Wednesday, April 27, 2011

What this semester taught me poetry to be



Before this semester I would have defined poetry as a form of literature that rhymes or has a nice flow. Definitions of what poetry is or isn’t, are different depending on times in history and individuals’ perspectives. After reading, discussing, and further rereading of numerous contemporary, modern, and post-modern poems this spring semester, I am confident enough to state my personal definition of poetry. Characteristics of poetry are meaningful content, a purposeful voice, and a form or structure.
Content used effectively in my definition is inclusive and dissolves social boundaries of class, culture, gender, race, and age-- when used improperly content creates them. Yusef Komunyakaa, in the introduction to The Best American Poetry 2003, unpacks this by pointing out what is not poetry and who are not poets in this context.
“Are some American poets writing from a privileged position—especially after the fiery 1960s and 70’s—from a place that reflects the illusions of class through language and aesthetics, and is the “new” avant-garde an old aspect of high-brow and low-brow divide within the national psyche?...Are there poets who have purposefully set out to create work that (doesn’t matter) only matter to the anointed, those who might view themselves as privileged above content?”(11)
 Komunyakaa’s answer to his question is yes, and I agree. T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound are examples of writers who widened social-class gaps, in the style of “art for art’s sake”. Eliot’s 1922 piece (which Pound edited), “The Wasteland”, is a prime example of how content can draw a line in the sand between the elite- educated and everyone else. He has to put footnotes in this literary piece for those who do not have such an extensive education (or immediate access to the internet when speaking of current audiences), which alienates his audience. In doing so, the message sent in “The Wasteland” is passively telling the majority of its readers that they are not at all like Eliot. So why should they feel the need to extensively follow up on his footnotes if they feel as if they will not benefit personally from it?
PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,   
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell         
And the profit and loss.           
                          A current under sea   315
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell       
He passed the stages of his age and youth     
Entering the whirlpool.           
                                    Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,        320
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. – (T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland/death by water)
Eliot’s fourth stanza of “The Wasteland” is an example of the tone of his work, as it is disconnected with the vast majority of the society he was writing to. The vast majority of society lacks the level of elite education that this particular piece requires to fully comprehend all of the historical, literary, mythological and biblical references.
Looking at literary works that qualify as poetry under the concept of content used to connect with their audiences by building erasing social lines, I am confident in naming Nikki Giovanni’s “Desperate Acts (For 9-11)”(Quilting the Black Eyed Pea: poems and not quite poems [2002]) as an example.
It’s not easy to understand
Why angry men commit
Desperate acts

It’s not easy to understand
How some dreams become
Nightmares

Those who wish
And those who need
Often feel alone

It’s easy to strike back
But hard to understand -- (45)
Giovanni’s response to the terrorist attacks on America on 9-11 feeds off of the nation’s emotional tension of the time, which was connecting the majority of the American population. By reflecting the fear, confusion, mourning, and outrage that the attacks catalyzed, she is able to engage her readers by appealing to the emotions that were already crossing the American social boundaries. Empathy is the intellectual tool used to guide her message, and can be understood by the vast majority of society without the need of an elite education. Giovanni is inclusive, rather than exclusive like Eliot. Though the roaring 20’s and the early 2000’s societies owned different faces of public tension, there are always issues in every era that can be turned into content used to make connections with an audience. Poems such as T.S. Eliot’s are still defined as poetry by the majority of the literary community, but my personal definition of what poetry is holds more current works in a higher regard because of how differently content is used in Giovanni’s time in comparison to Eliot’s.
            Voice of a poem is meant to be physically heard, and can also be heard directly from printed or written form. As with content, the voice of a poem is directly connected with the poet and can be used to further the connection between the poet and the poem’s audience. I mean a poem by my definition should be able to be read or recited in a way that verbally appeals to the audience through an easily understood flow. If I read you a poem of mine aloud and your ears have difficulty grasping the tone or message due to lack of flow or feeling, then I would consider that piece to be rubbish in the context of what I consider to be good poetry. Voice in a written poem should work together with form on page, intriguing both the readers’ or listeners’ eyes and ears (depending if the poem is being read to or by the audience). Poetry should work effectively voiced aloud as well as read on paper. Post-modern poet James Fenton gives an example of this sensory harmony in his poem “Dead Soldiers” (708-709), found in Carolyn Forch`e’s anthology Against Forgetting (1993).
Each diner was attended by one of the other ranks
Whirling a table-napkin to keep off the flies.
It was like eating between rows of morris dancers—
Only the didn’t kick.

