaining items.
To conclude my entry, I again apologize to the reader for sounding slightly redundant and not being very entertaining. It’s always more enjoyable for the general populous to read a rant, I’ve found, but I felt the need to share what a great presenter I felt Bruce Covey was. I genuinely had no complaints, save that he couldn’t present longer.
Fin.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Breakfast of Champions - Modelling Poem #1
“Breakfast of Champions”
Amanda Zalud
You blew it
You bastard
You blew it,
We’re through.
Because you
Were too blind to see
That I was perfect for you
And you for me.
That when we met,
We ceased to exist
independently
And began to exist
symbiotically,
Starting something new.
For better or worse
Through life till the hearse,
That’s how we
Were supposed to be.
You and me
Eternally
Intertwined.
But no.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
“But you just have to go.”
From that point on
No longer to show
Any intimacy
Or affection.
Good guys wear white.
So why did you
Come with the promise of white?
Why did you
Say that all would be right?
Why didn’t you
Come with a disclaimer
That all would go black
And that I couldn’t go back
Once I let you into my life?
I love you.
I cared for you.
I gave you
Everything that was good in me.
So that when you
Left, you
Took me too
And left me
Nothing but
What was terrible
In you.
And now I exist
As a broken thermos might
Whole on the outside,
Shattered on the inside,
And terribly,
Woefully,
Unable to retain warmth
From the inside.
And when I look into the mirror
I see a plaster cast,
Dear,
That I’ve been working on
Just for you
So that maybe you’ll
Love me
Just like you used to do.
Love me, love me, love me.
I can’t make you,
Can I?
You’d tell me if I could,
Wouldn’t you?
And everywhere I go
You’re there too.
In the faces of all the boys
And I
In all the girls.
And I wear headphones to
Ignore life and
Block images of you
As best as I can.
And all the while
My left earbud
snap, crackle, pops
Rice crispies
And tries
To sing once more…
But I twist it.
Snap it.
Kill it.
Because something had to die.
But not you, my dear.
Not I.
We’re too twisted.
Too mangled.
Too broken
Up in each other
To pass without the other.
Pain is only temporary.
Losing a limb
Can’t hurt forever…
So why should losing you?
Discussion:
My poem was modeled after the work of Sylvia Plath. I did not model my poem after a particular work of Plath’s. Rather, I took Plath’s work on the whole and tried to incorporate elements and themes common throughout Plath’s works. I felt that in this way I was able to emulate Plath, but while staying true to my own form; this is something that I feel like Plath was doing with her own work and also something I feel like adds to my model to make it more like Plath.
The rhyme scheme is erratic throughout “Breakfast of Champions.” I could not nail down a rhyme scheme specific to Plath or one that she seemed to favor on the whole, so I tried not to subscribe to a regular rhyme scheme. Instead, I used random end rhymes, near rhymes, assonance, consonance, and repetition scattered throughout the entire piece.
Along those same lines, I tried not to use a constant line length either. In “Lady Lazarus,” for example, Plath’s lines vary greatly from stanza to stanza. Plath does not seem to have a set line length that she favors on the whole. However, I did try to use a fairly similar line length for the poem at large. This is something I noticed she did in poems like “The Arrival of the Bee Box” and “In Plaster.”
A symbolic theme common to Plath that I incorporated is the act of shedding selves. In the poem, the male figure offers the persona a way to drop masks and find a true self. When this does not come to fruition, the persona turns to object symbolism in a mirror. The persona recognizes a mask (the “plaster cast”) when looking into the mirror, but tries to convince herself that by donning this false self she will eventually find happiness. The persona, in essence, builds herself a new mask to replace the one torn away by the male interlocutor.
By building herself a new mask, the persona also touches on Plath’s theme of fragmentation of self and the reunification of self. At the beginning of the poem, we are subject to the persona’s anger and her seemingly erratic outbursts, but by the end the persona has become something new. She is still angry, but she is more of a unified front against the male figure of the poem.
I incorporated both white and black using Plath’s color symbolism. White is used as symbolism for purity, escape, and shedding masks. White symbolism in my poem was what the persona desired and the male interlocutor promised, but, in the end, the male interlocutor could not provide the persona with white. Black is used in my poem is used to describe the male interlocutor, which complies with Plath’s symbolism in that black is a male color. Black also serves to symbolize the void after the promise of white was not fulfilled.
The male figure being larger than life, but also failing to live up to expectations is present in the male interlocutor of the poem. Similar to how Plath used Otto Plath (in “Daddy” in particular), the male figure in “Breakfast of Champions” hurts the persona, but becomes an obsession for the persona. There are echoes of “Daddy” in the very first stanza when the persona declares that the male figure “blew it” and that the persona and the figure are “through.” However, the persona continues to dwell and discusses abuse suffered at the hands of the male in question.
