5655. RyckNelson - May 26, 1999 - 5:00 AM PT
sorry about the double it was edit trouble and by the way my 5650 was for fun, playing on the run.
Happy day poets.
5656. RyckNelson - May 26, 1999 - 5:02 AM PT
playing = the poem Tone on Tone and the verse at the bottom, not my comments to incognito.
Yah, never know how someone may take what yah write.
5657. incognito - May 26, 1999 - 6:17 AM PT
"I fear your ire was raised and that was not my intention at all."
Not even for a moment Ryck! I endeavor to have some rhythm to my poetry, but opt to shuck the meter for meaning when I feel it is necessary (or more properly, don't have the time to try and figure out how to say it better in meter!). I think in my short poem above the meter is iambic trimeter [ba BA ba BA ba BA] loosely of course!
msgreer thank you for the kind words!
5658. uzmakk - May 26, 1999 - 6:55 AM PT
Ah, politicians.
Masters of ledger-domain.
5659. incognito - May 26, 1999 - 12:24 PM PT
HOPE
by incognito
I'll never forget
the love that we share
no matter how great
the distance
For deep in my heart
we never will part
my feelings will have
no subsistence
Our fear my be great
our worries compounding
the way looks so hard
this instance
But know for all time
you'll always be mine
from me you will find
no resistance
5660. RyckNelson - May 27, 1999 - 8:37 PM PT
Kay Ryan's
OUTSIDER ART
***
Most of it's too dreary
of too cherry red.
It it's a chair, it's
covered with things
the savior said
of should have said--
dense admonishments
in nail polish
too small to be read.
If it's a picture,
the frame is either
burnt matches glued together
or a regular frame painted over
to extend the picture. There never
seems to be a surface equal
to the needs of these people.
Their purpose wraps
around the backs of things
and under arms;
they gouge and hatch
and glue on charms
till likable materials--
apple crates and canning funnels--
lose their rural ease. We are not
pleased the way we thought
we would be pleased.
Fun Imagism.
5661. RyckNelson - May 27, 1999 - 8:39 PM PT
of to cherry = or to cherry
5662. RyckNelson - May 27, 1999 - 8:40 PM PT
It it's = If it's
5663. RyckNelson - May 27, 1999 - 8:41 PM PT
of should = or should
have read it
5664. RyckNelson - May 29, 1999 - 9:42 PM PT
From: Amiri Baraka; Funk Lore: New Poems (1981-1995), Edited by Paul Vangelisti. Littoral Books, Los Angeles - 1996
"J. Said, "Our whole universe is generated by a rhythm"
***
Is Dualism, the shadow inserted
for the northern trip. as the northern
trip. minstrels of the farther land,
the sun, in one place, ourselves, somewhere
else. The Universe
is the rhythm
there is no on looker, no outside
no other than the real, the universe
is rhythm, and whatever is only is as
swinging. All that is is funky, the bubbles
in the monsters brain, are hitting it too,
but the circles look like
swastikas, the square is thus
explained, but the nazis had dances, and even some of the
victims would tell you that.
There is no such thing as "our
universe", only degrees of the swinging, what
does not swing is nothing, and nothing swings
when it wants to. The desire alone is funky
and it is this heat Louis Armstrong scatted in.
What is not funky is psychological, metaphysical
is the religion of squares, pretending no one
is anywhere.
Everything gets hot, it is hot now, nothing cold exists
and cold, is the theoretical line the pretended boundry
where your eye and your hand disappear into desire.
Dualism is a quiet camp near the outer edge of the forest.
there the inmates worship money and violence. they are
learning right now to sing, let us join them for a moment
and listen. Do not laugh, whatever you do."
5665. RyckNelson - May 29, 1999 - 10:15 PM PT
Unspoken Reflections
Mixing rhythm, the accents, the mixed metaphor; do the words foment expectation or exhaust? Contemplating, predispositions to unravel the word mystery. The explicit arts or the oblique conterpart. Facinating in its' frustrated creativity, seeking an unbinding of thought, systems toward acumentiy of words. Hope---trailing, lost, adrift...the words.
5666. RyckNelson - May 29, 1999 - 10:38 PM PT
VITA NOVA by Louise Glück, 1999
"AUBADE
***
The world was very large. Then
the world was small. O
very small, small enough
to fit in a brain.
It had no color, it was all
interior space: nothing
got in or out. But time
seeped in anyway, that
was the tragic dimension.
I took time very seriously in those years
if I rememeber accurately.
A room with a chair, a window.
A small window, filled with the patterns light makes.
In its emptiness the world
was whole always, not
a chip of something, with
the self at the center.
And at the center of the self,
grief I thought I couldn't survive.
A room with a bed, a table. Flashes
of light on the naked surfaces.
I had two desires: desire
to be safe and desire to feel. As though
the world were making
a decision against white
because it disdained potential
and wanted in its place substance:
panels
of gold where the light struck.
