Epilogue II

I will also share what I liked about this project, what I learned, and what I would do differently.

I loved looking for works that inspired me, and while searching, found dozens of works that are phenomenal that I have not read before. America is such a wellspring of beautiful and thought-provoking poetry of all kinds. I also liked interacting with my friends Carrie and Caroline. We have been friends for a while, but sharing our works with each other is definitely a new experience. Writing, especially poetry, has a tendency to make one feel very exposed. To be able to share this experience with these two women whom I respect deeply has been an honor and a privilege.

I also enjoyed writing the poems. I must admit I found that writing a poem based upon someone else's work was challenging. What compounded the challenge was that Carrie and Caroline each picked poems that I would not have posted at first glance. Once I studied them in order to be inspired, I found them all beautiful, and am now richer for the experience.

I learned a great deal about American poetry. There is such a variety of works and authors that I have never taken the time to get to know and experience. I saw at least a hundred poems that inspired me, and chose the two that inspired me the most. I also learned a great deal about my colleagues through their original works as well as the works from other authors that they posted.

If i were to do this project over again, I would definitely want more time, just as Carrie said. Also, posting our original works as comments greatly inhibited using spaces and other stylistic choices (such as italics or bold) in our works. That for me, was a problem in my response to “maggie and milly and molly and may.” Each second line was supposed to be indented, and yet the formatting took that out. It was frustrating. I would also like to have organized it better.

Overall I was happy where this blog took me. I was struck by the lightning of inspiration, and am glad to have shared this experience with my fellow “lightning rods.”

Epilogue

This epilogue is here to address what I learned, what I liked, and what I would change should I do a project like this again. Well, I really liked the fact that I could create whatever I wanted to. I could take the words that someone else had already set down, but interpret them in whatever way struck me (kinda like lightning) and create something completely new. I won’t lie, I was very apprehensive about the whole project centering around poetry. I have always been nervous about sharing my poetry (when I write any) in any sort of public way. That being said, I think that this was a good chance to learn. I learned about finding comfort in saying what I wanted to say and finding comfort in sharing those words. I learned that becoming comfortable with my poetry is a time-consuming process and that I needed to utilize re-writes to reach that level of comfort! I also learned that inspiration can come from anything, even another work of art. An artist or writer doesn’t need to be confined to the theme that is obvious in another work, but they should just embrace what hits them right away and run with it, then go back and revise.

I could really do a cop-out move here and say that what I liked is everything that I learned, though I guess I should probably come up with a separate subject. In that case, I guess I really liked the ability to interact with the materials that others brought to the table. I probably chose two poets that fellow “lightning rods” Caroline and Daniel would not have thought about choosing. So, I liked how we could make personal choices that then cause something else to happen with the other team members. I also liked how we chose blogging as our medium. I think that doing a blog project lends a tone of informality to the project and the writers are free to be light and conversational in whatever they post and whoever reads the blog can sort of get a sense of whom they are reading.

Finally, if I could do this project over, I would change the timing. Getting organized was slightly more complicated than anticipated which caused the project to come together right in the nick of time. I also would re-think posting the new response poems (what I dubbed the “original responses” in my own paperwork) as comments. Instead, I would maybe post the original work, the analysis, and the response poem in the same post rather than have them separate. If this were an extended project, I would think about making separate sections for the authors that served as inspirations as well. Overall, I think this project worked and I’m happy with what developed, and I hope that maybe this will cause someone else to be struck by inspiration too!

"I Love You" by Sara Teasdale

When April bends above me
And finds me fast asleep,
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.

When April tells the thrushes,
The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
To all the winds that blow.

Above his roof the swallows,
In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
Beside his window-pane.

O sparrow, little sparrow,
When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
That I have died to keep.


Teasdale, Sara. "I Love You." Poetry.org: From the Academy of American Poets. Academy of American Poets, 2011. Web. 19 Apr 2011. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19424.




About Sara Teasdale

While born in St. Louis, Missouri (1884), Sara Teasdale traveled frequently to Chicago, where she was a part of the magazine titled Poetry. Teasdale published her first volume of poetry in 1907, with another following in 1911, and a third collection in 1915. Teasdale married Ernst Filsinger in 1914, and moved to New York City. In 1918, Teasdale won the Columbia University Poetry Society Prize (a prize that became the Pulitzer) in addition to winning the Poetry Society of America Prize for Love Songs (1917). She and her husband divorced in 1929. Teasdale only published three more collections of poetry during her lifetime, with the final installment published in 1930. Sadly, Teasdale committed suicide in 1933 after being weakened by pneumonia. Her last collection, titled Strange Victory was published posthumously in the same year. Much like Elinor Wylie, Teasdale’s work has been called simple, but written with clarity about her subject matter.


"Sara Teasdale" Poetry.org: From the Academy of American Poets. Academy of American Poets, 2011. Web. 19 Apr 2011. http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/658.




