I think a lot, perhaps too much. And I read a lot, definitely not enough. So I have a lot of thoughts about what I read, thoughts that I don't get to always express. That's why I thought that I would turn here, to my old English poetry blog and share everything I feel about whatever I finish reading at that moment.
Does anyone else get that feeling when you finish a book? That strange empty, yet content/frustrated/angry feeling (depending on the ending) that leaves you sitting still for moments after you've closed the pages, mourning for what you just lost. I did some research into this emotion, reaching for a word that could describe what I was feeling and to see if other felt that same way. I found a few things: Saudade - a Portuguese word not directly translated into English that means a sad longing for something or someone that is lost and may never return. (I'm slightly hesitant to use this word as I don't have a full understanding of what it means as I don't know any Portuguese.) Post Series Depression - a pretty self explanatory brought to you straight from Urban Dictionary. (While a completely fitting term, it doesn't appeal to that part of me that wants a special word for that weird feeling I experience.) Unfortunately, I could not yield any satisfactory results to fit my need to put a word to an emotion, but I want to find something that will fill that emptiness and console my heart after I savor every last combination of 26 letters that forms a book.
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By Adrienne Su
https://annasuki.wordpress.com/2012/03/06/sus-female-infanticide/ So we are taking a short departure from the mysterious, dark world of Cruz, and plunging into another world, equally disturbing and dark, that is, the world of Adrienne Su. Although still dark, this poem is a different type of dark, not one that can be construed meaning, but one that has a definite meaning that applies and brings light to the world today. Please be prepared. I’m going to start with the title because it is an immediate attention grabber. Infanticide is the intentional killing of infants and with the word female there, we are talking about baby girls here. Female infanticide is a depressing and creepy concept in of itself, but the rest of the title is more so. “A Guide for Mothers” suggests that this poem is a how-to, an instruction manual for how to kill off your baby girls. Let’s see how this develops further. The first line, “in order of expediency.” This suggests a list, a list that goes from top to bottom an order of what you should try, the most urgent first. “Try this method first before moving on” a message that screams out almost like an advertisement. The first line relates the remaining structure of the poem, it is almost like an outline, with Roman numerals detailing each item of the list. Instead of detailing each list item, line by line, I grouped them into similar parts or actions, or at least, what I viewed as similar. Item #1 is pre-birth of the child. First get an “ultrasound” to determine the gender of the child. We wouldn’t want to kill off a precious baby boy, now would we? After determining that the child is indeed a girl, the next item on the agenda is get an abortion. Stop the child before it’s even born, to save time, money, and resources. It is urgent that you cut off the child at its earliest stage, because a born child is so much more difficult to get rid of than a fetus. Items #2-4. Now that the child is born, what are you going to do with it? “Drowning; asphyxiation,” both quiet, relatively clean methods of disposing of a child. Quick and simple as well, they require no specialized equipment. “Hilltop abandonment,” like literally just leave the child, let it get taken in by the odd kind stranger or eaten by wolves. Doesn’t matter because the girl is no longer your problem. “Automobile accident,” stage something, an accident absolves you of responsibilities because well, it was an accident. No responsibility, no girl burden, everything is good. All of these items take place after the child is born, but they all require effort of the parent. Something has to happen in order for these list items to take place. Items #5-6. Now, if everything previously listed fails, literally give up. “Failure to immunize,” “ill nutrition,” “lack of activity,” and “inattention,” all come about from ignoring the child. Just ignore the child until it dies. Don’t vaccinate it, so it contracts some deadly disease. Don’t feed it, so it dies. It’s plain and simple, act as if that unwanted child was just not there. The only problem I foresee with these list items and a possible explanation of why something so simple would be further down on the list is that these actions (or inactions) are public. Someone is bound to notice that this child is starving, particularly if there are siblings in the household. Killing off girls is a well-known, but secret thing. The rest of the poem brings us back to effort being put back into the killing again. There is the idea of abandonment again, but this time to relatives, however unknown they may be. You could flat out leave the kid behind on a vacation. “Oops, it was just a mistake.” There’s that idea of accidental again. The paradox of the accepted notion of killing off girl children, but the clandestine way in which it must be carried out. In Item IX, the underlying idea of boys are more valuable than girls is brought to the forefront. This idea was understood throughout the poem, but not expressed until now. With a son, comes fortune and security, so now you can just put that useless girl up for adoption, no one will miss her. Item X is interesting and receives a full two lines instead of the customary one. Pull of this massive scandal and then leave it to her