In the window, reddish
leaves of the copper beech tree.
Out of the stasis, facts, objects
blurred or knitted together: somewhere
time stirring, time
crying to be touched, to be
palpable,
the polished wood
shimmering with distinctions--
and then I was once more
a child in the presence of riches
and I didn't know what the riches were made of."
EXACTLY!
5667. RyckNelson - May 30, 1999 - 6:42 AM PT
Anyone
Wants to be
Share for free
Have a see
Vary in hope
Try to cope
Yes and nope
Seek a fold
Does it hold
Those it told
Sharp is fear
With none near
Need a peer
Fear of waste
Did this haste
No others taste
Retro metro
Set to meant to
Metro retro
Alone?
5668. RyckNelson - May 30, 1999 - 6:55 AM PT
Unspoken Reflections
The Smashing Pumpkins: Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness: Bullet with Butterfly Wings:
Part of verse seven;
***
"then someone will say what is lost can never be saved"
Considering the thoughts to choose and the feelings in the words. Clarity is one thing, scheme another, then what instrument? Metaphor, simile, connotations and which to display?
Confirmations...
Uncomplacent...
Communications...
Then find them, they're not finding you, sigh...
5669. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 6:59 AM PT
Lurk, read, like.
5670. RyckNelson - May 30, 1999 - 7:01 AM PT
incognito, I'm changing one word from two lines; second quatrain third and fourth lines of verse of post 5659.
my feelings will have
no sustenance
5671. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 7:10 AM PT
Oh good, I am glad that revisions are allowed--
Elephants of Poetry (Revised version)
Hannibal, mount the mounts!
The mighty elephants of poetry!
Believe in Christ.
Follow the Ten Commandments.
Draw a perpendicular.
Get a job and drink lots of coffee.
5672. RyckNelson - May 30, 1999 - 7:23 AM PT
Uzmakk,
You've won a great big grin.
Uzmakk!!
So, are you saying that poetry is a job? LOL
5673. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 8:46 AM PT
No, not at all Nelson. The poem starts with poetry and ends with the mundane. Somewhere there is a transition. Poetry a job, in the standard sense, never!!!!! Mount the mounts!!!!!!
5674. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 8:50 AM PT
And, ofcourse, once one mounts the mounts, the mounts mount the mounts.
5675. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 9:32 AM PT
I wait for the rose to open.
I wait for the Fragrance to post.
What a colossal waste of time.
5676. pellenilsson - May 30, 1999 - 10:40 AM PT
uzmakk
I'm tempted to repost the Odin poem here but since it mentions sacrifice and battle maybe it doesn't fit into the rather rarefied spirit of the thread?
Your advice is sought.
5677. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 11:14 AM PT
I say go with it, Pelle. I say if we cannot have poems about death, sacrifice and battle we are a bunch of pussies indeed.
5678. uzmakk - May 30, 1999 - 11:16 AM PT
BTW, there is nothing I like better than wasting my time waiting for the roses to bloom.
5679. pellenilsson - May 30, 1999 - 11:29 AM PT
I am Odin, the Warrior God of the North.
Dispenser of Victory, Taker of Lives.
You see me in a dark hooded cape,
my face in the shadows.
You do not see the empty socket;
the eye given in Mimer's well for wisdom.
Seven days and seven nights I hung.
Strung up on the boughs of the Tree of Destiny,
sacrificed to myself by myself for the secrets of the runes.
Now, I am who I am.
My steed is swift Sleipner, the eight-hooved one.
Hugin and Munin are my messengers.
High fly the ravens and bring me tidings from afar.
I crave for battle.
Men pray to me, and sacrifice for victory.
Sometimes I give; sometimes I betray.
I am Odin the Treacherous God of the North.
Behold. And tremble.
(Copyright 1999: Odin aka pellenilsson)
5680. RyckNelson - May 31, 1999 - 6:52 AM PT
Pellenilson,
Bring your Norse God anytime you want, as Uzmakk says if we can't have death and war themes we surely are mind numbed, engrossed in fearful cats.
The spirit of the poetry thread? Your Odin is full of strength and imagery. Cool! You may recall I'm a Minnesota native and of Norwegian descent and I recall you as being a very decent Swede. So Odin can be the spirit of this thread when we two share it. I love your poem, some tweaking aside.
I just like the sound a bit better if the words went this way:
Seeing me in my dark hooded cape
my unseen face cast in its shadow
AND
Now I am
The
Warrior
5681. RyckNelson - May 31, 1999 - 7:00 AM PT
Uzmakk, your poem mounts the heights only to find a displeasing need for coffee to make it through the work day. LOL
But I love coffee. Yah know those huge cups on the sitcom friends? I've bought six such cups. They're just about the right size for a morning brew, yet I often take two. With the arabica aroma wafting the morning air, my fingers find words to spare.
