#words

[alexis-jeter]

ee cummings reflection - slightly late

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in)

  i carry you 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)

    I choose to annotate and write about “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in)” for this week’s tumblr post. Of the ee cumminds poems in the packet, I related most to the emotion and subject matter in “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in).” Cummings seems, from the readings we have, to focus on aspects of passion in love. It is important to note for this work that it can be interpreted as relating to romantic, familial, or even great friendship love. There is a temptation, when it is juxtaposed with his other poems that are more romantic in nature (e.g.  “somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond” or “may i feel said he”) to immediately believe the speaker is addressing a lover. However, the poem also holds a powerful suggestion of a mother or father addressing a child. The 3rd stanza indicates the addressee is “the root of the root”, “the bud of the bud”, “the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows” and points to a relationship that is genetic in nature. Like Emily Dickinson, ee cummings chose not to title his works and ended up with first lines as titles (whether by his choice or an editors). His unusual use of punctuation and language relationships reflects Gertrude Stein’s experimentation with the sound of word. And like William Carlos Williams and Wallace Stevens shows an interest in the here and now with elements of stream-of-consciousness style.

[alexis-jeter]

A Compilation of the Adventures of One Young Zebra

So one of my good friends just started a blog about her experience with chronic illness. She has a pretty rare genetic disorder called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome that causes other chronic illnesses including IBS and and POTS. Sharing it with everyone to get the word out for her. She really wants to help other people living with chronic illness and raise awareness for correct diagnosis (she was misdiagnosed several times). Please check it out!

[alexis-jeter]

La tortuga que anduvo tanto tiempo y tanto vio con sus antiguos ojos, la tortuga que comió aceitunas del más profundo mar, la tortuga que nadó siete siglos y conoció siete mil primaveras, la tortuga blindada contra el calor y el frío, contra los rayos y las olas, la tortuga amarilla y plateada, con severos lunares ambarinos y pies de rapiña, la tortuga se quedó aquí durmiendo, y no lo sabe. De tan vieja se fue poniendo dura, dejó de amar las olas y fue rígida como una plancha de planchar. Cerró los ojos que tanto mar, cielo, tiempo y tierra desafiaron, y se durmió entre las otras piedras.

La Tortuga, Pablo Neruda

[alexis-jeter]

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego: te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, etre la sombra y el alma. Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores, y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra. Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde, te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera, sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres, tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía, tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

Soneto XVII, Pablo Neruda

[alexis-jeter]

I live in a quiet place, where any sound at night means something is about to happen: You come awake fast – thinking, what does that mean? Usually nothing. But sometimes...it's hard to adjust to a city gig where the night is full of sounds, all of them comfortably routine. Cars, horns, footsteps...no way to relax; so drown it all out with the fine white drone of a cross-eyed TV set. Jam the bugger between channels and doze off nicely. Ignore that nightmare in the bathroom. Just another ugly refugee from the Love Generation, some doom-struck gimp who couldn't handle the pressure. My attorney has never been able to accept the notion – often espoused by reformed drug abusers and especially popular among those on probation – that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them. And neither have I, for that matter.

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971)

[alexis-jeter]

'Look,' I said, 'you'd better put that goddamn blade away and get your head straight. I have to put the car in the lot.' I was backing slowly towards the door. One of the things you learn, after years of dealing with drug people, is that everything is serious. You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug – especially when it's waving a razor-sharp hunting knife in your eyes.

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971)

[alexis-jeter]

The only way to prepare for a trip like this, I felt, was to dress up like human peacocks and get crazy, then screech off across the desert and cover the story. Never lose sight of the primary responsibility. But what was the story? Nobody had bothered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on drugs in Las Vegas. Do in now: pure Gonzo journalism. There was also the socio-phychic factor. Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only real cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive like a bastard from Hollywood to Las Vegas. To relax, as it were, in the womb of the desert sun. Just roll the roof back and screw it on, grease the face with white tanning butter and move out with the music at top volume, and at least a pint of ether.

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1971)

[modernpoetrycompanion]

We’re doing something a little different this week, which will prepare you for the difference of Gertrude Stein. In lieu of a discussion question you should write a response to a Gertrude Stein poem from your packet and post the response on your student tumblr. Here are more detailed...

