Sunday, February 22, 2009

So I finished reading Samuel Clemens this week and I especially enjoyed' "The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg." I really like stories like this one that give a little moral at the end and yet don't turn out anything like what you would have expected. I won't spoil the story for anyone who chooses to read it but I will say that it goes to show what a guilty heart can do to a person. I have to say that I had never really read much of Clemens stuff other than the Huck Finn standards and I think that I became a new fan now that I've read his other work. I also really liked "The War Prayer" and the message it was conveying. Clemens is a great story teller, able to draw you into his stories and make you hang on every word, and they have such great endings. A little moral truth to give you food for thought. I'm going to have to add some of his other stuff to my reading "wish" list.



I also read "Daisy Miller" and "The Art of Fiction" and I am now a Henry James fan. I found Daisy to be a free spirit who spit in the eye of convention to the dismay of "society". I was a little let down at the end because it wasn't exactly a happy ending which I'm a sucker for...but it had it's own sense of morality. I think James was trying to show Mr. Winterbourne as a guy who realized too late that this socially unconventional girl just wanted his attentions and he should have stopped caring about what everyone else thought and just be with her. I could be wrong on my interpretation because it was, or seemed, like an abrupt end to the story. If anyone sees it differently I welcome your thoughts.


The Greatest Love

I remember the day I first met him. I was still reeling from losing someone I loved very much. My emotions were raw and I was numb with disbelief. I imagine this is how most people feel when someone dies, but I don’t really know, I did know that my life would never be the same again. So much had changed now that he was gone, I would never again feel so loved and accepted by anyone. My best friend in the world was gone from this place; never will I see his face or hear his voice. To be in his presence was to feel calm and complete. I can remember we used to take these incredible walks on Sunday afternoons. He would pick me up in his old pickup and I would run out to jump in, excited to go on another adventure. He would let me shift the gears on the impossibly long stick shift and after a few grinding attempts I would find it and lock it into place. Once at our destination, we would grab our old gnarled walking sticks out of the back of the truck and make our way along the seemingly unexplored trail. It would be a beautiful summer day; at least that is how I always see it when I think back on it now. The sun would shine down and warm our backs as we traveled slowly along the trail. We walk side by side, at first not saying a word, wrapped in a comfortable silence. The soothing sounds of the outdoors, the scurrying creatures of the woods running from our footsteps, the trees swaying on the light breeze. We walk along on this glorious day and little by little we begin to talk. I tell him everything that’s gone on in my little world over the past week, running on and on. He does not stop me; he just listens to every word. He hears me like no one else can or will. When my talk winds down he tells me things about his life. There is so much to know, his life has been so rich and his experiences so vast. I want to know every part of it, hear about everything, and picture it in my mind. I ask questions, so many questions, and he patiently answers them all. When we come to the clearing on the mountain side we brush off the two flat rocks that we made into our chairs on our first trip to this place. He reaches into his pants pocket and hands me out his small pocket knife, the one that’s my favorite. I begin to whittle the handle of my walking stick while he pulls out his special camera with the long lens. He takes pictures of the river way down below us, the boats like specks on the water. I’m busy with my knife as we sit and enjoy the serenity of this place, the sweat on our backs drying in the sun. All too soon we have to pack up our things and head back down the trail, we have dinner waiting for us at home and we can’t be late. Those days are bittersweet in my thoughts, I miss them now more than anything, and I wish I had appreciated them more at the time. I guess that happens when you’re just a kid and life seems like it will always stay the same, that things will never shift and the people we love will always be there.

I sat there that day, the day I met him, thinking about these things as the tears slid down my cheeks. I looked into those little eyes and felt his small heartbeat beneath my hands. I am so happy for this gift but yet so terribly sad that he couldn’t be here to see him. I had dreamed about this moment, always with him here, watching him hold my precious son and rocking him gently in the old worn recliner. It is at this moment that I look up to the ceiling of my sterile little hospital room and begin to pray. “My dear Grandpa, please look out for my little baby boy. Walk beside him as you walked beside me; whisper those same stories into his ear. Tell him all the important things about life as you told them to me...all those years ago.”

Monday, February 9, 2009

Emily Dickinson...Finally




What were your first impressions of Dickinson?

My first impressions of Dickinson were that she was obviously talented but I didn't really enjoy a lot of her subject matter. She has a lot of nature involved in her poems and repeats a lot of the same words and I have a hard time getting into it. I felt like it was best read out loud so that I could really hear the words to appreciate it. This worked much better and I did find a few that were my favorites..."I'm Nobody!, I felt A Funeral In My Brain," etc.