5682. RyckNelson - May 31, 1999 - 7:26 AM PT
Tom Waits: SWORDFISHTROMBONE
Well he came home from the war
with a party in his head
and modified Brougham DeVille
and a pair of legs that opened up
like butterfly wings
and a mad dog that wouldn't
sit still
he went and took up with a Salvation Army
band girl
who played dirty water
on a swordfishtrombone
he went to sleep at the bottom of
Tenkiller lake
and he said "gee, but it's
great to be home."
Well he came home from the war
with a party in his head
and an idea for a fireworks display
and he knew that he'd be ready with
a stainless steel machete
and a half pint of Ballantine's
each day
and he holed up in a room above a hardware store
cryin' nothing there but Hollywood tears
and he put a spell on some
poor little Crutchfield girl
and stayed like that for 27 years
Well he packed up all his
expectations he lit out for California
with a flyswatter banjo on his knee
with lucky tiger in his angel hair
and benzedrine for getting there
they found him in a eucalyptus tree
lieutenant got him a canary bird
and skanked her head with every word
and Chesterfield moonbeams in a song
and he got 20 years for lovin' her
from some Oklahoma governor
said everything this Doughboy
does is wrong
Now some say he's doing
the obituary mambo
and some say he's hanging on the wall
perhaps this yarn's the only thing
that holds this man together
some say he was never here at all
Some say they saw him down in
Birmingham, sleeping in a
boxcar going by
and if you think that you can tell a bigger tale
I swear to God you'd have to tell a lie...
5683. pellenilsson - May 31, 1999 - 7:34 AM PT
Ryck
I didn't know that you are of Norwegian descent, probably because we normally frequent different threads. Always nice to meet a fellow Scandinavian, even if somewhat diluted.
I like your first tweak very much. A definite improvement adding to the mystic dimension. But I'm doubtful about the second one. "I am who I am" is more majestic in my view and keeps it secret who he really is. "I am the Warrior" is too obvious I think and perhaps untrue as well. You will see after a decent interval. I have another one up my sleeve. usmakk, though, has seen that one as well, I think.
BTW do you visit the PlayPen at all? CalGal had a post there recently where she said that she at one time thought stamper was you but she found stamper's "coherence level too high". The reason I came to think about it is that when previewing I found my 2nd para somewhat incoherent. But what the hell? Perhaps it goes with poetry.
5684. RyckNelson - May 31, 1999 - 7:46 AM PT
Pelle,
I've not much time to play and Calgal has viewed my posts for quite some time. Therefore she knows how I posted around the Fray in the past. Yes, I've no glory in the Fray. But, I've determination, and I hope perseverance. That is I truly desire to be what I say here in poetry. Whether I'm able or not, my personal judgements are very severe indeed, I often erase many minutes of typing here then post nothing at all. This is my one and only effort of this kind in my life. It may not last long and I'm giving it all I've got. So, if Calgal would just take a minute and read a bit here, perhaps she would change her mind. Somehow, having her be here so long whilst I play with poetry, I've developed a hope that the long termers would lurk here and perhaps type in their poems or the ones they like.
I've also been hoping I don't kill this thread for Resonance, NuPlanetOne, JameWright and any other long time Poetry Frayster. But, with a mission so vast as the one I've put up for myself, no turning back is one of my mottos.
5685. RyckNelson - May 31, 1999 - 8:09 AM PT
This is the title, it needs verse input...
The Fray's Needless Fighting:
Give me lines for this and I will compile it and finish it.
5686. uzmakk - May 31, 1999 - 1:26 PM PT
RyckNelson:
I am going to make myself a cup of coffee. Wish I had more time for this. I remember you mentioning something about a communal poem at one point. I would take up your challege on The Fray's Needless Fighting in a serious way but these things require time. Will put it on the back burner though an may come up with a line or two.
5687. pellenilsson - May 31, 1999 - 1:41 PM PT
Ryck
What about something on the line that when arguments come to an end, invective is brought out as scaffolding for the hollow structure. "Seeking misunderstanding rather than understanding" could perhaps come in somewhere too.
5688. JamesWright - May 31, 1999 - 4:14 PM PT
That's Great Waits. Thanks, Ryck.
5689. JamesWright - May 31, 1999 - 4:17 PM PT
As for the communist type poem, if there is no editing, it can get pretty bad pretty fast. Maybe if a line has to be seconded and then thirded before it's permanent, then after that for it to be removed or some such. It's only a thought from an anal retentive. I've come a long way since the sixties.
5690. uzmakk - May 31, 1999 - 4:29 PM PT
Quite so, JW. Infact, a communist poem is almost the antithesis of a poem isn't it?
