ModPo 2013 #36 Boundaries and Cycles: On Frost's "The Mending Wall"

Image of Frost on the wall from iws2.collin.edu. 

Robert Frost, "Mending Wall" 

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
-----------------------------------------------------------

Robert Frost has always been a favorite of mine. I've stopped by the woods of "Stopping By The Woods" and I've always been haunted by the much quoted "miles to go before I sleep." Well, first of all, I'm fascinated by snow and secondly, Frost is a master of the form. While it's been argued over and over about how the times have changed and that the form needs to follow the times, I have to tip my hat (what a strange idiomatic expression for a Filipina!) to the guy for sticking to his guns (another idiomatic expression...but perhaps one more in touch with the Philippines) and doing the most he could with the traditional form.

I appreciate his argument while I don't necessarily subscribe to it. Many, many years ago, I wrote free verse long before I was formally introduced to it in grade school. My teacher corrected my poems by making my lines rhyme! My stepmother asked to meet my teacher and she gave my teacher a piece of her mind. I can imagine my grade four self meeting Frost (one frosty evening) and petulantly asking, "But why should poems rhyme?" And I can imagine his answer, "Little miss, it's like playing tennis without a net!" Hahaha!

"Mending Wall" is a multilayered and self conscious argument for the net, for the rules, for the form. Oh! But rules are meant to be broken! He reminds me that rules must be learned before they can be broken. That I can appreciate.

I like how he makes the cause of the broken wall so mysterious: "Something there is that doesn't love a wall." And then he links this to "elves" which he also quickly dismisses. I like how that is also metapoetic and universal. It's metapoetic because he is living at a time when the "wall" of structured poetry is being broken left and right by poets he does not like (Stein, for one). It is also universal because any kind of structure is always being broken down by chaos. It's a constant struggle: order and chaos. Frost makes the argument for order but he creates the false binary of order versus chaos.

Did the speaker agree to "good fences make good neighbors"? The speaker points out that the neighbor in the poem is not aware of its significance, repeating only what he has been told. The speaker, of course, is not as dim and has thought this over. He repeats the phrase. I have no doubt the speaker is advocating this phrase. It is clear from his self-conscious choice of honoring the tradition of mending the wall. I read this on two levels. The first being, good structure makes good poets. It is in recognizing and keeping to the boundaries that the good poet, the good human being is at the height of his humanity. The second being, boundaries define human interaction. There are no human interactions if there are no boundaries. I agree on the second (more than the first) that boundaries have their role in any interaction.

There are many other facets outside the order that Frost recommends. Yes, there is a classical elegance to the form that he chooses. However, the first world war (and then the second) has left the world in such fragmentation that classical elegance no longer applies. For something to grow, it must leave its boundaries. The cell cannot be in stasis, biologically speaking.

I appreciate, too, what Frost is saying about the wall: it will always be broken. It takes a certain kind of effort to continuously mend the wall. It says something about the cyclical nature of humanity as well. There will always be a struggle to break free...but at some point, that "breaking free" will become a tradition in itself which will again be broken.

This brings me back to canon, to Pound (and criticism), and to ars poetica. Like any piece of art (which may not have been considered "art" during its time), the poem captures the scent, the shape, the image, the structure of its times. And definitely, Frost captured an aspect and an argument of ars poetica. "Mending Wall," I'm sure, was his response to imagism. I hold this up as part of the prism of poetry. It is multifaceted, multicultural and always engaging. I hope to capture as much as I can of the variety and richness of the voices I hear out of ModPo.

ModPo 2013 #20 Beauty in the Broken: On Williams' "Between Walls"

Image from www.123rf.com.

Between Walls

the back wings
of the

hospital where
nothing

will grow lie
cinders

In which shine
the broken

pieces of a green
bottle

- William Carlos Williams

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

Finding beauty in what is broken is really a modernist impulse. You won't really find it in traditional poetry. I find in the repeated mention of broken glass in Williams' poems an attempt to really flesh out this image of brokenness. One could read it as that: something is simply broken. But he imbues it with the color of growth, with the color of spring. In this poem, the broken green glass is the only thing that shines. 

