That's So Gay

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Sestina Time, Fools

Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.


_____________________________________________


The first six stanzas of a sestina will follow this pattern:

Stanza 1: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Stanza 2: 6 1 5 2 4 3

Stanza 3: 3 6 4 1 2 5

Stanza 4: 5 3 2 6 1 4

Stanza 5: 4 5 1 3 6 2

Stanza 6: 2 4 6 5 3 1

Tercet: Variable.

Poetic Analysis (CP 2)

In your groups, you will be assigned one of the following four poems. Using the understanding poetry sheets, as well as the poetic terms on my School Wires site (which you will be tested on Friday), conduct an analysis of your poem. Tomorrow you will present your findings to the class.

The Fish - Elizabeth Bishop

Sonnet 18 - William Shakespeare

Acting Like a Tree - Jonathan Aaron

Junk by Richard Wilbur

Remember to locate the following items in your poem (if possible):

Persona, Auditor, Apostrophe, Poetic Diction, Connotation, Denotation, Neologism (Coinage), Syntax, Imagery: Visual, Tactile, Auditory, Gustatory, Olfactory, Metaphor, Simile, Conceit, Hyperbole, Understatement, Allusion, Personification, Paradox, Oxymoron, Synesthesia

Keep in mind, not all of these elements will be in your poem, but this will serve as a good refresher for your "quest" on Friday.

Good luck!

2BR02B by Kurt Vonnegut (CP 1)

http://publicliterature.org/books/2BR02B/xaa.php

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

If You Forget Me - Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

My Litany

my attempt at modeling Billy Collins' "Litany":

My Litany

You are the “esc” key on my laptop,

The mouse and the cheese,

And the second lock on my apartment door

That I only fasten when I’m leaving for the weekend.

You are also the “U” I don’t have during Scrabble,

While stuck with a “Q”, trying to spell “query” or “question” or “quote”

 

However, you are not the goldfish cracker crumbs in the bottom of the bag,

Or the cicada shell stuck to a tree in my backyard,

Or the headless Ninja Turtle action figure in the basement,

And you are certainly not the dog poop under the kitchen table,

There’s just no way that you’re the dog poop under the kitchen table.

 

You may be the Yin to a Yang

And the skip to the lou

And the Crackle chatting with Snap and Pop on a shelf in my kitchen,

But hear me well, Little Miss Yin Skip Crackle (if that is your real name):

You are not even close

To being the cookie dough in my ice cream.

 

And not to make you overly concerned,

But you are also neither the baseball field clay in my pocket

Nor the mosquito that I swallowed when I was laughing so hard

At the barbeque last summer before it started to rain.

 

For your information, I am

The smell of chlorine at the public pool

And the sound of a dial-up modem failing to connect

 

I am also the sound of one hand clapping

And of a tree falling in the woods with no one around

And of a mime screaming at the top of his lungs

 

I am also the glasses you were looking for, but were on your head

And the keys you misplaced, that were in your hand the whole time,

But don’t worry, I’m not the “esc” key,

You will always be my “esc” key,

Not to mention the mouse, and—somehow—the cheese.

E.E. Cummings - i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                    i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Language In Poetry - Brooks, Hughes, and Donne

We Real Cool

by Gwendolyn Brooks

  

   THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon. 

---------------------

Mother to Son

by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor --

Bare.

But all the time

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark

Where there ain't been no light.

So boy, don't you turn back.

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.

Don't you fall now --

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin',

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

---------------------

Holy Sonnet "X" (ten)

by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;

For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke ;  why swell'st thou then ?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more ;  Death, thou shalt die. 

Litany - Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,

The crystal goblet and the wine...

        -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,

the crystal goblet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass

and the burning wheel of the sun.

You are the white apron of the baker,

and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,

the plums on the counter,

or the house of cards.

And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.

There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,

maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,

but you are not even close

to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the boots in the corner

nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,

the evening paper blowing down an alley

and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees

and the blind woman's tea cup.

But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.

You will always be the bread and the knife,

not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

Ballad-Style Poetry

Walt Whitman - O Captain! My Captain!

Sylvia Plath - Daddy

NCTE Writing Contest!

This one is really good:

NCTE 2008 Writing Contest

Music or Poetry?

Bob Dylan - Subterranean Homesick Blues (Folk Rock)

Saul Williams - Coded Language (Spoken Word/Slam)

Blue Scholars - Joe Metro (Hip Hop/Rap)

Would you classify these as poetry, music, both, or something else entirely? Why do you feel this way?

