Sunday, May 1, 2016

Commentary on an Allegory

I have to say that I love this poem because the allegory is so beautiful--at first glance?  Once you keep reading, it sort of shifts on you.

To begin, I loved the exclusivity of the poem--there are things that only the author can do.  Only she can enter the room under the wingback chair and she, herself, has the world with seven rooms inside of her.

And some of the imagery is just mind-blowingly gorgeous!  "Pocket doors", "wingback chair", and "Flattening their wings, bats crawled under any closed door".  I might have liked it better if they had crawled under her door, because then the bats could be after her specifically and that would go with the exclusivity theme.

The line that threw me off was the line before the last. "My dead brother swings me around and around--finally let's go".  I was totally shocked by this and it sort of flipped the poem and made it dark.  This line made me re-think my original, "I love this poem!" thought.  It feels like the turn of the poem, but I thought poems only had turns when classics forms were used.

It flips the poem on its head because at first it seems so carefree and happy!  There was summer, plants, books and dreams of flying--all of these concepts are happy, warm, and safe.  Then again, there is a form of loneliness that accompanies having a room that no one but you can enter.  Not to mention the back staircase.  I think there is a weird connotation with the "back" door so to speak.  People who are forced to use the back door usually do not want to be seen by others and do not have much of a choice.  I feel as if they are ignored and purposely sent away.  Then of course there is the image of a black bat trying to enter a closed space.  A black force that is invading despite the desire to keep it out--"no one is safe"...yeah, that is death.  This poem went from sunlight and book reading to ghost swing-pushers and death.

I am not sure if the end is supposed to be a hopeful one or if something crazy happened, like she decided to join her brother.  I'm still caught off guard by the fact that she has a ghost-brother at all, who nonetheless is pushing her on a swing.  Swings are pieces of summer and of happiness.  The image of a swing immediately makes me think of summer and happiness but I'm not sure if the narrator is happy or sad.  She could be either, for her brother's spirit is with her (or she is remembering him while she is on the swing and thus is happy) or she is sad thinking about how her brother is gone while she sits on this swing trying to reach him.

It's a great poem that is complex and is worth a read, I'll say that much!









Fireflies




 (Play this while you read)





I tasted the light, when it came from under the door.  It sounded like magic coming from everywhere.  I was surrounded by life, light, and a large bright tainted faint.  I think it came from the wooden box, but it could have come from the cracks in the floor.  For the cracks in the floor glowed with dark matter, but I didn't worry, because little balls of light were floating upwards.  It sounded like magic, and it came singing from everywhere.


"love is here and here to stay,
so lay your head on me".




Sunday, April 10, 2016

My Commentary on Work as a Husband










Find Work by Rhina P. Espaillat









 I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life's little duties do—precisely
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
—Emily Dickinson, #443



              Espaillat makes a significant choice here, choosing this Emily Dickinson poem as her epigraph.  It seems like a simple poem about doing simple everyday chores and "duties", like putting on one's shawl, dusting off the shelves, or even going to the post office to mail something.  The importance of this particular poem correlates with how work is infinite--these little chores that must be done never stop needing to be done; there will always be dishes in the sink to wash, or a button to sew back on to someone's shirt.  


 My mother’s mother, widowed very young
of her first love, and of that love’s first fruit,
moved through her father’s farm, her country tongue
and country heart anaesthetized and mute
with labor. So her kind was taught to do—
“Find work,” she would reply to every grief—
and her one dictum, whether false or true,
tolled heavy with her passionate belief.
Widowed again, with children, in her prime,
she spoke so little it was hard to bear
so much composure, such a truce with time
spent in the lifelong practice of despair.
But I recall her floors, scrubbed white as bone,
her dishes, and how painfully they shone.


                Let's talk about form.  This poem is technically a sonnet, as it has fourteen lines. Traditionally speaking now, a sonnet is supposed to be a love poem, but at first glance of the poem, this seems like it has got nothing to do with love…death maybe—work for sure! –but not love.  If we take a closer look, however, we will find that because of the way the author talks about her grandmother’s work, it seems that work IS actually her love.  So sonnets continue to rule the love scene.

                How did I get work as Grandmother’s love?  Well, it was a long process.  Let me break it down:

Stage #1:
My mother’s mother, widowed very young
of her first love, and of that love’s first fruit,

We start out with the poem explicitly mentioning Grandmother as a “widow”.  This immediately brings up the image of a woman whose husband has passed away.  Adding to this fact is the concept that whoever died was her “first love”.  This, for me, totally had me convinced the poem was talking about a young woman who married her first love and when he died, he left her with “love’s first fruit” (which is always code name for children).   


