Poetry reading:
Piotr Sommer
December 7th, 5:15 PM
U-M Museum of Art Helmut Stern Auditorium
Piotr Sommer’s reading was a fabulous event, and I am very glad I attended. His poems are translated from polish, and in his reading, he did read some of them in their natural polish language.
The way they sounded as they were originally intended to sound (in polish) gave his poems a whole different feel: though still meaningful and thought-provoking when translated into English, the pure aesthetic sound of the polish poems were so much more beautiful to the ear. One poem in read in Polish due to the fact that it rhymed that way, and it was so lovely to hear him speak—he has a very smooth, soothing voice that is perfect to read poetry.
He read his poems in chronological order, and it was interesting to hear some of the writing that was inspired by his foreign childhood. He read one particular poem about Christmastime and the holidays—a subject that is usually cheerful and light in nature—but he wrote about the heavy responsibilities and banalities of it: seeing relatives you don’t know anything about, having to go through the motions of pretending to love these strangers… it was all very insightful and pointed out the absurdities of social constructs and obligations.
I felt that unlike traditional poems about Christmasy cheer and present-giving, Piotr Sommer’s poem about the holidays really tugged at the notions of how family ties are more society-driven than biological; the only reason you give these unknown people any of your time is because of blood relation, nothing else.
I enjoyed his poems for their unusual take on things as well as their sometimes unusual subject matters; one poem he read was about a cemetery that meant a lot to him in Poland called the Bovosky Cemetery. He not only just writes about the scenic view of the cemetery, but also speculates on how the members of the cemetery—the buried and deceased—may feel about living in such a lovely cemetery.
Overall, I really loved hearing Piotr Sommer’s original and creative works of poetry; not only that, but he was very good at presenting his own poems as well!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Fiction Reading
Fiction Reading:
Marjorie Sandor and Tracy Daugherty Fiction Reading
Thursday, December 3, 5 pm
Helmut Stern Auditorium
I enjoyed both Marjorie Sandor’s and Tracy Daugherty’s readings to some extent, though I definitely felt more drawn to Marjorie’s writing. She writes of her past and of the trials and tribulations that led up to who she is as a person today. She read from two of her works, Portrait of My Mother, Who Posed Nude in Wartime and A Night of Music and The Night Gardener: A Search For Home.
Though the first work of writing was pleasant to hear performed, it was The Night Gardener: A Search For Home that really struck me. One part in particular that Marjorie read aloud was an excerpt about a restaurant she used to go to; she describes how the restaurant was the color green, a unique shade of green, and of how she had a strange affinity to all things green. She described it as “the amazing green.”
I’m not sure why this excerpt in particular stood out to me, but even though a strange liking of green may be a strange thing for one to invest such interest in, we all have our own strange desires into which we pour our passions. Though I myself do not particularly like the color green, I can still relate to how one aspect of interest can apply to such a wide range of situations in reality.
Tracy Daugherty’s writing, at least the parts he read out loud, were nice, but nothing that particularly grabbed my attention. He spent quite a whiles ranting about very hipster-style subjects such as cats and wine. Cats are nice and wine is nice, but again—nothing that moved me.
Overall, it was a pleasant reading, filled with various subjects matter that were all nice to hear read aloud. Marjorie Sandor is, in my opinion, quite a wonderful writer, and since Tracy Daugherty is married to her, I suppose I like him as well.
Marjorie Sandor and Tracy Daugherty Fiction Reading
Thursday, December 3, 5 pm
Helmut Stern Auditorium
I enjoyed both Marjorie Sandor’s and Tracy Daugherty’s readings to some extent, though I definitely felt more drawn to Marjorie’s writing. She writes of her past and of the trials and tribulations that led up to who she is as a person today. She read from two of her works, Portrait of My Mother, Who Posed Nude in Wartime and A Night of Music and The Night Gardener: A Search For Home.
