Built Into a World

I've  been given visions
by the moon
and courage by the rain
direction from the wind
and support from the earth
rage from the lightning
and shelter from the trees

they tell me to love her
or rather
that I will
tis fate
destiny
pre-ordained

I rebel,
for while loyal to my lover
the moon has no direct control

I rebel
for I feel my humanity
drawing to a close

I was raised a man
not an avatar to some bizarre ideal
to some essence of the forest
heart of the storm

but raised or no,
I became

born into a human shell,
an outcaste in my skin

Silence
is such a human ambition

Find me in the Silence

God gave me no silence

I look to
the wind
the fire
the tree
earth
animal
storm
moon

I was born
created
by him
as a link
between human ideals
human connections
and the wrong path

I was created differently
wrongly
corrupted
tainted
by our loving God

for a reason

he forced upon me
the uneven footing,
the cracked path
the unsure way,

and I graciously accepted

born for the role.

I kneel before him
beside you
amongst the world
the material existence
the Creation

I kneel a tempest
of fire and fury
rain and laughter
lightning and instinct
animal and man;
my lover Moon
at my side
before he who has built me
into a world

-mine

Heart of the Tempest

Why are the mortals so demanding?

Why do they cry for blood spilled in the heart of a tempest?

A storm has no blood to spill,
just the force to spill it.

But a mortal with the heart of a tempest,
that is a different beast altogether.

They cannot understand the mortal weakness;
cannot empathize with it.

They do cry for it;
cry for the blood swirling through the depths
many decades;
cry for the blood spillt by their own hand.

They cannot help but to slosh the lifeblood
of their kin and themselves.

A tempest must swirl,
and one's heart is no exception.

-mine

Darkness

staring into the dark
only to have your own eyes
stare back
in a way that should be
but a reflection
and realizing that
you alone
are not quite as dead
as even you had imagined

staring into the dark
only to have your own eyes
stare back
in a way that should not be
a shadow
composed of moonlight
but rather
a shadow cast by the same

windows to the soul
they say
doorways to the heavens
more likely
or the hells
assuming that
primal means evil
and soul means damned spirit

I stare into that darkness every night
and I daresay
the reflection cast
is not always shadows
dancing to the tune of a moonlit sonata,
but more often a howl
prowling to the whims of a beast.

-mine

Night Time

grasping at straws
pulling myself towards
some sort of end
always reaching for something,
anything that bends
writhing in secrecy;
shadows in my head

looking at the only
sliver of silver
lining

crying tears of blood
from fingertips
staining my fears



-mine

Bite Down

bite down and tell me,
please just tell me
that my blood seeps down;
please just tell me
that the blood is red
because it feels like putty
slowly sagging out of my veins

bite down and tell me,
please just tell me
that something's in there;
please just tell me
that it's dribbling down your chin
because all I see are shadows
creeping up from your open mouth

a void,
infested with the black strings of my veins,
creeping, crawling into your now
black,
vacant,
eyes

bite down and tell me
that your after my blood,
that you need my blood;
my essence;
my being;
need it,
need to taste it

bite down and leave the shadow alone,
before it infects you,
as it always has me


-mine

Just a head's up to the "masses" following this...

I don't write the poetry for others.
I don't write the poetry for fun.
When it happens, it happens.
It hasn't.
As long as this monotonous phase in my existence continues,
the poetry won't.
No inspiration
No poetry
One pent up irritated person.
Just as irritated with myself for not writing
as I am at not having anything worth writing about.
So...there. Done.

Trademark Glow

She's lost her trademark glow;
I'm not the only one to notice,
and with her extinguished
under the soggy soil of
ambiguous animosity,
the roads darken to tar.

She was the last lantern,
the last streetlight
carving a path through the darkness
and without her trademark glow,
I develop night blindness
and a fear of dark trails.

Lost in the woods,
and if that foreshadow's not enough,
fighting under a full moon.

When was the last time I ran?
I cannot remember,
it seems to have been an eternity
since last I've slipped my skin.

To run,
to chase,
a light shone through always,
a target,
a telltale glow,

The darkness brings a strange comfort,
I hear the voice of a familiar friend.
Without light there is no reason,
no constraint,
only chaos,
and those who would take advantage thereof.

I feel the night,
heed the call...

run free under a full moon,

because there is no telltale glow to follow.

-mine

Crying for a Stillness

awaiting the executioner's blade
with a relish not often found
outside of a wolf hungering
for a fresh killed rabbit,

staying awake long enough
to see the stars transpose themselves
to the hallays and the doors,

bending to accomodate
the evacuation of bone
and of sinew,
squirming in their own
unrehearsed dance,

bowing down before time,
waiting for exposure
to an ending,

crying for a stillness.

Fire consumes skin,
that's all it's ever been good for.
It rushes down limbs
igniting flesh,
charring bone.

Spread it around.



-mine

Just Enough

You may understand,
you may comprehend,
you may even have
the slightest sense of empathy.

It changes nothing.

