en124 poetry-sean ryder lecture slides-1

EN124 - Introduction to Poetry

“Poetry and the plain”

EN124 Part B – Introduction to Poetry

Lecturer: Sean Ryder Office hours: Mondays 4-5 and Fridays 11-12 Room 510, Floor 3, Tower 1

Poems available on Blackboard as “Poems for class: Sean Ryder”

This is just to say I have eaten the plums that were in

the icebox and which you were probably saving for

breakfast. Forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet and

so cold.

This is Just to Say

I have eaten the plumsthat were inthe icebox

and whichyou were probably saving for breakfast

Forgive methey were deliciousso sweetand so cold

William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)

William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)

• A family doctor from Rutherford, N.J.

• Associated with ‘Imagism’

• Slogan: ‘No ideas but in things’

The Term

A rumpled sheetof brown paperabout the length

and apparent bulkof a man wasrolling with the

wind slowly overand over inthe street as

a car drove downupon it andcrushed it to

the ground. Unlikea man it roseagain rolling

with the wind overand over to be asit was before.

The Term







Metaphor/symbol

Image

The Term







Rhythm

Rhythm changes

The Term







Rhythm

Repetition

The Term







Sound: - long “o” - “ow”

• Always the exact word, not the merely decorative

• To create new rhythms – as the expression of new moods (‘free verse’)

• Freedom of subject matter

• To present a clear and precise image

• Concentration is the essence of poetry

Ezra Pound (1885-1972)

“Imagist manifesto” (1913)

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much dependsupon

a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rain water

beside the whitechickens.

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much dependsupon

a red wheelbarrow

glazed with rain water

beside the whitechickens.

• Always the exact word, not the merely decorative

• To create new rhythms – as the expression of new moods (‘free verse’)

• Freedom of subject matter

• To present a clear and precise image

• Concentration is the essence of poetry

• “No ideas but in things”

Poem

As the cat

climbed over

the top of

the jamcloset

first the right

forefoot

carefully

then the hind

stepped down

Into the pit of

the empty

flowerpot

Poem

As the cat

climbed over

the top of

the jamcloset

first the right

forefoot

carefully

then the hind

stepped down

Into the pit of

the empty

flowerpot

• Image (space)

• Movement (time)

Poem

As the cat

climbed over

the top of

the jamcloset

first the right

forefoot

carefully

then the hind

stepped down

Into the pit of

the empty

flowerpot

• Image (space)

• Movement (time)

• Rhythm= stressed syllable

Poem

As the cat

climbed over

the top of

the jamcloset

first the right

forefoot

carefully

then the hind

stepped down

Into the pit of

the empty

flowerpot

• Image (space)

• Movement (time)

• Rhythm

• Meaning

Good website for modern American poetry:

www.english.illinois.edu/maps

EN124 – Introduction to Poetry

“Poetry and persona”

e.e. cummings (1894-1962)

• From Cambridge, Massachusetts; attended Harvard University

• A pacifist, he served as an ambulance driver in France in WW I

• Imprisoned by US army for insubordination

• Noted for syntax and typographical experiments (e.g. use of lower case letters)

Poem, or Beauty Hurts Mr Vinal

take it from me kiddo

believe me

my country, ’tis of

you, land of the Cluett

Shirt Boston Garter and Spearmint

Girl With The Wrigley Eyes (of you

land of the

Arrow Ide

and Earl &

Wilson

Collars) of you i

sing:land of Abraham Lincoln and Lydia E. Pinkham,

land above all of Just Add Hot Water And Serve--

from every B. V. D.

let freedom ring

amen. i do however protest, anent the un

-spontaneous and otherwise scented merde which

greets one (Everywhere Why) as divine poesy per

that and this radically defunct periodical. i would

suggest that certain ideas gestures

rhymes, like Gillette Razor Blades

having been used and reused

to the mystical moment of dullness emphatically are

Not To Be Resharpened. (Case in point

if we are to believe these gently O sweetlymelancholy trillers amid the thrillersthese crepuscular violinists among my and yourskyscrapers – Helen & Cleopatra were Just Too Lovely,The Snail’s On The Thorn enter Morn and God’sIn His andsoforth

do you get me?) accordingto such supposedly indigenousthrostles Art is O World O Lifea formula: example, Turn Your Shirttails IntoDrawers and If It Isn’t An Eastman It Isn’t AKodak therefore my friends letus now sing each and all fortissimo A-merI

ca, Ilove,You. And there’re ahun-dred-mil-lion-oth-ers, likeall of you successfully ifdelicately gelded (or spaded)gentlemen (and ladies) – pretty

littleliverpil-heated-Nujolneeding-There’s-A-Reasonamericans (who tensetendoned and withupward vacant eyes, painfullyperpetually crouched, quivering, upon thesternly allotted sandpile – how silentlyemit a tiny violetflavoured nuisance: Odor?

ono.comes out like a ribbon lies flat on the brush

‘My Country Tis of Thee’

(a patriotic American hymn sung to tune of ‘God Save the Queen’)

My country ’tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing.

