Waiting Both
A star looks down at me,
And says, "Here I and you
Stand, each in his degree:
What do you mean to do, —
Mean to do?"
I say: "For all I know,
Wait, and let Time go by,
Till my change come." – "Just so,"
The star says, "So mean I: —
So mean I."
-- Thomas Hardy
Hap Notes: Hardy can write a pithy short poem and this is certainly one of them. A few short lines places a man (everyman/woman more or less) in the context of the universe and time. Hardy first published this poem in the literary magazine, The London Mercury, in 1924.
When the star says "Here we are" where exactly is Hardy talking about? It's as if the man and the star were hanging around the same universal bus stop or train depot, making small talk (with a very large subject) about their destinations.
A star starts out in the cosmic soup of a nebula. It goes through various changes until, in the end, it collapses and explodes (usually). What we call the sun, as you know, is a star. A star, depending on how heavy it is, will live 10 million to 100 billion years. The sun is around 4 1/2 billion years old and it's expected to live another billion or so. It's a long wait, in human time, for a star.
A person starts out in a kind of cosmic/biological soup as well. He/she goes through various changes until the body collapses or burns out. The average life span of a human worldwide is around 67 years although in America it's more like 78 years old (according to the CIA World Factbook.) No matter what a person does in their life there is always the thought that at some point, life will end. How long their life will go is just a matter of time.
However, neither the man nor the star says a single word about death. They refer to their "change." What does this mean? I suppose, that's up to you to decide.
Here is where we have talked about Hardy before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-25-thomas-hardy-darkling-thrush.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-19-thomas-hardy-christmas-ghost.html
I get so tired of poetry blogs that just throw poems at me without any comments. Why did they choose the poem, what do they like about it? You know, actual sharing. So I started this blog. You are welcome here always. Caution: Instructional materials are volatile. WARNING: DO NOT READ POETRY WHILE OPERATING HEAVY MACHINERY! Material may be explosive. P.S. please check out my kickstarter project if you've got a free moment http://kck.st/1o6eess. Thanks!
Search This Blog
Friday, September 30, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Number 272: Walt Whitman "A Noiseless Patient Spider"
A Noiseless Patient Spider
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
-- Walt Whitman
Hap Notes: In this poem Whitman is likening the searching human spirit to the efforts of a spider seeking a place to attach its filament in order to make a connection. The connection will allow it to make other connections and fill in its web and world. But in the poem, the spider is sending out its silken threads, alone, surrounded by a vast (by spider proportions) emptiness. The spider keeps going, keeps sending out the threads, keeps looking and hoping for a connection. (Just a side note: did you know that spiders use hydraulic pressure to move? It's amazing.)
Whitman tells us this is like his own soul, endlessly searching for that connection, looking for an attachment. Is it love? Meaning? Satisfaction? Belief? A purpose? Creative inspiration? All of the above? Yes.
Whitman points out that this is a solitary task but one that cannot be given up. Just as the spider must succeed in order to insure its survival, so must the poet also make a constant effort to try to explore the mysteries, horrors and beauties of life to truly live.
All of us are alone searching for meaning in a vast ocean of space, other creatures, other stars and planets. It is both humbling and important to keep going in the search to quench the thirsting spirit.
Whitman, in this poem, like the spider, does not ever give up hope and, in fact, neither of them can conceive of such a thing.
The poem is is a lesson about the persistence of the longings of the heart, the yearnings of the soul, the need for connection and the constant effort to find it without malice or defeat. It simply must be done.
Here is where we have talked about Whitman before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/02/number-57-walt-whitman-when-i-heard.html
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
-- Walt Whitman
Hap Notes: In this poem Whitman is likening the searching human spirit to the efforts of a spider seeking a place to attach its filament in order to make a connection. The connection will allow it to make other connections and fill in its web and world. But in the poem, the spider is sending out its silken threads, alone, surrounded by a vast (by spider proportions) emptiness. The spider keeps going, keeps sending out the threads, keeps looking and hoping for a connection. (Just a side note: did you know that spiders use hydraulic pressure to move? It's amazing.)
Whitman tells us this is like his own soul, endlessly searching for that connection, looking for an attachment. Is it love? Meaning? Satisfaction? Belief? A purpose? Creative inspiration? All of the above? Yes.