Until you hear your bones
scream that they want out
of your tight skin wrapped box
you do not talk of pain.

Come and free me,
come and bite our legacy
into my flesh
so that it may carve out
a new being of my body;
a new form of my soul.

When they run free they will have peace.
When they engorge themselves on passion
they will be home.

When I am no longer the enemy,
when my own skeleton is no longer a cage,
then shall I find bliss.

Never before.

If only I could not smell the distance between us.
If only my hackels would stay slicked back
when my thoughts turn to you.
If only my spine would stay still around you,
instead of arching in a blind panic.

But my bones remain a prison,
and only one of my kind has a key.

Find me my brothers,
Find me my sisters,
Find me my pachmates
lost in the sea of the world,
and open my marrow cell.

Find me, so I may change,

just enough to stay the same.


-mine

Shedding Like a Dog

she'll be someone's light
and here I sit
shedding like a dog
panting away
my heartless moments

-mine

The Gift

you can feel it can't you?
they can,
they always have.
it was born in you the second
you graced the Earth.
it's a gift,
no doubt;
one wrapped in bone and flesh.
you have to tear through it,
you see,
to get the prize;
to claim your birthright.
you can feel it now
mind ripping of the skin
and prodding at tense muscle.

it never stops.

you'll always feel the gift.

-mine

Fire in the Sky

Fire in the sky,
you'd think I'd be talking of the sun.

I watched the boy die.
My lady done it;
I know that
better than most.
Aint got a complaint though,
nobody whines about my woman.
She does her thing;
reaps them hearts
like the sickle she is.

She turns them hearts into rivers.
Heard him screaming this time.
Blood pumping out,
right through the hole in the side there.
Flows mighty far.

Fire in the sky,
you'd think I'd be talking of the sun.

Yeah, my girl's got herself a temper.
Must be why I love her so much;
couldn't stand me a woman
that just stand there letting things go.
No I reckon I prefer myself a girl
that'll smack me good 'f I deserve it.
Wild eyes always get me.

Fire in the sky,
you'd think I'd be talking of the sun.

But I aint.
No sir, I talk about heart,
I talk about love before speaking of
stars and whatnot.
Sun's just a cosmic spark,
but my girl here,
she's my true light.
Can't see well without her,
no, lordy no,
not after she give me them new eyes.

Sickle shaped eyes.

Fire in the sky,
you'd think I'd be talking of the sun.

Form fits function,
and my eyes
reflect her fury,
and her fire,
and her form.

Sickle shaped eyes.

Don't worry babe,
I always follow my heart first.

Fire in the sky,
you'll wish I was talking of the sun.

-mine

chewing off skin
like it meant anything
to anyone at all
and spitting it out onto the lawn
hoping perhaps this time
it will sprout,
leaving little people pods in its wake

A Name Like This

blood will be spilled as surely
through the knife digging at my heart
as it was to inscribe the name
onto the hilt, and onto my hide

the name you can't read
echoes off my chest
and spirals onto my arms
carving its path
as confidently a cleaver

the name forgotten by all but us few

you cannot read it
you cannot see it
you cannot feel it

surely as we can feel it;
felt it run through our souls
felt it skewer our minds,

a name like this,
penned only in blood
uttered only in fire

a name like this,
hollow as a mountain
powerful as emotion

cannot be chained to rationality

you cannot read it
you cannot see it
you cannot feel it

the name forgotten by all but us few


-mine

Legacy Awakens

they writhe under my skin
like worms in the muck
after a rainstorm,
squirming to get out onto the sidewalk

burrowing down from my brain
they've taken my bones;
want new bones,
stronger ones

hands in my back
pushing,
always pushing
waiting for the day
I sprout wings

six wings,
three pairs,
one for each;
laying claim
to my skeleton
and what it is to become

not long now
before muscle follows bone
and skin follows sinew
a year or two, tops
before legacy awakens
and a man can sprout wings
from the hands in his back

-mine

Willow tree take me
out of the rain
lower your branches
free me from pain

Isolate yourself
serve only the dark

Closer than sunlight
outside the eclipse
make hast with the battlements
incorporate the spear
nursing the wounded
groaning in fear

Wolf Is Coming

-mine

Mist Svanhvit

I miss it.
I miss you.
But I never knew,
did I?

Never knew your soft feathers.
They tell me you're not real,
and I can see why they'd think it;
nature hides itself well after all.
I never knew you're blonde hair,
marble skin,
blue eyes.

Your eyes were the Mist
and your skin was Svanhvit
white as the swan wings
that graced your back.

The Valkyrie spear...
I remember the tales;
thrust through the temple
piercing the damned.
The blood gushed and splattered
but never stained,
never stained anything
but your clothes and your cane;
blemishing the dreamcatcher
dangling to the side.

Your wings remained Svanhvit always.

As you lay in the star,
having gone to far to save a friend,
heartsblood spilling into the grooves
carved into the floor,
your own spear
erect in your chest,
I lay crying, alone once more.