5691. RyckNelson - June 1, 1999 - 4:31 AM PT
Yes, I see your p.o.v. James. I've been around and visited many of the melt downs, I've participated, started at least one of my own(not recent), I went through the YO stage of Mahandas Gandhi "give peace a chance" and some laughable (to me) antics when I first started here.
What I'm trying to say is, I understand some of these people, not intimately, not personally, but cyberly. Ha, did I create that word? How about personacyberly? LOL
Anyway, If no input comes in I'll stop this second attempt at my nineties version of the sixties communal poem. I threw this last bit in because of what you posted wrt "since the sixties". I let my sense of danger go unheeded here and maybe I will discover something anew. Or, I'll see that it's truly messing around and trash the idea. Well it's not forfront stuff, maybe it's the spirit of exploration. Pelle has insightful lines to contribute and They'll be included thus far.
I'm going to compile and edit in M.S. Word then let it out of its' cage in stages or some dynamic. Maybe it's gotten all the contribution it's going to get?
5692. bubbaette - June 1, 1999 - 4:50 AM PT
We've been too seamless
in our Seamuslessness.
5693. pellenilsson - June 1, 1999 - 5:13 AM PT
Ryck
Here is something I posted earlier today in religion. It's the first verse of Psalms 133:
"Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!"
Could perhaps be used as for its contrast to needless fighting.
5694. ScottLoar - June 2, 1999 - 12:39 PM PT
I am dead now
Grass quivers,
eager to receive me.
Greens, growing thicker by its work.
5695. ScottLoar - June 2, 1999 - 2:15 PM PT
True Likeness
Tapped by flattery
my heart runs out
Truth pooling at your feet.
Look there now and confess:
That's not flattery's image
but your own true likeness reflected?
Mind that pool
For once spilt such sap cannot regain
nor heart easily suffer such flow.
No matter how tough the bark
once split the heartwood shows.
5696. ScottLoar - June 2, 1999 - 2:17 PM PT
That small poem was inspired by she who goes under the moniker Msivorytower, prompted by some words she once wrote me.
5697. uzmakk - June 2, 1999 - 5:25 PM PT
That is pretty good, Scott Loar. Msit, hummmm.
5698. webfeet - June 3, 1999 - 7:43 PM PT
scott, nicole kidman is on the cover of Vogue. did you see it>?
5699. webfeet - June 3, 1999 - 7:51 PM PT
sorry, i didnt read the last section that it was dedicated to ivory--i thought of kidman. but Ivory is a worthier muse, at least she doesn't want to go deep sea diving in a cage with great white sharks.
Ill leave you to your minstrels, aurevoir.
5700. RyckNelson - June 4, 1999 - 4:48 PM PT
Killed it--
planted?
vanity?
logaoedic?
5701. RyckNelson - June 4, 1999 - 5:04 PM PT
Jay Wright: The Cradle Logic of Autumn
***
Each instant comes with a price, the blue-edged bill
on the draft of a bird almost incarnadine,
the shanked ochre of an inn that sits as still
as the beavertail cactus it guards (the fine
rose of that flower gone as bronze as sand),
the river's chalky white insistance as it
moves past the gray afternoon toward sunset.
Autumn feels the chill of a late summer lit
only by goldenrod and a misplaced strand
of blackberries; deplores all such sleight-of-hand;
turns sullen, selfish, envious, full of regret.
Someone more adept would mute its voice. The spill
of its truncated experience would shine
less bravely and, out of the dust and dunghill
of this existence (call it hope, in decline),
as here the blue light of autumn falls, command
what is left of exhiliration and fit
this season's unfolding to the alphabet
of turn and counterturn, all that implicit
arc of a heart searching for a place to stand.
Yet even that diminished voice can withstand
the currying of its spirit. Here lies--not yet.
If, and only if, the leafless rose he sees,
or thinks he sees flowered a moment ago,
this endangered heart flows with the river that flees
the plain, and listens with eye raised to the slow
revelation of cloud, hoping to approve
himself, or to admonish the rose for slight
transgressions of the past, this the ecstatic
ethos, a logic that seems set to delight.
Autumn might be only desire, a Twelfth-night
gone awry, a gift almost too emphatic.
Logic in a faithful light somehow appeases
the rose, and stirs the hummingbird's vibrato.
By moving, I can stand where the light eases
me into the river's feathered arms, and, so,
with the heat of my devotion, again prove
devotion, if not this moment, pure, finite.
Autumn cradles me with idiomatic
certainty, leaves me nothing to disapprove.
cont.
5702. RyckNelson - June 4, 1999 - 5:08 PM PT
I now acknowledge this red moon, to requite
the heart alone given power to recite
its faith, what a cradled life finds emblematic.
James do you know the "Minneapolis Poem" 1968?
5703. MsIvoryTower - June 4, 1999 - 6:19 PM PT
ScottLoar Message #5695
Oh my. I'm deeply flattered, and quite tickled to think I could act the muse for you.