Have your impressions changed as you’ve studied and reread her poems this semester? If so, how? Why?

My first impression did change as we've gone on and talked more in depth about her and her life. I felt the day that Heather read a few of her lines...that was pretty intense...and very moving. I also found that as I tried to write some things in her style, I could appreciate more of her work, especially trying to incorporate some of her words into my own writing was a challenge. However, I think using her words made what I wrote much more beautiful...at least to me.

What were the dilemmas of Dickinson’s life? How do these dilemmas manifest themselves in her writing?

I believe the biggest dilemmas of Dickinson's life were her unrequieted love for Susan Gilbert Dickinson and her role as a women in the time she lived. She was really intelligent and I can only imagine how stifling it was to live in that period where a woman barely had the right to be heard, let alone write. Her writing has a lot of moments of unfulfilled love and loss and you get a sense of her struggling with this feeling of frustration to be heard.

After reviewing Dickinson’s work, make a list of words that are particularly Dickinsonian.

Celestial, Vesuvian, Dwell, Thee, Ascended, Sea, Death, A Stone, Hands, Face, Dew, Earth, Harvest, Sun, Moon, Stars, Beckons, Immense, Divine, Infinite, Soul.....

Photo Contest







A: Gary Snyder, William Stafford, Allen Ginsberg, W.S. Merwin, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell, Gertrude Stein, Dorothy Parker, Willa Cather, Toni Morrison, William Shakespeare, Joyce Carol Oates, Virginia Woolf, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Walt Whitman, Ernest Hemingway
**Of all these authors I would still like to read some Toni Morrison, Sylvia Plath, and Virginia Woolf - I haven't really read much of any of them. If there are any others above that anyone would recommend let me know...I am open to suggestions.






Kate Chopin/African Folktales/Clemens

I will begin with the short story by Kate Chopin "Désirée's Baby," I really enjoyed this tragedy with the unexpected twist at the end. I like the way she alludes to the baby being black when the mother visits, but the girl doesn't see it. She is blissfully unaware, in love with her husband and child, not seeing what is before her. As I was reading I was thinking the obvious, that the girl must be of black heritage. I am disliking her husband for falling out of love with her for this, petty little racist that he is. Poor Désirée is so heartbroken when finally facing the truth, or what she believes is the truth, she takes her baby and disappears into the swamp. Probably killing herself and her child, the optimist in me would like to think she wandered to her mothers but that would in a way make the story a little less compelling. How rewarding to find out at the end that it was the husband who was really the son of a slave. Sad though that his mother and father were not around for his upbringing and he turned out to be such a lout. It seems to me that two such parents who were so forward thinking would not leave their son in the racist south to become a terrible plantation owner who treated his slaves horribly. However, it made for a really good story anyway.

Next I read the African Folktales and enjoyed the story telling of each of the short stories. You can see how the language progresses from early slavery as very crude and a bit hard to read to a dialect that is a little easier to understand. I'm wondering if this was because many of the early stories had to be done in the oral tradition due to the inability for the slaves to be educated? I also noticed that many of the stories are similar in that they are most often about trickery at the expense of the "Master" or they show the "Master" as the foolish character. You can also see the culture of superstition heavily in the work like in "Talking Bones" and "Old Boss Wants into Heaven" where there is the strong belief in ghosts depicted. The writing also portrays many of the negative and racist beliefs of the white people of that time as well. Reading these stories are like stepping back in time to the attitudes of the south and their way of life.

Another story that I felt appropriate for this section was "A True Story" by Samuel Clemens. I liked the part of the title that says "Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It" stating that this is a story that is told in the oral tradition. This is a story about "Aunt Rachel" who is a servant in her 60s who has a jovial sense of humor. Since her temperment is so jolly her owner (for lack of better term) makes the comment that she has never seen "any trouble" in her life because she has such a good humor. Then she tells the story of being raised a slave and having her husband and children sold away from her at auction. She relates how her youngest son finally found her in this story and then after telling her tale of woe, she says to her owner, "Oh no, Misto C, I hain't had no trouble. An' no joy!" I can just hear the sarcasm dripping of these final words of the story.

To sum up all of these stories is humbling for me...being white I am from the race that does not know racism the way that these people experienced it. I can only read these stories and appreciate what the African race has had to endure and how they survived it to see the day that one of them became the President of the United States. Now that is progress...slow moving...but progress never the less.

