Posts Tagged ‘final semester senior year’

Incidentally, if you were going home early tomorrow…

Thursday, February 28th, 2013

…what kind of sweet smackerel would you miss partaking in the MOST,cookies or brownies?

With that, see you ALL tomorrow! 😉

PS- This is a sacrifice, you realize: using an oven while studying Plath seems vaguely barbaric to me…

Old Mary don’t you weep!

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

I think the strongest lines in the poem are

My last defense

Is the present tense.

To me those lines signify that as an African American woman her only opportunity for her voice to be heard is “now” in time.

 

What are your thoughts?

The Bean Eaters…

Wednesday, February 27th, 2013

…reminded me of that one part of “Kaddish” where Ginsberg tells his mother, “There, rest now. No more… (hands, relatives, etc.)”

How does that relate to Brooks and The Bean Eaters might you ask? Because I think the listing of objects/loss thereof has much more to do with the process of aging than it does the person him or herself. So the bean eaters, who lean over “in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes” (11) are simply aging in the stead of their belongings, because their abiotic objects cannot.

Brooks puts it well when she says earlier in the poem that they are “Two who have lived their day, but keep putting on their clothes and putting things away” (72). This suggests that motion is what keeps us alive, and keeps us if not sane, at least functioning. Even on a useless level, where these two have run out of things to do with their lives except for put their clothes on and “put things away,” their existence is validated by the fact that they keep moving.

In contrast, Naomi of Kaddish is lobotomized and later dies, and in doing so, escapes these mundane reasons behind being alive. She does not keep moving, and so it is therefore unnecessary for her to be alive, from this point of view. Anyway, I hope someone else sees a connection here, because it struck me very strongly as I read the poem, but I’m having a hard time expressing why here.

Beats & Bop :)

Saturday, February 2nd, 2013

Okay, so Nico and I took Doug Gately’s “History of Jazz” class last year, and we got to learn alllllll about Bebop and its effects on American society/music as a whole. Like the poetry of/by the Beats, many Americans did not like or even necessarily understand the new form of jazz, and often rejected it in favor of more palatable/danceable Big-Band or R&B music. However, though marginalized, the Boppers (like the Beats) had a lasting influence on the art form, and their music appealed to other “elite” artists as well. Hence, the Beat poets were more open to the Bebop style than the average American listener.

Here’s a classic by Charlie “Bird” Parker, “Koko.” It’s pretty crazy. Enjoy! :)(For real though, try to count out the rhythm…CRAZY.)

Ko-Ko-Charlie Parker

In the interest of CoPo…

Monday, January 14th, 2013

..and the untimely arrival (or lack there (of) my textbooks, I’ve taken to re-reading my personal post ’45 favorites.  A creeping suspicion tells they won’t remain my favorites for long, but tonight–while there’s still time–I will drown myself in Mary Oliver’s “Whelks”, dreaming up the many ways my  own carapase will “[rub] against the world” in years to come.

To poetry!

—–

Here are the perfect
fans of the scallops,
quahogs, and weedy mussels
still holding their orange fruit –
and here are the whelks –
whirlwinds,
each the size of a fist,
but always cracked and broken –
clearly they have been travelling
under the sky-blue waves
for a long time.
All my life
I have been restless –
I have felt there is something
more wonderful than gloss –
than wholeness –
than staying at home.
I have not been sure what it is.
But every morning on the wide shore
I pass what is perfect and shining
to look for the whelks, whose edges
have rubbed so long against the world
they have snapped and crumbled –
they have almost vanished,
with the last relinquishing
of their unrepeatable energy,
back into everything else.
When I find one
I hold it in my hand,
I look out over that shanking fire,
I shut my eyes. Not often,
but now and again there’s a moment
when the heart cries aloud:
yes, I am willing to be
that wild darkness,
that long, blue body of light.