Though the first work of writing was pleasant to hear performed, it was The Night Gardener: A Search For Home that really struck me. One part in particular that Marjorie read aloud was an excerpt about a restaurant she used to go to; she describes how the restaurant was the color green, a unique shade of green, and of how she had a strange affinity to all things green. She described it as “the amazing green.”
I’m not sure why this excerpt in particular stood out to me, but even though a strange liking of green may be a strange thing for one to invest such interest in, we all have our own strange desires into which we pour our passions. Though I myself do not particularly like the color green, I can still relate to how one aspect of interest can apply to such a wide range of situations in reality.
Tracy Daugherty’s writing, at least the parts he read out loud, were nice, but nothing that particularly grabbed my attention. He spent quite a whiles ranting about very hipster-style subjects such as cats and wine. Cats are nice and wine is nice, but again—nothing that moved me.
Overall, it was a pleasant reading, filled with various subjects matter that were all nice to hear read aloud. Marjorie Sandor is, in my opinion, quite a wonderful writer, and since Tracy Daugherty is married to her, I suppose I like him as well.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Reading Response
Lucy Zhao
Fiction Reading Response:
The Things They Carried
by Tim O’Brien
Though at a glance this story may seem overly descriptive, I really enjoyed reading The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. It is true that there is a plethora of description in the writing—mainly about, as the title suggests, the items that the characters carry with them in wartime; however, I find that these descriptions really tell a lot of about the characters.
The object choices that each soldier has made gives the reader insight into what kind of person he really is. For example, the protagonist, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross, carries a letter: memorabilia from a woman he lusted after in his recent past. This item that Lieutenant Cross carries expresses the sensitive nature of his personality: it gives him an air of sentiment. The fact that his love for Martha is vaguely unrequited tells us even more about Lieutenant Jimmy Cross, for he must be a patient man if after so long he still clings onto a mere letter, let alone one that gives no indication of any feelings beyond just friendship (albeit for a hazy “Love, Martha” signed cordially at the end).
While it may be that there are a lot of figures and weight classifications thrown in, I don’t believe that these were placed as fillers or unnecessary clauses. On the contrary, I feel that Tim O’Brien included these calculated, seemingly objective figures to lend a melancholy air of subjectivity to the overall story; repetition is merely a tool he utilizes for emphasizing a feeling. The fact that these soldiers—barely even men—have to carry so much weight really lets the reader delve into their misery.
Nevertheless, after having the notion of all his heavy weight instilled upon the reader, the fact that these men still carry their own personal memorabilia expresses how important these items must be to each individual. The repetitive mentions of all this “necessary” weight—armor, shoes, guns and artillery—is a great juxtaposition against what each character carries that he feels is necessary to owe to themselves.
Because there is not much internal narration in the story, O’Brien has to be creative in his methods in order to express the character’s feelings and sentiments regarding their current situation as well as their lives. While on the surface this story may seem like a monotonous book, I feel that The Things They Carried is quite an insightful piece of writing into each individual character’s psyche.
Fiction Reading Response:
The Things They Carried
by Tim O’Brien
Though at a glance this story may seem overly descriptive, I really enjoyed reading The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. It is true that there is a plethora of description in the writing—mainly about, as the title suggests, the items that the characters carry with them in wartime; however, I find that these descriptions really tell a lot of about the characters.
The object choices that each soldier has made gives the reader insight into what kind of person he really is. For example, the protagonist, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross, carries a letter: memorabilia from a woman he lusted after in his recent past. This item that Lieutenant Cross carries expresses the sensitive nature of his personality: it gives him an air of sentiment. The fact that his love for Martha is vaguely unrequited tells us even more about Lieutenant Jimmy Cross, for he must be a patient man if after so long he still clings onto a mere letter, let alone one that gives no indication of any feelings beyond just friendship (albeit for a hazy “Love, Martha” signed cordially at the end).