[alexis-jeter]

Although I had heard of Stein, I had never really read any of her work and so had no idea what to expect for this week, but she certainly defied any thoughts I might have had of her. I find her work ranges between being really frustrating to read and somewhat interesting depending on how much I feel I do or do not see what she is trying to do. In "Blue Coat", I saw a few things which might be interesting to talk about, although I experienced very little connection with any of her work. I though the most fascinating thing her was her choice of an object, the coat, as what I saw as a stand-in for a human. There is an implication that the object is defining something more, which would be the person wearing it and moving away. The speaker uses "guided" four times within the span of six words, and thus places emphasis on a past tense verb. However, guided is an unusual verb in the sense that it is an action happening in the past facilitated by an unknown entity - i.e. the coat is moving away by the subjective action (if that makes sense - something is there guiding it). There is a presence in the poem which is not the coat or the speaker but remaines both unknown and unacknowledged. Overall, I found the rest of the poems by and large unintelligble. However, her reading "Matisse" was very interesting and I definitely connected with her more when I heard her emphasis and voice in the work. On the page, however, her poems seem very daunting. It's very hard to say anything about any of them beyond pointing out words or repetitions, but perhaps that's the point?

[alexis-jeter]

I Wish I Knew Natalie Portman - K-os, Yes! (2009)

[uncivilwrites-deactivated201606]

19, 29

19:How do you know it’s time to end a relationship?

It’s usually an epiphany.  Someone will say or do something that puts the entire relationship into a new perspective and I’ll just be over it.

29:What do you notice first about another person?

Physically…hair, smiles and figures

Personality-wise…how seriously they take themselves.  Gotta have a sense of humor.

[alexis-jeter]

oddly enough same for me. maybe for lots of people? might only add that i look too at someone's face as a whole. the best of people i've known have a certain open quality in the way their eyes and their smile fit together. they speak with their expression and there's truthfulness there

[modernpoetrycompanion]

In preparation of our class on Tuesday, you’ll be looking through the work of Langston Hughes. It is so exciting that you’re able to delve into his poetry and spoken works. Hughes was a poet of his time, his influences were the people he knew and the music he loved. You’ve been given a taste of...

[alexis-jeter]

Hm, Langston Hughes' voice speaks/has spoken to/continues to speak to many people. Oppression and racism, the voicelessness of minorities in this country - themes central to his work - are as real and as pervasive, now, as when he wrote any one poem. It is, thus, sort of impossible to really pin down any one certain audience. Perhaps anyone who has been silenced on the basis of any aspect of their appearance or being? But then, it is also not quite so simple. It is not very easy to generalize in such a way. He is an artist whose work speaks, even if it does not speak to everyone (or, by implication, anyone - not really the case for Langston Hughes, but worth considering for other artists). As far as how his environment influenced his work...it is everywhere. There is no one poem, at least in our readings, that does not contain some reference to race, art, music (specifically blues), America, oppression, slavery, inclusion (or exclusion), etc. His poetry is filled with the things that concerned him - his experience as a black, male artist in Harlem during the Harlem Renaissance, and the experiences of the past and future of minorities in America. (Side note here: I did not define the Harlem Renaissance because the answers I read that have already been posted to this question do a pretty good job of that.) When his speaker exclaims, "I'm still here!," in the aptly titled poem "Still Here," he or she speaks with a voice that has not disappeared under the weight of a history, and present, of persecution. The speaker of "Still Here" summarizes the body of Langston Hughes work best in his/her action of demanding recognition of his/her being and the promise of a better life.

[sunbeamdaydreams-deactivated202]

Once you start to speak, people will yell at you. They will interrupt you, put you down and suggest it’s personal. And the world won’t end. And the speaking will get easier and easier. And you will find you have fallen in love with your own vision, which you may never have realized you had. And you will lose some friends and lovers, and realize you don’t miss them. And new ones will find you and cherish you. And you will still flirt and paint your nails, dress up and party, because, as I think Emma Goldman said, “If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.” And at last you’ll know with surpassing certainty that only one thing is more frightening than speaking your truth. And that is not speaking.

