I'm not mean, I'm just sarcastic

I can almost feel Joel Brouwer echo my title if I were to speak to him about his poem. Exceptionally brillant, Brouwer wrote the ultra unorganized Lines from the Reports of the Investigative Committees with such a tongue-in-cheek- sarcastic tone towards a serious issue, almost make you feel like you've been slapped in the face, then given a lollipop: So bittersweet it's addictive.

Don't get me wrong, Brouwer's tone is extremely professional, especially in his skills to keep his frustrated undertone hidden while delivering his narratives. However, it is the fact that I'm old enough to up pick up sarcasm, and also the stupendous nature of BP's fake attempt to try up clean up the ocean that gives me not choice BUT to laugh. It just feels good to see them as foolish and incompetent, it just feels good to demonize their lack of foresight and ignorance.

But when the sky turns from gray to black, and while you sit back and enjoy whatever you tend to enjoy while sitting,  and seriously consider the truth of the matter, you become fully aware of the "wholly black" of the ocean, the "snort of air" that rams and seabirds will never survive to take while trapped in that pit of tar, and the continuous incapability for us to do anything, but just tell Brouwer how useless you feel after reading his poem.

Awww... Cool.

If you are having a hard time finding some romantic/mushy love poems to read to your loved ones during Valentines Day/Father's Day/Mother's Day/I-love-my-bros-Day. Go and take a look at Jimmy Santiago Baca's I am Offering this poem. Recite it, and I guarantee you that your receiver will have one of the following responses: "Awww..." and "Cool."

Essentially that's what it is, a heartwarming,  son-of-a-gun-I-need-to-punch-a-wall-to-gain-my-manliness-back type of deal. And you don't need to be ashamed. But since I was reading this for literary analysis purpose; I withheld my femininity and analyzed the crap out of it.

What surprised me the most after reading his writing, is to find a small biography on his upbringing. A man of his past is shockingly capable of such emotional words and passionate lyrics. If anyone is interested in understanding more about this man, feel free to read the biography on his website (below). Chances are, you'll learn to appreciate what you have as a youth.

http://www.jimmysantiagobaca.com/biography.html 

The Who & The What

It's really nothing personal in terms of why "Somebody blew up America". No, it really isn't. Because we already know. It's just created so that the selected few of "us" can make our millions, we can gain our homeland security, and we can make you panic while sipping hot cocoa during 9/11. In a world of the highest technological advancement, it seems puzzling to Amiri Baraka that the Government would not have obtained firsthand information on the status of 9/11 prior to the happening. What he is concerned with, is the who/what, that messed up America.

Conspiracy Theory? Maybe. Understandable doubt? I think so. With a man as free as a poet, a investigative nature comparable to Sherlock, why can't a man question？ Instead he must be regarded as a man who criticize the Jew, the Super Rich, the whitey almighty. Try finishing his poem perhaps you will understand, man, this dude's got a point.

If one day you find the time away from your financial/marital/sibling/family/boyfriend/girlfriend/menstruation/masturbation/ AKA "ME" problems. Take a second and consider, who is the true terrorist that messed up America? What is the true terroristic events of America? Your answer would probably be something better, more historical than 9/11 itself.

Explosion not Deferred

I for one, am a huge fan of Jazz poetry. Therefore you can only imagine how estatic I am when I see Langston Hughes on the syllabus... 

 One of the earliest innovators of the then-new literary art form jazz poetry. Hughes is best known for his work during the Harlem Renaissance. He famously wrote about the period that the experiences of negro culture. The oppression and subpression towards African Americans during the Great Migration is most evident in Hughes poem Harlem and The Negro Speaks of Rivers.

What I love about Hughes is not only his academic achievements (He went to Columbia which for a minority, that's very impressive.) But what is even more impressive is his quality of empathy:

I am a Negro:
    Black as night is black,
    Black like the depths of my Africa.

Hughes is no like some others who disregards his ancestry. He empathies with his heritage, speaks for them, and celebrates them. He might not take action as radically as MLK, but his "explosion" of frustration, certainly does not wait...

People forgetting their shoes

When you continue to compose

           you start to forget the structure one should

                  start writing a piece of poem.

Writing in ways dissimilar to the norm

              in hope that others follow your pattern instead of the

                                    others expecting familiarity from you. 

Speaking the truth to what is truth to you.

Ferlinghetti in his poem "People getting divorce" is one such literal inventer

that re-envisions the flow of words. From his poetry I see not only the brilliancy of

story-telling (how he could assimilate the emotions of divorce in comparison to the lost

of a pair of shoes) to the ingenious of his structure. Just by looking at his poem we know that his story is different. His story is not going to be boring. 