While it may be that there are a lot of figures and weight classifications thrown in, I don’t believe that these were placed as fillers or unnecessary clauses. On the contrary, I feel that Tim O’Brien included these calculated, seemingly objective figures to lend a melancholy air of subjectivity to the overall story; repetition is merely a tool he utilizes for emphasizing a feeling. The fact that these soldiers—barely even men—have to carry so much weight really lets the reader delve into their misery.
Nevertheless, after having the notion of all his heavy weight instilled upon the reader, the fact that these men still carry their own personal memorabilia expresses how important these items must be to each individual. The repetitive mentions of all this “necessary” weight—armor, shoes, guns and artillery—is a great juxtaposition against what each character carries that he feels is necessary to owe to themselves.
Because there is not much internal narration in the story, O’Brien has to be creative in his methods in order to express the character’s feelings and sentiments regarding their current situation as well as their lives. While on the surface this story may seem like a monotonous book, I feel that The Things They Carried is quite an insightful piece of writing into each individual character’s psyche.
Friday, October 9, 2009
New Poem for Revision
Utopia
Enter a seamless world,
Fresh unfurled, and spun into utopia.
Every weakness—skillfully sutured
Into a flawless future, a race blessed
With no less than Perfect Tens.
Every man, each bourgeois—
An Alpha.
The other Greeks—
Perfectly extinct.
But in a world filled with poreless appeal
And stainless steel smiles,
In a world whose biggest threat
Is androgynous etiquette, there lurks
A silhouette of secrets.
In a world of breasts born perky, toned,
Where silicone is synonymous with skin,
In a world stuffed full of clones
With ephemerally manicured fingers,
There lingers anomaly.
In a world where males adhere
To genetically engineered scruff
And perfectly proportionate dicks
Just thick enough for criterion width,
There ticks a time bomb of sin—
—Take another look within
The tin cubicles of sheep so sublime.
Beneath the paradigm of conform,
Behind the mammoth rose-colored glasses,
Below the masses of withering brains,
There remains buried under the soil
Enter a seamless world,
Fresh unfurled, and spun into utopia.
Every weakness—skillfully sutured
Into a flawless future, a race blessed
With no less than Perfect Tens.
Every man, each bourgeois—
An Alpha.
The other Greeks—
Perfectly extinct.
But in a world filled with poreless appeal
And stainless steel smiles,
In a world whose biggest threat
Is androgynous etiquette, there lurks
A silhouette of secrets.
In a world of breasts born perky, toned,
Where silicone is synonymous with skin,
In a world stuffed full of clones
With ephemerally manicured fingers,
There lingers anomaly.
In a world where males adhere
To genetically engineered scruff
And perfectly proportionate dicks
Just thick enough for criterion width,
There ticks a time bomb of sin—
—Take another look within
The tin cubicles of sheep so sublime.
Beneath the paradigm of conform,
Behind the mammoth rose-colored glasses,
Below the masses of withering brains,
There remains buried under the soil
Ticking minds
Mushrooming hearts
Blossoming tragedy.
Below a perfectly manufactured world,
There lies reality.
Mushrooming hearts
Blossoming tragedy.
Below a perfectly manufactured world,
There lies reality.
revised poem 1
Acid Tongues
It’s inevitable.
Dreamy eyes peel open,
Rose-colored REM cycles—fleeting.
All that’s heard is white noise
From a nearby television set,
Its short-lived limelight now faded to neglect.
Slatted daylight greets the stench
Of stale beer and cigarettes
That permeates the air. This air
Is the by-product
Of good times forgotten.
The corners of our dried lips are
Crusted with remorse, slobbering orifices
Addicted to sucking in this
Atmosphere mottled with teenage pollution.
We are surrounded by dirtied, crumpled
Clothing: Remnants of egos won and lost.
Our mouths taste of stomach acid,
Our skin reeks
Of stale beer and cigarettes.