I can almost imagine Dr. Williams leaning over the balcony of the back wings of the hospital looking for something to pin his focus on. He is looking for his focal point of meditation. And there, among the cinders, something mimics the stars. It is only a broken green bottle but it is a revelation. It is a moment of epiphany. 

This takes me back to my ars poetica. Poetry is a conversation but it is also a shared glimpse into something. It may be something new. It may be something beautiful. It is a view that prompts the writer to take the reader's hand. "Come, look!" the writer says. It will be worth it. No need to look up at the stars. It reminds me of Stevens' line on the thin men of Haddam. Do you not see what is at your feet? Stay grounded, here, between the hospital walls. Look down at the ground and find among the ashes what shines. It is an invitation to find in the ordinary, in the mundane, in the dullness, even in the ugliness...a brilliant moment to keep. 

ModPo 2013 #16 Pound's stunning brevity "In a Station of the Metro" and what makes a poem

Illustration by me.

In a Station of the Metro

BY EZRA POUND


The apparition    of these faces    in the crowd  :
Petals    on a wet, black       bough .

__________________________________

We took up Pound in College. Yes, I think we took up "In a Station of the Metro" in particular. It was in conjunction with the question: what is poetry? Could it be phrases read out of a catalog and arranged in "verses?"

Personally, I like "In a Station of the Metro" because it is stunning in its brevity. Like a haiku, the poem contrasts two different images: "these" people's faces in the crowd and petals on a wet, black bough. They do grip me and make me stay on the page. It is a beautiful image and it draws me into a window, a moment contemplating the ephemeral nature of a perfect moment. 

Recently, I've corresponded with some other poets and I asked them about their own ars poetica. I got a very varied response ranging from: "I don't like language poems" to "poems give glimpses of the truth." The answer that struck me the most was: poems are defined by their times. They are defined by the people who are in a position to define what poetry is, they are defined by the people who write the poetry, they are defined by the people who read poetry and they are defined by the people who choose what poetry will be published and taken up in schools (where poetry is learned). Like a painting or a piece of sculpture in a museum, a poem tells a story of the powers that were and the powers that are. 

Poetry, like any art (maybe, in their time, these pieces of "art" weren't even considered art and perhaps served a very mundane function) is a snapshot of the people, the culture, the world during its time. It contains the speaker, the chorus, the silent reader, the backdrop. In a way, it is an image of humanity. I love that. 

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

ModPo 2013 #15 Glaucium Fimbrelligerum and new concepts of beauty: On Doolittle's Sea Poppies

Glaucium Fimbrillegerum image from biolib.de (creative commons). 

Sea Poppies

BY H. D.
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?

________________________

I was wondering why we were taking up two very similar poems (Sea Rose and Sea Poppies) and I was struck by the question in the video discussion about whether "Sea Poppies" is an instance in a movement working out a program, a formula of sorts? And was it possible to remove valuation/ interpretation from language?

"Language that is hard and clear" (from the imagist manifesto) goes against the nature of language. While specificity is needed in some language, language in itself is a powerful and living thing. It is a frame and it requires at least two participants for it to exist.

I think the imagist movement doesn't eliminate valuation or interpretation (while it attempts to) but it does succeeds in defining  new aesthetic. It points to new possibilities, new symbols of what could be beautiful and not what is conventionally beautiful. That in itself is a great breakthrough. But yes, I agree, it is overly ambitious to aspire for a transparent language (if there even is such a thing).

I go back to one of my favorite poems, "Ars Poetica", by Archibald MacLeish. "A poem should be equal to:/ Not true." While MacLeish is known to be a Modernist poet, his "manifesto" on poetry touches on the imagist "hard and clear, never blurred or indefinite." I don't think it means the same thing, though. MacLeish talks about presenting what is without confusing it with "truth" while the imagist manifesto of producing poetry that is "hard and clear" which could mean presenting "what is" using the most economic means and using "particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities." "Equal to" doesn't demand the elimination of blurriness or the indefinite. It just deals with what is before the poet. It might be an image.

Ultimately, poetry is a conversation. I like the new avenues of conversation that the imagists bring but I am excited to explore how the conversation has evolved over time.

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

ModPo 2013 #9 Condensation, Distillation, Ars Poetica: On Niedecker's "Poet's Work"

Image from host.madison.com.