I'm only sorry I didn't see it earlier to thank you in a more timely manner.
5704. stamper - June 4, 1999 - 10:10 PM PT
RyckNelson & ScottLoar
i have read the last 40 posts and now relize what a fine compliment i got when old CalGal and others thought i was one of you or the other. i tried my hand at poetry but i would have miles to go, and miles to go
before i came close to your skills
i will lurk here again for your words, hillbilly that i am
5705. JamesWright - June 5, 1999 - 12:55 PM PT
Ryck:
No. Who wrote it? Could you post it?
5706. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 2:31 PM PT
Continuing a discussion from Suggestions--is this poem about a person who is considering suicide and decides against it?
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
****
I don't think that Frost's *intentions* are necessarily relevant--also, the fact is that this poem has been reprinted in children's poetry anthologies for years, so it may have been a convenient denial on his part. Still, I think poems are best discussed without reference to the artistic intent.
5707. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:04 PM PT
The poet's intentions are as relevant, as anyone else's interpretation.
It's funny you say that, because one of the stories we often read is O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find," one that I've read many times and still laugh out loud at, even the parts where the entire family is killed. O'Connor received a letter from a professor describing his frustration and that of his students and colleagues over the dream sequence part of the story. They couldn't figure out where Bailey's dream begins. Of course she had nothing in mind of that sort at all and there is no dream sequence. But her funniest response to a question about her story's meaning was to a professor annoyed with his students because they had a hard time accepting the grandmother as a demonic symbol--a witch with all the trappings down to the cat. He said his Southern students especially had a problem with this symbol, and her response, which was absolutely beautifully O'Connor--direct and funny--was to the effect that of course they didn't, because most of them had great-aunts or grandmothers just like her at home. She's damn straight they do! I can personally vouch for that.
O'Connor had some wonderful things to say about symbolism and the tendency of people to misuse or misrepresent symbols in literary works as though there is a puzzle to be solved, and once they determine what a symbol equals, be it right or wrong, that sums up the piece for them and consequently they miss a great deal in good works. I think that happens too much with this Frost poem, which is really a fine poem, no matter how often it's overquoted.
All that said, I know that some authors may not be forthcoming about the true sources and implications of their work (Coleridge with "Kublai Khan," Lennon with "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," etc.) but often the accounts in themselves contribute to the theme of the poem, as in Coleridge's case.
5708. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:05 PM PT
Remove that annoying comma in the first paragraph.
5709. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:10 PM PT
Very good, Cal.
Frost probably did intend a suicide metaphor; or at least a "not go gently into that dark night" metaphor. He's always denied it, but he might have just been being mischievous, and perhaps ridiculing those who insist on finding a deeper meaning in something which is elegant enough on its surface, concrete level.
"Suicide" is only the "sexiest" interpretation, the interpretation favored by followers of Camus who insisted that the first question an intelligent man should philosophize upon is "Why not kill myself?"
But "the woods" can mean any temptation, any distraction which will prevent him from carrying out his promises/fulfilling his desires etc. "The woods" might be anything from madness, to depression, to irresponsibility, to cheating on his wife and abandoning his family, to just plain old throwing in the towel and giving up.
Or "the woods" might be, as Frost insisted, "the woods." Period.
For an interesting take on the TRUE metaphor of the poem, see my last post in Suggestions.
5710. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:13 PM PT
Let me say something else about poetic interpretation, which is a tricky business for the most adept (in fact, I hope James will weigh in on this discussion), and that is, as dear Seamus once showed me with added information on "The Red Wheelbarrow," the circumstances or perspective of the author in the writing of the poem can expand one's appreciation of it; it shouldn't narrow it. Conversely, one shouldn't allow one's view of a poem to be narrowed by not looking at what the author has to say about it if such comments are available. They aren't necessary at all to the understanding of a poem, and an argument can be made against the suicide theme of SBW without Frost's comments. The ambiguity of the woods, the tone created by the images, etc, lend many nuances and possibilities--including a literal meaning--that do not suggest suicide. IOW, it can't be boiled down to an objective, right answer.
5711. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:13 PM PT
Arky,
"The poet's intentions are as relevant, as anyone else's interpretation. "
Okay, that's fine. I was objecting to the tendency that some have to give that interpretation *more* weight than any others.
I really don't see any other way to interpret it--unless you stick with the "plain" sense of it. I also don't see why there is anything scandalous about it. It doesn't ruin the poem; it's four stanzas that perfectly capture a choice. I don't think it can be interpreted to mean any choice, since the speaker's longing for the woods is inexplicable (to me, at any rate) unless they represent something self-destructive. But I'm open to interpretations on it.
Frost wrote more than one poem about death and at least once questioned the purpose of life in a marvellous poem called Design. So it's not as if "Snowy Woods" is atypical of his work.