Damp hardwood and damp spirits
Play souvenir to lost memories,
Each intoxicated account
Differing
In detail
And details.
It’s inevitable.
We realize that we act the victim,
Our past—the star—held hostage
By pleasures plagued with amnesia.
Our days are stale and fruitless,
Our nights
Recuperate us.
Prose Poem
There is nothing intelligent to say about this. They say
it’s just another phase you’ll grow out of.
Well, I’m waiting.
You think you know what it feels like to have been hurt
until you are hurt again. That agonizing ache in your chest,
that inward pull—no, the word pull does not come close
to doing justice—that inward drag, simply refuses to cease.
Picture an adolescent black hole: inescapable, unstoppable,
and so damn out of control. This is the kind of damage
that makes you want to tear yourself apart from the inside
out; the kind that pushes you to gnaw on your knuckles until
raw is a thing of the past. Heartache doesn’t mean a thing
until you’ve experienced it first-hand.
it’s just another phase you’ll grow out of.
Well, I’m waiting.
You think you know what it feels like to have been hurt
until you are hurt again. That agonizing ache in your chest,
that inward pull—no, the word pull does not come close
to doing justice—that inward drag, simply refuses to cease.
Picture an adolescent black hole: inescapable, unstoppable,
and so damn out of control. This is the kind of damage
that makes you want to tear yourself apart from the inside
out; the kind that pushes you to gnaw on your knuckles until
raw is a thing of the past. Heartache doesn’t mean a thing
until you’ve experienced it first-hand.
I quite enjoy writing in prose form; I feel like it's the one poetic form that gives the writer the most creativity. With prose, there are essentially no limitations to stifle the imagination: no feet or meter requirements like sonnets, no requisite for a rhyme scheme at all. Most importantly, there is no need to search for that synonym to replace the perfect word, that synonym that is only necessary due to the constraints of a poetic form. In essence, prose form gives you complete control.
I've also noticed that with prose poem, it is much easier to tell a story. Perhaps something about the ease of writing in this form--ease that comes with freedom--allows the writer to express a plot easier, whereas in other poetic forms, I feel the tendency for description and analysis rather than ideas.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Vector Poem
Caught in the act. The only audible note,
The bead of sweat trickling down my temple.
Unholy night, no axioms in sight.
Red-handed is such a nasty term.
The only red here is chanel No. 5
Corpulent lips as glossy as sin.
Timing is everything
when you’re spewing false maxims
to cover dirty tracks, as soiled as God’s Earth.
I open those red, red lips and out pours
A Thunderstorm of ugly lies.
My noose is spun from self-pity.
The bead of sweat trickling down my temple.
Unholy night, no axioms in sight.
Red-handed is such a nasty term.
The only red here is chanel No. 5
Corpulent lips as glossy as sin.
Timing is everything
when you’re spewing false maxims
to cover dirty tracks, as soiled as God’s Earth.
I open those red, red lips and out pours
A Thunderstorm of ugly lies.
My noose is spun from self-pity.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Poem 3
Delivery
From farthest corner iris of his eye
Was caught a glimpse of tarnished crimson stain.
A berry red grotesqu’ry of one maimed,
Malignant pigment dye of one who died.
Lady who dressed in burgundy velour
Departed ‘fore stiletto hit the floor.
A masquerade of bloody haut-lacquer,
A foreign siege by violent connoisseur.
Sir Criminal knew not of precious spark
That dwelled within his lovely luscious mark;
It slept in silence, dormant, lost in dream
While Lady bled in tear-stained reverie.
The bullet in her breast danced full in bloom
As limb-by-limb the womb becomes fleshed tomb.
“Two lives,” roared Zeus, “cannot this world entwine!
Each human life is bound for sure decline.”
Yet twisted fate lets one alone survive.
Birthing hips now conquered by new life.
From farthest corner iris of his eye
Was caught a glimpse of tarnished crimson stain.