Stage #2:
moved through her father’s farm, her country tongue
and country heart anaesthetized and mute
with labor.

Now this is one of those instances where everything you thought you knew has suddenly been completely and totally wrong.   These next two and a half lines reveal that she is not talking about a person (or husband) at all!  Indeed, she is actually talking about a country, a homeland.   This is also an instance where research into the life of the author might shed some light on the poem.  

According to Poetry Foundation’s author biography, Espaillat’s family was exiled to the US from the Dominican Republic because a relation of hers pissed off the dictator Rafael Trujillo. 

Looking closely at these lines, we can tell that Grandmother is being made to leave the only place she has ever known or loved.  There is a deep emphasis on the fact that she is leaving her “country”, as she repeats that she was abandoning her “country tongue” and “country heart”.  Both of these concepts are “anaesthetized and mute” as well because her love for her country and culture could not save her from her fate. So now, this sonnet has become a love poem about the Dominican Republic and not a physical (first) lover.

Did Espaillat mean to mislead readers with the first two lines?  Probably.  Poets love to make people think one thing and then totally twist it on them in the next line.  They love to have theories collapse on them and randomly hit readers in the face with something drastically new.  It keeps you on your toes and from experience writing poetry, it is also pretty fun. 


                 Next Question: Why is her next love work?  Shouldn't her next love be...I don't know...her husband?  Well, let's look at the next few lines.

So her kind was taught to do—
“Find work,” she would reply to every grief—
and her one dictum, whether false or true,
tolled heavy with her passionate belief.

                We already know that she was an immigrant new to a country that did not speak her "country tongue" so her priority after touching down in the US must have been to "find work".  Take note that most immigrant women ("her kind"), gravitated towards jobs in the domestic sphere when it came to work, so like cleaning, washing, cooking, and looking after children.  These jobs, while honest work, demand a lot of time and physical effort.  "Every grief" of Grandmother probably had to do with the fact that she was uprooted from her country and forced to work in another to survive.  The fact that Grandmother is using "find work" as a reply to every one of these griefs suggests that she is funneling all her emotions into the act of finding work and subsequently, actually working.  It does not seem to matter whether finding work will help or not, "false or true", what matters is that she works so she can escape the reality of her life at that time. 

               We see later that it only gets worse for Grandmother and finding work literally becomes her life.

Widowed again, with children, in her prime,
she spoke so little it was hard to bear
so much composure, such a truce with time
spent in the lifelong practice of despair.

              Poor Grandmother must have always been exhausted, because not only does she have to partake in this backbreaking work, she also had a family that she was suddenly made the sole caretaker for.  At this point, she is not only working hard but she is doing it alone.  

               At the same time, take note of how Grandmother is ACTUALLY widowed this time.  She is not talking about her country anymore and "love's first fruit" is actually her children this time.  

               This is sort of where the poem gets extra sad.  The traces of hardship are very prevalent here.  "She spoke so little it was hard to bear" pretty much indicates that she is so exhausted and beaten down by the world that she "spoke so little".  The "lifelong practice of despair" seems to be her life.



But I recall her floors, scrubbed white as bone,
her dishes, and how painfully they shone.

               She works hard because she has to; she has a family to feed, but just because she has to work does not mean she is immune to being human.  The effort she puts into her work and the sheer exhaustion of having to support a family all on her own--and she IS all alone because she is cut off from her homeland and her husband is gone.

                "White as bone" is literally a painful way to describe how hard she is working.  It is also a play on "worked to the bone", which is something that Grandmother has definitely mastered.  Because this woman is probably cleaning, as those are the jobs she could find, she cleans to the bone.  It is both painful to do and she is painful to look at.

                Grandmother's life is infinite in that her work is almost never ending, just like those little chores and tasks that Emily Dickinson was talking about earlier.  Grandmother will always need money to feed her children until they can work and feed themselves, so she will always need to find work.  Likewise, in working she found her next "love".  Now, that is NOT to say she loves the jobs she works, but rather to say that she channels all her grief and exhaustion into work.  Not a traditional love for sure. 

Monday, April 4, 2016

Inky Stars

Play this while reading.