Note: I am currently taking a course on Coursera.org called Modern and Contemporary American Poetry taught by Al Filreis of the University of Pennsylvania. I will be posting my thoughts on the course discussions here.

Poet's Work

by Lorine Niedecker

Grandfather

  advised me:

        Learn a trade

I learned

  to sit at desk

        and condense

No layoff

  from this

        condensery

This poem by Lorine Niedecker speaks directly to me as a poet. I have an ars poetica that runs in the same line as Niedecker's but I call it distillation (well, it has the same spirit as condensation).

I guess this is why I lean towards Dickinson in the false binary. There certainly was a time that poetry was a trade of some sort. Chap books and ballads did use to sell like hot cakes. But in the poem, Niedecker "flips off" (I like that phrase from the video discussion of the poem) the notion of trade that her grandfather is talking about. What she prefers is to sit "at desk" (a condensed phrase!) and condense (aka write poetry). It is not a trade, it is a life.

I don't want to take condensation out of context, here. It is in context of poetry. It is not mere concision or cutting down for the sake of cutting down. For me, poetry is the paring down of experience, of life, into the clearest and most concise game of words. I cannot take away the game, the play of words because that is what makes poetry what it is. It is engaging with language itself and challenging it to paint, to draw life, to draw something that matters to both the poet and the reader so that a new view is available.

Well, in conclusion, there really is no layoff in this condensery because laying off has to do with making a living and not the living of life. A poet's work is life. For me, at least, it's true.

Poetry as Life

I just got this in my inbox: Poetry's a life, not necessarily a living. I couldn't agree more. Poetry is a way of seeing. Just this morning I was thinking about the relevance of poetry. I once wrote an article about it: The Relevance of Poetry in Today's World on Suite 101. Poetry's beauty really depends on the beholder. But it's true that there aren't many readers of poetry books or of poetry in general. It's not Fifty Shades of Gray. It won't give a writer the success of a Harry Potter. But it does provide many things for the writer.

What interested me in the article from Poetry.About.Com was the way it distinguished a life from a living. A living is the way one survives or even thrives. But a life is what we truly make. It is what "the living" is for. And poetry does answer that requirement.

The life of a poet is a life of epiphanies, a life of sudden, striking realizations. It is a life dedicated to seeing beyond what is obvious or ordinary. It is a life lived groping for words to paint joy or grief or love. As Socrates says, "the unexamined life is not worth living." And that is where poetry has stepped in for me. It is framing my life for examination.

There might be a misconception that poets write when struck by inspiration. I don't think this is true. Well, there *are* moments when I cannot help but write. (There is a really great description of the muse in Elizabeth Gilbert's TED talk. ) For me, it is a discipline. It is a way of distilling raw experience and turning it into something that helps me make sense of it, that inspires me, or that helps me see something that I didn't see before. In a way, I find that writing poetry is a meditation. And meditation is deliberate, it is a practice. It is not something you do when it strikes your fancy. It is clearing one's noisy mind and connecting with the numinous while still perfectly grounded on earth.

So, here is my invitation: live the poetic life. Hold your days in your hands. They will slip by forever if you do not glimpse the shining moment.

To end, I offer you a line from one of the most beautiful poems in the bible (I got this translation directly from Jeanette Winterson's description of Sonali Deraniyagala's book, Wave): "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it."

That can only be said in a poem.

The Pauper, The Prince and The Poet

By Justine C. Tajonera

"Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god." - Francis Bacon

If poverty meant solitude
and solitude meant
beast-like or
god-like
existence,
then the poet
would be a
pauper.

If abundance meant solitude
and solitude meant
beast-like or
god-like
existence,
then the poet
would be a
prince.

Or are there three
people in this story:
the pauper, the prince and
the poet?

For to be a poet,
would it not mean that
he is both pauper
and prince?

Does the weight of a leaf
and the grief
it signifies
have anything to do
with the observer's
pocket?

What would afford
a poet her
vision?

Would it be the lack
or the glut
of coin?

I turn the question
around and around
in my head:

there is no answer.

There is a word for
pauper, for prince
and for poet.

Each one has a meaning
and each one is
meaningless
if I so
choose.

(Jan. 9, 2010)

Image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:The_Prince_and_the_Pauper_1881_p20.jpg