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Poetry

Infamous poet, ineffectual spy.

So far this week, aside from a guy on balls, we’ve met a woman pretending to be a man, a woman acting like a man (instantiated lust and violence included) and today we’ll travel with an Englishwoman from the early 1600s who was scorned for making money as an independent writer. More tellingly, she was attacked for her open discourse on sex and relationships, depicting in no uncertain terms the double standards held for women and men and writing about (homo)sexuality like a man.

Aphra Behn’s writing, in novels, plays and poems, was considered scandalous; even posthumously, centuries later, people like Alexander Pope and contemporaries had this to say: Behn “might have been an honor to womanhood—she was its disgrace. She might have gained glory by her labors—she chose to reap infamy.”

Robert Markley, a current scholar of 17th century theatre, phrases it this way: “In their ironic treatment of female chastity and masculine constancy…her comedies present a sophisticated and sympathetic understanding of the ideological complexities of women’s existence in a misogynistic society.”

She had quite a bit of adventure under her belt before she rose to “infamy:” travel to Surinam, where she met and befriended some of the natives, leading to a searing condemnation of slavery in her most famous novel Oroonoko. An assignment as spy under the code name Astrea, hired by Charles II during the Interregnum to find and turn some guy in Holland, a job that she failed miserably. She was thrown into debtor’s prison because her meager allowance ran out and she had been borrowing money for the trip back to England, money that the British government refused to refund. Eventually she started writing enormously successful plays with psychological insights way ahead of her times.

Heralded by her peers as a successor to Sappho, her poetry was explicit about sexuality. Her most famous poem is called The Disappointment.  Here is a quote about if from the Poetry Foundation: (click on title to read the poem.)

The Disappointment” has been traditionally interpreted to be about impotence. But it is also about rape, another kind of potency test, and presents a woman’s point of view cloaked in the customary language of male physical license and sexual access to females. The woman’s perspective in this poem provides the double vision that plays the conventional against the experiential.”

More detailed discussion of her works are here:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43639/the-disappointment

And her life in general, here:

The First English Woman to Make a Living as a Writer Was Also a Spy

I was struck when I compared these three adventure-seeking women as to how much they had in common, across centuries: they were not willing to conform to the gender rules of their times, and tied sexuality in direct and explicit ways to their assessment of gender relations or their enactment of gender relations – throwing all caution to the wind. They were willing to be bad girls, in contrast to the good little women who surrounded them. Got to see the world, too, this way.

Yesterday’s NYT editorial spoke to this distinction of Madonna/Whore in clear and concise ways, and clarified the role of misogyny as “the law enforcement arm of patriarchal order, which has the overall function of policing and enforcing its governing norms and expectations.” Including the function of punishing the bad girls and rewarding the good ones….  click on photo for full article.   Hey, I stayed away from contemporary politics for at least 6 paragraphs!

Photographs from Holland, where Behn did not excel at spying.

Poems to Read

Poems to Read is an Anthology edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz, the folks who gave us the Favorite Poem Project.  It is one of my go-to readers of poetry for three reasons:

  • I like everything Pinsky touches.
  • The poems are often introduced with short comments by those who suggested them, providing welcome guidance to understanding and interpretation.
  • The 7 chapters are loosely sorted by topic, some 30 or so poems each, allowing us to pick something relevant for the mood you’re in or the thing you’re thinking about.

This gives you the idea:

Chapter 1: There was a child went forth

Chapter 2: Either whom to love or how

Chapter 3: The forgetful kingdom of death

Chapter 4: In durance soundly caged

Chapter 5: Curled around these images

Chapter 6: Alive with many separate meanings

Chapter 7: I made my song a coat

I’ll be surprised if one of these did not draw your immediate curiosity.

And if you have avoided poetry for one reason or another, here is a primer of why you should give it (another) a try:

https://press.princeton.edu/titles/7329.html  

It is a small volume in which the former Poet Laureate argues that poetry is an inescapably democratic art form.

I grabbed a reading of Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens for your pleasure.  I created montages for each stanza of this favorite poem, with a marble standing in for the bird, exhibited at Blackfish Gallery some years back. Images displayed here in the order of the stanzas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What it takes: a different perspective

I was sent a famous poem yesterday that was entirely new to me. Nor was I particularly familiar with the poet other than plain name recognition. I’ll get to the poem in a minute. I was much more interested in my friend’s writing that accompanied his introduction to Delmore Schwartz: “Our bodies are such strange and astonishing and sometimes burdensome companions.”

To view one’s body as a companion rather than integral part of self creates a glorious distance. It relegates responsibility for unfriendly or destructive behavior by that very body when it refuses to function properly, to an entity that can be dealt with like all other external entities – with irritation, anger, dismay or fearfulness. Once you define “companion” as a separate other, you  no longer have to retreat to that horrid place where you feel a part of you is betraying all other parts of you and you are fighting yourself if you rage against that betrayal.