Death and rebirth (a common Plath theme) is also present as a recurrent theme within my poem. On a larger scale, being hurt and rejected by the male interlocutor is a sort of death for the persona, discussed in the metaphor of the broken thermos. Death is also discussed within the context of the broken earbud (“Something had to die”). Rebirth is then introduced at the end of the poem when the persona asks why she should hurt forever over “losing you.” On a smaller scale, death and rebirth is visited in the second and third stanzas. Meeting the male figure caused a death of the persona and the male figure and caused the two to be reborn as one.
Over all, I felt that, while my poem did not conform to an exact poem of Plath’s, there is a lot of Plath present within the poem.
Fin.
Amanda Zalud
You blew it
You bastard
You blew it,
We’re through.
Because you
Were too blind to see
That I was perfect for you
And you for me.
That when we met,
We ceased to exist
independently
And began to exist
symbiotically,
Starting something new.
For better or worse
Through life till the hearse,
That’s how we
Were supposed to be.
You and me
Eternally
Intertwined.
But no.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
“But you just have to go.”
From that point on
No longer to show
Any intimacy
Or affection.
Good guys wear white.
So why did you
Come with the promise of white?
Why did you
Say that all would be right?
Why didn’t you
Come with a disclaimer
That all would go black
And that I couldn’t go back
Once I let you into my life?
I love you.
I cared for you.
I gave you
Everything that was good in me.
So that when you
Left, you
Took me too
And left me
Nothing but
What was terrible
In you.
And now I exist
As a broken thermos might
Whole on the outside,
Shattered on the inside,
And terribly,
Woefully,
Unable to retain warmth
From the inside.
And when I look into the mirror
I see a plaster cast,
Dear,
That I’ve been working on
Just for you
So that maybe you’ll
Love me
Just like you used to do.
Love me, love me, love me.
I can’t make you,
Can I?
You’d tell me if I could,
Wouldn’t you?
And everywhere I go
You’re there too.
In the faces of all the boys
And I
In all the girls.
And I wear headphones to
Ignore life and
Block images of you
As best as I can.
And all the while
My left earbud
snap, crackle, pops
Rice crispies
And tries
To sing once more…
But I twist it.
Snap it.
Kill it.
Because something had to die.
But not you, my dear.
Not I.
We’re too twisted.
Too mangled.
Too broken
Up in each other
To pass without the other.
Pain is only temporary.
Losing a limb
Can’t hurt forever…
So why should losing you?
Discussion:
My poem was modeled after the work of Sylvia Plath. I did not model my poem after a particular work of Plath’s. Rather, I took Plath’s work on the whole and tried to incorporate elements and themes common throughout Plath’s works. I felt that in this way I was able to emulate Plath, but while staying true to my own form; this is something that I feel like Plath was doing with her own work and also something I feel like adds to my model to make it more like Plath.
The rhyme scheme is erratic throughout “Breakfast of Champions.” I could not nail down a rhyme scheme specific to Plath or one that she seemed to favor on the whole, so I tried not to subscribe to a regular rhyme scheme. Instead, I used random end rhymes, near rhymes, assonance, consonance, and repetition scattered throughout the entire piece.
Along those same lines, I tried not to use a constant line length either. In “Lady Lazarus,” for example, Plath’s lines vary greatly from stanza to stanza. Plath does not seem to have a set line length that she favors on the whole. However, I did try to use a fairly similar line length for the poem at large. This is something I noticed she did in poems like “The Arrival of the Bee Box” and “In Plaster.”
A symbolic theme common to Plath that I incorporated is the act of shedding selves. In the poem, the male figure offers the persona a way to drop masks and find a true self. When this does not come to fruition, the persona turns to object symbolism in a mirror. The persona recognizes a mask (the “plaster cast”) when looking into the mirror, but tries to convince herself that by donning this false self she will eventually find happiness. The persona, in essence, builds herself a new mask to replace the one torn away by the male interlocutor.
By building herself a new mask, the persona also touches on Plath’s theme of fragmentation of self and the reunification of self. At the beginning of the poem, we are subject to the persona’s anger and her seemingly erratic outbursts, but by the end the persona has become something new. She is still angry, but she is more of a unified front against the male figure of the poem.
I incorporated both white and black using Plath’s color symbolism. White is used as symbolism for purity, escape, and shedding masks. White symbolism in my poem was what the persona desired and the male interlocutor promised, but, in the end, the male interlocutor could not provide the persona with white. Black is used in my poem is used to describe the male interlocutor, which complies with Plath’s symbolism in that black is a male color. Black also serves to symbolize the void after the promise of white was not fulfilled.
The male figure being larger than life, but also failing to live up to expectations is present in the male interlocutor of the poem. Similar to how Plath used Otto Plath (in “Daddy” in particular), the male figure in “Breakfast of Champions” hurts the persona, but becomes an obsession for the persona. There are echoes of “Daddy” in the very first stanza when the persona declares that the male figure “blew it” and that the persona and the figure are “through.” However, the persona continues to dwell and discusses abuse suffered at the hands of the male in question.