to kill herself (smart) or simply just vanish, grabbing that idea once more of exploring ways that absolve the parent of responsibility. Item XI raises the brother question again and illustrates the idea of girls being subservient to boys by suggesting you just use her as a servant to the all revered boy, but if that fails, marry her off. Then she can be a servant to her husband. Yay! Exciting! Note that it is the parent’s convenience, not the child’s, suggesting a society where marriages are not for love, but for gain. Item XII is what you should do if all else preceding this fails. Now that you’re stuck with this girl, keep her single. The talk of “psychological torture” implies that you will make this girl feel unattractive and unwanted, so that no one will want her, then use her for your own gain, most likely as a servant to care for you in your old age. This poem is depressing, it’s explicit, and it’s definitely cryptic. There is not much description, but not much is needed. Images appear in my brain, sad one. As the poem progresses, it shows the age in the girl. The girl gets older and older and to me the list items become sadder and sadder. Yes, the most murderous ones are at the top of the list, but they talk of when the girl is young, and not been able to have experiences in this world. She doesn’t know that she isn’t wanted. As she grows older, the methods turn to abandonment and disguise. The girl has to face the reality that she isn’t wanted and she has no control over what happens to her, she’ll either unwillingly become the servant of her own brother, an unwanted husband who will practically be a stranger, or her own parents. All of the list items yield sad fates, but the later ones are made sadder by understanding. I immediately thought about China, where female infanticide was a common practice until the early 2000s. It turns out that many countries participate in female infanticide because boy are much more useful to have around. While current female infanticide is not as drastic as it was expressed in this poem, many mothers, especially in rapid growth and densely populated areas, will abort their female children, with preference for males. It’s sad to think that in this “modern” day and age, such gender imbalance still occurs. Su captured that harsh world, the one we don’t like to think about and brought it to the bright light of day, where we can take action and do something about it. Nothing will change if nobody cares. “Guidebooks for the Dead” by Cynthia Cruz
http://www.mudcityjournal.com/cynthia-cruz/ This poem is weird. Yes, I know all of these poems I have explored have been exceedingly strange, but this one is a different weird. When exploring the expansive, never ending internet, I stumbled upon many different poems written by Cynthia Cruz all titled, “Guidebooks for the Dead” so in the link today’s poem is the last selection titled that. Alright, with all that business out of the way, let’s tunnel into this next beautiful, dark creation of Cynthia Cruz. Okay, starting from the top. “Guidebooks for the Dead,” more than one, perhaps this alludes to why multiple poems are titled this. Perhaps each poem possessing this title is another edition, providing advice for people stuck in between the world of the living and the dead, a world that is explored rather frequently by Ms. Cruz. Keeping this idea of advice for the in between in mind, let’s discuss this first line. “I pull the bell on the string at the gate.” That’s longer than Cruz’s typical opening line, although it is no more revealing. The subject/speaker of the poem is directly involved, he/she is the one performing the actions, the one who is trapped in the betweens. The speaker is pulling a bell, essentially ringing a doorbell (or in this case a gatebell), but to what? I immediately conjured up both vivid images of the pearly, glorious gates of heaven, and the fiery, twisted gates of hell. Either way could cause the subject to feel some sort of nervousness regarding her fate. The next line clarifies the image, “Then all the demons came.” Now the fiery, twisted, black gates of hell appear before me with demons pouring out of them, threatening me. For some reason, I feel that the speaker is young, maybe even a child. The language is simple and evokes that feeling for me. Lines 3 and 4, “Where is the coat/God gave me:” further cement two ideas to me. One, that the speaker is young or at least naive in their way of thinking, and two, he/she is scared/nervous. The subject automatically moves towards thinking of something that will protect them against the onslaught of demons. They turn to God, and as God gifted them this coat, it seems that perhaps they were not destined to go to hell. That is why the demons arriving produces such an instinctual reaction in the speaker. He/she was expecting something else. The naiveness of the speaker is apparent again with the simplicity of their request. They do not blame anyone else for wrongdoings, but search for that protection of something bigger than themselves, in this case God. If we view God as the supreme father figure, it all clicks into place. He will be the protector of those experiencing hell. “Long and mink/And to save me” follow the request and describe this mystical coat of protection, the ever important gift from God. It occurred to me this is the second time in a row, I have experienced the use of a mink coat (check out “Erstling if you wish to see the first) in one of Ms. Cruz’s wonderful works. Again, mink coats are expensive, luxurious accessories that fall way out of line with the poverty and desolation present in Cruz’s life and works. It would make sense that God would give an elegant, expensive gift, but this mink coat is protection from the demons as well. Why? Why? Why? I