Whitman points out that this is a solitary task but one that cannot be given up. Just as the spider must succeed in order to insure its survival, so must the poet also make a constant effort to try to explore the mysteries, horrors and beauties of life to truly live.
All of us are alone searching for meaning in a vast ocean of space, other creatures, other stars and planets. It is both humbling and important to keep going in the search to quench the thirsting spirit.
Whitman, in this poem, like the spider, does not ever give up hope and, in fact, neither of them can conceive of such a thing.
The poem is is a lesson about the persistence of the longings of the heart, the yearnings of the soul, the need for connection and the constant effort to find it without malice or defeat. It simply must be done.
Here is where we have talked about Whitman before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/02/number-57-walt-whitman-when-i-heard.html
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Number 271: Stanley Kunitz "Halley's Comet"
Halley's Comet
Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there’d be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground’s edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
“Repent, ye sinners!” he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I’d share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family’s asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street—
that’s where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I’m the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.
-- Stanley Kunitz
Hap Notes: In May of 1910, when Kunitz was 5 or 6 years old, the impending visit of Halley's comet stirred up some little panic. Astronomers, with new (at the time) technology at their disposal, learned that comets contained cyanogen, a poisonous gas and that earth would pass through the tail of the comet. Of course, some goofs in the media (uh, just like now) grabbed onto this and scared the bejesus out of folks. There were actually shysters selling "comet pills" to protect people from the impending poisonous doom. Some people around the world had comet parties, notably the French, who held "comet balls" and "comet dinners" ( this fact, alone, redeems the French for me in many ways.) Here in America, in addition to a lot of ballyhoo, there were prophets of doom, end of the world blah blah blah. You know the drill.
The comet was a craze. There were comet buttons, Edmund Halley cigars, and a variety of souvenirs. Scientists wrote essays and spoke to the public in lectures about the earth's complete safety throughout the event, trying to dispel the rumors of danger. Postcards were made depicting it and songs were written about it (the Halley's Comet Rag") President William Howard Taft viewed the comet at the U.S. Naval Observatory. The pope at the time (Pius X) thought the whole thing was malarkey.
However, if you were six years old and in first grade and heard about the comet, as Kunitz was, it certainly would remain a vivid memory. Particularly amusing is his observation that if "wandered off its course/and smashed into the earth/ there’d be no school tomorrow."
Remember that Kunitz's father committed suicide before the poet before so there are two "fathers" he may be talking about when he implores him to find him on the roof. (everybody wore nightshirts back then. Pajamas (originally from South and Western Asia, worn as clothing) were not used as nightwear until the late 1870s. Pajamas for nightwear would have been "trendy" and "different" in Shapiro's youth.)
The earth did pass through the 24 million mile-long tail of Halley's comet in 1910 on May 19. It took six hours. There were spectacular sunsets that month and the comet was visible to the naked eye. The comet put on a particularly bright show that year throughout the world from April through May.
Halley's comet (pronounced to rhyme with "valley" not Haley like Haley Mills) was actually sited and depicted in tapestries in 1066 during the battle of Hastings. And of course, Mark Twain, possibly the comet's most famous birth/death, was born the month and year it passed in 1835 and died the day after it passed in 1910.
Let's go back to the poem, though. Do you remember the excitement and maybe even foreboding that we felt at the turn of the millennium and the whole Y2K hysteria? Even if you thought it was hogwash, there is always that slight anticipation that maybe something is going to destroy us. It would be interesting to find out what 6 year olds thought about that now, wouldn't it? In Kunitz's poem, it's the natural world that is destroying us so there's an added mysterious factor to it.
Here's where we've talked about Kunitz before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/08/number-248-stnley-kunitz-three-floors.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/05/number-151-stanley-kunitz-hornworm.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-20-stanley-kunitz-portrait.html
Miss Murphy in first grade
wrote its name in chalk
across the board and told us
it was roaring down the stormtracks
of the Milky Way at frightful speed
and if it wandered off its course
and smashed into the earth
there’d be no school tomorrow.
A red-bearded preacher from the hills
with a wild look in his eyes
stood in the public square
at the playground’s edge
proclaiming he was sent by God
to save every one of us,
even the little children.
“Repent, ye sinners!” he shouted,
waving his hand-lettered sign.
At supper I felt sad to think
that it was probably
the last meal I’d share
with my mother and my sisters;
but I felt excited too
and scarcely touched my plate.
So mother scolded me
and sent me early to my room.