Why did you try to save the dead?
Why didn't you run from the gunshots?
Why did you allow
for your wings to be tarnished?

The floor was not meant for a goddess.
The star was not meant for a swan.

Your flock overtook my river
when my grandmother died,
and again when my best friend
met the same fate.
My uncle as well,
and even my cockatiel, Hedwig,
never again to sing me songs.

Your flock was a sign of your love for me.
They were your pencil, the river your ink;
surely as I created the Svanhvit from carbon,
your love was written with only an ink well,
and a Svanhvit feather.

-Mine

Tightrope Act

we are born two halves of one whole,
one with blue eyes
and the tools of man,
the other with yellow
hiding in the grass

some of us lost this balance long ago,
fell over one side of the line
we've been walking,
waiting now to see what that means

most who drop this tightrope act
end up with clockwork hearts,
but we the few remember the beast

it isn't easy,
biding one's time
disguised as mechanized kinfolk,
knowing someday
a lover might peel back your
stolen colored contacts

knowing love need be pumped,
wasting oil all the way

I beg you, someone
drink of my heartsblood,
stare into the eyes of a beast
and remember the forest --
something even a mechanical monkey
like yourself should recall with favor

peel back my skin
and wait for the laughter;
peel back my eyes
and find them within

-mine

To those wishing to navigate the chaos of all my recent posting.

This is mostly geared towards Ann. The revised copy of the final paper is actually under the rough draft as you may well have noticed. You may have also noticed that it's much better, and while a little short, really gets the point across. My goodness, I hope you noticed this or pppthhthbbbtttt! there goes the grade. Either way to all of you I just want to say, "HA! I LOOKED UP WHAT WE NEEDED TO POST AND ACCOUNTED FOR EVERYTHING!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!"

P.S. If I actually did miss something, don't tell me, just shoot me.

My Life...and why I didn't like it that much.

I'll be honest: I skimmed this book. I skimmed it because when I started reading it, my only thoughts going through my head were, "this is dumb" and "my brain hurts from not sleeping for two days". That's right, we were supposed to read this book when I was in my monthly insomniac recharge hibernation.

But to be honest, that's not why I didn't like it. Language poetry seems to exist to break rules and norms that I simply couldn't care less about. Good job Lyn, on getting a book deal that goes through multiple printings by writing poetry that some of your colleagues don't even agree is actually poetry! And trust me, I say this with all sincerity: good job.

Lyn, I'll probably never again open that book, unless I happen to find it in the divider of my couch like I did this morning, but I'll also acknowledge that some people do like it, so I have this to say: "Does anyone want my copy? I'll sell it for cheap. Enjoy. Really do, once again with all sincerity, I don't like it, but I'm glad you do. Now give me the money and get out of my room."

oh hey, it looks like we're supposed to put up the rough draft for points...so...here it is.

What is Poetry? A Theory of Individual Practice

Poetry is an expression of the utmost inner workings of an individual taken in the context of their personal life experiences including race, politics, philosophy, gender, geographical location, age, etc… It reflects a person in and out, culminating in a unique way for each individual. It can be used for political change, to enlighten the masses, express a feeling, tell a story, play with words, or to jot down the world around you. I’m being vague, and intentionally so, for without trace amounts of obscurity, I could not accurately portray the truth behind what poetry is. After all, poetry is not something that will ever be strictly defined; it is not something that can truly be contained by a specific definition. Its essence will be argued by the poetry greats time and time again as time meanders on, changing sides fluidly as the eras flow by.

I was asked as part of this paper to talk about the opinions of Lyn Hejinian and Yusef Komunyaaka both against each other, and then in reference to my own thought. Well, simply put, Yusef Komunyaaka seems all for using poetry as a means for political and social reconstruction. Lyn Hejinian is a language poet, and therefore more open to the use, and structure of poetry in general (we’ll get back to these two later on in the paper). Luckily, these both being viewpoints that tend to butt heads, they both lend themselves to my point; it’s a singular, individual based concept, with intricacies that cannot (or will not) be perceived as exactly the same by any two people.

In the end, poetry comes down to the individual; nothing is more important than this. How it is portrayed, perceived, and crafted are all based on each individual being. The individual culminates themselves into their poetry, and then another individual receives it, and, drawing it into them, makes it a new part of their essence. In that way it begins, and ends, as a portent of a singular personage. 

Does this mean anything can be thought of as poetry? Theoretically speaking, yes, but once again it’s up to each being’s own terms. I certainly see the poetry in the eyes of a young boy crying for his mother’s embrace, in the way a dog might raise its head to only its masters voice, in the grace of a dancer’s sweat rolling along with the dancers flourishing arms, or in the moonlight reflecting off of an old woman’s knitting needles.