hear this burning question reverberating through my head. Why is the mink associated with protection, with salvation? The thought that came to mind deals with disguise. The mink coat disguises the speaker as a rich, extravagant human being, one too worthy to be sent to the pits of hell. The demons come for those who are too poor to be able to go to heaven, so, with the aid of this mink coat, God saves one. But alas, he/she cannot be saved because she cannot find this glorious gift. [cue dramatic shift] In the upcoming lines, we get to experience the true glory of Ms. Cruz work, that is, her ability to tie snapshots together into a “cohesive” story. We leave that speaker in front of a gate surrounded by demons for a moment as we transition to the next two lines. “Under the blue awning/Of the shelter in the rain.” These lines are much more calming than hell and present imagery that is peaceful by bringing the color blue into play. It is raining outside, another contrast to the fires of hell, and the speaker is seeking shelter an awning, a covering. This could be construed as another sort of disguise or a hiding place. Hiding from their true fate perhaps? Trying to change their destiny? If we zoom out further in our view, this awning, this hiding place is “Beneath the shadow/Of the cathedral.” I would like to call attention the fact it is not “a cathedral,” but rather “the cathedral.” It means that this is someplace specific, that not just any old cathedral would fit the speaker’s needs, but this particular cathedral is important. The idea of a cathedral contributes to the overarching religious tone as well. As we are standing the shadow of one, it is like the cathedral dominated the speaker’s life. It influenced their actions, which may be why they were so nervous standing at those gates because they knew their significance. They knew what could be in store for them. Perhaps this drastic shift represents the speaker running away from those gates because they know how that journey ends (with hell), so now they are looking back searching for what went wrong and trying to fix it frantically before the demons catch up. Continuing on that train of thought, it is time to reveal the following lines. “I’m riding the same train/As my father now.” Surprise, surprise, I refuse to follow any literal thought processes, so the train mentioned is not an actual train. I took it to mean path, as in path of living. Combining that idea with the familial connection expressed by bringing the subject’s father into the poem, I have this understanding that the speaker is trying to emulate their father. To be like him. By including the word “now,” it implies that this was not always the case. The speaker is now trying to fix their mistakes to live as a replica, one could say, of their father. Bringing back the religious domination in this subject’s life, it is highly likely that their parents contributed to this, so it follows that the speaker’s father would be religious and perhaps now, seeing the consequences of their life, the speaker wishes to be as well. The poem closes with two more lines, “And how I love/The white hiss of prayer and magic.” Upon reading these lines, I felt an immediate sense of catharsis. The emotions and suspense of the preceding lines held me captive and the last two lines provide liberation. The speaker is loving something, a contrast from that life in hell she would have spent if something had not changed. What does he/she love? This odd description of “the white hiss of prayer and magic.” Now, white could represent two different things. One could be softness or quietness, as in a background of prayer and magic, an underlying lull, something not audibly heard but always present. A force that directs that person down their chosen path of life. The other could be an actual reference to skin color. Religions possessing cathedrals are Eurocentric, such as Catholicism and Protestantism. Thus, the teachings from within would be white in nature. I favor a duality of the two ideas presented. There is that lull, the new course by which the speaker will live her life in pursuit of her father, and in this case it is quite a “white” religion. Now let’s step back and take a look at the poem as a whole. Looking back, I wonder if there were two gates at all. Perhaps that gate represented both the gates of heaven and hell. When you approach those gates, you must ring a bell. Based on your decisions in life, that bell reveals demons or perhaps angels if you are righteous. In this beautifully crafted poem, demons are revealed. This does not lend itself to be the speaker’s final destiny though. He/she is not condemned immediately to hell. It’s as though it is a wakeup call for the speaker and all of a sudden, they are put on that path towards a better life perhaps, following the footsteps of their father. We can each take this as an example. We will never be literally standing at that ambiguous gate, but there are moments in our life that we can liken unto that. Find those moments and define your positions in life. Take a look at yourself, perform a self evaluation, discover what needs to be changed. You have the power to direct your path in whatever way you can possibly imagine. It may be tough, but in the end you will become a better version of you. by Cynthia Cruz
