The Breath

Often times when people are speaking we as the listeners focus on the words being said, the articulation, the phrasing, grammar usage, etc. However, I am curious to know how many of us take the time to listen to the breaths taken in between words. The sharp inhalation, disrupting an individuals flow of words, so that we might take in the moment to continue or explication. Often times this noise seems to be a sharp wheezing which once noticed, is difficult to separate from the information presented by the speaker.

"He breathed in its oxygen" (435).

With these small breaks for sustenance, do we realize how Lucretian and Stevensian we are?  By taking that moment, no matter how briefly, or aggressively, we are paying attention to things, the words, and living the imagination by allowing it to function through our words. This breath is perhaps what we will become after we pass on, no longer something so tangible as a table, but perhaps a subtle as a breath, gone in a moment, without notice, but with inherent importance, even if no one remembers that they are using it.

I challenge the class to pay attention to their breaths, how they function, their importance, and if perhaps we can take a moment of enjoyment from these breaths, some form of inspiration. Pay attention to the empty space, to the silence. In my mind it doesn't actually exist, we are continually filling it, just as Professor Sexson fills the margins of his Bible (and as I suppose we all should) we are continually filling the empty spaces around us.

The Happy Prince

We were asked to make our next post about Notes Toward A Supreme Fiction and to pick a particular stanza that stood out to us and then blog about it. As I sat in class absentmindedly looking across words and pages my mind clasped onto VI in It Must Change. It reads as follows:

Bethou me, said sparrow, to he cracked blade,
And you, and you, bethou me as you blow,
When in my coppice you behold me be.

Ah, ke`! the bloody wren, he felon jay,
Ke`-ke`, the jug-throated robin pouring out,
Bethou, bethou, bethou me in my glade.

There was such idiot minstrelsy in rain,
So many clappers going without bells,
That these bethous compose a heavenly gong.

One voice repeating, one tireless chorister,
The phrases of a single phrase, ke`-ke`,
A single text, granite monotony,

One sole face, like a photograph of fate,
Glass-blower's destiny, bloodless episcopus,
Eye without lid, mind without any dream--

These are of minstrels lacking minstrelsy,
Of an earth in which the first leaf is the tale
Of leaves, in which the sparrow is a bird

Of stone, that never changes. Bethou him, you
And you, bethou him and betou. It is
A sound like any other. It will end (340).

This verse made me think of my grandmother, a former English teacher, whose constant questions keep me interested and motivated. When my siblings and I were little, we would stay at her house while my father ranched and my other worked at the local Extension Office. We would often plea with her to "please tell us a story" and without fail the very first story she would tell us was of the Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde. In which a beautiful golden statue of a prince, bejeweled and the pride of the city enlists the aid of a swallow to give away every piece of precious metal on the statue to the poor throughout the city. Each request from the prince begins with "Swallow, swallow, little swallow..." and time and time again the swallow delays his trip and does as the prince asks until he dies at the foot of the statue, and the statue is thrown away because it is no longer beautiful.

As a child I found this to be a tragic story, and each time my grandmother would answer our plea with "Once there was a swallow" we would moan and make her stop instantly, which would always maker her laugh. As an adult I laugh at how she taught us life lessons through this beautiful piece and smile as I try to connect it to class.

The line "Bethou, bethou, bethou me in my glade" reminds me so much of the "swallow, swallow, little swallow" my grandmother would croon to our eager ears as we waited for our story. I do not pretend to know exactly what this stanza by Stevens means exactly, but I can't help but to make the connection between the assistance from a once beautiful thing that was the Happy Prince, to the lines in this poem.

Elementary

In many ways it feels as though we have exhausted the subject of Music as it relates to the poetry of Wallace Stevens, and yet for me, I feel as though I am unable to loosen the grasp that this concept has on me. I am hoping to write my final paper comparing the Poetry of Wallace Stevens and his musicality and lyricality with the Music of Igor Stravinsky (and possibly Eric Whitacre, though Stravinsky seems to be a better fit). I was looking through the Swerve searching for information that would lend itself to my research topic, and stumbled once again upon "The Way Things Are" in which we learn much about Lucretius philosophy on particles and the way in which they make up the world. In many ways this list reminds me of the Adagia, in which we learn how one must think of poetry. To me, this particular list makes me think not only of how we should think of poetry, but also music.