Audre Lorde (via thechocolatebrigade) the only theorist who can make me cry (via fromonesurvivortoanother)

[modernpoetrycompanion]

First of all, I want to extend my apology to you all. I had a few tech issues on my side that kept me from being able to post this discussion question on our agreed upon time. In the meantime it’s my hope that you’ve enjoyed taking in all the content Dickinson has to offer here on the MPC. As...

[alexis-jeter]

Emily Dickinson, as a few classmates have pointed out, lived in a society which favored the male mind over the female. Yet, she lived in a household in which education (of both male and female children) was given priority. Her upbringing and strict, wide-ranging education is a sign of her family's community status and undoubtedly contributed to the manifestation of her "genius" (as the bio video called it). As Virginia Woolf observed in A Room of One's Own, we do not talk about Shakespeare's sister because she could not have existed in a society where female education was all but nonexistent. Thus, it could be argued that the most important element of Dickinson's life was not her escape from patriarchal norms (in her adult life), but her father's (presumably, since her mother was an invalid most of her life) choice to education her as a child and further choice to support her as an adult.

[alexis-jeter]

Oh — did I offend it — [Did'nt it want me to tell it the truth] Daisy — Daisy — offend it — who bends her smaller life to his (it's) meeker (lower) every day — who only asks — a task — [who] something to do for love of it — some little way she cannot guess to make that master glad — A love so big it scares her, rushing among her small heart — pushing aside all the blood and leaving her faint (all) and white in the gust's arm — Daisy — who never flinched thro' that awful parting, but held her life so tight he should not see the wound — who would have sheltered him in her childish bosom (Heart) — only it was'nt big eno' for a Guest so large — this Daisy — grieve her Lord — and yet it (she) often blundered — Perhaps she grieved (grazed) his taste — perhaps her off — Backwoodsman [life] ways [troubled] teased his finer nature (sense). Daisy [fea] knows all that — but must she go unpardoned — teach her, preceptor grace — teach her majesty — Slow (Dull) at patrician things — Even the wren upon her nest learns (knows) more than Daisy dares — Low at the knee that bore her once unto [royal] wordless rest [now] Daisy [stoops a] kneels a culprit — tell her her [offence] fault — Master — if it is [not so] small eno' to cancel with her life, [Daisy] she is satisfied — but punish [do not] don't banish her — shut her in prison, Sir — only pledge that you will forgive — sometime — before the grave, and Daisy will not mind — She will awake in [his] your likeness. Wonder stings me more than the Bee — who did never sting me — but made gay music with his might wherever I [may] [should] did go — Wonder wastes my pound, you said I had no size to spare — You send the water over the Dam in my brown eyes — I've got a cough as big as a thimble — but I don't care for that — I've got a Tomahawk in my side but that don't hurt me much. [If you] Her master stabs her more — Won't he come to her — or will he let her seek him, never minding [whatever] so long wandering [out] if to him at last. Of how the sailor strains, when his boat is filling — Oh how the dying tug, till the angel comes. Master — open your life wide, and take me in forever, I will never be tired — I will never be noisy when you want to be still. I will be [glad] [as the] your best little girl – nobody else will see me, but you — but that is enough — I shall not want any more — and all that Heaven only will disappoint me — will be because it's not so dear

Emily Dickinson, early 1862? (letter no. 248)

[alexis-jeter]