5712. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:13 PM PT
If anyone has their Norton's or Collected Frost handy, I'd really like to see the poem "I am one accustomed with the Night" (or something like that). It's a great poem.
5713. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:21 PM PT
Ace,
I don't think a poem has to have only one meaning. But whatever the choice is, the disparity between his longing for the woods and the bleak, isolated, dark way that the woods are portrayed has to be accounted for.
5714. coralreef - June 5, 1999 - 3:24 PM PT
I really don't read that poem as being about suicide. I *do* take it at face value.....the "plain" sense of it.
5715. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:24 PM PT
"The woods are lovely, dark, and deep"
The woods represent something, I suppose, but the sexual/bacchanalial interpretation is stronger than the suicide interpretation.
Snow and ice represent death, not the woods.
5716. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:30 PM PT
...of course, since good poems about strongly concrete things like "snow," "night," etc. are capable of suggesting *anything* else (since all natural things are associated with some larger thing), poems by Frost and William Carlos Williams are capable of being interpreted as about just about anything.
Except for William's "The Red Wheelbarrow." Nobody, but NOBODY, can suggest a plausible metaphor for those "white chickens." I guess that's why he's one of my favorite poets. You don't have to think too much about it.
I don't like thinking.
5717. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:33 PM PT
Cal,
The Frost poem that most fits the idea, and it isn't a suicide poem at all, but does reflect a mood of depression (for lack of a better word right now--I've got company, dadgumit, and I'm trying to hurry) is "Desert Places." "Design" is a beautiful little poem, and one of a similar theme which I also like is "Range-Finding." But neither is suggestive of suicide or even has a similarly oppressive theme, so I'm not sure what you mean by the last paragraph of 5711.
"I really don't see any other way to interpret it--unless you stick with the "plain" sense of it."
There are a number of ways to look at the poem, aside from that or the literal interpretation--one would be simply removing from social interactions to solitude.
5718. stamper - June 5, 1999 - 3:34 PM PT
AceOfSpades
"the woods" could represent mystery. like i been saying, life is sure a mystery.
the poem i would love to see Fraygrants discuss is Frost's "Death of the Hired Man" (title by memory)
there are likes of good things in that poem, like "what Home" means, but the part i would like to see discussed by Fraygrants, is "how do you judge a man" the hired man did it 'by how a man built a rick"
i guess there's lots of ways.
i sure to remember your story about Joe Bob. makes me laugh to this day, ha,ha,ha, ha, ha
5719. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:35 PM PT
Why don't you like thinking, Ace? I'm beginning to suspect you're very good at it. I've enjoyed your posts on SBW. BTW, how come in all the Ace variations people have been calling you, no one's called you Ace Ventura?
5720. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:38 PM PT
"But "the woods" can mean any temptation, any distraction which will prevent him from carrying out his promises/fulfilling his desires etc. "The woods" might be anything from madness, to depression, to irresponsibility, to cheating on his wife and abandoning his family, to just plain old throwing in the towel and giving up."
Ace's suggestions as to other possible interpretations are perfectly plausible, imo. I didn't note them when I responded with my suggestion.
5721. coralreef - June 5, 1999 - 3:39 PM PT
I'm notoriously bad at interpreting and writing poetry, so I defer to others' expertise. But to me it seemed to be about perserverence and commitment, which is what I mean by taking it at face value. The woods to me represent just any stopping of his journey, which can be interpreted as death or various other things, but he probably didn't have anything in particular in mind. So many times I think artists do things because they just think it sounds cool and leave it to everyone else to search for phantom meanings.
5722. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:40 PM PT
It's a horribly cold night. The wind is blowing hard enough to make the only other sound in the poem. He is isolated from everything, far away from any other civilization. The woods are "filling up with snow" (so if snow represents death, have at it, pal). And it is the "darkest evening of the year".
So why is he out in the middle of nowhere, unless it is to look at the temptation of the woods, which are (to use your own interpretation) filled with death?
And of course, "the darkest evening of the year" in this sense represents the fact that the speaker is at a low point in his own life.
So he stops to consider suicide. And the horse's actions remind him that there is something wrong--not only with the choice itself, but with the consideration of it. So he reluctantly puts it aside.
I don't see any way in which the woods are presented as an objectively positive choice. Alluring to him, yes. But not in any absolute sense.
5723. coralreef - June 5, 1999 - 3:40 PM PT
cp arky, on one aspect of it, the "any stopping".
5724. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:43 PM PT
Cal,
But your description is contrary to the tone set by Frost's choices of words in the poem, as in "My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near..." The mood you're creating in the description fits Desert Places much more than it does SBW. I think you're reading things from the physical descriptions alone which the poem's tone doesn't suggest.
5725. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:44 PM PT
CoralReef:
Generally, I favor your "face value" interpretation, but he's obviously longing for the woods ("lovely, dark, and deep") and real-life woods are not inviting places, especially during a thick snowfall.