Identity Essays

Here are a few examples of writers exploring their own lives in their essays, very similarly to Sandra Cisneros in House on Mango Street

David Sedaris

Louise Erdrich

Edwidge Danticat

New Writing Contest!

2009 Young Authors Writing Contest

Accepting: Fiction, Creative Nonfiction, and Playwriting (no poetry)

Entries must be postmarked by 12/19

Whip-Around Poems (CP II)

Period 7:

Valentine

I was always New Year’s Day

And she was always Valentine’s

As I stand among the final fading strands of confetti

From last night’s revelry

I feel as if everything is falling apart

As if bits of the sky are chipping away

And the business buildings are raining the first hundred

Thousand digits of pi onto my head

And through my soiled and soaked overcoat.

And if you, Valentine, peered into my snow-globe of a January afternoon

You would undoubtedly say that the spider had finally

Outsmarted himself—your eyes wide with childish glee;

For my temper, ornery and distant, is certainly winter,

While your February fuels hope of a spring ahead-

A budding world waiting to awaken and thrive in peace

The distant promise of summer—

children taking down their artwork

And teachers clearing out their desks

And everyone stares in awe as if they’re witnessing a miracle.

It’s getting colder here, you know

As the early morning joggers and

coffee connoisseurs dot the urban landscape—

and the tingling in my fingers is sadly

Only the stirrings of dreams:

That is the multi-million dollar question, isn’t it?

To understand love as distant as heaven and as close as

A month and a half away.

“Hush,” she said, and then nothing—

Swallowed by the winter silence. 

Period 8:

There is a flipside to joy—

There is a flipside to joy—

Quiet as snow, it is lined with pebbles

And boulders, small rocks and clumps of dirt.

Where only the bleak grays of doubt and fear survive,

The foliage of trampled dreams and the cold,

Anonymous moon shining over me.

A place where you run at night,

Your heart beating like the pulse of blood

Behind a bruise, the disorientation of panic

Impairs reaction time like alcohol, and then—

And then the colors begin to whirl.

There is a flipside to joy—

A tunnel as thin as a pin, where,

Like Alice, you take a little pill and

Slide right through—like a camel through

The eye of a sewing needle.

You emerge in a shallow, dry hollow

Watching infinitude trains pull away

And then, you, as well, are onboard,

Waving back at the ones you left behind.

There is a flipside to joy—

Where words are no longer necessary,

Where we refuse, or fail, to act human,

Where the dogs can’t catch our scent;

But from my seat in the crowded dining car

Of the endless black eternal locomotive,

We boldly flirt with the coastline—

My eyes widen as diamonds of sunlight

Dance on the water. 

The Plan by Jack Handey

A humorous piece to help you start off your week with a smile:

The Plan - By Jack Handey

My Name (CP II)

Here is my "My Name" piece that I wrote in college...as you can see, I chose to write mine in poem form:

Matt

I.

Mine is a name not worth naming.

It dies before it leaves your mouth,

Lips clapping like flapping shutters and

Tongue tchk-ing against teeth

Like the click of a key in a lock

Yet I’m stuck wearing this name like a badge of boredom,

A monument to all that is routine and mundane. 

And I beg for a trade.

 

II.

“But think of what it means!” you plead,

“A gift of God…our gift from God!”

Well thanks, mom, no pressure there…

Jesus was a gift of God too, and look what it got him,

Thirty-three years and back home he went.

(If I did that, you’d charge me rent)

No thank you, madam, I’ll have none of that.

But I’ll do anything else to escape the sinuous syllable

I state for self-identification.

 

III.

Oh how I begged them to let me change it…

Something different, something alive, something else!

Theodore, Balthazar, Tyler, Byron,

Or my personal favorite, Coyote Jones,

(The one I called myself when I was alone)

Even spoon out some alphabet soup and see what comes up!

It couldn’t be worse than my title at present

The tragically vapid,

And wholly depressing,

Matt.

The Best Laid Plans... (CP I)

The title of the novel "Of Mice and Men" comes from a poem by Robert Burns entitled "To A Mouse", written way back in 1785. The poem is very hard to understand due to it being written in a local dialect of English (it looks like a foreign language!)...which is similar to the way some of the characters talk in the novel.

Here is the poem in its entirety:

Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie, 

O, what panic's in thy breastie! 

Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle! 

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 
Which makes thee startle, 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave, 
An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! 
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 
O' foggage green! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast, 
An' weary Winter comin fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 
Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 
But house or hald. 
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, 
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, 
Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 
But Och! I backward cast my e'e, 
On prospects drear! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 
I guess an' fear!

Here is a rough translation of the poem:

http://www.electricscotland.com/burns/mouse.html

And here is the audio of the poem:

Listen to this in Real Audio

Assignment: Burns compares his own life's struggles to that of a mouse. What animal do you feel best represents your life thus far, and why? Explain this association in a post on your blog. This can be in either prose (a few paragraphs describing the similarities or differences) or in poetry (in either Burns' style or your own!)

Execution of the Mentally Handicapped: Legal? (CP I)

A picture of Daryl Atkins, a mentally-handicapped man who was convicted of murder. His case was a landmark case in the American courts, but there were dissenters to the vote.

Check out the following links for our discussion today:

Atkins V. Virginia Wikipedia article

Official site for the Atkins V. Virginia case

Audio Transcript of the Ruling

Amnesty International article on execution of mentally handicapped

Similes and Metaphors in Song

It might surprise you to know that a great number of popular songs utilize figurative language to get their message across. Here are three that I found, along with their video links:

Pearl Jam - Wishlist

I wish I was a neutron bomb for once I could go off
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
The Christmas tree I wish I was the star that went on top
I wish I was the evidence I wish I was the grounds
For 50 million hands upraised and open toward the sky

I wish I was a sailor with someone who waited for me
I wish I was as fortunate as fortunate as me
I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good
I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro's hood

I wish I was an alien at home behind the sun
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on
I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on
I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down

I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up

The Wallflowers - One Headlight


So long ago, I don't remember when
That's when they say I lost my only friend
Well they said she died easy of a broken heart disease
As I listened through the cemetery trees

I seen the sun comin' up at the funeral at dawn
The long broken arm of human law
Now it always seemed such a waste
She always had a pretty face
So I wondered how she hung around this place

Hey, come on try a little
Nothing is forever
There's got to be something better than
In the middle
But me & Cinderella,
We put it all together
We can drive it home
With one headlight

She said it's cold
It feels like Independence Day
And I can't break away from this parade
But there's got to be an opening
Somewhere here in front of me
Through this maze of ugliness and greed
And I seen the sun up ahead
At the county line bridge
Sayin' all there's good and nothingness is dead
We'll run until she's out of breath
She ran until there's nothin' left
She hit the end-it's just her window ledge

Well this place is old
It feels just like a beat up truck
I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn
Well it smells of cheap wine & cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn
I'm so alone, and I feel just like somebody else
Man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
But somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
I think her death it must be killin' me

Guns N' Roses - Sweet Child O' Mine



She's got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky
Now and then when I see her face
She takes me away to that special place
And if I'd stare too long
I'd probably break down and cry

Whoa, Oh, Oh
Sweet child o' mine
Whoa, Oh, Oh, Oh
Sweet love of mine

She's got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain
Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place
Where as a child I'd hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by

Whoa, Oh, Oh
Sweet child o' mine
Whoa, Oh, Oh, Oh
Sweet love of mine



Well nighttime let her through
Yeah I'm talking to you
I wanna see her
Precious little thing

With eyes that dance around without their clothes
So buy a pretty dress
Wear it out tonight
For anyone you think could out do me

Or better still be my winding wheel
Cause I feel just like a map
Without a single place to go of interest
And I'm further North than South

If I could shut my mouth shed probably like this
So buy a pretty dress
And wear it out tonight
For all the boys you think could out do me
Or better still be my winding wheel

Be my winding wheel
Well the children laugh and sing a song that ushers in her driving rain

And I'm standing in the station like some old record waiting on a train
So buy a pretty dress
Wear it out tonight
For anyone you think could out do me
Or better still be my winding wheel

Be my winding wheel

A Good Man is Hard to Find

This song, written by singer/songwriter/genius Sufjan Stevens, tells the story of "A Good Man is Hard to Find", but interestingly, from the perspective of "The Misfit". Lyrics below the video:


Once in the backyard,
she was once like me,
she was once like me.
Twice when I killed them,
they were once at peace,
they were once like me.

Hold to your gun, man,
and put off all your peace,
put off all the beast.
Paid a full of these, I wait for it,
but someone's once like me.
She was once like me.