Death and rebirth (a common Plath theme) is also present as a recurrent theme within my poem. On a larger scale, being hurt and rejected by the male interlocutor is a sort of death for the persona, discussed in the metaphor of the broken thermos. Death is also discussed within the context of the broken earbud (“Something had to die”). Rebirth is then introduced at the end of the poem when the persona asks why she should hurt forever over “losing you.” On a smaller scale, death and rebirth is visited in the second and third stanzas. Meeting the male figure caused a death of the persona and the male figure and caused the two to be reborn as one.
Over all, I felt that, while my poem did not conform to an exact poem of Plath’s, there is a lot of Plath present within the poem.
Fin.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sept 21 - 27: Takin' a tour with the Olds-mobile (LAME PUN... couldn't come up with anything better.)
When I read the Sharon Olds poems this week, I wondered how much of the subject material Olds felt and how much of it was for shock value. I know that I sound like something of a “hater” (as the kids these days say), but the fact of the matter is that I have a hard time thinking of a situation in which I felt the need (for example) to compose a short poem about the Pope’s genitalia. Along those same lines, I have never felt the need to compose anything about my father being naked or any sort of sexual fluid either. I realize that I’m not the yard stick by which the world is measured (thank goodness for the world), but something within me is having a hard time relating to Olds’ poetry.
However, I did really enjoy “Photograph of the Girl” by Olds. Her poem really was the reading equivalent of looking at a photograph: all of the visual details were heart-wrenchingly there in words. While reading the first part of the poem, I felt like I was standing right next to the girl, watching her suffer, but unable to do anything. When the poem shifts to read the “caption” in line 12 I felt like I was reading the caption over the persona’s shoulder and that I should make some sort of follow up comment to the persona. The imagery involved at the end of the poem in lines 14-16 (“Deep in her body/ the ovaries let our her first eggs,/ golden as drops of grain.”) was both beautiful and terribly depressing. Yeah, this girl is reaching an exciting time in her life (starting to grow up), but she’ll never need to. She’s dying. The ironic juxtaposition of life (manifested by the eggs) to the death the reader is told will happen a few lines back just feels wrong. Stylistically, it’s wonderful; in practice, the girl’s imminent death is all different colors of wrong.
The one line in particular in “Photograph of the Girl” that really haunted me after finishing started on line 10: “She cannot be beautiful, but she is/ starving.” Yikes. Olds is shockingly honest and hits adolescence on the nose. I would argue that many adolescent girls at some point in time feel the pressure to be beautiful. However, I would also argue that while adolescence has its own beauty, most adolescents aren’t what it considered traditionally beautiful. Olds flat out says that this girl “cannot be beautiful.” Then, as if to compensate for that fact, the reader is told that the girl is starving. Well, she can’t be beautiful, but whatever, doesn’t really matter, she’s starving. Yikes.
I realize the role of shock and pushing the limits in conventional anything, and I know that it makes me sound completely establishment, but I’m still not the biggest fan of Olds. She’s a gifted poet, but I just can’t get into/relate to all of her subjects in a way that would lead to the enjoyment of her poems.
Fin.
However, I did really enjoy “Photograph of the Girl” by Olds. Her poem really was the reading equivalent of looking at a photograph: all of the visual details were heart-wrenchingly there in words. While reading the first part of the poem, I felt like I was standing right next to the girl, watching her suffer, but unable to do anything. When the poem shifts to read the “caption” in line 12 I felt like I was reading the caption over the persona’s shoulder and that I should make some sort of follow up comment to the persona. The imagery involved at the end of the poem in lines 14-16 (“Deep in her body/ the ovaries let our her first eggs,/ golden as drops of grain.”) was both beautiful and terribly depressing. Yeah, this girl is reaching an exciting time in her life (starting to grow up), but she’ll never need to. She’s dying. The ironic juxtaposition of life (manifested by the eggs) to the death the reader is told will happen a few lines back just feels wrong. Stylistically, it’s wonderful; in practice, the girl’s imminent death is all different colors of wrong.
The one line in particular in “Photograph of the Girl” that really haunted me after finishing started on line 10: “She cannot be beautiful, but she is/ starving.” Yikes. Olds is shockingly honest and hits adolescence on the nose. I would argue that many adolescent girls at some point in time feel the pressure to be beautiful. However, I would also argue that while adolescence has its own beauty, most adolescents aren’t what it considered traditionally beautiful. Olds flat out says that this girl “cannot be beautiful.” Then, as if to compensate for that fact, the reader is told that the girl is starving. Well, she can’t be beautiful, but whatever, doesn’t really matter, she’s starving. Yikes.