The whole family’s asleep
except for me. They never heard me steal
into the stairwell hall and climb
the ladder to the fresh night air.
Look for me, Father, on the roof
of the red brick building
at the foot of Green Street—
that’s where we live, you know, on the top floor.
I’m the boy in the white flannel gown
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed
searching the starry sky,
waiting for the world to end.
-- Stanley Kunitz
Hap Notes: In May of 1910, when Kunitz was 5 or 6 years old, the impending visit of Halley's comet stirred up some little panic. Astronomers, with new (at the time) technology at their disposal, learned that comets contained cyanogen, a poisonous gas and that earth would pass through the tail of the comet. Of course, some goofs in the media (uh, just like now) grabbed onto this and scared the bejesus out of folks. There were actually shysters selling "comet pills" to protect people from the impending poisonous doom. Some people around the world had comet parties, notably the French, who held "comet balls" and "comet dinners" ( this fact, alone, redeems the French for me in many ways.) Here in America, in addition to a lot of ballyhoo, there were prophets of doom, end of the world blah blah blah. You know the drill.
The comet was a craze. There were comet buttons, Edmund Halley cigars, and a variety of souvenirs. Scientists wrote essays and spoke to the public in lectures about the earth's complete safety throughout the event, trying to dispel the rumors of danger. Postcards were made depicting it and songs were written about it (the Halley's Comet Rag") President William Howard Taft viewed the comet at the U.S. Naval Observatory. The pope at the time (Pius X) thought the whole thing was malarkey.
However, if you were six years old and in first grade and heard about the comet, as Kunitz was, it certainly would remain a vivid memory. Particularly amusing is his observation that if "wandered off its course/and smashed into the earth/ there’d be no school tomorrow."
Remember that Kunitz's father committed suicide before the poet before so there are two "fathers" he may be talking about when he implores him to find him on the roof. (everybody wore nightshirts back then. Pajamas (originally from South and Western Asia, worn as clothing) were not used as nightwear until the late 1870s. Pajamas for nightwear would have been "trendy" and "different" in Shapiro's youth.)
The earth did pass through the 24 million mile-long tail of Halley's comet in 1910 on May 19. It took six hours. There were spectacular sunsets that month and the comet was visible to the naked eye. The comet put on a particularly bright show that year throughout the world from April through May.
Halley's comet (pronounced to rhyme with "valley" not Haley like Haley Mills) was actually sited and depicted in tapestries in 1066 during the battle of Hastings. And of course, Mark Twain, possibly the comet's most famous birth/death, was born the month and year it passed in 1835 and died the day after it passed in 1910.
Let's go back to the poem, though. Do you remember the excitement and maybe even foreboding that we felt at the turn of the millennium and the whole Y2K hysteria? Even if you thought it was hogwash, there is always that slight anticipation that maybe something is going to destroy us. It would be interesting to find out what 6 year olds thought about that now, wouldn't it? In Kunitz's poem, it's the natural world that is destroying us so there's an added mysterious factor to it.
Here's where we've talked about Kunitz before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/08/number-248-stnley-kunitz-three-floors.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/05/number-151-stanley-kunitz-hornworm.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-20-stanley-kunitz-portrait.html
Monday, September 26, 2011
Number 270: Louise Erdrich "That Pull From The Left"
That Pull from the Left
Butch once remarked to me how sinister it was
alone, after hours, in the dark of the shop
to find me there hunched over two weeks’ accounts
probably smoked like a bacon from all those Pall-Malls.
Odd comfort when the light goes, the case lights left on
and the rings of baloney, the herring, the parsley,
arranged in the strict, familiar ways.
Whatever intactness holds animals up
has been carefully taken, what’s left are the parts.
Just look in the cases, all counted and stacked.
Step-and-a-Half Waleski used to come to the shop
and ask for the cheap cut, she would thump, sniff, and finger.
This one too old. This one here for my supper.
Two days and you do notice change in the texture.
I have seen them the day before slaughter.
Knowing the outcome from the moment they enter
the chute, the eye rolls, blood is smeared on the lintel.
Mallet or bullet they lunge toward their darkness.
But something queer happens when the heart is delivered.
When a child is born, sometimes the left hand is stronger.
You can train it to fail, still the knowledge is there.
That is the knowledge in the hand of a butcher
that adds to its weight. Otto Kröger could fell
a dray horse with one well-placed punch to the jaw,
and yet it is well known how thorough he was.