Love Poem

The first time your lips touched mine I knew you would possess me
I tasted your infinite love and my soul ascended to the stars
Beckoned back to Earth by your gentle hands
Our bodies intertwined in a sea of passion
I burned for you then from the core of my being
My heart awakened from its painful death with every caress
You healed me there on that moonlit night
My anguish set free on the wind

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Calendar for American Literature II


Week 1- (1/12-1/18) Fools Crow: James Welch - Anthology of American Lit: Emily Dickinson

Week 2- (1/19-1/25) Fools Crow: James Welch - Anthology of American Lit: Emily Dickinson

Week 3- (1/26-2/1) Fools Crow: James Welch - Anthology of American Lit: Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson

Week 4- (2/2-2/8) Fools Crow: James Welch – Anthology of American Lit: Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson

Week 5- (2/9-2/15) African American Folktales (37-56) – Samuel Langhorne Clemens (56- 106) – Francis Ellen Watkins Harper (161) - Zora Neale Hurston (162) – Ghost Dance Song (214-217) – Kate Chopin (357-363)

Week 6-(2/16-2/22) Tracks: Louise Erdrich – Samuel Langhorne Clemens (67-106) – Alexander Lawrence Posey (217-222) – John Milton Osikson (222-228) - Henry James (279-334)

Week 7-(2/23-3/1) Tracks: Louise Erdrich – Grace King (202-208 ) - Jack London (524-526) – Standing Bear (538-540) – Charles Alexander Eastman (554-556) – Sarah Winnemucca (554-556) - Louisa May Alcott (650-665) – Out of Africa: Isak Dineson (Karen Blixen)

Week 8– (3/2-3/8) Men on the Moon: Simon Ortiz – Frances Ellen Watkins Harper (566-576) - Harriet Prescott Spofford (665-667) – Constance Fenimore Woolson (675-667) – Sarah Orne Jewett (693-701) – Out of Africa: Isak Dineson (Karen Blixen)

Week 9- (3/9-3/20) Men on the Moon: Simon Ortiz – Mary E. Wilkes Freeman (712-723, 758) – Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins (734-744) – Sarah M.B. Piatt (751-755) – Ella Wheeler Wilcox (757) - Sophia Jewett (758-759) – E. Pauline Johnson (760-761) – Elaine Goodale Eastman (762-763) – Alice Dunbar Nelson (763-764) – Sarah Norcliff Cleghorn (765) – Gertrude Bonnen (809-819) - Edith Wharton (962-1000)

Week 10- (3/23-3/29) Men on the Moon: Simon Ortiz – Edith Wharton (1000-1028) - Booker T. Washington (868-887) – W.E.B. DuBois (894-917) – James Weldon Johnson (919-939) – Willa Cather (1034-1039) - Robert Frost (1058-1070) – Ezra Pound (1109-1131) - Gertrude Stein (1145-1156) - T.S. Eliot (1278-1306) – William Carlos Williams (1314-1315)

Week 11- (3/30-4/5) Ceremony: Leslie Marmon Silko - Langston Hughes (1248-1249, 1316-1317, 1519-1547) – Lola Ridge (1254) – Edwin Rolfe (1255-1257) – Genevieve Taggard (1261-1267) – E.E. Cummings (1268-1277) - F. Scott Fitzgerald (1324-1360) – Katherine Anne Porter (1387-1395) – Ernest Hemingway (1420-1422) – William Faulkner (1436-1464) – Alaine Locke (1490-1492) – Jean Toomer (1500-1510)

Week 12- (4/6-4/12) Ceremony: Leslie Marmon Silko – Mourning Dove (1733-1736) – John Joseph Mathews (1740-1747) – Thomas Whitecloud (1752) – Charles Reznikoff (1784-1790) – John Steinbeck (1791-1802) – Eudora Welty (1917-1919) – Tennessee Williams (1960-1962)
Week 13-(4/13-4/19) Ceremony: Leslie Marmon Silko – A Little Bit of Wisdom Horace Axtell – Arthur Miller (2051-2053) – Gwendolyn Brooks (2142-2153) – Flannery O’Conner (2216-2217) – Louise Erdrich (2995-2997) – Allen Ginsberg (2229-2240) - Jack Kerouac (2243-2245) – Gary Soto (2983-2988) – Malcom X (2273-2274) – Joy Hargo (2950-2959) – Sylvia Plath (2330-2338)