Land where our fathers died,

Land of thy pilgrims’ pride,

From every mountain side,

Let freedom ring.



believe me





land of the

Arrow Ide

and Earl &

Wilson

Collars) of you i



from every B. V. D.

let freedom ring

















believe me





land of the

Arrow Ide

and Earl &

Wilson

Collars) of you i



from every B. V. D.

let freedom ring






rhymes, like Gillette Razor Bladeshaving been used and reused









take it from me kiddobelieve me





land of the

Arrow Ide

and Earl &

Wilson

Collars) of you i



from every B. V. D.

let freedom ring

















believe me





land of the

Arrow Ide

and Earl &

Wilson

Collars) of you i



from every B. V. D.

let freedom ring















“next to of course god america ilove you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth ohsay can you see by the dawn's early mycountry ’tis of centuries come and goand are no more what of it we should worryin every language even deafanddumbthy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorryby jingo by gee by gosh by gumwhy talk of beauty what could be more beaut-iful than these heroic happy deadwho rushed like lions to the roaring slaughterthey did not stop to think they died insteadthen shall the voice of liberty be mute?”

He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

ygUDuh ydoan yunnuhstan

ydoan o yunnuhstan dem yguduh ged yunnuhstan dem doidee yguduh ged riduh ydon o nudnLISN bud LISN dem gud am

lidl yelluh bas tuds weer goinduhSIVILEYEzum


“Poetry and protest”

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)

• Grew up in New York City

• Expelled from Columbia Univ. (NY)

• Moved to San Francisco

• Performed ‘Howl’ at City Lights Bookshop in 1955

• Vigorous anti-war protestor in 1960s

“Beat” poetry: contexts

The Cold War (c. 1945-1990):

• Arms race (‘military-industrial complex’)

• Political paranoia (McCarthyite ‘witch-hunts’ of 1950s)

Protest movements (1960s):

• Civil rights (Martin Luther King, Jr.)

• Black militants (Malcolm X)

• Women (feminist movement)

• Anti-Vietnam war protests (1964 -1973)

“Beat” poetry

Youth counter-culture:

• ‘Generation gap’

• Hippie culture: flower-power, drugs, psychedelia

• Popular music: jazz, folk, rock, Woodstock

• Interest in Asian religions: esp. Zen Buddhism and transcendental meditation

• ‘Sexual revolution’

“Beat” poetry (1950s and 1960s)

Style:

• Spontaneous, ‘natural’ voice

• Freedom of form

Themes:

• Personal experience (heroic suffering - beaten, beatified)

• Repressiveness of American mainstream culture

• Desire for individual liberation

• Alternate states of consciousness

Other Beats:

• Jack Kerouac (prose), Lawrence Ferlinghetti (poetry)

“Howl” (1956)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

“Howl” (1956)

Ginsberg’s comments:

‘I thought I wouldn’t write a poem, but just write what I wanted to without fear, let my imagination go, open secrecy, and scribble magic lines from my real mind . . . The whole first section typed out madly in one afternoon, a huge sad comedy of wild phrasing, meaningless images for the beauty of abstract poetry of the mind running along making awkward combinations . . .

[from Paul Hoover, Postmodern American Poetry, p.635]

“Howl” (1956)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,




who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

Images and rhythm




“America” (1956)

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956. I can’t stand my own mind. America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb. I don’t feel good don’t bother me. I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind. America when will you be angelic? When will you take off your clothes? When will you look at yourself through the grave? When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? America why are your libraries full of tears? America when will you send your eggs to India? I’m sick of your insane demands. When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good

looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.

“America” (1956)

[…]It occurs to me that I am America.I am talking to myself again.

[…]America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.


“Poetry and ecology”

Gary Snyder (1930 -)

• Born in San Francisco

• Worked as forester, sailor

• Oriental studies at U of California

• Lived in Japan in 1960s

• Influence of Zen Buddhism and ‘haiku’ poetry

• Ecology and art

Japanese haiku:

In the boat,crescent moon’s light [Poet: Taigi]in my lap.

Over paddiesat its foot, [Poet: Issa]smoke of Mount Asama

Autumn wind,The beggar looks [Poet : Issa]me over, sizing up.

Vapor Trails

Twin streaks twice higher than cumulus,Precise plane icetracks in the vertical blueCloud-flaked light-shot shadow-arcingField of all future war, edging off to space.