https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/erstling I love when it reaches the beginning of the month and it is time for a new blog post. Browsing through Cruz’s poems, looking for just the right one to comment on is a highlight in my busy, chaotic world. Today’s almost disturbing, eerie, and perfect selection, is called “Erstling.” After the brief, all important scan of the poem, I quickly realized that all the words were familiar to me, except the title, “Erstling.” It constantly stands out to me that Cruz’s poems always lead me to the Google bar where I must search and explore to unlock the inner workings of each and every wonderful work. “Erstling” means, in German, first-born. This makes sense with Cruz’s heritage and follows along with the childlike imagery and memories conjured up in the following lines. Speaking of the lines, let’s dive into them. Exploration is the best way to come to know, well, anything! “Death is a beige Mercedes sedan.” The very first line is already so cryptic and yet conjures up an immediate image. Buckle up kids, its time to travel to yet another world so artfully conjured up by the mind of Ms. Cruz. So we hear this line and there is this image of “a beige Mercedes sedan”, of course, but there are also so many questions that pop up begging to be answered. Why is Death “a beige Mercedes sedan”? Is this literal or metaphorical or both? As to quell the impatient questions, I feel you can take it as both. The “beige Mercedes sedan” symbolizes Death, but it also is a mechanism for Death. I mean cars are basically giant metal death traps that we risk our lives in everyday by entering them and sharing the road with millions of other people, trusting that they won’t hurt us, but yet accidents happen. And an accident has happened here. Because of a Mercedes sedan, somebody was killed. We do not know who yet, but that is what the rest of the poem is for. I also want to draw attention to the color. It isn’t any old Mercedes sedan, but a beige one. A blah colored one, a washout in the world surrounding it. This evokes the feeling of faded memories, perhaps ones the speaker wishes to forget. “I am five and riding/In the back” composes the next two lines. As usual, Cruz provides us with very short snippets of images. I want to make a quick detour here. I was exploring Cynthia Cruz’s personal blog when I found this part of this post, “placing one image next to another on the wall and seeing what meaning I can conjure.” I thought this was fascinating because it is exactly what she does in her poetry. There are so many snapshots of memories or images that form together to discover a meaning. Truth be told, I almost write these blog posts the same way, pushing together snapshots and words to hopefully find a meaning somewhere near the end. The second and third lines provide us of the image of a small child in the back of the Deathmobile (the “beige Mercedes sedan”). Now we get a stronger idea that this is a faded memory, something the speaker is conjuring up from childhood, most likely a traumatic event. We also know that the speaker is the one acting/remembering in the poem because of the word “I.” This creates another sense of connection to the scene that is unfolding as we travel through each line. WARNING, more images ahead! “Eating small white chocolates” immediately gives action to the character in this novel. Again, we have a sense of color, albeit a blah one. There is nothing striking of these chocolates, they are just small and white. This “gray” faded world is continued on with “My long, thin body,” another portrayal of something or someone that makes them seem insignificant. There is just this small, thin child in the backseat of a car eating small, white chocolates. While detailed images, they are not vivid. There is no brightness, no flashes of life or color. It is faded, it is old, but still ominous with the presence of the first line. An depressing, creepy first line is then followed by imagery of a distant, grayed out world. “Along the butter-/Soft red leather seat” follows the body description and places that body more firmly into the stage of the poem. Here we get our first sense of color, red, but it is also combined with the idea of “butter-soft” which slightly washes out the tone, providing more grounding for this distant memory that has been conjured up. The red is still important though, especially when contrasted with the beige of the Deathmobile. I immediately thought of blood, due to the reference to “Death” in the first line. Red could also symbolize the passions or desires of the child in the back-seat. They could be lost or forgotten ones. Perhaps ones that were cut short by Death. The following lines provide a little more ideas of what this could mean. “What I want is to become/What I was/Before the accident.” I want to draw attention to the strange, seemingly erratic line breaks here. “What I want to become” is presented all as one line, but the following statement which would follow as a single line is broken into two. This provides emphasis on this point, focusing on the “was.” The speaker wants to be who he/she was in the past, which questions what happens in the future that leads the speaker to revert back to the past? That tipping point from future to past is the accident mentioned at the end of the group of lines. You could divide the speaker’s world into two segments; pre-accident and post-accident. Pre-accident is clearly a better time and something the speaker wishes to return to. I imagine the accident has to do with the car and definitely resulted in a fatality. Let’s continue on and see. The next view lines almost reach out of the screen and grab the reader to pull them into the world, into the scene taking place in the moment in that “beige Mercedes sedan.” “You think/I’m a rumor,” includes the reader by using the word “you,” and brings their opinion of preconceived notions into the poem by having the reader thinking about the events or speaker in the poem. The next line changes the subject back to the speaker and enlightens the reader to what they were “thinking.” The speaker feels as if they were just a rumor, a slight whisper in the wind, which seems odd to me because all