But that doesn’t mean you do. After all one of the dictionary definitions of poetry is “poetic qualities however manifested”.  As in, anything that would seem poetic. A definition of poetic is “possessing the qualities or charm of poetry” (both found on Dictionary.com, not the most prestigious of dictionaries I suppose, but it’ll do to get the point across). That point being that our guidelines for defining poetry are very open, and no two people will ever come up with the same one. So how then, you might wonder, will someone actually be able to write a paper on just what poetry is? Well, that brings us straight back to my original point; poetry is all based on each and every individual, and there are no collective assumptions to make. That being said, I suppose I’ll just have to tell you my thoughts on the matter.

            To start off, I think I’ll state that the above was all personal speculation (intriguing how that fits perfectly into my theory, almost like it was planned) and, while it is, in fact, my personal feeling on the subject of poetry, it is but the sketch of the painting of which I must now fill in with the brushstrokes of personality and being that is me; for if every individual arises to their own conclusion of poetry as I believe, then I too am subject to this rule, and must have some sort of connection and feel about what poetry is. It does feel a little weird though, explaining my thoughts of poetry over all, and now trying to condense it, so instead I will explore the ways in which I find poetry enlightening or useful instead of continuing on the broader topic, as I’m sure it’s been well drilled into your head by now.

            I’ll start by simply stating that I’m a rather prolific writer, (as most of you that have actually been checking blogs probably know). I write about past loves, and hope for future ones, for futility found in life, for minor inconveniences, childhood memories, particular urges, or sensations, major life changes, etc…(whether or not any of these poems are any good is up for debate). But that’s just the thing: I don’t write for others, I’m not even sure I write for myself. A lot of poets talk of dictation, and simply writing what comes to them. My individual poetry project poet, Billy Collins believed himself a “secretary to the morning”, and someone who’s sole job was writing down the dictation of the world. Well I am no secretary to the morning, no slave to the machinations of that going on around me; no, I am instead chained to the idea of the soul. I have always, and will always be a man of emotional reasoning opposed to the rational, or relevant. When I feel something, whether it be sorrow from a memory of a lost friend, or something simple, like the joy of a candy bar, it will spill out from my mind into words and my hands will write or type whatever comes forth. That’s my personal poetry, a chaotic mess of emotion thrown into words that sometimes I can’t even remember the definitions for.

            My personal poetry doesn’t limit what I count for poetry though. I used to be skeptical of language poetry, but I gained a new appreciation for it while reading Disclamor and My Life. I don’t really understand it, but there seems to me to be something undeniably poetic about the different forms the words will fall onto a page. From Lyn Hejinian’s almost incoherent ramblings, to G.C. Waldrep’s strange spacing, language poetry has found a new place in my heart as a mysterious but intriguing force.

            As I’ve already stated, I personally find poetry in most things, be it writing, action, or well, anything really. It’s hard to be anything but inclusive when my above theory comes into play. And so, poetry can mean and do different things for different people. For me it’s a release of the self, for someone else it an expression of confinement or rage as in some popular performance poetry, and for another it may be a way to strike out against an abusive government. At its heart, poetry is an expression of the individual put forth to the world.

Works Cited

Forché, Carolyn. Against Forgetting: Twentieth-century Poetry of Witness. New York: W.W. Norton, 1993. Print.

Hejinian, Lyn. My Life. Los Angeles: Sun & Moon, 1987. Print.

Waldrep, George Calvin. Disclamor. 2005. Print.

Hejinian, Lyn. Introduction. Lyn Hejinian and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2004. Scribner, 2004. 9-14. Print.

Komunyakaa, Yusef. Introduction. Yusef Komunyakaa and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2003. New York: Scribner, 2003. 11-21. Print.

Here it is, short succinct, and to the point. Final Paper

Corey Roth

Intro to Literature

Ann Hostetler

4/27/2011

 What is Poetry? A Really Good Question.

Poetry is in and of itself a very hard to define term. It has so much potential for difference and change that chaining to a single list of what is and isn’t poetry is nearly impossible. Luckily the fact that it’s hard to define is actually the key to deciphering what it really is. Poetry is a medium of writing that emphasizes a set of rules that change over time because instead of expecting them to be followed, they actually challenge a poet to break them in creative ways that showcase a mastery over language. It was hard to set to a strict definition because it encourages the definition to be altered by the very people who use it.

So that’s my working definition. My actual definition would be more along the lines that poetry can only be defined by an individual, as every single person will define it differently. Lyn Hejinian seems to agree with me, saying, “poetry has always been so full of energy and so inventive that it is impossible to define poetry once and for all or to delimit its space” (Introduction 2004). This suggests that poetry is a beast that cannot be contained by a strict definition, and instead it is up to each of us as to what poetry really is. Therefore the above working definition would be my individual definition, and I’m sticking with it.

For instance, a large, sentence bound book is not poetry. That is until someone like Lyn Hejinian shows up and writes a poetry book like My Life. A cut up collection of random leaflets isn’t poetry, until Jena Osman arranges it into a poem like “Dropping Leaflets.” Poems usually have structured spacing, but when people like G.C. Waldrep get involved words can appear just about wherever they want to on a page. Non-rhyming lines didn’t used to have a place in poetry until someone invented free verse. Prose used to be just that, prose, but now there’s prose poetry. Poetry can’t be tied down to definition because poets are always bending the current rules, ignoring the old rules, or flat out inventing new ones.