Week 14- (4/20-4/26) Smoke Signals/The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven: Sherman Alexie – Toni Morrison (2437-2438) – John Updike (2451-2453) – N. Scott Momaday (2479-2489) – Jimmy Santiago Baca (2658-2662) – James Welch (2680-2681) – Martin Luther King Jr (2340-2341) – Norman Mailer (2400-2401) - Sherman Alexie (3079-3081)

Week 15- (4/27-5/3) Smoke Signals/The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven: Sherman Alexie – Bharati Mukherjee (2693-2694) – Maxine Hong Kingston (2703-2704) – Simon Ortiz (2724-2725)

Week 16- (5/4-5/10) Smoke Signals/The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven: Sherman Alexie – Leslie Marmon Silko (2829-2830) – Wendy Rose (2837-2845)

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Favorite Thoreau Quote


"How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live."
Henry David Thoreau US Transcendentalist author (1817 - 1862)

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Alone by Edgar Allen Poe

From a childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were – I have not seen
As others saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.
Then – in my childhood – in the dawn
Of a most stormy life _ was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that ‘round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold –
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by –
From the thunder and the storm
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

My Ode To Poe


I am a freak of the biography and prefer, at times, to read about the people behind the stories rather than just the stories themselves. I just finished a few biographies of Poe and I found that he was the first original "Emo" as my son would say. So, my literature blog would not be complete without him.
The life of Edgar Allen Poe was, like so many of his stories and poems, short and eerily haunted. He infused his writing with the darkness he saw around his own life.
Edgar Allen Poe was born in Boston in1809. His parents were poor actors and thus he was born into poverty. He spent the first three years of his life in a "succession of shabby dressing rooms (CSPEPA 816)." The first major personal tragedy that befell him was the death of his parents.
He was adopted by John and Frances Allen along with his brother William Henry and his sister Rosalie.
Poe attended the best schools in Virginia. He showed flashes of his brilliant mind early on in his studies, but as a student he was "already something of a brooder (CSPEPA 816)." He spent much of his time alone and on some occasions would be seen walking with his "poetically inclined older brother (CSPEPA 816)." Poe enrolled at the University of Virginia, but due to strained relations between him and his foster father, he received minimal financial help. The difficulties of his financial situation at college led him to drink and gamble. At the end of one year he found himself $2000 in debt, and was forced to drop out of the University (Erlich 2001). He returned to Richland to find that disappointment waited for him there as well. He had fallen in love with a girl there, and had been writing her letters from college. The girl’s parents, not approving of Poe, intercepted the letters. The girl, assuming that he had forgotten her, became engaged to another man. Heartbroken and miserable, he wrote a long poem, Tamerlane, which became his first published work.
The friction between his foster father and himself escalated until Poe was forced to leave the house permanently. He returned to Boston, intending to find work in "New England’s budding literary center (CSPEPA 817)." As with so much of his life prior, disappointment seemed to be a staple of Poe’s life. Six weeks later, unable to find employment anywhere, he enlisted in the U.S. Army under the name of Edgar A Perry.
In the summer of 1827, he got his first book published. Although it was little more than a pamphlet containing approximately 40 pages, Tamerlane and Other Poems, was the beginning of what would later become a stellar career (CSPEPA 817). After publication of his book, Poe felt that the army was not for him and asked for a discharge. It was granted on the condition that he reconcile with his foster father. When John Allen refused, Poe suffered a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized. Then on February 28, 1829, his foster mother died, and John Allen, complying with his wife’s last request, agreed to see his foster son again. The discharge from the army was arranged and Poe and Allen made a truce. The truce did not last long, however, and in May, Poe went to live with his widowed cousin and her daughter, Virginia.
In the summer of 1830, Poe decided to try the military again. He reverted back to his old habits of drinking and gambling that had plagued him at the University of Virginia. Despite the pleas from his foster son, John Allen refused to pay Poe’s bills. Early in 1831, Edgar Allen Poe was court-martialed and discharged. Subsequent misfortunes followed: Poe’s brother William Henry died, John Allen wrote his foster son out of his will, and a scandal involving Poe’s drinking ended a love affair with a Baltimore woman named Mary Starr.
Finally, in early 1836, it appeared that his luck had changed. He married his cousin’s daughter, Virginia Clemm, on May 16. His stories were being published with regularity and his name was well known throughout the literary world. He was given a job as editor for The Gentleman’s Magazine. He was free of financial debt, and had stopped drinking and gambling. But like so many of Poe’s stories, misfortune was waiting just around the corner.
In January 1842, Virginia was stricken with a tubercular attack. Poe was once again filled with despair and began to drink heavily. His job performance suffered and relations with coworkers became troubled. In May he was fired from the magazine. He suffered another breakdown and was sick and delirious for several months. He eventually recovered enough to begin writing again. In early 1843, several of his works were published, including The Tell-Tale Heart. Virginia also seemed to recover, and once again things appeared to be going well. When Virginia fell ill again, Poe returned to his drinking habit. Despite moving out of the city because of concern for her health, Virginia never recovered. "On that blustery night of January 30, 1847, the long-drawn-out tragedy of Virginia Poe came to an end (CSPEPA 816)." Poe broke down completely this time and he too never fully recovered.