He never sat down without washing his hands,
and he was a maker, his sausage was echt
so that even Waleski had little complaint.
Butch once remarked there was no one so deft
as my Otto. So true, there is great tact involved
in parting the flesh from the bones that it loves.
How we cling to the bones. Each joint is a web
of small tendons and fibers. He knew what I meant
when I told him I felt something pull from the left,
and how often it clouded the day before slaughter.
Something queer happens when the heart is delivered.
-- Louise Erdrich
Hap Notes: Well, there's certainly a lot going on in this monologue poem. First off, did you know that the word sinister is from the Latin, sinistra, which means lefthand? Did you know that deft is a Middle English word daft which also means gentle or humble and that deft is often a synonym for dextrous (which derived from the Latin, dexter, "on the right side" or skillful.") The heart, as we all know, I think, is on the left side.
The narrator often sits in a closed meat shop (with the case lights left on, bringing the merchandise into sharp focus) doing the account books. FYI The debit side of an account ledger is usually the left side, the right side is usually the credit side.
What does the narrator mean in the phrase "the intactness" that holds the animals up, do you think? And what about the "delivery" of the heart? "Echt" is a word of German derivation that sort of means "right, true, authentic, genuine, real.
One more thing and I'll let you sort this out for yourself. Remember in the Bible in Exodus, how one of the 10 plagues of the Egyptians was the killing of the first born son? And how the Hebrews were told to put blood on the lintels (the door posts/frames) of their homes so that the Angel of Death would pass over their households (hence the name Passover?) Just another thing to think on.
It's interesting to note that the meat is stacked in "strict familiar ways" like an account book, maybe? What is that pull from the left? Why would it affect one at a meat market, do you think?
Think also on the other meanings of the word left.
Each poem I read by Erdrich convinces me that even though she is more well known as a novelist she is really a poet. She packs an entire novel into one poem. That's the power of poetry, right there. Her poems are easy to read and yet densely packed with information. Extraordinary work.
Here is where we have talked about Erdrich before: http://happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/05/number-167-louise-erdrich-dear-john.html
The masthead today is a detail from Franz Marc's "The "Yellow Cow."
Butch once remarked to me how sinister it was
alone, after hours, in the dark of the shop
to find me there hunched over two weeks’ accounts
probably smoked like a bacon from all those Pall-Malls.
Odd comfort when the light goes, the case lights left on
and the rings of baloney, the herring, the parsley,
arranged in the strict, familiar ways.
Whatever intactness holds animals up
has been carefully taken, what’s left are the parts.
Just look in the cases, all counted and stacked.
Step-and-a-Half Waleski used to come to the shop
and ask for the cheap cut, she would thump, sniff, and finger.
This one too old. This one here for my supper.
Two days and you do notice change in the texture.
I have seen them the day before slaughter.
Knowing the outcome from the moment they enter
the chute, the eye rolls, blood is smeared on the lintel.
Mallet or bullet they lunge toward their darkness.
But something queer happens when the heart is delivered.
When a child is born, sometimes the left hand is stronger.
You can train it to fail, still the knowledge is there.
That is the knowledge in the hand of a butcher
that adds to its weight. Otto Kröger could fell
a dray horse with one well-placed punch to the jaw,
and yet it is well known how thorough he was.
He never sat down without washing his hands,
and he was a maker, his sausage was echt
so that even Waleski had little complaint.
Butch once remarked there was no one so deft
as my Otto. So true, there is great tact involved
in parting the flesh from the bones that it loves.
How we cling to the bones. Each joint is a web
of small tendons and fibers. He knew what I meant
when I told him I felt something pull from the left,
and how often it clouded the day before slaughter.
Something queer happens when the heart is delivered.
-- Louise Erdrich
Hap Notes: Well, there's certainly a lot going on in this monologue poem. First off, did you know that the word sinister is from the Latin, sinistra, which means lefthand? Did you know that deft is a Middle English word daft which also means gentle or humble and that deft is often a synonym for dextrous (which derived from the Latin, dexter, "on the right side" or skillful.") The heart, as we all know, I think, is on the left side.
The narrator often sits in a closed meat shop (with the case lights left on, bringing the merchandise into sharp focus) doing the account books. FYI The debit side of an account ledger is usually the left side, the right side is usually the credit side.