of the previous imagery is so striking that there was, to me at least, no question to the reality of the speaker. However, this confirms the idea that the accident was fatal, that maybe the speaker is a sort of ghost, narrating and remembering that fateful day. That gives more context the speaker wishing they were back in the past, when they were alive. Hmmmmmm, as usual there are so many different things to contemplate. I wanted to explore this ghost idea further and luckily the following line allows just that. “I move from one world/To the next,” clearly presents an image of a non-human or perhaps even human as we imagine it. Confined to this world only. Clearly, this is not the case with this particular speaker. This reminds me of something else I found on Cruz’s own blog. She talks about inbetweens and writes, “And it is within these spaces, these small quiet places, that possibility exists.” That’s what Cruz exhibits here is the inbetween of life and death, this figure that is skirting two worlds, trying desperately to cling onto to the past one, the world they are no longer a part of. The rest of the poem is perhaps the most confusing or disturbing, so I hope to do it justice. Let’s break it down: “Living inside a mink/Lined winter,” I am immediately thinking of mink lined fur coats, a rich, luxurious accessory, which contrasts with Cruz’s usual style of poverty or desolation. Maybe this contrast, highlights the difference between the speaker now and the speaker then. In this ghost-like state the speaker is more opulent and has access to better things, yet they still long for the past. Finally, it is time for the final four lines, “God’s child-/Like voice/Singing quietly/Inside me.” An allusion to God cements the idea of this ghost like figure who is narrating the poem. The voice inside the speaker is God’s or at least is referenced as being God’s, yet when I imagine God’s voice, I imagine it as loud and booming. In this poem; however, it is described as childlike and sing-songy quiet, which is very reflective of the state of the speaker, who is five or at least was at the time of the accident. “Inside me” is the final line, the final image struck into the reader. This is referring to God’s voice, almost dictating the speaker in their life. To me, I feel like the speaker is then transformed into an angel-like figure, hovering between worlds and viewing the scenes as they unfold beneath her. Now I would like to return to this idea of “erstling” or “first-born.” I took the idea of its connection to the Bible due to the angel path we have been traveling on and we have the idea of Christ being the first-born of God and our Savior and possibly even be considered an angel. Applying this concept to this poem and you see the speaker as this Christ-like figure, a Savior, or at least aspiring to be so. But they are caught up in their past, they cannot move on. They cling to that memory of the Pre-Accident like a tattered-yellowed photograph. A snapshot that can never be recaptured again. That is why God’s voice is childlike and quiet, perhaps even timid. It is being repressed by the speaker, who is ensnared in a tangle of what can never be and they cannot move on. They bounce between worlds, trying to create that possibility, as Cruz presents in her blog, that their life can be returned to them. But alas, it is impossible. We can never go back, only forward. How many times do we feel this way? How many times are we stuck to this notion that we can change or even have the past back? This happens to me everyday. I am still enraged or even embarrassed by things that happened more than a decade ago. But why? Why are humans like this? Why do we refuse to move on, why do we bounce from one world to another like the speaker in this poem? Examine your life, figure out where you do this to yourself, because I guarantee that we do. We all have that moment, that tattered-yellow snapshot that we wrap ourselves around and refuse to relinquish. But we should stop that because it gets in the way of our personal growth. It prohibited this angelic speaker to become their full potential of a savior. They just kept hitting the rewind, contemplating the accident and what could have changed. Stop clinging to the past and put yourself full force into the future. The past is a closed book, but the future is a blank notebook, where you can write your own path. I want to bring back that idea of in betweens and possibilities as I close (finally). We are currently and constantly standing on the inbetween of the past and the future. The present is that fleeting, important in between. Cherish it and from that in between create a whole new world that reflects what you want it to be. Looking to the past will only stagnate your life. Move forward and never fall back. “Time of the Wolf” by Cynthia Cruz
http://www.mudcityjournal.com/cynthia-cruz/ Darkness. Desolation. Death. Worry. They all follow me throughout my experience with Cruz’s work. And that continues with today's selection. Let's start with the title: “Time of the Wolf.” In an instant, my brain flashes to this idea of a village, perhaps more primitive or just small, one that lives in fear during this season as it's when the wolves prey and they must protect themselves. Even with no actual imagery given, this image is so clear and so powerful. Again I have been sucked into the visionary world of this poem. “The wailing of women.” Sound. Almost more powerful than sight. I can hear the cries plainly and clearly in my head. Alliteration appears and gives the poem a rhythmic beat or flow that will be instrumental later. Now, why use “wailing” instead of “cries” or “groans?” Wailing means to manifest or feel deep sorrow, to lament. Any other word could have suggested anger or pain, but