There is yet more to the story of the life of Edgar Allen Poe, but for my purposes of keeping this blog somewhat brief here, none that are relevant. Suffice it to say, that the remainder of his life was not entirely a pleasant one. There were attempts of suicide, rampant drinking and opium use, and finally, on a Sunday morning in October 1849, Edgar Allen Poe died. It is reported that his last words were, “Lord help my poor soul.” Then he died alone (CSPEPA 816). Ironically, Poe wrote a short poem that I found, titled Alone that I will publish in a separate Blog Post.
The one profound difference that made Edgar Allen Poe stand out from other authors of his time was the element of gloom that he infused into his writings. In The Fall of the House of Usher, this infusion takes place at the very onset of the story. The first line of the story reads, "During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher (Cain 794)." In this first sentence Poe sets the tone for the whole story. The story itself has all the elements of a modern horror story: A haunted house, dreary landscape, mysterious sickness, and a doubled personality. For all of its easily identifiable horror elements, part of the real terror of this story is not in what is said or described, but in what is not. It is the vagueness of details that creates a sensation of fear. For example, it is never mentioned when or where this story takes place. Instead of using standard narrative of place and time, Poe uses things like poor weather and a barren landscape to act as a locater. We (the readers) know that it is autumn. Any more than that we can only surmise.
Another aspect of vagueness is that initially we and the narrator are unclear as to why he has been summoned. Another is the fact that although the narrator had been one of Roderick’s "boon companions in boyhood” (Cain 794)", he did not know the basic fact that Roderick had a twin sister. The story begins without complete explanation of the narrator’s motives for arriving at the House of Usher, and it is this ambiguity that sets the tone for a plot that is inexplicable, sudden and full of unexpected events.
There is also a sensation of claustrophobia in this story. The narrator is trapped by the lure of Roderick’s attraction, and he cannot escape until the House of Usher collapses completely. Because it appears that the characters in the story cannot move and act freely in the house, the house takes on a role itself; a character that plays the role of an evil mastermind that controls the fates of its inhabitants. Poe creates confusion between the living things and inanimate objects by doubling the physical house of Usher with the family line of Usher. He uses the word “house” metaphorically, yet he also describes a real house. The narrator gets trapped inside the mansion, and through this we learn that this confinement describes the biological fate of the Usher family.
The family has no enduring branches, so it can be assumed that genetic transmission has occurred incestuously within the domain of the house. Further evidence of the house as a metaphor is found in Poe’s use of the poem, The Haunted Palace. By the descriptions of the palace within the poem, it becomes evident to the reader that it is not a palace at all, but a woman. The somber mood is maintained throughout the whole story, never once allowing for a single moment of relief. Even at the end, when the narrator is finally escaping the house, Poe continues the mood through use of the storm. "The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the causeway (Cain 809)."
The same gloomy mood is found in the story The Tell-Tale Heart, however, it is written very different than The Fall of the House of Usher. One thing that is most notably different in this story is how Poe uses fewer adjectives and descriptions to paint an equally terrifying picture. He employs fewer details as a way to heighten the murderer’s obsession with specific things: The old man’s eye, the heartbeat, and his own claim to sanity. Each item of obsession is uniquely integral to the setting of the mood. The reason given by the murderer for killing the old man is the eye. "He had the eye of a vulture – a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees – very gradually – I made up my mind to take the life of the old man and thus rid myself of the eye forever (Cain 809)." The eye, an inanimate object, becomes a symbol of evil. When the narrator is sneaking into the old man’s bedroom, he finds that the eye has been watching him. "It was open – wide, wide open – and I grew furious as I gazed upon it (Cain 811)." Poe creates the mood at this point of the story with the visual imagery of the “wide, wide” open eye.
The heartbeat of the old man serves as a catalyst to the murder. Although the narrator was in the room to commit the murder and would have done so regardless of any outside factors, Poe uses the beating of the heart to heighten suspense. When the narrator first hears the heart, he becomes enraged, yet somehow manages to remain calm. Then the heart begins to beat louder. "It grew quicker, and louder every instant. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! (Cain 812)." Later in the story, the narrator continues to hear the heartbeat. When the police arrive, the narrator was the epitome of confidence. Yet the more he proclaimed how calm and cool he was, the louder his own heart beats, which he mistakes for the beating of the old man’s heart.
The narrator’s claim to sanity is a theme found throughout the story. The story opens with the narrator asking why the reader would think him mad. "How, then am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story (Cain 809)." Then after he explains why he had to kill the old man, he immediately returns to defending his own sanity. By using imagery in the form of the narrator’s speech, rather than lengthy descriptions, Poe enables the reader to clearly see that the man is insane.
Edgar Allen Poe is one of the most well known names in literature. He is a known short story writer and poet. He is credited with creating new writing genres such as "the modern horror tale, science fiction story, and the detective story (Erlich 2001)." He is also a master of invoking fear through his many methods of setting the mood. In The Fall of the House of Usher he employs long, lengthy descriptions to create the chilly imagery and impose a dark and gloomy atmosphere. In The Tell-Tale Heart Poe creates frightening imagery with the use of simplistic descriptions that, when seen through the eyes of the murderer, become more terrifying with incorporated suspense.
I believe that Edgar Allen Poe is one of the greatest writers of all time. He was also a troubled soul who found disappointment everywhere he looked. He lived a life fraught with gloom and despair, and that reality carried over to his fiction. There is an old piece of advice that applies to aspiring writers – “write what you know.” I believe that Poe did just that.