            Poetry, with all its dynamism, can do amazing things. Shakespeare is renowned as the most famous poet of, well, ever, and he used it to create many of the modern words that we use today. He took the rules of his language and he broke them, and we have much of our modern English to thank for it. It can be used to express horror and outrage over a war like what is done by John Balaban with his detailed and terrifying imagery, or to express a connection and loving subservience to life and nature like Billy Collins who uses a quick wit to bring readers to an almost spiritual relation to the world around them. It can be used to capture one’s religiously structured upbringing like many of the authors in A Cappella do. Or it can be used for a purpose, such as calming fear or anger, or seeing into the human soul, which is what Pulitzer Prize winner Yusef Komunyakaa believes (Introduction 2003).

            Poetry is ever changing, and its only constant is that very fact: it will always continue to change. Poetry has rules; break them. Poetry has structure; misplace your words. If you do it with intent, with determination, and with a strong understanding of language, well then congratulations, you’ve just written some poetry.

Works Cited

Hejinian, Lyn. Introduction. Lyn Hejinian and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2004. Scribner, 2004. 9-14. Print.

Komunyakaa, Yusef. Introduction. Yusef Komunyakaa and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2003. New York: Scribner, 2003. 11-21. Print.


I hope you enjoy the part about the cat.

In a moment you can realize just how much someone cares.
And how much they don't.
But in the end,
Fuck it,
Because the storm's already here
And not one of you has made peace with your god.

Pucker up for the big goodbye,
Because that silver fish just darted by,
And remember life as how it was
Full of homework
Thoughts of suicide
And the occasional soda
Sliding down your gullet
As the box screams
"Finish Him!"

Man, I tell ya
I'd hate to be the person
Who doesn't want to be immortal.
If in the end you're not satisfied
All it means is that you've never lied.

Also, as a sidenote;
Damn, the dead man's right,
Cat's are really fricken' cute.

-mine...the part about the fish I took/was inspired by Mr. Collins, The Art of Drowning. I'm really tired, really, really tired. But I'm not done. Not done with enough. So here I am, and here's what popped out of my tired skull. I hope you enjoyed the part about the cat.

Meant to be Clean

For future reference
it's more like looking through a kaleidoscope
than through eyes
that open hazel to the world.

And just for the record
they work more like paws on the dirt
than like hands
meant to grasp and cling.

In case you were wondering
it's more like an instinctual urge
than a thinking brain
that pulls me through society.

And if by chance you didn't know
it pulls off just like a disguise
instead of staying on like skin
if I ever find a place to show it.

You're meant to be clean for a reason.

That reason has just shown its hand.

-mine

Against Forgetting Project

Corey Roth

Intro to Literature

Ann Hostetler

4/26/2011

John Balaban: Avatar of Vietnamese Poetry

John Balaban is an imagist poet whose works are almost solely based on the Vietnam War and the aftereffects on his life. His unique style can be traced back to his service in Vietnam, his dedication to serving his country, and the darkness that followed him out of the war. But to understand the works, one must first understand the man and what he’s been through, and for John Balaban that goes double because all of his works seem to hearken back to his personal experiences.

            John Balaban was born in nineteen forty-three. He was brought up in an already oddly bisected household in terms of education; his father had learned calculus and was studying engineering, but his mother, on the other hand, was largely uneducated. Regardless of the mixed instruction of the parents, John proved himself to be a bright boy, writing his first poem at around eight years old. He was reportedly inspired by show tunes his sister would sing; a testament to the innocence found in children which would later become inspiration for some of his poems as an adult. When he was sixteen he became a Quaker as a kind of side effect to trying to find a way to stop violence in his vicinity. He then got his BA in English from Pennsylvania State, and ended up at the top of his class. His next big task was to get his MA. Luckily, and thanks to his great talent, he obtained a huge scholarship to Harvard where he then got a Masters in English Literature (Wikipedia).

When the Vietnam War started John Balaban was one of the many unfortunate souls to get drafted into service. John, not one to stand for the genocidal slaughter typically brought on by war, opted to be a conscientious objector (and obtained status as such). This is where we start to see a new side of Mr. Balaban. He refused to go into battle, as so many people were ridiculed for, but he still felt the need to serve, “He imagines how the men on the board must have laughed at this kid who ‘told them [he] was going to Vietnam whether or not they approved [his] status as a CO’” said John Griswold, a former student (Praise, 6). John himself says, “I was a conscientious objector. I don't know if that term even means anything to anybody anymore. But during the Vietnam War, and during the draft, one could plead objection on a religious basis, or a spiritual basis of some kind. I objected to the war, yet I had the strange notion that it was a kind of obligation to go” (Conversation).

And go John did; all the way to Vietnam to be a university professor with the International Volunteer Service. He served in this way for several months before the university was “bombed flat” (Conversation), during the Tet Offensive in 1968. The bombing also brought on another massive life-changing event for John; he was injured when shrapnel from the bombs got caught in his shoulder.