wailing specifically targets grief or sorrow. In the very first line, we know that these women are grieving deeply. And for what? Let's explore. With the second line, we get a clearer idea of the magnitude of this noise. The lamenting “was like a procession of voices.” So not only is it full of emotions, it is loud and it is emanating throughout the environment of this poem. All together, the first stanza conveys all the imagery of the poem by using audio. No actual visual descriptions have been given, yet we already know the swarm of emotions pouring out invading all of the space around these women. People. Or at least a person is introduced to us in the second stanza. Not just any person, but an “orphan.” Orphans denote a sense of loss, a sense of abandonment and solitude. A character only fit to accompany the wailing of the women. What's the orphan doing? We have action enlightening our minds to a little bit of visual in the poem. He (or she) “took two pieces of wood,” okay that seems innocent enough. Not sad or emotional at all. Then the orphan “connected them with twine.” Still not super emotional or at least I don't feel anything out of the ordinary when I imagine this child performing these actions against a black hole that is the environment so far of this poem. In the last line of the second stanza, we see the final product. “To form a makeshift cross.” Bam! Let the waterworks start. This orphan is making a cross mostly likely for his lost parent’s or parents’ grave. Now we know why the women are grieving, why they are wailing. Somebody has been lost. Stanza three. The last stanza. “Then we watched,” I want to stop right there for a second. Before this moment, we don't know who is observing, who is recording this scene. But Cruz gives us a “we,” a seemingly unattached one. One not connected to the story in any way, merely an observer. It could almost be us. After all, we’re observing this story. We hear and see all that is going on. We feel what is being felt. Again we are a part of this new world created by the poem. What are we watching now? “The men with their torches moved forward on their horses” is the moment we are currently capturing. Torches, this relates back to my beginning ideas of wolves. People would use fire to scare away any predators out to attack them, like wolves. And this would be common in small villages or towns on the outskirts of civilized land, prone to attack. The horses, their rhythmic pace, is started by that alliteration in THE FIRST STANZA! Told you it would be important. It also creates a pace of a procession, one likely to be associated with a funeral. Probably of the orphan’s parents who were most likely taken by the wolf. The final line, finally. A sense of environment is given, “through the night’s black ocean, like ships.” But wait, isn't the environment still dark? By leaving us oblivious to the surroundings of the poem, we actually knew the environment. Everything is set against a black hole of a background. Nothing can be seen and the sense of “oceans” and “ships” only adds to that rolling rhythm of the procession. Everything is orchestrated as intended, everything is for a purpose. Without that impenetrable darkness, without that sense of “I have no clue where I am currently at in this poem,” all the emotion would be drowned out. The lack of visual makes the audio even stronger and portrays the emotions even more deeply. We felt confused because we couldn't see as the characters in the poem felt confused. We felt that overwhelming sense of loss because nothing could distract us. We were scared because they were scared. The dark fosters fear, it magnifies worry, it breaks the strong, kills the weak, and we have fallen prey as well. “Twelve in Yellow-Weed at the Edge” by Cynthia Cruz
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/56951 Apologies to those who had to “suffer” through my last blog post, it got away from me a bit… or a lot. The brain is a strange wandering place not a “book to be opened at will and examined at leisure.” Couldn’t resist quoting a little bit of Snape there but anyways, upon first glance at this poem I feel kind of hollow inside. Everything seems so desolate and wasted. This world created for the sake of expressing emotions pulls me in and seems to suck out my very interior. This world was so beautifully crafted by the vivid images it expresses. The poem starts abruptly with the arrival of police. Immediately a million questions run through my head.What happened? Why was it important the person not be found? What would have happened if the person had been found? Now that’s the way to start, well... almost anything. I was immediately captured and held prisoner by my inquiries, prompting me to read further. After this dramatic beginning, the parade of images does not end. There is a strong overtone of the color yellow, brought out by describing the girl’s disguise as “champagne” and the Appalachia wind as “gold.” To me this conjures up images of wide, empty grass plains, places where you can literally see the wind, places perfect for concealing individuals, whole communities, and even secrets. The view zooms out at this point, no longer focused on just the hiding of the girl, but her surroundings. She seems to be a part of a trailer park community, suggesting she and her family are in a poor situation. The trailer park is referred to as “the poor girl’s underworld” implying that you need to be well off to go to the “proper underworld.” It’s interesting to me that Cruz uses the word “underworld” instead of “hell.” Underworld has a much more neutral connotation, it could be good or bad or even both to go there depending upon what you believe. It seems to me that this girl doesn’t view her poor situation as explicitly good or