Citations
Cain, William E. American Literature Volume I. New York: Pearson Education, Inc. 2004.
Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe. New York: Doubleday, 1966. *
Erlich, Heyward. A Poe Webliography. April 3, 2001. Dec. 2, 2005.
* A compilation of short stories and poems, with included Poe biography. There was no author mentioned in book (other than Poe) and subsequently the biographer was never named.

Monday, February 2, 2009

The Call of Sleep




It pulls me in with its sweet caress
Lulling me softly, begging me to rest

I want to succumb; it knows just what I need
It calls to me like a lover, no end to its greed

Whispering gently into my ear
Secrets and lies are all I can hear

It beckons to me, it will not be denied
An overwhelming sensation I cannot abide

I try to resist, I cannot go there yet
But it wants me - and I really want it

It begins slowly, my eyes begin to close
impose

My body releases, as I finally let go

I begin to drift, this fight is over, I know

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Walt Whitman




I first want to start this blog by saying that I just finished watching the biography on Walt Whitman and I have to say that I had no idea. I am a virgin of literature and will admit to all that I have not read much Whitman...but after this movie...I wanted to read it all. He's one of those writers that is best read out loud.

3. What does the phrase e pluribus unum mean? What does the phrase have to do with Whitman?

Latin for "Out of Many, One," is a motto requested by Pierre Eugene du Simitiere and found in 1776 on the Seal of the United States, and adopted by an Act of Congress in 1782. The phrase originally came from Moretum, a poem attributed to Virgil but with the actual author unknown. In the poem text, color est e pluribus unus describes the blending of colors into one.

I think this phrase embodies so many things about Walt Whitman and what he stood for on a personal level. He was a watcher of people, an observer of life, and as he told the stories of the people he saw he really told his own story. As Whitman watched he felt deep connections that touched his soul and at times filled him with love. He felt his writing had the ability to bring people together and to mend the hurt that man inflicted upon itself. He was very patriotic and had a love affair with his country and its people. The fact that this phrase is on the Seal of the US is perfect, Whitman would find it fitting I believe. He saw the world as made up of one people and he loved all their differences as one human commonality. "In the faces of men and women I see God."


9. Can you comment on "A Woman Waits for Me"?

This is probably my favorite poem by Whitman...I love it because it's bold, baudy, and honest. It stirs something within me that I haven't quite figured out yet. I'll have to get back to you on this one. Right now all I can say is that I will keep reading it, again, and again...out loud...to myself.