When John had recovered from his wounds, he promptly sent himself straight back to Vietnam with COR and spent his time saving children, sending them to the U.S. so they could receive proper medical treatment.

“After a year of evacuating war-injured children from Vietnam, which is what I did after I taught at the university, it seemed to me, considering how many lives we might have actually saved in that process, maybe a 100, maybe a few hundred more, that maybe there was something I could do on a different scale that maybe no one else could do, and that was record the poetry in which most of Vietnamese humanism was articulated” said John, in response to a question about his interest in Vietnam as a place instead of a warzone (Conversation).

 This brings about the next chapter in John Balaban’s life. In 1971, after his service term had ended, he was given a grant to collect and translate Vietnamese oral poetry. After having been recently married he went with his wife and traversed the countryside looking for stories and poems. “I walked up to country people--farmers, shipbuilders, women working old Singer pedal sewing machines--and said, "Would you sing me your favorite poem?" And they looked at me, this young American with a Harvard book bag which held my tape recorder, and they said, ‘Yes,’” he said, marveling at the idea that it wasn’t considered strange for him to do so (Conversation). He then went on to explain some of the rich history behind the Vietnamese poetry saying, “…in Vietnamese there's something that just doesn't exist in English, and that's word tone. This is a requirement of the poetry, too, and I must remind you that this is done by people who don't read or write (Conversation).

As John was traveling, collecting, and translating this lyrical poetry, he came across poems by Ho Xuan Huong, who made a huge impact on his life. He collected as many of her poems as he could, translated them the best he could, and then put a book out entirely of her work entitled “Spring Essence”. Apparently since then he’s gotten many e-mails from Vietnam expressing how funny Ho Xuan huong would have found it that her poems were so acclaimed in a country she’d never heard of.

While a lot of John’s works in the poetry world were translations from Vietnamese to English, he hadn’t stopped writing his own poetry. The war made a deep emotional impact on Mr. Balaban, and he suffered from bursts of anger possibly related to PTSD just as a soldier might have. Emotional strife gave him passion and vision for his newer poems, and the events of the war gave him a topic. Events such as the bombing of the university actually had shoved him into the action, as he found himself having to guard surgeons so they would continue medical treatment (Newsletter). Poems such as “For the Missing in Action” are all mostly the horror and injustice brought onto villagers during the war, and the terrible presence that lingers afterward,

“In that dead place the weeds had formed a man
where someone died and fertilized the earth, with flesh
and blood, with tears, with longing for loved ones.
No scrap remained; not even a buckle
survived the monsoons, just a green creature,
a viny man, supine, with posies for eyes,
butterflies for buttons, a lily for a tongue.” (Selected Poems)

If you look closely enough you can also find hints of rebirth and renewal strewn in this piece as well, even if it seems to come at a terrible price.

Sometimes though, John’s poetry is less about the horror of war; less about the damage, pain, sorrow, and death, and more about the tense aura of the warzone, such as the poem “The Guard at the Binh Thuy Bridge”.

“…He scrapes his heel, and sees no box bombs floating towards his bridge.
Anchored in red morning mist a narrow junk rocks its weight.
A woman kneels on deck staring at lapping water.
Wets her face.
Idly the thick Rach Binh Thuy slides by.
He aims. At her. Then drops his aim. Idly.”

Safety was constantly threatened during Vietnam. This was a fairly direct portrayal of how situations could turn dire in an instant, and may also reflect John’s newly acquired explosive anger issues. The water of the river also seems here to be mimicking a sense of almost indifference to violence, as it idly slips by with the constant possibility of bombs and the soldier drops his aim with the constant possibility of firing.

            Even after the war revved despair into heavy gear, John did still take some hope for a calm peaceful life in the innocence of children. He dedicated a poem to his daughter entitled “Words for my Daughter” in which he expresses his own generation’s bad childhood. However at the end he makes clear his desires for his child, as well as a confession that youthful purity was needed to keep him grounded to a peaceful life after all he’d been through,

“I want you to know the worst and be free from it.
I want you to know the worst and still find good.
Day by day, as you play nearby or laugh
with the ladies at Peoples Bank as we go around town
and I find myself beaming like a fool,
I suspect I am here less for your protection
than you are here for mine, as if you were sent
to call me back into our helpless tribe. (Select Poems)

John Balaban was conflicted with everything he experienced over in Vietnam, and that conflict seeps into all of his works. From his turmoil-ridden upbringing, to his conversion to Quakerism, all the way to his injury in the war, John’s life has always had a sort of chaos that reflects both the war itself, and his poetry that mirrors it. As such, getting to know the man will help paint a picture of just exactly what John’s poems are all about.

Works Cited

"Books by John Balaban." John Balaban. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://www.johnbalaban.com/books.html>.

"A Conversation with John Balaban." John Balaban. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://www.johnbalaban.com/triquarterly-interview.html>.