I realize the role of shock and pushing the limits in conventional anything, and I know that it makes me sound completely establishment, but I’m still not the biggest fan of Olds. She’s a gifted poet, but I just can’t get into/relate to all of her subjects in a way that would lead to the enjoyment of her poems.
Fin.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Sept 15-21: The Plath more (and less) traveled...
So, just to jump on the critical bandwagon, I think I’m going to discuss “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath for a bit, before jumping off the bandwagon and moving on to my favorite poem this week (also by Plath), “The Arrival of the Bee Box.”
Listening to “Daddy” on YouTube, I definitely had a couple sharp intakes of breath. When I read through “Daddy,” the reading just reaffirmed my feelings that “Daddy” would definitely cause some waves if it had been published in the here and the now (as I’m sure it did when it was actually published). I feel like the need to compare one’s father to the Holocaust definitely implies some strong feelings behind the creation of the poem, and I’m sure that psychoanalysts and literary critics alike have many great party conversations concerning this poem.
Plath asserting that “every woman adores a fascist” (line 48) was the most shocking to me, but it shouldn’t be considering that Plath declares herself a “Jew” (line 35) and likens her experiences with her father to being carted off to a concentration camp. I think the fascist comment hung me up because I have never heard anyone declare love for fascism, but at the same time I thought I knew what she was getting at… To quote ZZ Top, “every girl’s crazy for a sharp dressed man.”
The other image that really stuck with me when reading the poem is the one Plath conjures when she states, “If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two…” (line 71). No wonder her marriage was on the rocks with that sort of statement.
“The Arrival of the Bee Box” was my favorite poem this week due to the imagery Plath invokes within the poem. After I read through the poem, I felt like the poet (I’m working under the assumption that the persona and the poet are one and the same) was attempting (somewhat in vain) to establish some control within her life. Why else would someone try so hard to establish that the bees were at the mercy of the poet? It’s obvious that the bees could die at the hands of the poet—they’re trapped in a box! The only reason for the obsession is that the poet is trying to reassure herself of the power that she has over the bees.
This control issue is especially obvious in the fifth stanza when the poet writes, “[The bees] can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner” (line 25).
Upon rereading the poem, I felt like the poet was also expressing some feelings of despair and hopelessness. When, in the penultimate stanza, the poet writes that she “wonder[s] if [the bees] would forget [her]” (line 27) if she turned into a tree, suggested to me that the poet is wondering if life would just pass her by if she consented to fade into the background—this further cemented in my mind my first reading that the poet is trying to establish control in her life. It’s been my experience that those who feel like they have no control are those that try to establish that they have control the most.
All in all, it was a good week for poems. Plath is truly gifted.
Fin.
Listening to “Daddy” on YouTube, I definitely had a couple sharp intakes of breath. When I read through “Daddy,” the reading just reaffirmed my feelings that “Daddy” would definitely cause some waves if it had been published in the here and the now (as I’m sure it did when it was actually published). I feel like the need to compare one’s father to the Holocaust definitely implies some strong feelings behind the creation of the poem, and I’m sure that psychoanalysts and literary critics alike have many great party conversations concerning this poem.
Plath asserting that “every woman adores a fascist” (line 48) was the most shocking to me, but it shouldn’t be considering that Plath declares herself a “Jew” (line 35) and likens her experiences with her father to being carted off to a concentration camp. I think the fascist comment hung me up because I have never heard anyone declare love for fascism, but at the same time I thought I knew what she was getting at… To quote ZZ Top, “every girl’s crazy for a sharp dressed man.”
The other image that really stuck with me when reading the poem is the one Plath conjures when she states, “If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two…” (line 71). No wonder her marriage was on the rocks with that sort of statement.
“The Arrival of the Bee Box” was my favorite poem this week due to the imagery Plath invokes within the poem. After I read through the poem, I felt like the poet (I’m working under the assumption that the persona and the poet are one and the same) was attempting (somewhat in vain) to establish some control within her life. Why else would someone try so hard to establish that the bees were at the mercy of the poet? It’s obvious that the bees could die at the hands of the poet—they’re trapped in a box! The only reason for the obsession is that the poet is trying to reassure herself of the power that she has over the bees.
This control issue is especially obvious in the fifth stanza when the poet writes, “[The bees] can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner” (line 25).
Upon rereading the poem, I felt like the poet was also expressing some feelings of despair and hopelessness. When, in the penultimate stanza, the poet writes that she “wonder[s] if [the bees] would forget [her]” (line 27) if she turned into a tree, suggested to me that the poet is wondering if life would just pass her by if she consented to fade into the background—this further cemented in my mind my first reading that the poet is trying to establish control in her life. It’s been my experience that those who feel like they have no control are those that try to establish that they have control the most.
All in all, it was a good week for poems. Plath is truly gifted.
Fin.
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