Young expert U.S. pilots waitingThe day of criss-cross rocketsAnd white blossoming smoke of bomb,The air world torn and staggered for theseSpecks of brushy land and ant-hill towns –

I stumble on the cobble rockpath,Passing through temples,Watching for two-leaf pine

– spotting that design.in Daitoku-ji

I Went into the Maverick Bar I went into the Maverick Bar In Farmington, New Mexico.

And drank double shots of bourbon backed with beer.

My long hair was tucked up under a cap I’d left the earring in the car.

Two cowboys did horseplay by the pool tables,

A waitress asked us where are you from?

a country-and-western band began to play “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”And with the next song,

a couple began to dance. They held each other like in High School dances

in the fifties; I recalled when I worked in the woods

and the bars of Madras, Oregon.

That short-haired joy and roughness – America – your

stupidity. I could almost love you again.

We left – onto the freeway shoulders – under the tough old

stars –In the shadow of bluffs

I came back to myself, To the real work, to

“What is to be done.”

For AllAh to be alive

on a mid-September morn fording a stream barefoot, pants rolled up, holding boots, pack on, sunshine, ice in the shallows, northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes

cold nose dripping singing inside creek music, heart music, smell of sun on gravel. I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil of Turtle Island,

and to the beings who thereon dwell one ecosystem in diversity under the sun

With joyful interpenetration for all.

AMERICAN “PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE”:

“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”

For AllAh to be alive

on a mid-September morn fording a stream barefoot, pants rolled up, holding boots, pack on, sunshine, ice in the shallows, northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes

cold nose dripping singing inside creek music, heart music, smell of sun on gravel. I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil of Turtle Island,

and to the beings who thereon dwell one ecosystem in diversity under the sun

With joyful interpenetration for all.


“Poetry and the personal”

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

• Autobiographical novel: The Bell Jar (1963)

• Moved to England, suicide in 1963

• Collection Ariel published in 1965 by English poet husband Ted Hughes

• ‘I believe that one should be able to control and manipulate experience, even the most terrifying … with an informed and intelligent mind’

• ‘Confessional’ poetry

“Daddy”

You do not do, you do not doAny more, black shoeIn which I have lived like a footFor thirty years, poor and white,Barely daring to breathe or Achoo

[…]

from “Daddy”

[…]

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,In the picture I have of you,A cleft in your chin instead of your footBut no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,And they stuck me together with glue.

[…]

There’s a stake in your fat black heartAnd the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

from “Daddy”

[…]

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,In the picture I have of you,A cleft in your chin instead of your footBut no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.I was ten when they buried you.At twenty I tried to dieAnd get back, back, back to you.I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,And they stuck me together with glue.

[…]

There’s a stake in your fat black heartAnd the villagers never liked you.They are dancing and stamping on you.They always knew it was you.Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Style of language: child and adult

Metaphor and irony: black comedy,

distancing effect

Effect: poignancy, revelation of

psychological state

Metaphor

“Blackberrying”

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,

Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,

A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea

Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries

Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes

Ebon in the hedges, fat

With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.

I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.

They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks –

Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.

Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.

I do not think the sea will appear at all.

The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.

I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,

Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.

The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.

One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.

From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,

Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.

These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.

I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me

To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock

That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space

Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths

Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

“Blackberrying”

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,

Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,

A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea

Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries

Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes

Ebon in the hedges, fat

With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.

I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.

They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

IMAGES evoke alienation, disturbance

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks –

Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.

Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.

I do not think the sea will appear at all.

The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.

I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,

Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.

The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.

One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.

From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,

Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.

These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.

I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me

To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock

That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space

Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths

Beating and beating at an intractable metal.


“Poetry and politics”

African American contexts (1960s)

• Civil rights movement [integrationist]:–1955: Bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama–1957: Civil Rights Act–1963: Martin Luther King: ‘I have a dream’ speech–1968: Assassination of Martin Luther King

• Black militancy: ‘Nation of Islam’ [separatist]--1965: assassination of Malcolm X

• 1965-68: Race riots in LA, Detroit, Washington DC, Newark, Chicago

• Black ‘cultural nationalism’: see June Jordan, Moving Towards Home

Black Arts movement (BAM)

From ‘On Black Art’ by Ron Kerenga (1967):

‘All art is collective and reflects the values of the people. Therefore what makes us able to identify an artist's work is not individuality, but personality, which is an expression of the different personal experiences of the artist within the Black framework.’

‘Language and imagery must come from the people and be returned to the people in a beautiful language which everybody can easily understand.’