bad, just existing. This apathy, I guess you could call it, adds to the overall emptiness and desolation of the poem. Zoom out more. It’s nighttime. The stars are described as a “kingdom of lanterns.” Could there be a more accurate description of a clear night sky? A lantern dimmer than a lightbulb as the stars are dimmer than the sun. A kingdom with each star represented by a single subject with what I would like to believe the moon ruling over them all. Usually night offers a concealing blanket. Night is time for things that would be too dangerous to do during daylight. It appears the hiders, including the girl, are using the cover of night to protect their secrets. Their plight is brought back to the foreground in the next line, “how we waited, how we hid.” The “we” is where the idea of a few or maybe even many people hiding came from. The structure of these two simple three word phrases seems to stretch the waiting and hiding out over an endless time period. I have no idea how long they were hiding for, but I get the idea that it seemed to be an eternity. Now we’ve reached the final line. “Like wolves, in the revolving question of a field.” I’m hit with the image of wolves lurking in a grass field before preying on some small unsuspecting creature. I feel like this projects a better idea of how the hiders felt while waiting for whatever was coming. The final question, what was coming? It may be the threat of police as brought up at the beginning of the poem. But the final phrase is intriguing. It seems the question, the threat one may say, is constantly changing, constantly evolving to instill despair and hopelessness in those seeking protection from it. Even after all this analyzing I still feel despair and desolation. The power of this poem is in its description that builds a dome around you and entraps you in this golden grass, dark, uncertain world. Perhaps this is a reflection of our lives. There are constant and ever changing threats. We take solace in the cover of darkness. We hide our true selves or disguise ourselves to “protect” our innermost thoughts. And with that knowledge, maybe now we can answer those pestering questions still invading my brain and yours. “Self-Portrait” by Cynthia Cruz
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/56784#poem Hmmmmm…. “Self-portrait,” that means we probably need a bit of background on the poet. Cynthia Cruz is a German born American poet with a German mother and a Mexican American father. She grew up in California and is the first person in her family to go to college. She has published various writing and taught and various schools. Currently she lives in Brooklyn and teaches writing at Sarah Lawrence College. With that bit of biography in mind, let’s dive into this poem. Bam, immediately the first line reveals some meaning in the poem, “I did not want my body.” Personally, no follow up to this statement is needed to gain some meaning of it. The use of “I” makes it immediately clear who is in charge here. This poem is not about someone or something controlling someone or something else, it is about the individual taking a stand for something they want or in this case do not want. We need to remember this sense of control as we continue reading this poem. The next few lines add clarity to this bold first statement. “Spackled in the world’s black beads and broke diamonds,” this is what the individual does not want. Dissecting this, you have the use of the world “spackled” which means to repair a hole. You spackle a wall, however you do not spackle a person or at least you don’t use that term in reference to people. We can repair holes and “holes” in people. Holes like wounds can be treated and emotional holes heal with time and support. But that isn’t what the world Cruz refers to is doing. They are trying to “fix” these people with “black beads and broke diamonds,” or in other terms materialistic promises. Money. Fame. Society’s acceptance. There’s another problem with this as well. By using “black” and “broke” to describe these things, it reinforces the idea that not only will this not work, but the world knows it will not work. Trying to “spackle” these people together was doomed from the beginning. This idea is further emphasized in the last few words of the first stanza into the second stanza, “What the world wanted, I did not.” Everyone else is content to let the world try to fix them with its honeyed words and materialistic promises, but this one individual is again asserting their control over their own body. And there are no maybes here, it is all absolute. But why is this one individual unhappy about the world’s almighty power? Something must have happened, to make this individual aware of the unfair control the world has. People don’t change unless something drastic happens to bring light to that situation. Now there’s a bit of a shift in the poem from the simple general statement of not wanting what the world wants to listing what the world wants. The world wants, “the body of Sunday morning,” “dripping fox furs,” “the parked car, and “pearls.” All of these things combined with a New York setting are reminiscent of rich socialites, always ready for a party. I for some reason conjure up images of the 1920’s and the fantastic parties exhibited in The Great Gatsby. Perhaps it is due to the body description which reminds me of the lithe flappers, or the fox furs and pearls of all the splendour present. Regardless of what era this list conjures up, it is hard to see why this individual would not want this world. I mean who wouldn’t want to be rich enough to afford furs and pearls and classy enough to be strolling the streets of New York with them. That sounds like living the dream. However, the poem is assumed to be a self-portrait given the