Jan Spiegel and Will Hochman: Beyond War Poetry: War, Literature and the Heart of a Poet." EBSCO Publishing Service Selection Page. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?hid=108&sid=f37a16de-1458-47cf-8dd0-c2393b7995b5@sessionmgr11&vid=5>.

John Balaban: ERHART." EBSCO Publishing Service Selection Page. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?hid=108&sid=f37a16de-1458-47cf-8dd0-c2393b7995b5@sessionmgr11&vid=5>.

John Griswold: "Praise to Those Still Coming Through On Song": An Appreciation of John Bal..." EBSCO Publishing Service Selection Page. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?hid=21&sid=f37a16de-1458-47cf-8dd0-c2393b7995b5@sessionmgr11&vid=5>.

ERHART W.D.: Words for John Balaban." EBSCO Publishing Service Selection Page. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/pdfviewer/pdfviewer?hid=108&sid=f37a16de-1458-47cf-8dd0-c2393b7995b5@sessionmgr11&vid=5>.

"The Guard at the Binh Thuy Bridge." Canyon Crest Academy Library Media Center. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://teachers.sduhsd.net/tpsocialsciences/us_history/vietnamwar/poem.htm>.

Hickman, Kennedy. "Vietnam War - Causes of the Vietnam War." Military History - Warfare through the Ages - Battles and Conflicts - Weapons of War - Military Leaders in History. Web. 20 Mar. 2011. <http://militaryhistory.about.com/od/vietnamwar/a/VietnamOrigins.htm>.

"John Balaban." Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Balaban>.

"John Bradley, Review of John Balaban's Remembering Heaven's Face." Institute for Advanced Technology in the Humanities. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://www2.iath.virginia.edu/sixties/HTML_docs/Texts/Reviews/Bradley_Heavens_Face.html>.

"Selected Poems by John Balaban." John Balaban. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://www.johnbalaban.com/poems.html#words_for_my_daughter>.

"Vietnam War." Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 21 Mar. 2011. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_War#Tet_Offensive>.

Aim that Cannon

Triangle of light outside in the darkness
of night coming fast
like a charging elephant
trumpeting as it runs.

Stare it down, poacher,
aim that cannon
right between the eyes;
make your mark,
and one of you always dies.

-mine

The Dragon Take Me

The dragon take me.

I shall not stand against him.

The dragon take me.

Lead me into the mouth.

Take me, screaming.

Blood gurgling out of my throat
but you still hear my words

"Worth every second."

Blood streamin from my eyes
but you still see the glint
and it calls to you saying

"I can't  be broken."

Blood gushing from my heart
but you still hear it poundind
and it calls to you saying

"I can't be stopped."

The dragon take me,
take me screaming,
take me bleeding,
lead me into the mouth.

The dragon take me.

Take me, screaming.

-mine

Meditations on the Mundane as Extraordinary: A Review of Billy Collins' "The Art of Drowning"

Billy Collins’ book, The Art of Drowning, is a collection of poems published in 1995. It personifies Mr. Collins’ love of the mundane. To Billy Collins, the joy of a simple book is as beautiful as the sky, and the harmony of birds is like a gospel choir. He recounts in exquisite detail the wonders of everyday life, and the beauty that can be found in every moment. This book came out six years before Billy Collins became the U.S. Poet Laureate, and probably helped boost his career enough to make that possible. It is separated into four sections, each capturing a different unique insight into the workings of everyday life. The first seems to focus on how great minds are reminiscent of the nature that inspired them, the second is a testament to how age affects perception of the world, the third section is about cycles in life, and the final section seems to be devoted to art and music.

Billy Collins’ first section in The Art of Drowning is primarily about nature and the world, and how it has influenced greatness in mankind. For instance in his poem, appropriately titled, “Influence,” Billy shows us a comparison between birds and one Robert Penn Warren:

 All these years and I never realized

 why I found the mourning dove so interesting

 until you pointed out

 that morning we stood by the icy window

 its resemblance to Robert Penn Warren—

 the secretive eyes, soft royal neck,

 and the mild, unruffled demeanor. (1-7)

Robert Penn Warren is the only person to have ever won the Pulitzer Prize for both poetry and for the fiction novel, All the King’s Men. He is, needless to say, a very important literary figure in the past, and quite possibly had a huge impact on Billy Collins, if this poetic testimony says anything about it:

But for days afterward, whenever I saw the doves

 milling around in the snow,

 their legs thin as pencil leads,

 I found myself thinking of All the King’s Men,

 picturing the cover of the paperback

 I used to carry around in my jacket pocket. (27-32)

As if to drive the point home that nature inspires greatness, Billy references a second Pulitzer Prize-winning poet (also known for her use of nature imagery), Marianne Moore:

I even began to wonder, as the sun nudged

 the shadows of the bare trees across the snow,

 whether the titmouse, fluttering about

 in its own tiny sphere of excitement,

 did not remind me somewhat of Marianne Moore. (33-37)

Billy’s love of nature and his confidence in its ability as a muse make for a relaxing, yet empowering, read.