Using the first stanza as a guide, I believe that the subject of this poem has passed away, though I also do not get the feeling that this is a poem written for one depressed either. I believe that this poem is stating the fact that love will continue even after death. Instead of being transferred through word of mouth, the love passes from the April sprigs of grass (not stated, but implied in stanza one), to the thrushes and meadow-larks (stanza two), to the swallows (stanza three), then a sparrow (also stanza three), of the love carried by the one who is no longer here. Then that little sparrow will tell her still-living lover (stanza four) of her secret: she loves him still.
Perhaps their love was not one allowed by society, perhaps pride stood in the way, or a million other things could have gone wrong. Whatever happened, I don’t believe that the one being admired in this poem is knowledgeable of the fact. The voice keeps alluding to her “secret” and that it is one that she has died to keep. Maybe she died of a broken heart, or maybe it was self-inflicted because of a love that could never be.
I believe that this poem has both hopeful moments (the various symbols of spring and continuing life along with the spreading of her secret) and tragic ones (the love constantly kept secret). While analyzing this poem, I did get slightly confused as to what I thought it meant, personally, and the two scenarios above are somewhat contradictory. But--not to dig deep into the pool of mushy-ness--isn’t that kind of how love works? Just an ending thought!

"Little Fugue" by Marianne Boruch

Little Fugue
by Marianne Boruch


Everyone should have a little fugue, she says,
the young conductor
taking her younger charges through
the saddest of pieces, almost a dirge
written for unholy times, and no,
not for money.
          Ready? she tells them, measuring out
each line for cello, viola, violin.
It will sound to you
not quite right. She means the aching half-step
of the minor key, no release
from it, that always-on-the-verge-of, that
repeat, repeat.
           Everyone should have a little fugue--
I write that down like I cannot write
the larger griefs. For my part, I
believe her. Little fugue I wouldn't
have to count.
------------------------------------------
Marianne Boruch was raised in Chicago, and was born in 1950. She went to college at the UNiversity of Illinois, and earned an MFA from University of Massachusetts. Her poetry takes an ordinary occasion, and by isolating it, turns it into something profound. Here, she takes the mere act of a conductor passing out a score to a fugue and makes it a life lesson.

To me, this poem shows that everyone must experience some heartache and pain in their lives. The fugue, which is sad and "dirge-like" can represent sadness, and even a death. The conductor talks about how it won't sound right, as the release doesn't occur, but keeps going and going and going. This is likely achieved by several sustained notes on the V chord not resolving, as it should, to the I chord. Musically, when we hear the V chord, even those of us who don't know what a V chord is, we expect it to resolve. Like situations in life, we expect that when we have sorrows and heartache, they will resolve quickly and easily. Life doesn't always work like that, of course, and the last lines, "For my part, I / believe her. Little fugue I wouldn't / have to count." state this. She (the author, or the subject, which may not be the same) hopes for small pains, so that she won't have to pay attention, or continue to dwell on them.



"Marianne Boruch." Poetry Foundation. Web. 19 Apr. 2011. <http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/marianne-boruch>.

"Escape" by Elinor Wylie

When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build.

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of all your eyes,
And muddy roads of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, in apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

Wylie, Elinor. "Escape." PoemHunter. 2011. Web. 19 Apr. 2011. http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/escape-2/



Elinor Wylie (born Elinor Hoyt in 1885) grew up a socialite, but introduced herself to scandal when she eloped with Philip Simmons Hichborn. They were married from 1905-1910, when she induced yet another scandal by leaving her husband and son for a married man: Horace Wylie. The two fled to England (using the alias of Waring) where she published her first book of poetry. As WWI started, the two moved back to America and officially married in 1916. The couple soon grew apart, and Wylie met her future husband #3: William Rose Benèt. Wylie used Benèt as her literary agent and separated with her husband in 1921 and married Benèt in 1923, though she continued to write under the name of Wylie. Again, their marriage became stressed and the two parties agreed to live apart with Wylie moving to London. It is said that in 1928 she met another married man, Henry de Clifford Woodhouse, and fell in love, though the two never married. She returned to America for a Christmas visit to Benèt in 1928 where she died of a stroke.

Poetry Foundation. "Elinor Wylie." Harriet Monroe Poetry Institute. 2011. Web. 19 Apr 2011. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/elinor-wylie


I believe that this poem is Wylie's way of shielding herself from the scandal that surrounded her since her first marriage. Wylie was probably bred to be a social wife, without producing anything but a child for her husband and pretty appearance for social events. Instead, Wylie fell in and out of love and produced beautiful works of poetry, but at what price? The above poem has fantastic elements, but I think that is Wylie's point. Why shouldn't she create a world of fantasy to disguise the words being said around her and her feelings towards those opinions? I doubt she wanted the public to know if she was worried that her reputation was tainted by uncommon marriages. In fact, critics (who can be found by following the above link) have said that much of her poetry is beautiful, even if it hides whom the poet is underneath. I think that this poem served as her escape from society, just as much of her poetry probably did. This poem just served as a more literal version of that escape from whatever she had to deal with.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

By: Edgar Allan Poe

We must include a Poe poem here, and this is my favorite. These lines will be stuck in my head for days now.

Crazy Horse: Final Reflection No. 7

The heart of Crazy Horse
Lies throbbing in a box
That was not long enough.

So they cut him in half,
And on a pony drag delivered him
To somewhere just this side of Pepper Creek.

No one knows the precise spot,
They say. They say,
Wherever it is,

That place must now be covered
High with prarie brome
Whose roots reach down,

They say,
To catch the throbbing
Of the heart of Crazy Horse,

To send the drumtap
Up and out and over
All the earth:

It does not matter where this body lies,
For it is grass:
But where this spirit is, there
It will be good for all of us to be.

By: Bill Kloefkorn