What does the narrator mean in the phrase "the intactness" that holds the animals up, do you think? And what about the "delivery" of the heart? "Echt" is a word of German derivation that sort of means "right, true, authentic, genuine, real.
One more thing and I'll let you sort this out for yourself. Remember in the Bible in Exodus, how one of the 10 plagues of the Egyptians was the killing of the first born son? And how the Hebrews were told to put blood on the lintels (the door posts/frames) of their homes so that the Angel of Death would pass over their households (hence the name Passover?) Just another thing to think on.
It's interesting to note that the meat is stacked in "strict familiar ways" like an account book, maybe? What is that pull from the left? Why would it affect one at a meat market, do you think?
Think also on the other meanings of the word left.
Each poem I read by Erdrich convinces me that even though she is more well known as a novelist she is really a poet. She packs an entire novel into one poem. That's the power of poetry, right there. Her poems are easy to read and yet densely packed with information. Extraordinary work.
Here is where we have talked about Erdrich before: http://happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/05/number-167-louise-erdrich-dear-john.html
The masthead today is a detail from Franz Marc's "The "Yellow Cow."
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Number 269: Laura Elizabeth Richards "Eletelephony"
Eletelephony
Once there was an elephant,
Who tried to use the telephant—
No! No! I mean an elephone
Who tried to use the telephone—
(Dear me! I am not certain quite
That even now I've got it right.)
Howe'er it was, he got his trunk
Entangled in the telephunk;
The more he tried to get it free,
The louder buzzed the telephee—
(I fear I'd better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)
-- Laura Elizabeth Richards
Hap Notes: This poem always made my mom giggle. It is included in most children's poetry anthologies and it still makes kids chuckle. Of course, there is no cord on contemporary phones in which to get tangled. The "telephunk" sounds, however, like a great description of text messages.
Laura Elizabeth Richards (1850-1953) wrote more than 90 books which include children's books , biographies and poetry. She, with co-author Maude Howe Eliot, won the first Pulizter Prize awarded for a biography, The Life of Julia Ward Howe. It's certainly an honor but not a particularly surprising one since she and her co-author were sisters and the daughters of Julia Ward Howe. Their mom wrote the lyrics to "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." Their parents were noted abolitionists. Their dad started the Perkins Institution and Massachusetts School for the Blind. Quite a pedigree.
You may remember her book, Captain January, later made into a movie starring Shirley Temple. Her sequel to that book is Star Bright, which you also may remember. She wrote the "Hildegarde" series, the "Melody" series and the "Margaret" series, too. You can find many of her works for free reading here: www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/r#a1753.
It's Saturday! Yay! So here's some cartoons, commercials and songs.
First off, the controversial crows from "Dumbo". When I was a kid, I loved these crows and did not see how intensely racist they are. I thought they were the best part of the movie. I was both ignorant and innocent. (er, maybe "was" is optimistic...) Here's "When I see an Elephant Fly."
www.youtube.com/watch?v=E2d4bj592ig&feature=related
Here's a great Rollo ad featuring an elephant who never forgets: www.youtube.com/watch?v=mR6xvzXpEVo
I wanted this cereal SO MUCH when I was a kid. My mom said it was too expensive. It had a storybook on the box about Twinkles the elephant: www.youtube.com/watch?v=79mp-TTkcVM
Then there was Crispy Critters with the awesome Sheldon Leonard doing the voice for King Leonardo. My brothers and sisters used to laugh hysterically at the rush of animals and sing the song:www.youtube.com/watch?v=nG949NeSDPk&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PLAD44F4DA10C54C55
Apropos of nothing- here's Senor Wences on the Ed Sullivan Show. I loved him. He is amazing and spawned a cultural catchphrase with that "S'alright?" "S'alright!" interchange. Did you know the reason that the character is in a box is because his ventriloquist "dummy" broke when he was on his way to a performance? : www.youtube.com/watch?v=uEio4rQDU5A
Couldn't have elephants without Camille St. Saens' famous musical tone poem about them: www.youtube.com/watch?v=ug8hCAyBaqg
Here is the Elephant Orchestra- it's amazing: www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1NpvHsxjgw
Finally, here's Ladytron with "White Elephant": www.youtube.com/watch?v=7cKEy0BFfQw&ob=av2e
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Number 268: Two by Josephine Miles "Travelers" and "Delay"
Travelers
The little girl was traveling unattached, as they say.