Of course, you then run into the next problem: if body is companion, is soul as well? What’s good for the goose is good for the gander and so forth? (Distracting aside: that proverb always struck me as a weird gender reversal – if the idea is that women should have the same privileges as men shouldn’t be the gander named first? Oh well.) If both of these basic constituents of what we perceive to be self are external components, then where is the very core?  Of course variants of that question have remained unanswered through millennia of philosophical searches, psychological research and now neuroscience’s attempts to join the chorus of seekers. We won’t solve that mystery today.

Here is the poem:

The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me

“the withness of the body”

The heavy bear who goes with me,
A manifold honey to smear his face,
Clumsy and lumbering here and there,
The central ton of every place,
The hungry beating brutish one
In love with candy, anger, and sleep,
Crazy factotum, dishevelling all,
Climbs the building, kicks the football,
Boxes his brother in the hate-ridden city.
Breathing at my side, that heavy animal,
That heavy bear who sleeps with me,
Howls in his sleep for a world of sugar,
A sweetness intimate as the water’s clasp,
Howls in his sleep because the tight-rope
Trembles and shows the darkness beneath.
—The strutting show-off is terrified,
Dressed in his dress-suit, bulging his pants,
Trembles to think that his quivering meat
Must finally wince to nothing at all.
That inescapable animal walks with me,
Has followed me since the black womb held,
Moves where I move, distorting my gesture,
A caricature, a swollen shadow,
A stupid clown of the spirit’s motive,
Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness,
The secret life of belly and bone,
Opaque, too near, my private, yet unknown,
Stretches to embrace the very dear
With whom I would walk without him near,
Touches her grossly, although a word
Would bare my heart and make me clear,
Stumbles, flounders, and strives to be fed
Dragging me with him in his mouthing care,
Amid the hundred million of his kind,
The scrimmage of appetite everywhere.
And here is a fascinating review article that explains numerous different perspectives to be intuited from the verses above, beyond the issue of the “withness of the body.” In addition to giving a short overview of Schwartz’s life – too bitter, too needy, too self-destructive, too pre-occupied with seeking fame, too short – it explains how poems can stand in for the poet’s demands, the audience’s complicity, the writer’s self justification, his somewhat hidden plea for forgiveness and our power to provide it, or our gullibility of being lured into it by simply being hooked on the beauty of the language. It’s a worthwhile read.

That Inescapable Animal

Luckily there is great news for bodies: researchers have created a device that can be implanted under cancer patients’ skin to act as a “cell catcher.” It shows great promise in slowing down metastatic disease.

“The scaffold is designed to mimic the environment in other organs before cancer cells migrate there. The scaffold attracts the body’s immune cells, and the immune cells draw in the cancer cells. This then limits the immune cells from heading to the lung, liver or brain, where breast cancer commonly spreads.”

 https://news.engin.umich.edu/2016/09/implantable-decoy-could-limit-cancer/

Now let’s invent some decoy for the soul that catches self-defeating thoughts before they migrate!

Since I have no ready images of a bear of a body, I figured we’ll change perspective and focus on a bit of flitting-about soul. These dragonflies were all photographed yesterday in the heat of the middle of the day  – getting myself out to the river was definitely worth it.

Discrepancies

To close out this week of (mostly) musings on forms of conflict, I will offer a juxtaposition: how beautiful spring can look and how weird spring can sound.  The latter requires you to open the link below which will guide you to a recording of the sounds of rhubarb making noises while it grows. Not kidding, either.

https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/forced-rhubarb-makes-sound?utm_source=Atlas+Obscura+Daily+Newsletter&utm_campaign=4b0f315c18-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2018_04_12&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_f36db9c480-4b0f315c18-66214597&ct=t(EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_4_12_2018)&mc_cid=4b0f315c18&mc_eid=1765533648

Instead of recommending a book on spring, or general issues of renewal, I am posting a tried & true poem of yore, Woodsworth’s Lines Written in Early Spring, which also juxtaposes opposites.

Enjoy a sunny weekend, smell the first lilac,  and forget for a while what man has made of man….

Smudge

Not sure which weighs more heavily in today’s offering: the joy to see a fearless young man – the poet –  on his way to recognition or the pain at the thoughts of a then 15-year old writing a poem about parents’ attempts to protect black children by beating conformity into them.

You judge for yourself.

But be sure to keep Malachi Jones on your radar.

Malachi Jones, 17, Wins Prestigious $10,000 Scholastic Art & Writing Award for 2018

Here is an excerpt – the whole poem can be found in the link attached below.

“Smudge” by Malachi Jones

When A Black Man Walks

Lots of reading material today, each one informative in its own right and/or a literary feat. Not much I have to add in my own words. Neiel Israel’s poem sets the stage – in brilliant, musical, goose bumps – producing performance.