"The elementary particles are infinite in number but limited in shape and size" (187). If we think of the particles as being notes then this piece absolutely makes sense. There are many many many notes, more than are played on the piano, and the combinations of these notes is also infinite. The only thing that limits them is the duration of the notes, and their shape upon the score. Igor Stravinsky understood this concept in all of its complexity, and is demonstrated in his use piece "Rite of Spring" (or really any of his for that matter). In this particular piece, Stravinsky broke away from convention, opening up his imagination, and that of his audience to the infinite number of combinations that are found within a musical piece.

Wallace Stevens can very easily be added to this notation, especially when we look at many of his poems. As Dr. Sexson spoke last week, there are things that are not poetry. What Wallace Stevens has created is poetry because it makes one think, as does the Music of Igor Stravinsky. If we are not forced to step outside our "box" then why are we partaking in the music and poetry? In order to appreciate what we are given, we must work for it, even if it is within our mind.

That "Spark"

The spark that started the flame. I often times think this is what Professor Sexson would like us to accomplish and affect in our presentations to the class. It was not until today that I felt this, and only moments ago connected it to Stevens.

I am a student of English, but I am also a student who wants to teach English, and more than anything I want to teach in a rural setting. Growing up in a rural setting is such a unique experience, and a part of me is a little embarrassed to realize I am beginning to sound like a broken record, as this is my third (?) post on its importance. In a few weeks I will be presenting in my teaching capstone, a lesson on the importance of understanding your role as a teacher in a working/ranching community. I keep asking myself what do I want my fellow prospective teachers to learn from this lesson, and I just keep hoping that for a moment they understand their importance as a teacher, as a facilitator of imagination and things in a rural setting.

A few weeks ago Dr. Sexson assigned to me "The Poem that took the Place of a Mountain" I sat there reading it, trying to glean some sort of understanding with this piece wrestling with its contents so that it might reveal its secrets unto me.
To me this piece speaks of an idea, or a spark that takes hold of you and as you shape it, take meaning from it, it works and it changes you. Creates a new space in which you exist as the person who has been changed by this experience. We don't know exactly why we are changed, and what has moved us towards this piece, but rather we are aware of this change no matter how subtly it may occur. Regardless of its magnitude its effect is intense and to which one must pay attention.

So perhaps this next week when I must present my beliefs to my class, I will whip out this poem, and tell them of the importance of the spark, or the poem that took the place of a mountain.

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain

There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen,
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactness
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home. 

Adagia

When we began class we first looked at the poem "How to Live, What to Do" and we pondered why it was not a list of instructions. I feel as though we have finally found that list in Wallace Steven's "Adagia" Line after line is a list of things to keep in mind as we go about our day, thinking about poetry, living poetry, being poetry. All of our questions, and all of the answers are contained within the lines of this particular work. 

"The poet makes silk dresses out of worms" (900). Sure we can understand that this means that poets and poetry have the ability to spin the most mundane and ugly thing into something beautiful and precious. But perhaps he is saying more. Silk comes from the silk worm, from their very cocoon, from that which they use to change. Perhaps we should be looking at this less as a metaphor for making poetry and should instead consider this line in a more literal sense. Maybe we should be like the worms, willing to change and literally transform so as to become something other, not necessarily more beautiful, but rather something other than what we have always been....sacrificing all that is familiar, because to you it is now unimportant, and perhaps for someone else it can become their silk dress

"Poetry is a search for the inexplicable" (911). Just as Tanner proved to us last week, we use poetry in a variety of ways. It can work as a healing process, or perhaps as the way to express an emotion. What seems most about this is that poetry is produced out of the desire to explain some idea with which we are grappling.  I find it fascinating to think of poetry as a way for us to express something that we may not have the actual words for. Additionally, poetry very rarely tells you exactly what you need to assume. Even with words on the page, we do not receive an exact explanation for how we are to interpret the information in front of us. 

If we can look at Adagia once a day, I firmly believe we can learn something new everyday. Though it seems so simple on the surface, there is so much more going on, that it has quite become my favorite part of Steven's work so far. How fascinating that we can learn something from a piece every time we look at it anew. 