Master, If you saw a bullet hit a Bird — and he told he was'nt shot — you might weep at his courtesy, but you would certainly doubt his word — One drop more from the gash that stains your Daisy's bosom — then would you believe? Thomas' faith in Anatomy — was stronger than his faith in faith. God made me — [Sir] Master — I did'nt be — myself — [He] I don't know how it was done — He built the heart in me — Bye and bye it outgrew me — and like the little mother — with the big child — I got tired holding him — I heard of a thing called 'Redemption' — which rested men and women — You remember I asked you for it — you gave me something else — I forgot the Redemption [in the Redeemed — I did'nt tell you for a long time — but I knew you had altered me — I] and was tired — no more — [so dear did this stranger become, that were it, or my breath — the alternative — I had tossed the fellow away with a smile.] I am older — tonight, Master — but the love is the same — so are the moon and the crescent — If it had been God's will that I might breathe where you breathed — and find the place — myself — at night — if I can never forget that I am not with you — and that sorrow and frost are nearer than I — if I wish with a might I cannot repress — that mine were the Queen's place — the love of the — Plantagenet is my only apology — To come nearer than Presbyteries — and nearer than the new coat — that the Tailor made — the prank of the Heart at play on the Heart — in holy Holiday — is forbidden me — You make me say it over — I fear you laugh — when I do not see — [but] 'Chillon' is not funny. Have you the Heart in your breast — Sir — is it set like mine — a little to the left — has it the misgiving — if it wake in the night — perchance — itself to it — a timbrel is it — itself to it a tune? These things are [reverent] holy, Sir, I touch them [reverently] hallowed, but persons who pray — dare remark [our] 'Father'! You say I do not tell you all — Daisy 'confessed — and denied it not.' Vesuvius don't talk — Etna — don't — [They] one of them — said a syllable — a thousand years ago, and Pompeii heard it, and hid forever — She could'nt look the world in the face, afterward — I suppose — Bashful Pompeii! 'Tell you of the want' — you know what a leech is, don't you — and [remember that] Daisy's arm is small — and you have felt the Horizon — hav'nt you — and did the sea — never come so close as to make you dance? I don't know what you can do for it — thank you — Master — but if I had the Beard on my cheek — like you — and you — had Daisy's petals — and you cared so for me — what would become of you? Could you forget me in fight, or flight — or the foreign land? Could'nt Carlo, and you and I walk in the meadows an hour — and nobody care but the Bobolink — and his — a silver scruple? I used to think when I died — I could see you — so I died as fast as I could — but the 'Corporation' are going too — so [Eternity] Heaven won't be sequestered [at all] now — Say I may wait for you — Say I need go with no stranger to the to me — untried [country] fold — I waited a long time — Master — but I can wait more — wait till my hazel hair is dappled — and you carry the cane — then I can look at my watch — and if the Day is too far declined — we can take the chances [of] for Heaven — What would you do with me if I came 'in white?' Have you the little chest — to put the alive — in? I want to see you more — Sir — than all I wish for in this world — and the wish — altered a little — will be my only one — for the skies — Could you come to New England — [this summer — could] Would you come to Amherst — Would you like to come — Master? [Would it do harm — yet we both fear God —] Would Daisy disappoint you — no — she wouldn't — Sir — it were a comfort forever — just to look in your face, while you looked in mine — then I could play in the woods — till Dark — till you take me where sundown cannot find us — and the true keep coming — till the town is full. [Would you tell me if you will?] I did'nt think to tell you, you did'nt come to me 'in white' — nor ever told me why — No Rose, yet felt myself a'bloom No Bird — yet rode in Ether —

Emily Dickinson, approx. 1861 (letter no. 233)

[alexis-jeter]

Dear Master, I am ill, but grieving more that you are ill, I make my stronger hand work long eno' to tell you. I thought perhaps you were in Heaven, and when you spoke again, it seemed quite sweet, and wonderful, and surprised me so — I wish that you were well. I would that all I love, should be weak no more. The Violets are by my side, the Robin very near, and 'Spring' — they say, Who is she — going by the door — Indeed it is God's house — and these are gates of Heaven, and to and fro, the angels go, with their sweet postillions — I wish that I were great, like Mr. Michael Angelo, and could paint for you. You ask me what my flowers said — then they were disobedient — I gave them messages. They said what the lips in the West, say, when the sun goes down, and so says the Dawn. Listen again, Master. I did not tell you that today had been the Sabbath Day. Each Sabbath on the Sea, makes me count the Sabbaths, till we meet on shore — and (will the) whether the hills will look as blue as the sailors say. I cannot talk anymore (stay any longer) tonight (now), for this pain denies me. How strong when weak to recollect, and easy, quite, to love. Will you tell me, please to tell me, soon as you are well.

Emily Dickinson, approx. 1858 (letter no.187)

[alexis-jeter]

Tadpole School - Eiko Jones