I’m trying to find a single word that can explain the marvels that is starlight and stardust, and blue wisps and flowy ink, and wings and shadows.  These photographs exist in infinity and fade in the sunlight, like dust particles from an angle between the hours of eight and nine am.  I thought the sun was a star too—Aurora should care about her billion-years younger flashlights that hang in suspense over trillions of inches of darkness.  The empty expanse.  Black inky spiders build webs between the bright light bulbs—but no one will ever see them. The stardust that trickles through the shadows drip globules of blue ink on the heads of purple infinity, much like drops of dark red blood on faded marble. But marble doesn’t fade and neither does the blue wisp that leads a lost traveler rapidly towards an old fate. A single word to find...and I can’t even locate three hundred.  


Saturday, March 19, 2016

Commentary on the INTERESTing Things


     Wow. Let me just say.  This poem has SUCH a twist.  He really had me going there; I thought his wife was missing and that she had been cheating on him.  There I was feeling like the world had fallen straight into darkness and immorality.  I was sad for this guy!  I even wondered in the space between line 6 and 7 what he would do; would he divorce her?  Would he refuse to give up and try to fix things?  NOPE!  Because she is only on Pinterest. 

     I love how the poem is set up as this "crime against humanity" when in truth, Griffin's wife is only addicted to an (awesome!) online forum.  Now that I am calmer about the whole situation, I can see how annoyed he could be.  Pinterest is so cool and filled with such great ideas for literally everything that it is so easy to spend countless of hours browsing that website.  I already have multiple boards on that website that include decor ideas for my wedding, instructions on how to set up Bookshelf beds and Doctor Who edible arrangements. 

     If we try to dissect how Griffin set up his poem, it is probably worth mentioning that his word choice at the beginning of the poem is drastically far away from what we might associate with an addiction to a website.  The fact that he specifically said she was "gone for many days" indicates that he WANTED us to believe she had done something drastically wrong.  When someone says his wife is "gone", it usually means she is either dead or she has left him.  Constantly surfing a website does not mean this person is "gone", but at the same time, he means that she is "gone" in the sense that her brain and attention is somewhere else, not with him.  She might be physically near him, but her mind is surely elsewhere.

     Likewise, "I've tried sending her messages" immediately made sense to me as Griffin trying to call his wife or text her, asking her where she is and when she was coming home.  It never occurred to me that she was in his face, but he couldn't reach her on a conscious level because she was too entranced by Pinterest.  The "messages" he was sending her probably were not using his phone but rather by voice--yelling-- or by some other means of signaling her back to reality. 

     When Griffin mentions that "she's lost/ with her new found interest", I was so sure she was cheating on him.  At that point, I was so disappointed in her and sad for him (which says a lot about this poem because it got me to feel that way).  My mind was on his side for some reason, perhaps because he was the one writing this poem, which tells us that he cares enough about the situation to write about it.  She could be lost in her interest because the way Pinterest works is that you look up your interest,and then there are a million different pictures, crafts and more to look though.  If she was really being obsessive, she could get easily lost in whatever her interest is. 

     "Curse her friend" had me thinking he wanted to punch the other man, but here I thought it was very weird that he called the other man "her friend".  If this has truly been a cheating incident, I would have expected Griffin to have called the other man a worse name to say the least, maybe even a curse word.  This would be the first indication that this is not a case of unfaithfulness.  On the other hand though, if Griffin was trying to keep the poem PG and use code word; "friend" could surely be a stand-in for a much worse concept. 

    Finally we get to the end of the poem, "curse her friend/ who invited her to/ Pinterest".  Shocked would probably be the least of my reactions.  It was very cool to have everything you perceived flipped on its head and turn out the complete opposite.  Griffin's wife is not cheating on him; she is simply online a lot and it is ALMOST like she has left him.  It is not the same situation but at the same time, I can see the similarities.  

       She is "gone" all the time, she does not respond to his "messages", and she's "lost" in her "interest" on Pinterest.  I guess it makes sense...

Tough luck, Griffin, you're going to need it trying to get your wife away from Pinterest. My recommendation:
Also, find your own interest on Pinterest while you're doing that. 






It All Comes Down To:


I don't know anything!
and I'll never know.
Nope, YOU'll never know.
Because no one has any answers,
or at least none that they can share.

Answers are for you 
to keep,
not for you 
to share.
Find them
Possess them
Keep them.

This is all it adds up to.

Can you save us?  (sing this hauntingly)
Save us with Light
Save us with Road
Save us with Words
Save us?

but don't save us with answers. 
THEY can't save anyone.



Monday, February 29, 2016

Watch For What's Under the Gold

Title: 



Both up and down, but left and right,
Filling your eyelids with things of light.
Shiny, but not made of precious metal.
Bright and sparkly—the burning unsettle.
Lots and lots of yellow gold, lots of red gold.

There is no gold!...
there is NO g o l d!