The second section of The Art of Drowning deals with aging and reflection on youth. In “On Turning Ten,” Collins portrays that even at this early age, life used to be better:

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,

 as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.

 It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,

 time to turn the first big number. (24-27)

He also reflects on the innocence of youth, saying:

 It seems only yesterday I used to believe

 there was nothing under my skin but light.

 If you cut me I would shine.

 But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,

 I skin my knees. I bleed. (28-32)

 Collins reinforces this point in the poem, “Fiftieth Birthday Eve,” by admitting that he has trouble not focusing on his age, saying:

The figure alone is enough to keep me awake,

……………………………………………….

 I want to daydream here in the dark, listening

 to the trees behind the house reciting their poems,

……………………………………………….

But I keep picturing the number, round and daunting. (1, 6-7,12)

Then later in the same poem, he compares turning fifty to the horrors of turning ten:

And this day, whose first light is gilding the windows,

 has become another one of the sorrowful mysteries,

 following the agony in the garden of childhood

 and proceeding the crucifixion,

 the letter X removed from the word and nailed to a cross (28-32).

Yet for all his talk about aging and the sorrow behind it, Billy Collins utilizes his own special brand of irony to show that, while sad, life and aging are wonderful, and you should get as much out of them as you can. He does this in the poem of the books namesake, “The Art of Drowning.” He does this by questioning one’s life flashing before one’s eyes in a near death experience:

Wouldn’t any form be better than this sudden flash?

Your whole existence going off in your face

 in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography—

 nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned. (13-16)

This section is a fun read for anybody stuck thinking on the past, and will make you want to reflect on the best parts of your life.

The next section is a brilliantly detailed account of cycles as Mr. Collins takes us on a ride through his pondering of beginnings, endings, and most importantly what we as people choose to think about them. He uses mornings not only to ascribe them splendor, as in his poem “Center,” but also as a metaphor for the beginnings of one’s life, comparing it to a high school graduation in the poem, “Monday Morning.” Collins also pays reverence to the beginning of dreaming in his poem, “The First Dream,” which is a nice blend of beginnings and human contemplation:

Then again the first dream might have come

to a woman, though she would behave,

I suppose, much the same way,

moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders

and the tilt of her downcast head

would make her appear to be terribly alone,

and if you were to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person

to ever fall in love with the sadness of another. (17-26)

He goes on with his accounts of human thought in his poems, “Philosophy,” and “Romanticism,” where he details changes in his own thinking as his life has progressed. And in everything that progresses, there is an ending to which he dedicates “While Eating a Pear” and “The End of the World.” The latter of these expresses that every ending is significant, saying:

Was it once enough for him to sense the smaller endings?

To know from the way someone combs her hair

one morning  that the end of love is near;

to tell by the way chords for home

that the end of the song is fast approaching;

or to realize by the tone of afternoon light

that the end of the very day is at hand,

my brethren, and that the summer trees and clouds

will never be blown quite the same way again. (31-39)

He ends the poem by explaining that he will prophesy the end of the day and the beginning of the night. Assuming, then, that night again leads into day, a clear cycle can be established, which is followed up by the next and last poem in the section, “Design.” This last poem follows suit with such phrasing as, “I pour a coating of salt on the table/ and make a circle in it with my finger./ This is the cycle of life” (1-3).

The fourth and final segment of The Art of Drowning is about the magnificence to be found in mediums of art. A large amount of Billy Collins’ poetry is about the written word, such as “Tuesday, June 4, 1991” in which he talks about himself as a secretary to life and nature. This section, however, seems to be devoted to all sorts of art, such as music in “The Invention of the Saxophone,” and painting in “Medium.” Billy writes in his poem, “Piano Lessons”:

Even when I am not playing, I think about the piano.

It is the largest, heaviest,

and most beautiful object in this house.

I pause in the doorway just to take it all in.

And late at night I picture it downstairs,

this hallucination standing on three legs,

this curious beast with its enormous moonlit smile. (47-53)

This demonstrates his love for music, but the rest of the poem shows his knowledge of the subject as well, when he says things such as:

the scale is the mother of the chords.

            ……………………………………………

After all,

just the right chord can bring you to tears,

but no one listens to the scales,

no one listens to their mother. (18, 24-27)

Billy Collins’, The Art of Drowning, is the perfect read for someone who enjoys humor, wit, and irony, along with nature, philosophy, and art. Anyone who takes pleasure in poetry streaming out of a book like music will love this book. Filled with poems that are intellectually challenging but still not hard to comprehend, this book is a masterpiece of lyrical observation of the workings of the world.

Works Cited

Collins, Billy. The Art of Drowning. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh, 1995. Print.

"Marianne Moore." Poets.org - Poetry, Poems, Bios & More. Web. 05 Mar. 2011. <http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/96>.

"Robert Penn Warren." Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Web. 05 Mar. 2011. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Penn_Warren>.