title of it, so we must take into account Cruz’s background. She was German-born and grew up in California which is vastly different from New York. She had German influence from her mother and Latino influence from her father who also happened to be a field worker. Being the first to go to college in her family, she probably was not spoon fed glamorous dreams of New York, but rather the goal to work hard and achieve an education. Perhaps she is so adamantly against the world’s wishes because she feels like it glosses over the wishes of those who are different. By making generalizations and blanket demands, this world loses some of its individuality. This individuality is what this individual wants to take back. The poem shifts again in the last stanza to refer to what this picky individual wants. This individual wants “Saint Francis, the love of his animals.” Not being schooled in the Catholic faith, I had to look up Saint Francis in order to understand the last stanza. Saint Francis was an incredibly dedicated friar and preacher who gave up on all worldly pleasures to preach to the people. Giving up on the world in reference to its materialistic substances is found in this poem as the individual rejects what the world wants. Saint Francis is also considered the Patron Saint of Ecology which references the love of his animals. In the final two lines, the individual identifies exactly who they are. “The wolf, broken and bleeding-that was me.” This also has references to Saint Francis and Catholicism. According to folklore, a wolf was terrorizing the town and St. Francis took pity on them and went to talk with the wolf. St. Francis made a pact with the wolf and the townspeople so that the people would feed the wolf in return for the wolf not hurting the townspeople. So the individual identifies as this wolf, but the wolf is not whole and happy, it is broken and bleeding. This makes it sound like the individual is struggling with creating peace between themselves and the world. This individual does not feel the love between the world and them, but they want the love that is found between St. Francis and his nature. The relationships and viewpoints in this poem are so complex and there’s so many and I apologize that this post got away from me so let’s recap a bit. First, there is a strong sense of control throughout the whole poem developed from the use of the word “I.” The individual is taking control of their own life. Second, the individual expressly declines what the world offers, which could be tied into Cruz’s own background. And finally, the individual expresses who they see themselves as in the final stanza. They are this wolf found in folklore of Saint Francis. They have not benefitted from society but rather been damaged by the relationship. Perhaps if we all examine ourselves we may find the damaging effect society and the world has had on us. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/56783 Creepy. Eerie. Death. Call me a bit morbid, but this poem is all these things combined in the most wonderful way. There's the idea of Death as a place, evoking thoughts of Greek mythology and the kingdom of Hades, the Underworld. I think that connects to the title, “Kingdom of Dirt,” because Death is a place where everyone becomes the same, buried in dirt, turning to dust. Cruz mentions, “the ambassadors from the Netherworld,” creating even more of that kingdom idea. A kingdom has ambassadors and so does death. Death has ambassadors like illness, old age, and murder, that bring us to its kingdom. I really enjoy the line, “Death, Disguised inside me, already,” because as scary as it sounds, it’s true. Each and every one of us, has Death lurking inside of us. It just chooses to be present at different times. People die suddenly, that’s Death eager to make its way back home to its kingdom. Perhaps your own personal Death is lazy, Death comes later in life. Or maybe it’s dragged unwillingly from your body, as you fall to the ground after a gunshot. Anyway I digress. Near the end of the poem, it refers to Death as the “discotheque as the end/ Of the world.” Death as a party, as a celebration. It fits, doesn’t it. On the way out of this world, we celebrate as everything we have gone through is lifted off of us. We are no longer sick, in pain, or in need. Worries are gone. “Life” or more aptly Death is now a party and isn’t that how we think of it. We die, we go to the afterlife, and we party for all eternity. Either in heaven or in hell. “Beautiful doomed,” that’s us. Beautiful beings that are, from the beginning of their birth, are destined, doomed, to die. Death is unescapable. How many horrible tales do we hear of those who attempted to flee their destinies? And what happens to them? They put themselves in a worse situation, damaging those around them, and still fulfilling their destinies in the end. Still dying. Death is the final resting place, the final meeting place, where all our beautiful tortured souls, are reunited. In this glorious “kingdom of dirt” that enfolds us all in the end. The meeting place of Death is this “love-Burned orchard.” What type of love? Perhaps all kinds. The love of families reunited, of friends reunited, of lovers reunited. The bonds between us last through death. I’ve never liked the idea of “‘till death do us part” referenced in so many wedding vows. Life is fleeting, but Death is eternal. And so is love. And love is what will connect us all in Death. Not so much of who we loved, but how and how much we loved. In the end, Death should not be feared. It is very much a part of our beings as life is. And we all wait eagerly to return to that kingdom of dirt. |
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July 2017
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