“Black English”

From June Jordan, ‘White English/Black English’ (1972; -- see her book Moving Towards Home):

‘Let us study and use our Black language, more and more: it is not A Mistake, or A Verbal Deficiency … Our Black language is a political fact suffering from political persecution and political malice. Let us understand this and meet the man, politically; let us meet the man talking the way that we talk; … Let us condemn white English for what it is: a threat to mental health, integrity of person, and persistence as a people of our own choosing.’

Haki R. Madhubuti (1942 -)

• Raised in Detroit, served in US army (1960-63)

• Changed name from Don L. Lee

• Political activist and essayist; important in BAM

Madhubuti: 1999 interview

The reason poets are not legislators is because we have a problem with lying. This would be a serious question for any artist, not just poets, but also visual artists, actors, and musicians. If we are truly concerned about humankind, then how can we everyday face what is happening in Honduras, Nicaragua, Rwanda, and not get angry? Or what’s happening on the West Side and South Side of Chicago? Things are just not right, and those who control the world are not right. I think it’s part of the responsibility of poets to point out, as they see it, the incorrectness of the way things are.

[see website http://www.fyah.com/train.htm]

But He Was Cool,

or: he even stopped for green lights

super-cool

ultrablack

a tan/purple

had a beautiful shade.

he had a double-natural

that wd put the sisters to shame.

& his beads were imported sea shells

(from some blk/country i never heard of)

he was triple-hip.

his tikis were hand carved

out of ivory

& came express from the motherland.

he would greet u in swahili

& say good-by in yoruba.

woooooooooooo-jim he bes so cool & ill tel li gent

cool-cool is so cool he was un-cooled by other niggers’ cool

cool-cool ultracool was bop-cool/ice box cool so cool cold cool

his wine didn’t have to be cooled, him was air conditioned cool

cool-cool/real cool made me cool – now ain’t that cool

cool-cool so cool him nick-named refrigerator.

cool-cool so cool

he didn’t know,

after detroit, newark, chicago &c.,

we had to hip

cool-cool/ super-cool/ real cool

that to be blackisto bevery-hot.

Sonia Sanchez (1934 -)

• Poet and playwright

• Grew up in Harlem, New York City

• Involved in revolutionary activist movements in 1960s

• ‘A lot of our words and language came from Malcolm X’ and from street culture

TCB

wite/motha/fucka

wite/motha/fucka

wite/motha/fucka

whitey

wite/motha/fucker

wite/motha/fucker

wite/motha/fucker

ofay

wite/mutha/fucka

wite/mutha/fucka

wite/mutha/fucka

devil

wite/mutha/fucker

wite/mutha/fucker

wite/mutha/fucker

pig

wite/mother/fucker

wite/mother/fucker

wite/mother/fucker

cracker

wite/muther/fucka

wite/muther/fucka

wite/muther/fucka

honky

now. that it’s all sed

let’s get to work.

Note:

“TCB” means “Taking care of business”

Right on: white america

this country might have

been a pio

neer land

once.

but. there ain’t

no mo

indians blowing

custer’s mind

with a different

image of america.

this country

might have

needed shoot/

outs/daily/

once.

but. there ain’t

no mo real/ white allamerican

bad/guys.

just

u & me

blk/ and un/ armed.

this country might have

been a pion

eer land. once.

and it still is.

check out

the falling

guns/ shells on our blk/tomorrows.

Amiri Baraka (1934 -)

• Served in US air force

• Associated with Beats in NYC in 1950s

• Changed name from ‘LeRoi Jones’ in 1967

• Founded ‘Black Repertory Theatre’ of Harlem and became major figure in BAM

• Participated in Newark riots in 1967; later poet laureate of New Jersey

Baraka on his poetry

[Early poetry preoccupied] ‘with death, with suicide … Always my own, caught up in the deathurge of the twisted society. The work is a cloud of abstraction and disjointedness … that was just whiteness’

Baraka on his poetry

[Early poetry preoccupied] ‘with death, with suicide … Always my own, caught up in the deathurge of the twisted society. The work is a cloud of abstraction and disjointedness … that was just whiteness’

‘From Williams, mostly how to write in my own language—how to write the way I speak rather than the way I think a poem ought to be written—to write just the way it comes to me, in my own speech, utilizing the rhythms of speech rather than any kind of metrical concept. To talk verse. Spoken verse. From Pound, the same concepts that went into the Imagist’s poetry—the idea of the image and what an image ought to be.’

Amiri Baraka

‘Someone Blew Up America’ (2002)

• Theme: 9/11 as one incident in history of violence, deceptions, power struggle, hatred

• Style: “Who …”

“It wasn’t …”

Accumulation effect, litany

Oral delivery, performance, communal

Question answered?

en124 poetry-sean ryder lecture slides-1

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