Sonnette

Many of the people in our class know I'm from a small town in Eastern Montana, named Broadus. What many people do not know is that my family keeps our cattle on a piece of land called Sonnette. As we spoke about the healing power of Sonnets I kept thinking about this piece of land that is so important to our family.

Wallace Stevens is the "King of Things" In a lot of ways I think that Wallace Stevens could relate to the lives of ranchers. Many times people think of ranching as this thing that is highly romanticized and is this "lost art" way of life. However, those of us who have experienced this life, understand that it is much more than a highly romanticized way of life. The land, while beautiful, is simply a thing, a thing that is important, but still a thing.  We cannot look at this thing which is so important in a romanticized way, because it is functional, and in many ways life is not romantic but rather practical. This healing land, is the essential land, this is what feeds our cattle, and in turn keeps our livelihoods alive. In many ways we cannot afford to be super sentimental about our ways of life.

In many ways ranchers represent Wallace Stevens really well. They too are "Kings (Queens) of Things" as well because they are always thinking....always. When you don't leave your job, and you work there 24/7, 365.... your whole life revolves around thinking, and using the things around you so that you can survive. In many ways perhaps they all share the philosophy that life is not about reflecting on the metaphors in life but rather on the reality of what is in front of you. 

Depression Before Spring

The cock crows

But no queen rises.

The hair of my blonde

Is dazzling,

As the spittle of cows

Threading the wind.

Ho! Ho!

But ki-ki-ri-ki

Brings no rou-cou,

No rou-cou-cou.

But no queen comes

In slipper green. 

In many ways I feel this poem reflects how both ranchers, and Wallace Stevens look(ed) at life. Life is not about keeping things in a highly idealized manner, instead we live our lives as they come to us, everything ages, and everyTHING is simply a thing. 

Thank you Alexandra

After class yesterday, I feel the need to thank Alexandra for her post on Picasso's painting, and also Professor Sexson for showing the material in class. I had seen the painting before, had even studied the painting IN Spain, however, it was not until this class that it began to make sense to me. I had always understood, to a certain extent, that the paintings of Picasso were brilliant and done in such a way that the intent of the piece was not obvious to many of the observers. Intellectually I could appreciate Picasso, but emotionally I felt (forgive me) bored. That is....until last class period. Something about watching the piece be dissected in such a way made the piece make more sense to me. Perhaps it was the underlying music, or even the attention to every detail that made the piece somehow more real, more tangible. I actually left that class feeling physically sick, I then proceeded to sit through my Spanish Culture and REVOLUTION class where I was still left to face the war created in my mind by this short Youtube video.

I wonder if perhaps this is what happens when someone finally understands, or perhaps begins to understand Stevens. This moment that moves to you physical feelings, that seem to over power your being. I don't know....I am not there yet, but I will be....Thanks to Alexandra I have gained a greater understanding of what it could potentially mean to be a Stevensian.

Seeing Things as they ARE

The class last Friday, I'm sure we can all agree, was quite inspiring. I keep wishing that I could have a strong reaction as many of my classmates seem to be having. During the reading of "The Man with The Blue Guitar" I had a few moments where I just simply felt the need to write. As though that was my only way to express the emotions I was feeling. I just kept thinking: How amazing to be loved as you ARE. So I wrote:

I see you as you are, not as you are not or, how

others see you, but as you shall be, as you

are meant to be, as you always shall be

just as you are

My feelings for you are as they should,

In the way that you are, you are,

you are,

You are to me as a pen to the endless form

The blue guitar, is as you are.

And there that was it that was all I could produce. But for those few moments I felt that what I was writing, was exactly what I should be writing and there was nothing else I needed to pay attention to. I simply needed to be. What an interesting thing, to have the Blue Guitar illicit so many different feelings within so many different people. 

Another thing I felt the need to analyze about the Blue Guitar, was the title itself "The Man with the Blue Guitar" If we are to understand that each word is a metaphor for something else then should the title literally read "Humanity with the Imagination Instrument" and if so what does this mean for the rest of the poem? Should we be reading deep within the poem, or simply enjoy it as is? I don't know classmates what do you think?