Closed into her window-seat by a heavy
Business-man working on papers out of his briefcase.
From across the aisle another kept noticing
What help she needed, her travel-case latched.
Her doll righted, coloring-book straightened out,
And he kept leaning over across to assist her.
After a while the heavy-set man put away his papers,
Took out a small gameboard from his briefcase, and suggested,
How about a game of three-way parcheesi?
-- Josephine Miles
Delay
Well, ladies and gentlemen, the tinned voice of the pilot said,
We seem to be having trouble with the landing gear,
Which is why you hear this loud shaking sound.
We are therefore returning to home port, hoping to land
Without incident, will keep you informed.
The Stewardesses worked on equipment in their booth.
Then many of the ladies and gentlemen
Moved from where they sat in holiday or business absorption
Over next to some child and engaged
In a great deal of peaceful conversation –
Reminiscences of their own, sighs, questions of the children,
Till the gear
Jolted itself into landing, and the pilot
Came on again, to regret the inconvenience.
-- Josephine Miles
Hap Notes: These two poems have a bit of a similar theme – the care and protection of the young and the empathy of others in a child's circumstances. Some of the empathy, in "Delay", may also be a projection of the passengers' own fears as they talk to soothe traveling children. Sometimes being strong for another promotes one's own shaky courage.
In the first poem, a business man puts away his "business" to brighten the day of a child who is a fellow traveler. In the second poem, the travelers go to the children to ease their fears.
In both of these poems, Miles is seeking to illustrate that we are all fellow travelers on planet earth and that kindness and empathy are necessary for our comfortable survival. The poet observes that all these people find it both easy and necessary to put aside their personal agendas and thoughts to make traveling easier for a child.
Wouldn't it be lovely if we all recognized the child who resides within each one of us and treated each other with that kind of empathetic loving kindness?
As a quick side note: Did you know that Parcheesi is based on a 1500 year old Indian game called Pachisi? In India, before it was a board game (which was then adapted to an American board game) it was played by real humans. Members of the harems of royalty, dressed in their "royal" colors, would play the game in Pachisi gardens (see inset picture) on a paved surface. It's interesting to note in the first poem that in order to win Parcheesi, a player must get all his tokens "home." Some may remember that the Parchesi box used to say "The Royal Game of India" (which is how I knew this, by the way.)
Here is where we have talked about Miles before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/07/number-212-josephine-miles-doctor-who.html
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Number 267: Carl Sandburg "They All Want To Play Hamlet"
They All Want To Play Hamlet
They all want to play Hamlet.
They have not exactly seen their fathers killed
Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,
Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,
Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers,
flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play the inkfish,
Shakespeare, ever wrote;
Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad
and to stand by an open grave with a joker’s skull in the hand and then to
say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a
heart that’s breaking, breaking,
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be
particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.
-- Carl Sandburg
Hap Notes: Sandburg is cleverly doing several things here with his casual sounding narrative. First of all, he's poking a bit of fun at actors and Shakespeare (the "inkfish" which is also slang for a squid and implies a writer who shoots out a lot of ink.). He's also giving the play a somewhat backhanded compliment through the actors who want to speak its verses and situations so full of drama and wisdom and beauty. So, sure, he's saying that actors who cannot possibly have gone through the travails and disappointments of Hamlet are eager to set their acting teeth in such a meaty role. Sandburg obviously admires Shakespeare.
As you can see from the masthead today there are a variety of actors who have all played the role. Paul Gross may have played the role but he also played an actor/director who played the role and then went mad (a parallel of Hamlet himself) in Slings And Arrows (which I could do a whole blog on- a wonderful Canadian television series that is far too complex, funny, moving and wonderful to talk about here.) Each of these actors brought something wonderful to the role (although in the case of Gibson it was mostly good costumes and great scenery) but each of them lacked one little edge of Hamlet. Auden claims in an essay that it is an unplayable role and he may have a point. But Shakespeare filled it with dialog that appeals to actors in their teens, middle years and maturity. Amazing.
Now Sandburg is not just poking fun at actors although the tone of his poem, at first, suggests this. No, he's talking about something far deeper in the acting profession. Notice that he says "all actors are sad " and "They are acting when they talk about it " and "they know it is acting to be particular about it."