Ergo, "the woods" would seem to mean something else, unless the traveller is downright demented and wants to die in the wilderness.
Which brings us back to the suicide interpretation.
As anti-metaphor as I am, I just can't reconcile the woods not meaning anything, given the final stanza, and the fairly dramatic tone of his decision to mush onwards. I mean, Christ, if all he's doing is gawking at the woods and then deciding, "Shit, Wasted enough time looking at these woods, better get mushing again," that decision simply isn't dramatic enough to justify the phrasing of the last stanza.
5726. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:44 PM PT
I agree that it doesn't *have* to be suicide, although I think that is the ultimate choice at the heart of the poem.
As for the poem being merely about solitude or remove from social interactions, I think that ignores the horse and its purpose in the poem.
And Arky--you don't think Design has an oppressive theme? Good heavens. I didn't say Frost wrote other poems about suicide, incidentally--just that he wrote other poems about death.
5727. coralreef - June 5, 1999 - 3:44 PM PT
"So why is he out in the middle of nowhere"
I took it as he's on a journey, travelling.
"And of course, "the darkest evening of the year" in this sense represents the fact that the speaker is at a low point in his own life. "
More likely to me that it being the darkest evening of the year is bringing him (the persona) down than that it's a symbol of him being down.
5728. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:47 PM PT
Ace,
Certainly the woods are something more than just woods, but that doesn't make them death. There's no suggestion of that sense or tone anywhere in the poem until you reach the ambiguity of the final lines.
"I don't see any way in which the woods are presented as an objectively positive choice."
I don't see anything necessarily objective or absolute about the woods at all, including as a simple symbol of death.
5729. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:49 PM PT
Cal:
Re: Suicide
By the time I was a senior in High School, I had seen enough critics leap to the conclusion that this or that work was about suicide. Suicide, suicide, suicide. Sexy, sexy, sexy.
The "suicide" interpretation is defensible-- indeed, many people claim it is the definitive interpretation -- but I personally will not go gently into that good night. "Suicide" interpretations are stale and cliched. I'm plum tired of them. It's too goddamned easy.
Of course, the "sex" interpretation is also cliched and too goddamned easy. Sex is almost as sexy as suicide.
So I resist both.
The poem is about making a decision. Any decision. Turning away from the tempting and dark, turning towards commitments, turning towards responsibility, turning towards promises.
5730. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:49 PM PT
Aargh! Second part of that was to Cal. I see my computer as the woods and my company as my obligation (promises to keep). I guess I'll try to pop in later. It's family, so ignoring them won't make them go away.
5731. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:49 PM PT
Arky,
I didn't understand Message #5724.
Incidentally, here is:
Design
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white pice of rigid satin cloth--
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches' broth--
A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.
What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small.
***********
You don't think there's a touch of doom and gloom and what the fuck is the purpose of life in that poem?
I am reminded of the Calvin and Hobbes comic, when Calvin rescued a little racoon and it died anyway. "Why did it die? Why did I find it if it was going to die anyway?" he cried.
Next frame, he's hiding under his bed. "It's either by design or it's arbitrary, and either way it gives me the heebie jeebies."
5732. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:50 PM PT
Arky:
I'm not suggesting the woods represent death (See above). I am simply arguing with Coral that in this case, the "face value" of the image almost irresistably signifies something else.
Not necessarily death or suicide, but something.
5733. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:52 PM PT
Cal:
Now how about "I am accustomed with the Night"? (Or is it, "I walk the Night"? Yes, it might be that.)
5734. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:52 PM PT
Cal,
No I don't think the theme of Design is oppressive. Why would it be, as a question of what caused those rare objects to converge? The description of the setting is beautiful. Neither do I think Range-Finding is oppressive, though it describes the effect of a bullet at the start of a battle on a field.
"...although I think that is the ultimate choice at the heart of the poem."
But why? If it's at the heart of the poem it should permeate it, and it doesn't.
5735. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:54 PM PT
Ace, Message #5732
I don't know why I posted that other than not paying attention. I think you and I see the poem very similarly.
5736. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:56 PM PT
Ace,
Since I have no experience with various works being re-interpreted to be about suicide and that this is a "sexy" interpretation, I'm stuck with my own reading of it.
"The poem is about making a decision. Any decision. Turning away from the tempting and dark, turning towards commitments, turning towards responsibility, turning towards promises."
I think this is a reasonable sub-text, in that most people don't consciously spend time actively thinking about suicide as something tempting, alluring, and longed-for. The process described in the poem is one that we all go through from time to time, for the reasons you describe.
But I submit that the speaker in this poem *is* contemplating suicide, which is the ultimate choice. That doesn't mean that it doesn't have something to say about all choices.
5737. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 3:56 PM PT
I don't read "Design" as particularly gloomy or deathy (aside from the mention of death and the frequent mention of white, the color of death).