A berry red grotesqu’ry of one maimed,
Malignant pigment dye of one who died.
Lady who dressed in burgundy velour
Departed ‘fore stiletto hit the floor.
A masquerade of bloody haut-lacquer,
A foreign siege by violent connoisseur.
Sir Criminal knew not of precious spark
That dwelled within his lovely luscious mark;
It slept in silence, dormant, lost in dream
While Lady bled in tear-stained reverie.
The bullet in her breast danced full in bloom
As limb-by-limb the womb becomes fleshed tomb.
“Two lives,” roared Zeus, “cannot this world entwine!
Each human life is bound for sure decline.”
Yet twisted fate lets one alone survive.
Birthing hips now conquered by new life.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Poem 2b
The Loudest Silence in Michigan
Little Jimmy, he saw that game he wanted
Gleaming through the plexi-glass
Of that pretentious store window.
The Melrose Place of X Box 360—
Who charges triple digits for a fucking plastic cartridge?
Little Jimmy, his body craved that game.
He thirsted for that rush only available
Via live adrenaline.
A rush must had
So he rode his shiny two wheeler home,
Tires gritting against ripped pavement:
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Little Jimmy, as the clock struck five
And fathers sprouted facial shadows
And rush hour traffic clogged the pipes of Metro-Detroit
(Perpetually under construction),
He crept up that flight of steps,
Rode that foot-powered elevator up
And took a Michigan left at level two.
As his shabby tatty sketcher
Stepped foot onto that gainsboro carpet,
Little Jimmy knew
that he was in dangerous territory now.
This was the master bedroom
And mommy’s purse,
red patent gleaming in the closet.
Little Jimmy played the role of Sherlock,
Accomplice Watson Wallet just begging to be fondled.
Little Jimmy, in went his clumsy hand,
Stubby fingers tampering with a self-induced crime scene,
Molesting George Washington,
Abraham Lincoln,
John Adams.
When in walked Mom, so trim and work-appropriate,
Her disbelief perfectly framed by salon curls,
Her porcelain face as speechless as a china doll.
Little Jimmy, face ashen wish shame
As he and Mom and experienced
The loudest silence in Michigan.
Little Jimmy, he finally got his rush.
Little Jimmy, he saw that game he wanted
Gleaming through the plexi-glass
Of that pretentious store window.
The Melrose Place of X Box 360—
Who charges triple digits for a fucking plastic cartridge?
Little Jimmy, his body craved that game.
He thirsted for that rush only available
Via live adrenaline.
A rush must had
So he rode his shiny two wheeler home,
Tires gritting against ripped pavement:
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Little Jimmy, as the clock struck five
And fathers sprouted facial shadows
And rush hour traffic clogged the pipes of Metro-Detroit
(Perpetually under construction),
He crept up that flight of steps,
Rode that foot-powered elevator up
And took a Michigan left at level two.
As his shabby tatty sketcher
Stepped foot onto that gainsboro carpet,
Little Jimmy knew
that he was in dangerous territory now.
This was the master bedroom
And mommy’s purse,
red patent gleaming in the closet.
Little Jimmy played the role of Sherlock,
Accomplice Watson Wallet just begging to be fondled.
Little Jimmy, in went his clumsy hand,
Stubby fingers tampering with a self-induced crime scene,
Molesting George Washington,
Abraham Lincoln,
John Adams.
When in walked Mom, so trim and work-appropriate,
Her disbelief perfectly framed by salon curls,
Her porcelain face as speechless as a china doll.
Little Jimmy, face ashen wish shame
As he and Mom and experienced
The loudest silence in Michigan.
Little Jimmy, he finally got his rush.
Poem 2
An Obvious Object
Well as I write this bumbling poem,
The credit surely goes to me,
Yet stop! Lets analyze to whom
This honor really should esteem.