I once was better.
I put off all my grief.
I put off all my grief.
And so I go to hell, I wait for it,
but someone's left me creased.
And Someone's left me creased

Picture Prompt

Pick one of the following pictures. Once you have selected a picture, your job is to write a one page (double spaced) writing piece based on the picture. This can take any form, be it creative, a letter, etc. The response must be based upon things in the picture.

The Dinner Party (CP 2)

by Joshua Ferris

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/08/11/080811fi_fiction_ferris?printable=true

Make sure you finish reading this story by Monday and come in prepared to discuss.

Joseph Campbell and The Monomyth (CP 1)

Here are some online resources I found regarding Joseph Campbell and his work with the Monomyth.


This video may not work on your computers during school, but it will work when you get home:



Wiki article on The Monomyth

Joseph Campbell biography (with many links!)

My Chair (CP 2)

My chair rarely sits evenly on carpet or floorboards. One of its legs, like my own, is slightly longer than the rest. My chair wobbles precariously from the left to the right, from friend to enemy, from honesty to deception. Be careful when you use it; vicious splinters jut dangerously from the seat. One splinter screams, “Where will the future take you?” while another bellows, “Be careful whom you trust”. These are hard to dig out with fingernails, my friends. The chair back bends back for the brother I’ve carried along for far too long. The parallel slats are now permanently perpendicular from sudden deaths and shocking revelations—as if they lean forward to make sure they heard correctly. My chair is rickety, worn, and tired.
But my chair refuses to take its place by the side of the road; to face the callous-gloved garbage-men of tomorrow’s dawn. My chair has a heart carved into the bottom of the seat, ancient, yes, but refusing to fade. My chair has a shocking bit of blue paint clinging to its spine, a reminder that even the cloudiest day has a bold sky behind it. My chair can be used at weddings, funerals, birthdays and poker games—it is very versatile.
I’ve carried this chair for nearly a quarter of a century; through four presidents, three houses, and countless experiences both good and bad. There were moments when I nearly buckled under the weight of it—the fear of failure, the endless work, the burden of being the oldest child—but my knees stayed strong; because when I hold my chair at just the right angle, at just the right time of day, the sun has a way of shining through the wicker seat and falling gently on my head; and it reminds me that although sometimes the weight can be unbearable, it is my weight, it is my story, and it is my privilege to carry it for one more day.

Sisyphus (CP 2)

http://www.mythweb.com/encyc/entries/sisyphus.html

You don't need    to leave    your room.
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Don't      even      listen  ,      simply   wait.
Don't             even                wait.
Be  quite      still  and      solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you.
To be unmasked,  it has no choice.
It  will  roll in  ecstasy at your feet.

-Franz Kafka

Strange Days, Indeed (Quite Peculiar, Momma)

Results of recent surfing...






http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bailout

iphone/iPod touch blogging

just wanted to let you all know that you can blog from your iPhones or iPod touch...I just did!

About a Boy (CP 2)

Here's my attempt at modeling the style of Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl":

Spend at least ten percent of your income on things that make you smile; defend the least popular kid in school-- you’ll gain respect and make a friend; eat ice cream out of the carton; pay attention to your teachers—pretty soon you’ll have to pay for school; this is how you play a G chord; this is how you play an A chord; this is how you play an E chord; now go play a Ramones song; if your apartment has mice, just pretend you have a lot of tiny pets; watch black and white movies whenever possible; don’t judge people by who they voted for; stay out late on school nights--you can sleep at lunch; tell your friends that you love them, even if it makes them uncomfortable; don’t be afraid of dying--people weaker than you have been doing it for centuries; if you find yourself in the majority, switch sides immediately; do crunches, but don’t worry if you can’t see your abs; have your grandparents tell you their life stories; don’t start smoking—lung cancer is never cool; if you come across unexpected money, spend it immediately; at some point, grow a beard so you know how it looks on you; always hold the door for your date; if you get a pimple, don’t cover it with your mother’s makeup—you will go from the kid with a pimple to the kid who wears his mother’s makeup; don’t chase money, the most interesting people I know are poor as hell; when you’re making a sandwich, make it massive, you can always buy more groceries later; if you hit someone’s car, leave a note; never do something just because you’re supposed to; if you’re going to write someone a love letter, make sure you mean every word; if your friend is about to make a terrible decision, make sure you tell him so, after that, it’s his call; this is how you drive stick-shift; this is how you catch a fly ball; this is how white people dance—I know, it’s not pretty; go on road trips to inexpensive, undesirable places-- you will make them memorable; talk to your dog; talk to the janitor; talk to pretty girls, everyone’s intimidated by them and they get lonely too; hug your mother when she’s upset; hug your mother when she’s happy; hug your mother on the first day of school; never forget your friends’ birthdays; never pop your collar; never pee on the seat; At least once in your life, hug a complete stranger; give money to charities; give money to homeless people; tip the pizza guy way too much; sing in crowded elevators; fall in love easily and frequently; remember: a real woman doesn’t care about how big the diamond is; always kiss like it’s the last scene in the movie; and finally, life’s too short to do anything you that you don’t absolutely love; now mow the lawn.