The NYT this week picked up a topic related to racial discrimination while walking – what happens to jay walkers. Here is a graph that makes it easy to understand.

 

https://features.propublica.org/walking-while-black/jacksonville-pedestrian-violations-racial-profiling/

But of course that is the least of it when you have to fear for your life while out there doing your thing. I think it cannot be repeated often enough – and it is NOT hyperbole – that when you are Black in this country, no matter how educated, how law-abiding, how cautious – you worry about your or your children’s exposure to racism with lethal consequences. And that worry in itself affects your health.

http://theconversation.com/racism-impacts-your-health-84112

Walking While Black

Sympathy

I know why the caged bird sings….I first “heard” these words in a piece of music – Buckshot Lefonque’s version to be precise.

Only later did I realize it was an actual poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar, published in 1899; the phrase I cited above might be familiar to some as the title of Maya Angelou’s autobiography.

Here is the whole poem:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46459/sympathy-56d22658afbc0

And here is an excerpt:

Dunbar died at age 33 in 1906. He was gifted, achieved recognition during his life time, but also troubled, in ill health and caught in a political trap. The public wanted his humorous, sometimes sentimental accounts of Black life during and after slavery written in dialect, and showed disdain for his descriptions of violence and injustice. To sell his works and make it as a writer, critics claim he resorted to caricaturing his own race, portraying black slaves as faithful and obedient, slow-witted but good-natured workers appreciative of their benevolent white owners. Dunbar drew the ire of many critics for his stereotyped characters, and some of his detractors even alleged that he contributed to racist concepts while simultaneously disdaining such thinking. (See link below)

Many current scholars draw a more complex picture, pointing to his many ways of describing and attacking racism, more so in his poetry than his novels and story collections.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/paul-laurence-dunbar

The poem I chose is a lament, a painfully sad expression of all that is denied to the being deprived of its freedom.

Dunbar’s parents were slaves. The majority of their descendants live in different kinds of cages – being deprived of the rights to walk without fear, to chose where to live and be treated as equals. On the 50th anniversary of MLK’s assassination today I fear he is rolling in his grave.

 

 

 

Magnolia Flowers

Yesterday’s question about flowers as a topic for Black poets might be answered with today’s poem by Langston Hughes.

I have seen various interpretations of this poem including some that go beyond the obvious juxtaposition of the beautiful with the ugly South in terms of suffering and poverty. They hint at lynchings – stumbling onto the toes of those taken down in the dark. I, of course, have no clue. Like for every other poem of Hughes that I know, though, I revere the sheer power of creating an indelible image with words.

I chose to devote this week to Black poets because of their strength to look into the abyss, not shy away from it, and force us to give it a good look, too. This is not meant to depress, although I grant it is likely a by-product. I want to remind of the voices that are generally not encountered by us as symbols of empowerment, determination and persistence. The 50th anniversary of MLK’s assassination seemed a good benchmark. His voice cannot be unheard.

https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2018/04/revisiting-martin-luther-king-jrs-most-haunting-sermon/556277/

 

my dad asks, “how com black folks can’t just write abut flowers?”

A couple of years back I insensitively scolded a friend of mine for helicopter-parenting her daughter. The then 12-year old had not yet been allowed to go by herself to the corner store, much less take a public bus. “What are you worried about, here in Beaverton?” (Middle-class suburb of Portland, for the uninitiated….) “Hanin wears her Hijab,” was the answer.

Parenting is hard enough. Parenting a child who is potentially exposed to harassment, attacks or, in the worst cases, death when simply being in the public sphere, is inconceivable to me. How do you live with the constant anxiety? How do you prepare them for what awaits them once they leave the house? How can despair be held in check?

The thoughts were triggered by reading the piece below by Aziza Barnes, a forceful, uncompromising, unstoppable young voice who either invents or remembers a parent who so wishes one could simply look away, in her title.


Knowing 911 by heart at the age of 2.

The killings of Justine Damond, Keith Lamont Scott, Philando Castile, Alton Sterling, Walter Scott, Tamir Rice, Laquan McDonald, Michael Brown, to name just the ones that became famous because we saw the videos that showed they were either children and/or running away, are back in my thoughts after the recent tragedy involving Stephon Clark. Shot multiple times in the back, while holding a cell phone claimed to have been mistaken for a weapon, in his grandma’s yard. And then this:

http://www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-me-stephon-clark-video-mute-20180331-story.html

What do you tell your children?

On the Term of Exile

Our last poet in this week’s line-up really needs no introduction. We, however, need a reminder what we as host country  did to some of those refugees who fled a totalitarian regime….

The poem I chose is optimistic and that is how I want to end this week. There might be a time, perhaps sooner than you think, where some can return to the countries they’ve had to flee.