He extends poetry to as much a visual experience as it is an auditory one. As his words engulfs me with fascinating delights.

Head in the Oven

As much as we denial it, we are all a little mysterious inside. But no one is as open with dramatizing this fact than Sylvia Plath. As I unfortunately misread the syllabus (damn..) I actually gain the fortune of reading one of Plath's short poem beforehand. 

As not to give anything away, let's just note that in Metaphors, Plath speaks about an issue that is in close relations with woman. The poem is structured precisely, no more, no less. Following the title is a chain of seemingly unrelated materials, which might puzzle you into thinking she's gone mad. But as the title suggests, the beauty of metaphors lies in its capability to representing subjects that are not literally applicable. Plath is hiding something.

Upon figuring out on your own, what would be even more interesting is to seek out the psychological aspect to her cover-up. Why did she choice to hid the truth? Why stick her words in metaphors? Just to give you a hint, the truth is more disturbing than what you could imagine.

In any case, for Plath, it must be more unbearable than sticking her head into her kitchen oven, on February 11th, 1963.

Freedom is Madness

If you manage to finish Allen Ginsberg's Howl in one sitting, with your complete, fullest attention and focus. You're about half way into understanding the reasons behind human insanity. 

Ginsberg reiterate a laundry list of insane activities that sounds like it would only happen in a novel (such as a clockwork orange) , or in a horror film. Except he presents it in a poem. Which is a literary form of art known for its ways of beautifying or romanticizing the nature of things. That is the known accomplishment of Ginsberg, his innovation of the art. 

But what is most important is his observation towards the state of the 1950's America, as he sees a brilliant patch of his generation being exploit and destroyed at the time. Whom later contributes to numerous acts of violence and obscurity. Who waves their genitals and gets fucked in the ass with joy. Are they are mad or are they free? For in a society, they can only be one or the other. 

If they live in Sparta, or in any society known for its violence and obscurity, perhaps the generation can then be judged free and normal. But in Eisenhower's America, such madness is in accordance with the brilliant generations lack of intellectual and creative freedom. These people whom might never become famous or earn a living wage for their originality. The Capitalistic and materialistic America allows the rush for riches, celebrates the eternal greed, and dance around the people who owns things. Not the ones who travels to various states for the pursuit for adventure.  

In Corporate America, freedom is madness.

Limpy Lives of New York

There is much to be identified, if we were just pay more attention to our surroundings. That is the message presented by Denise Levertov in her poem, “February Evening in New York.”If we only pay attention, we could see the among of working disabilities within our neighborhood. 

One such imagery comes with the idea of "glint of frost through the smoke". When does frost ever accompany smoke? Oh wait, when there is factories and industries. The image of the Mother Nature lies in the frost, because that is the nature occurrence of life. As can also been seen in the sentence of "As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens". What else lights up when the natural occurrence of the sky to turn dark happens? Artificial, florescent, light bulbs. 

There is much irony in the New York City that is presented by Levertov. One that isn't filled with glamor and glory, but one that is consistently denial towards the patterns of life. 

Another worthy of notation, is the description Levertov uses on the people of New York City. Calling them people with "balloon heads" with that has bodies that "aren't really there." The balloon headed persons walking down the streets, with minuscule bodies that is incapable of interactions and intimacy. Only a massive head that can possibly account for intellectual communication. 

Except. These heads are filled instead of airs and dust, full of nothing. These people also walked on "crooked heels", that proves to be nothing but painful. These people aren't sensible. Especially since the imagery implies that their bodies are already so tiny, serving nothing to support their balloon heads, and yet, still wears heels that are crooked. 

The image shown of New York, is dysfunctional. With our man-made lights and our disabled, limpy, body proportions. 

A Rather Complex Passion

It really is a rather complex passion. Seeing the way Li-Young Lee describe the relationship he has with his father was quite painful to read for an Asian American individual. That which I myself as a child that also grew up in an Asian family, can relate.

What Lee has done with this poetry, is a magnification of the relationship a father have towards his son, if only we closely examine his use of imagery.

I am sure most of us have caught on to the "gift" Lee receives from his father, which he explicitly identifies as the “gift of tenderness.” What allures me however, is what Lee did not identify. Such as the “flame of discipline” that rises above his head. The imagery of flame usually symbolizes passion and urgency, and in this instance, both these subjects. Those hands have been passionately, urgently, educated Lee to become the mature man he is today (as he will in present time, use his own hands to remove splinters from his wife's right hand).