Tell you the truth, I don't know what the fuck it means. I barely understand it. I don't understand what on earth the last stanza means.
I don't like thinking.
5738. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 3:58 PM PT
Ace,
I don't have that one, either, but check out this site--Frost's poems are indexed by first line and title.
5739. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 3:58 PM PT
"You don't think there's a touch of doom and gloom and what the fuck is the purpose of life in that poem?"
Nope. Of course there's a sense of a hand on thing, but no touch of gloom and doom. Where would it come from other than the fact that any outside force might have an effect on outcomes? That concept might give you the heebiejeebies, but I don't see *in the poem* that Frost is affected that way.
5740. coralreef - June 5, 1999 - 3:58 PM PT
Message #5725 Yes, I concede the woods may mean something, though like I said he may not have had anything in particular in mind. I think we see it similarly. Or as stamper would say, closse nuff.
5741. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 4:06 PM PT
Arky,
"If it's at the heart of the poem it should permeate it, and it doesn't."
I disagree--I think the entire poem is reinforces it with images of bleakness, desolation, and isolation. The words repeated most often are "dark", "sleep", and "go"--and most of all "woods", which we all agree represents the choice that is tempting him.
"The darkest evening of the year" taken in anything *other* than the literal sense has to refer to the speaker's life and a dark time in it.
He knows that he's safe to consider this choice--there is no one here to see him, the owner is in the village. I don't think it's an accident that the horse wonders if it might be a "mistake"--again, why is the horse in the poem at all except to remind him there is something unusual and potentially alarming about this choice? (He's representing "horse sense"--ha).
5742. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 4:07 PM PT
Arky,
"What but design of darkness to appall?--
If design govern in a thing so small."
So then explain why he's appalled.
5743. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 4:08 PM PT
The darkness is being appalled by the convergence of white.
5744. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 4:09 PM PT
duhhhh... it's "ACQUAINTED with the Night," not "Accustomed (D'oh!) with the Night.")
Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
5745. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 4:11 PM PT
Incidentally, I don't wish to imply that Design is a statement of how Frost viewed the world all the time. And I'm not sure how you can completely dismiss the images of death and blight in that poem, given that my purpose in bringing it up was to demonstrate that Frost often wrote about death.
Again, it's not that simple or his poems wouldn't have such a universal appeal. They work on many levels, naturally. But at the heart of his poetry is a very bleak world-view.
5746. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 4:12 PM PT
I do love that poem, Ace. It's been a long time since I've read it.
BTW, my company's gone. I hope I didn't offend them.
5747. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 4:14 PM PT
Arky,
Whether offended or not, aren't you glad they're gone? Nice work.
5748. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 4:16 PM PT
"But at the heart of his poetry is a very bleak world-view."
That's completely in contrast to how I see Frost's poetry, and I think many others would be surprised at that remark. He discusses dark themes, surely. All great poets do at times. In fact, there is something of that in the theme of isolation and loneliness in the poem Ace posted. But his poems contain some of the most beautiful and heartening descriptions of nature and rural life in American poetry.
5749. arkymalarky - June 5, 1999 - 4:19 PM PT
Cal,
Message #5747
Haha. I'm actually burdened with guilt. They're my in-laws, though. They came to see my daughter, not me. If my danged husband was home like he's supposed to be it wouldn't have been a problem. It's all his fault.
5750. AceofSpades - June 5, 1999 - 4:21 PM PT
"Acquainted with the Night" isn't very bleak IMHO. Literally, it's not bleak at all; he's just walking at night (yes, he's embarassed that a beat-cop sees him, yes, he hears a scream; but common enough while walking at night).
Once again-- like SBW --the bleakness/death stuff largely comes from the fact that it's taking place at night.
But you can go too far with this sort of night=death stuff. After all, much of both Flashdance and Footloose take place at night, including the biggest dances, and they're obviously not about death.
A poem has to be set during *some* time of the day, after all.
5751. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 4:24 PM PT
Arky,
I think the disconnect comes because people see the beautiful descriptions and miss the bleakness behind them. I see nothing contradictory in your description of his work in Message #5748 and my saying his poetry was incredibly bleak.
Hell, we've just posted three poems dealing with death, isolation, solitude--that also present beautiful images.
5752. CalGal - June 5, 1999 - 4:29 PM PT
Ace,
I actually think most of Frost's most famous poems are the sad and bleak ones--and there is plenty in that poem that suggests both. Not just that it takes place at night.
Incidentally, just because his poems often have a bleak heart doesn't mean that they're doom and depression. In fact, he chooses to find the good in life and in any place he is, even with the sadness.
5753. wabbit - June 5, 1999 - 5:21 PM PT
a few remarks by the man himself, fwiw
5754. coralreef - June 5, 1999 - 5:26 PM PT
"We all of us read our pet theories into a poem." -- Frost.