Of Mere Being by Wallace Stevens

Stevens' poem had an other-wordly feel to me. This world seemed to exist, as Stevens put it, "beyond the last thought" of human imaginings. I interpreted this as a place past the subconscious in the human mind, a world where reasons are unimportant, all that matters is what actually is. It almost seemed like a part of our deepest imagination which does not conform to the outside existence of the world. Where what we have learned to think as humans never penetrates. Especially considering the bird in the palm, and its song as described in the second stanza: "without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song." And, according to Stevens, the reason the bird is singing is insignificant to how we feel, it is the fact that "The bird sings" and "Its feathers shine" that affects our emotions. I took this to mean that, subconsciously, it does not matter to us the reason something happens, but only that it happened. I thought this sounded a lot like what people say when they know they have no control over a situation and are essentially only affected by the fact that they experienced the situation, whether good or bad. The last stanza I saw as more description of the strange world; the palm is mentioned again, on the edge of both the mind and space and, as Stevens put these parallel to each other, it made me think that he saw them both as the same thing; the slow-moving wind in the branches added to the peaceful environment; and, once again, the bird with the golden, "fire-fangled" feathers is mentioned, yet another indication of an unfamiliar world.

Heritage by James Still

This was such a confusing, yet clearly meaningful poem. It seemed to me to be rather morose at first, but at the same time, when I had finished reading it and had time to process what he was saying, Still may have been content with his home.

In the first stanza, I felt like Still was regretting the fact that he was trapped in the "prisoning hills" of Kentucky. Yet he must have felt truly connected with this place because he states that, "Though [the hills] topple their barren heads to level earth and the forests slide uprooted out of the sky," though the lakes and rivers overflow and drown out the cities, and, "Though the sun-ball breaks the ridges into dust and burns its strength into the blistered rock," he still would not be able to leave his home. He basically uses complex and eloquent language to state that, even if the world was going into a nearly apocolyptic chaos, he would have to remain where he was. I was confused as to why anyone would feel such a strong association with a place, even if it was falling to pieces. However, the second stanza helped a little in giving me an insight into Still's feelings.

Still further establishes the strong connection he has with his surrounding environment in the second stanza. He uses the phrase "Being of these hills," twice, at the beginning and ending of the stanza. He also repeats the phrase, "being one with," multiple times to get his point across. I found it odd that he made connections both with living creatures, a fox, a foal, an ox, and a man, and death, since constrasting ideas are brought forth with each. I thought that this implied that he was attached to this place, even when he was surrounded by and subjected to both life and death. I felt that this particular connection was why he had named his poem Heritage : he is one with the place, and he has figuratively inherited his surroundings over time, and will pass them on to future generations.

The last line of Still's poem is, "Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond." I can see how this could be taken both literally and figuratively: either Still cannot leave his home, passing the great mountains which serve as barriers to him, or he is such a part of his environment that no matter where he goes he will always be there, or both. I also felt that "pass beyond" sounded a lot like a reference to death, possibly meaning that he thought his soul would always be a part of his current home. I could not completely understand whether it was Still's feelings of entrapment or his deep connection with the place which caused his obscure identification with his home, but the relationship was, nevertheless, intriguing.

Tone Post: Nick Carraway

Having read The Great Gatsby earlier this year, I have to say that its narrator, the objective and somewhat apathetic Nick Carraway, is my favorite character. Not that there are many honorable individuals to choose from. Nick imparts the quiet, introspective side to aristocratic society, a polar opposite of his spontaneous and irrational counterpart, Jay Gatsby. Of all the shallow, prejudiced, simple-minded people who are established through wealth and reputation, I feel that Nick is mostly an exception: as attractive as the high life is to him, he eventually finds that there is more to life than money, such as integrity, morality, and contentment with life. Through first-hand experience, he finds that he is better off leading a quiet, practical life than living his life as an elite.

Acquainted with the Night by Robert Frost

Plain and simple, this poem made me feel sad. My mind immediately jumped to those Sherlock Holmes episodes, or other old murder mysteries, where the dark figure ghosts through the damp, gloomy alleyways and streets. Except this time the figure was just a sad and lonely soul.

The first two stanzas are basically Frost saying that he has been there and back throught "the night," which I took to mean a state of depression and loneliness. He has experienced more bad turns in life than most. He also says that he has passed "the watchman...[dropping his] eyes, unwilling to explain." To me, this sounded like when someone who has recently experienced a tragedy shies away from curious bystanders, not wanting their sympathy or questions. Frost is stuck in "the night," and is either too ashamed or too upset to talk with anyone about it.