Why would all actors be sad? What kind of a profession is it that asks you to pretend to be another person and say words written by somebody else? Who would want to do this, and why? Acting is a profession that asks its practitioners to feel like another person whom they are just pretending to be. Not only that, but actors find themselves often "acting" in real life. The profession is one in which its players are constantly honing their skills. It becomes hard to tell what one really feels from what one "acts" as though they feel. And how many of us, as the audience, are also actors in our own lives? Who are we, anyway?
When Sandburg says they want to say "beautiful words masking a heart that’s breaking, breaking," whose heart is he talking about? Hamlet's? The actor's? The audience's? All three?
Now let's go back to our original question: why is it that "all actors are sad"?
Here is where we have talked about Sandburg before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/06/number-178-carl-sandburg-happiness.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/04/number-137-carl-sandburg-electric-sign.html
and here:
happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-15-carl-sandburg-arithmetic.html
The masthead today features actors who have played Hamlet. They are, clockwise, from far left to right: John Barrymore, Ethan Hawke, Kenneth Branagh, Lawrence Olivier, David Tennant, Emile Hirsch, Derek Jacobi, Richard Chamberlain, Paul Gross, Mel Gibson. In the center is Richard Burton.
They all want to play Hamlet.
They have not exactly seen their fathers killed
Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,
Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,
Not exactly the spinning circles of singing golden spiders,
Not exactly this have they got at nor the meaning of flowers—O flowers,
flowers slung by a dancing girl—in the saddest play the inkfish,
Shakespeare, ever wrote;
Yet they all want to play Hamlet because it is sad like all actors are sad
and to stand by an open grave with a joker’s skull in the hand and then to
say over slow and say over slow wise, keen, beautiful words masking a
heart that’s breaking, breaking,
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be
particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet.
-- Carl Sandburg
Hap Notes: Sandburg is cleverly doing several things here with his casual sounding narrative. First of all, he's poking a bit of fun at actors and Shakespeare (the "inkfish" which is also slang for a squid and implies a writer who shoots out a lot of ink.). He's also giving the play a somewhat backhanded compliment through the actors who want to speak its verses and situations so full of drama and wisdom and beauty. So, sure, he's saying that actors who cannot possibly have gone through the travails and disappointments of Hamlet are eager to set their acting teeth in such a meaty role. Sandburg obviously admires Shakespeare.
As you can see from the masthead today there are a variety of actors who have all played the role. Paul Gross may have played the role but he also played an actor/director who played the role and then went mad (a parallel of Hamlet himself) in Slings And Arrows (which I could do a whole blog on- a wonderful Canadian television series that is far too complex, funny, moving and wonderful to talk about here.) Each of these actors brought something wonderful to the role (although in the case of Gibson it was mostly good costumes and great scenery) but each of them lacked one little edge of Hamlet. Auden claims in an essay that it is an unplayable role and he may have a point. But Shakespeare filled it with dialog that appeals to actors in their teens, middle years and maturity. Amazing.
Now Sandburg is not just poking fun at actors although the tone of his poem, at first, suggests this. No, he's talking about something far deeper in the acting profession. Notice that he says "all actors are sad " and "They are acting when they talk about it " and "they know it is acting to be particular about it."
Why would all actors be sad? What kind of a profession is it that asks you to pretend to be another person and say words written by somebody else? Who would want to do this, and why? Acting is a profession that asks its practitioners to feel like another person whom they are just pretending to be. Not only that, but actors find themselves often "acting" in real life. The profession is one in which its players are constantly honing their skills. It becomes hard to tell what one really feels from what one "acts" as though they feel. And how many of us, as the audience, are also actors in our own lives? Who are we, anyway?
When Sandburg says they want to say "beautiful words masking a heart that’s breaking, breaking," whose heart is he talking about? Hamlet's? The actor's? The audience's? All three?
Now let's go back to our original question: why is it that "all actors are sad"?
Here is where we have talked about Sandburg before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/06/number-178-carl-sandburg-happiness.html
and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/04/number-137-carl-sandburg-electric-sign.html
and here:
happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-15-carl-sandburg-arithmetic.html
The masthead today features actors who have played Hamlet. They are, clockwise, from far left to right: John Barrymore, Ethan Hawke, Kenneth Branagh, Lawrence Olivier, David Tennant, Emile Hirsch, Derek Jacobi, Richard Chamberlain, Paul Gross, Mel Gibson. In the center is Richard Burton.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)