Those hands that can masterfully remove splinters from Lee's hands, not only serves to protect the young lee, but also promotes order and discipline in the young child. Those were the hands that teaches.

  From this imagery I have come to understand that those hands are not all holy and protective. But have somewhere along the line, been used to punish the young Lee.

Another interesting factor that I find from his use of imagery is the identification of the removed splinter as “a sliver tear, a tiny flame”. Knowing the fact that tears is a component of fluid, stands in complete juxtaposition with the component of flame. Yet they were used to identify the same splinter that is now in the hand of young Lee. This again hint on the irony, almost awkward nature of his father as a savior. Perhaps Lee’s father is one of those unlikely heroes, that only this part of his memory, does he come to commemorate him.

Whatever the case may be, this poem has proven effective in helping me feel the idea of love-hate relationship one would have with his/her parent(s). And all that is left to make of this complexity we have for our parent(s), as told by Lee, is the gesture of a kiss at the end of poem.

All the Fishes in the Sea

Ahhh... What more can we ask of the sun except for her to shine so beautifully on a Monday morning? Her radiance; so warm and welcoming it is as if the embrace of a lady. 

Sounds familiar? Perhaps a little "Elizabeth Bishop"?

 In our previous class, we are becoming slowly accustom to the habit of using literary terminologies. And to the degree that we've learned one very important tactic Bishop uses throughout the "Fish". And that is Personification. Personification is define as

the attribution of a personal nature or character to an inanimate objects or abstract idea. In other words, breathing life into the non-living. 

 

Of course there are numerous devices we can identify such as diction, imagery, symbols, blah blah blah... But what makes personification stand out so much,  is how apparent it is. So an important question to consider when analyzing any sort of literature, is to seek out the authors purpose. Why is a fish personified?  My analysis to the question is as followed:

To identify the similarities between the fish and the Speaker. 

There is something we need to know about the Speaker before moving on. Firstly, we must see that the Speaker has the power to make decisions. That is; to either kill the fish (if he did, I think there will be no poem) or to keep it alive. The poem begin by noting how tremendous the fish is; and therefore, it should be noted that there is no advantage of letting go of such a HUGE gain. Upon moving the fish onto the boat, we can immediately see that the Speaker notices specific details about the fish that we normally do not see present. For example "his brown skin hung in strips/like ancient wallpaper/and its pattern of darker brown/was like wallpaper:/shapes like full blown roses/stained and lost through ages." Everything from the brown skin to where there is patterns of darker brown, could be identified with the naked eye. So regular individuals would be able to notice these change of colors. However, as the Speaker speaks of the full blown roses and how it has stained and lost through ages, I can't help but think "Wow, that's crazy." 

Let's think logically. How do you go from brown skin-> ancient wallpaper->full blown roses->stained and lost through ages? You don't even know how old the fish is! Clearly the Speaker is becoming more emotionally attached to the fish than it is to be expected of normal people. The personification of these imagery is too apparent to be ignored. So it can be quite possible that the Speaker might be an expert Fisherman instead of Bishop herself, or he recently got out of a mental institution. Well of course, the latter wouldn't be in the case since it is a literary work. The Speaker also identifies himself with the fish long enough to recognize these patterns of roses and stains. In fact, he identifies with the aging of the fish. Such evidences of  noticing aging can also be seen further when he speaks of the fish's whiskers "Like medals with their ribbons/frayed and wavering/a five-haired beard of wisdom/trailing from his aching jaw."

Though I am not sure if a fish's whisker is a sign of age or not, I doubt it has anything to do with wisdom. But certainly the Speaker is again, seeing things that I am not seeing. He notes the wisdom that accompanies the "beard", and the "aching" (wasn't the aching YOUR fault in the first place? Since you hooked him up?) of its jaw. The Speaker is becoming quite sympathetic, even respectful the longer it looks at it (while it is dying due to lack of water). And ended up letting the fish go. 

Now that we have evaluate the position of the Speaker (man of power; who can control the faith of life and death) and the fish (age, wisdom, beautiful, struggling).  A man, of such infinite power was unable to kill a tiny fish (it is worthy to note that no matter how "tremendous" that fish is, it can't be anywhere bigger than the Speaker). Perhaps after smoking a jot, he notice these humanitarian qualities. The Fisherman now sees the similarities between the dying fish and himself, and perhaps thought to himself: "And I'm but also a fish, a helpless fish in the Sea." As insane as it may be, that could be Bishop's message to her readers. That every person of power should be the keen observers of the beauty, the wisdom, the age, and the struggles of every being. A world where we see ourselves; as merely the fishes in the sea.