Mother to Son - Langston Hughes

courtesy poetryfoundation.org:

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

___________________

This was one of the first poems that ever truly "hit" me. Not coincidentally, it is my mother's favorite poem, and one that she read to me from a young age. I think that this poem addresses one of the most universal sentiments in all of human existence: That life, on the whole, is painful. We like to discuss life as if it were a party or amusement park or something of the sort, but I believe that this glamorization is simply self-deception. Not to say that life isn't amazing, wonderful, beautiful, etc. (as a great man once said about life: "it beats the alternative.") But it is also very hard. I can't imagine how hard it was for Mr. Hughes' mother (for the sake of this analysis, I will assume this poem is based out of some autobiographic truth). Growing up a white male is distinctly different than growing up a poor black woman at a time when desegregation was a bleak hope for the future. Regardless of race, however, I feel that we can all take something away from this poem: That our lives aren't, and never will be, "a crystal stair", but that we will face our share of torn-up boards on our journey.

Grammies offer a few (major) surprises.

I just finished watching the annual endurance test known as the Grammies and, as always, the recording industry missed the mark almost universally. As was pretty much expected, the chronically troubled Amy Winehouse cleaned up, with no less than six trophies going into her column. Understandably, Winehouse was a Grammy favorite, with the hit single "Rehab" having been on our collective radars for the better part of the last year; however, one would have thought that due to her noted stints in rehab (ah, how art imitates life!) and recent visa issues, the voters may have changed their course.

The ever-outspoken Kanye West picked up the trophies for best rap song and album, once again, predictably, although with arguably his weakest album to date. Mr. West also performed the evening's biggest "head scratching" performance, which included neon lights, space suits, and a giant pyramid.

However, the one true surprise that came out of the night was saved for the finale. With such heavyweights as Winehouse, Kanye, and Foo Fighters seemingly the favorites to pick up the award for album of the year, it was jazz pioneer Herbie Hancock who left with the big prize. For a generation that for the most part only knows Hancock as the punchline to a Tommy Boy joke, this may have been a bit confusing, but as a fan of Herbie's for a number of years, I couldn't have been more pleased. For one reason, with the exception of Winehouse's album, the other options were relatively tame (probably the Foo's worst offering to date). But more importantly, this was a chance to put Jazz music, the oft-forgotten intellectual older brother of Blues, Rock, and R&B, to the forefront of the evening's festivities.

While still terribly and embarrassingly out of touch with the truly great music out there today, this year's show did provide a silver lining, albeit a silver-haired one.

Thesaurus

courtesy of poemhunter.com:

Thesaurus

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast
that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up
on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,
or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held,
house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs,
all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;
hairy, hirsute, woolly, furry, fleecy, and shaggy
all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,
inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile
standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

Here father is next to sire and brother close
to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.
And every group has its odd cousin, the one
who traveled the farthest to be here:
astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven
syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.
Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word.
Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever
next to each other on the same line inside a poem,
a small chapel where weddings like these,
between perfect strangers, can take place.

Billy Collins

--------------

I personally love this poem because it reminds me of why I love the English language so much. Imagining words gathered together at family reunions is pretty hysterical (to an English teacher, at least), and I love how the loosest synonym is referred to as the "odd cousin". My favorite part of the poem, however, is the underlying message that no two words actually mean the exact same thing, and that there is no such thing as a true synonym. The whole concept of the last stanza-- that the poet (Billy Collins, one of my favorites, by the way) encourages the "mixed marriage", so to speak, of unreleated words, is very powerful and exciting, from a writer's standpoint. What do you think?