The last three stanzas, Frost talks about the sounds that have echoed to him through the night. First, the sound of "an interrupted cry," which does not "call [him] back or say good-by." This cry does not come from a person who particularly cares about him, it neither wants him to stay nor is going to miss him if he leaves. The hopelessness of knowing that no one is concerned about him only adds to the resigned and despondent tone. The last thing Frost notices in his journey through the night is the sound of "one luminary clock against the sky [proclaiming] the time was neither wrong nor and right." From what I have found, the clock he was referring to was Big Ben, which has been the site of many suicides. Basically, this apparently impartial and seasoned mediator seems to be telling Frost that his presence in "the night" was not necessarily a right or wrong thing, it was just the way his situation had turned out. And that is how Frost's entire poem spoke to me: it was not that his being "acquainted with the night" was not the right or wrong thing, he was just telling people his story in the best way he knew how, which happened to be a very concise and grave poem.

Thanksgiving Poem by Hannah Abelein

Thanksgiving is a time of joy
Filled with laughter, love, and food.
So much time spent in the kitchen,
So many things to do
For one massive meal
Spent with loved ones and family.
Alas! I arrive late once again,
Thank goodness my family loves me.

A Work of Artifice by Marge Piercy

I was actually surprised by how easily I understood, and related to, this poem. Probably because of how explicit Ms. Piercy was about the whole suppression theme. Basically her whole poem boils down to this: the little bonsai tree would have had enormous potential to become a strong and thriving organism, but the gardener, thinking he was making it into what it was naturally meant to be, prunes it and keeps it small in an attractive little pot, telling it how lucky it should feel to be given so many good advantages. The poem finishes, very cleverly and accurately, saying that “with living creatures one must begin very early to dwarf their growth.” Otherwise, they would just get too powerful and out of hand, right? But my favorite part of this poem was the title, “A Work of Artifice.” It fit so perfectly as a description of the gardener’s efforts: a work of deception using cleverness or subtlety. Perfect.

Now obviously Piercy did not get this upset about a literal bonsai tree, although it is a very good analogy. It was describing women’s rights, which, until very recently, were treated exactly like that little bonsai tree. Women were expected to be “domestic and weak.” They were meant to fit into the perfect, loyal housewife stereotype, and shame on any woman who tried to become more than that. I don’t blame Piercy for creating such a sarcastic and pointed statement, though. I think it is clever and a good indication of the strong-willed woman’s side of the old story.

I have to say that even I get a little upset when I have to think about the misogynistic beliefs some people used to, and still, have. Actually, I get really upset. I hate it when people discount a woman just for being a woman, especially when there are plenty of men out there who are not useful in any way and are less than intelligent. I also hate when there are women that are classified as feminist for ANY defenses or pro-women statements they make, but men are never classified as masculinist (and it IS a word, even if Word tells me it’s not) even when some of them are brave enough to say EVERY DAY that they are better than women. I live to prove those kinds of people wrong. Sorry for being born with the wrong set of chromosomes! Not. Anyways, I am done with my rant. This poem just brought the whole idea up for me again. And Piercy pretty much said it in the perfect words, so I am glad I chose to read this poem…and get my diatribe out there, even if it’s not going anywhere.

The Possibility by James Fenton

Everything about Fenton's poem seemed downhearted and hopeless. Everything he described, everything that should have been good, was somehow sapped of its' beauty and worth to Fenton. I felt sorry for him: how would it feel to go through life unable to appreciate the beauty surrounding you, even in the tiniest things or instances? How depressing would it be to know that something should look beautiful or make you happy, but to never have the ability to feel good about it? Everything would be meaningless: if nothing could make you happy, if there was no "possibility of good," what would motivate you to keep going every single day?

"And solitude was beautiful when I was sure that I was strong. I thought it was a medium in which to grow, but I was wrong." Fenton seems to think that, at a time when he was stronger, solitude was a good thing that would help him to "grow" and become a better person. However, it appears that the solitude merely sucked the goodness out of everything he saw. That the way he saw the world was tainted, that when he should see something beautiful, he saw only the bad in it.

"The jays are swearing in the wood. The lizard moves with ugly speed. The flower closes like a fist. The possibility recedes." In the last stanza, Fenton describes things that used to be good but have turned bad in his eyes, thus ruining any chance for him to regain any "possibility of good." And I have to say, I kind of disliked this extreme, disheartening tone. I was also pretty disappointed with the unfinished end to Fenton's idea: he says that because of his solitude, "the possibility recedes," and then he kind of leaves us hanging there. It left me with a hopeless and empty feeling, like whatever had happened to Fenton in his solitude to cause this depressing state would never be remedied, which seems rather contrary to what i thought the title initially suggested. In retrospect, I just wish that Fenton could have kept this all to himself so that I wouldn't have to try and analyze his depressing and futile thought processes, or at least that he would not have tried to mislead me with a hopeful sounding title.