I am a Machine

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2011-02-21T14:12:00.000-08:00

I had some fun...now it is time to read before homework.

The Social Network

2011-02-20T17:25:00.001-08:00

Great film, great book.

This is Poetry

2011-02-20T13:22:00.001-08:00

Poetry is practically a forgotten art form; it had a good run. Something that has been on the lips of humans sense they could talk…I want new, I want now. The reason, teachers cannot seem to win people over for basic reading in this age. Well, we live in rather a second “Dark Age”, no one cares about literature anymore. A teacher is lucky to find a kid that reads and reads poetry, forget about it. Most teachers themselves, don’t understand poetry. So, it isn’t being taught or pursued as it should. Add on, that poetry is much more difficult to read and understand, making it hard for people to pick up and enjoy it. Although poetry has gradually slipped away in popularity from greater part of this millennia, as humans intelligence and power heightens. It is just too ancient an art to slip away, like throwing away the ‘Mona Lisa”.

People should understand, that modern poetry is about expressing feelings and thoughts in a new way, being original. Poets use images, generally what they find beautiful to express this. That people should read these beautiful images, enjoy and marvel at them. Then you dissect the thing. You don’t dissect frogs in seventh grade before you actually see one. You are not going to like every poet! Each poet has his or her style, which may be similar or completely different from another. What others think are great, I might think crap. We aren’t talking about amateur coffee house people, I am talking about syndicated authors. I believe authors that have been published; generally are published because their is some merit for their work. You can find one, that you Like!

Bill Collins (U.S. Poet Laureate) wrote a brilliant poem, about what I am talking about, “Introduction to Poetry”. I recommend Bill to anyone interested in reading poetry. His poems are simple and usually direct, while holding some integrity in the literate world. Furthermore, he as poet laureate composed a book, “Poetry 180”, filled with good contemporary poets. This books is brilliant to find new poets you will love. The styles are so diverse, that if you take the time to read through it. You will find one poet or at least a poem you’ll like. I highly recommend that book. Read “Introduction to Poetry” and I hope that helps further anyone’s understanding of poetry.

Introduction to Poetry

by Bill Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Ironic

2011-02-20T08:47:00.001-08:00

Well, I woke up today eat and finished rereading “Ariel”. I check my email, and guess what I got? My Poem-A-Day email was on of John Keats poems; I thought it ironic. Anyway, I started reading “What the Living Do” by Marie Howe. I have only read one poem so far. I’ll report on it later.

Bright Star

2011-02-19T21:40:00.001-08:00

Starting Out

I am watching “Bright Star”, a movie about a romance with a famous poet (John Keating) and a seamstress (Fanny Brawne). It is really slowly starting out, if I wasn’t intrigued by John Keats. I probably wouldn’t be watching it. I haven’t seen any good review of this movie…more a intellectual movie for a very small audience. Check out the trailer, I am going to watch more and update:

Past one (a.m.) and the movie drags on!

Well, the movie has become cute...Keats and Fanny walk hand in hand with secret kisses. I feel as if I am being a bit bias about this movie, but I cannot get into it. I love how they incorperate his works in the movie like the "Ode to a Nightingale". That is a great scene with him and the tree; I give that credit to this movie.

The End is near.

It is here, Keats death and end to their romance comes. I won't describe it; you'll have to see the horrors or lovers destroyed on your own. I like this part the most of the movie, but still, I am not into this movie at all.

In Sum

I am not impress by this movie, but it isn't a bad movie. I just found it unrelatable, and I feel like that is more of an acting flaw. The emotion is way to coolly expressed. If you are a great lover, I think there would be more passion.

I cannot Write

2011-02-19T19:53:00.000-08:00

I have ideas...I lack the words to express them. My blockage can be contributed to a lot of things: ADD (Who doesn't have this?), my parents are blasting the television, my need for silence, and perhaps my exhaustion from practice. I just need to stop and come back to it. I am going to read and watch a movie.

“Ariel”

2011-02-19T18:48:00.001-08:00

Reading “Ariel” by Sylvia Plath is like reading fire. I connect to her writing in an almost terrifying way. I proudly say that “Lady Lazarus” is my favorite poem. Although, I am not the most literate person; I believe myself to be quite avid reader though. Any literary person will tell you, it isn’t just, what the righter attempts to convey. But what it means to you as well--enough of a debate.

A poem that I rediscovered, “The Moon and the Yew Tree”. I find myself reading and rereading. I can’t believe I never notice the beauty of this poem. Too bad Sylvia took herself, so young, from the world. Her words have such strength and power; I wonder what age and practice would have done to them. Hypotheticals are in sequential. If anyone is reading this post, I recommend reading this poem.

The Moon and the Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.