The pen’s a wondrous sort of thing,
With ebb and flow she brings to life
The every whim of human being,
No complaint of tiring strife.
My fingers run across her white
And shiny plastic body, oh
What lovely artificial life
We spark into that inky flow.
Vermillion green, she stains my lines.
That green, it churns within her shaft:
Translucent, labeled “vision fine,”
Fine indeed—you ease my task.
Her ballpoint bearing dipped in ink,
It glistens while it procreates.
What happens when ink’s gone, you think?
Pen runs dry, she’s done with play.
Well as I write this bumbling poem,
The credit surely goes to me,
Yet stop! Lets analyze to whom
This honor really should esteem.
The pen’s a wondrous sort of thing,
With ebb and flow she brings to life
The every whim of human being,
No complaint of tiring strife.
My fingers run across her white
And shiny plastic body, oh
What lovely artificial life
We spark into that inky flow.
Vermillion green, she stains my lines.
That green, it churns within her shaft:
Translucent, labeled “vision fine,”
Fine indeed—you ease my task.
Her ballpoint bearing dipped in ink,
It glistens while it procreates.
What happens when ink’s gone, you think?
Pen runs dry, she’s done with play.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
notes 9/17
*meter= a way of describing "our awareness of those rythmical patterns in poetic lang which can me msred and formulated
3 ways of meaning:
1) All meter, by distinguishing rhythmic from ordinary statement, objectifies that statement and impels it toward a significant formality and even ritualism.
2) Meters can mean by varying itself from metrical norms, powerfully reinforce emotional effects.
3) Meters can mean by association and convention (ie “Hickory dickory dock . . . )
Accentual-syllabic meter: Metrical system in which both accents and syllables are measured and numbered, often in terms of feet, or conventional patterns or units of stressed and unstressed syllables.
common feet:
*iambic (unstressed/stressed)
*trochaic (stressed/unstressed)
*anapestic (unstressed x 2/stressed)
*dactylic (stessed/unstressed x 2)
*spondaic (stressed/stressed)
*pryrhic (unstressed, unstressed) ex: in the/wind blown (<--spondee)=double iamb
[# of feet]meter (ex: pentameter)
scanscion=any system of representing conventional poetic visual symbols for meter analysis/criticism (changes it from oral-->visual)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Poem 1
514 Monroe
Sleepy eyelids open,
Rose-colored glasses recede.
All that’s heard is white noise
From a nearby television set, its
Short-lived limelight now faded to neglect.
Slatted daylight greets the stench
Of stale beer and cigarettes
That permeates the air. This air
Is the by-product
Of good times forgotten.
The corners of our dried lips
Are crusted with remorse, but
We still suck in this atmosphere
Visibly thick with teenage pollution.
Damp hardwood and damp spirits
Play souvenir to our memories,
Each intoxicated account
Differing
In detail
And details.
We are surrounded by dirtied, crumpled clothing;
Remnants of egos won and lost.
Demons swarm our minds
As we realize
Our mouths taste of stomach acid,
Our skin reeks
Of stale beer and cigarettes.
Our days are stale and fruitless,
Our nights
Recuperate us.
Sleepy eyelids open,
Rose-colored glasses recede.
All that’s heard is white noise
From a nearby television set, its
Short-lived limelight now faded to neglect.
Slatted daylight greets the stench
Of stale beer and cigarettes
That permeates the air. This air
Is the by-product
Of good times forgotten.
The corners of our dried lips
Are crusted with remorse, but
We still suck in this atmosphere
Visibly thick with teenage pollution.
Damp hardwood and damp spirits
Play souvenir to our memories,
Each intoxicated account
Differing
In detail
And details.
We are surrounded by dirtied, crumpled clothing;
Remnants of egos won and lost.
Demons swarm our minds
As we realize
Our mouths taste of stomach acid,
Our skin reeks
Of stale beer and cigarettes.
Our days are stale and fruitless,
Our nights
Recuperate us.
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