Fenton does not use rhyme in this stanza of “Dead Soldiers”, he appeals to his readers’ sense of vision by using sensory details such as: “whirling, like eating between rows of morris dancers/ only they didn’t kick”. Hyphenation insinuates a pause in the reading, and makes it flow more easily. Techniques such as this, coupled with the use of active verbs, appeal more to the ears of an audience. Form and voice mesh together in this example of a poem written in response to the Vietnam War, which needs to engage the senses of its audience in order to effectively succeed in communicating Fenton’s war-response message. 
            Form in my definition of poetry is the characteristic that can be argued against the most, but I maintain that form of poetry and prose are different—I state that form in a poem is much more thought-out and hold much more meaning in relation to the poem itself. Poetic prose in my definition is prose that has content and voice of poetry, yet lacks the form that distinguishes poetry. Poetic prose, such as Lyn Heijinian’s My Life (1993), enforces the difference between poetry and prose. Heijinian’s autography is considered poetic prose because it’s telling the story of its writer through fragmented pieces of creativity woven together intelligently. Voice in My Life is strong and content is present, but needs timely analysis to make linear sense of it because the form is in that of paragraphs and chapters.  “Are all statements about unicorns necessarily metaphysical. Many maybe, window a light. In the dark we went out on the lawn to watch the satellite go by, now four years in the sky. It always gets darkest before it gets absolutely black.”(101). As a segmented example form My Life, this memory of lying in the dark to watch a satellite is tinted with the poetic style of posing a question as statement and thought provoking thought processes of enlightenment.
            Heijinian’s own definition as to what poetry is, as found in her introduction to Best American Poetry (2004 edition) concludes that there is no conclusion when it comes to poetry, that it cannot be defined. “Dynamic, ever-changing, poetry…is a site of perpetual transitions and unpredictable metamorphoses, but there is no end point in poetry…the fact that there are no final answers is one source of the vitality of the art form.”(9) I disagree with Heijinian in this because if we follow this thought on a linear path, the conclusion is that any form of art is poetry and vice versa. Unpacking this statement can use an example of Michelangelo’s David; as it is certainly poetic through the process of it having been carved by hand and the statue’s mythological symbolism, it is not a poem. Concluding this observation I state that; though some forms of art and literature are “poetic”, having that quality does not earn them the title of “poem”.
            Form and structure on paper are a poem’s skeletal mold. Poetry’s tangible form tells its readers how it should be read— like DNA instructs organisms how to form within an egg or womb. It is the defining characteristic that places My Life inside the “poetic prose” box, and not in the one labeled “poetry”, because its form lacks any easy sense of flow. Form and structure are not limited to rhyme schemes or other recognized poetry definitions, but determines what poetry is if it has the ability to work cohesively with voice and content in a common goal of getting the poet’s point or meaning across.(Noted that it is also another characteristic that T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” lacks.) Punctuation, capitalization, syntax, italic, bold print, hyphens, and spacing are used to created form and structure in poetry, with each word, comma, and stanza length selected for the purpose of aiding and strengthening effects that voice and content of a poem has on readers’ senses.
            G.C. Waldrep gives excellent examples of strong form and structure in poetry that compliments voice and content in his anthology Disclamor (2007).  “Battery Bravo (first)” (69-71) incorporate punctuations, spacing, capitalizations, and italics that fuse the content of the words and the voice of questioning remembrance.
 “Once I wrote
                I will be a poet of broken things.
               But what claim have I trampled
                                                     into these bare hills?
               What fragment have I prised?”

Spacing and line placement are used in this stanza to draw the focus on what he wrote, while italics is purposefully used to articulate exactly what he had “written”—“I will be a poet of broken things.” Waldrep uses the punctuation of the question mark as a tool that voices a contradiction to his prophetic written statement. Combined like ingredients in a chocolate-chip cookie recipe, form and structure, voice and content interdepend in order to produce a poem.
All home-made chocolate-chip cookies are unique in the way each one crumbles a little differently on your tongue, but all chocolate-chip cookies need the necessary binding and levening ingredients for them to be considered a chocolate-chip cookie—no substitutes. Form and structure cannot be substituted in poetry, when taken away the literary work becomes another “poetic prose” piece.
            Poetry has the power to influence readers through form, content, and voice—and on a larger linear scale of thought, society. Appealing to senses through these characteristics provokes human emotion by bridging directly what the poet’s purpose of writing the poem is to its readers’ empathetic psych. Many post-modern poets utilize this in calling for humanitarian rights, remembrances of history, and societal change on a large scale. Giovanni expresses this in a stanza of her poem “Poetry”,
“a poem is pure energy
horizontally contained
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not deligh discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious”~ Nikki Giovanni   

Bibliography
Fenton, James. Anthology. Carolyn Forche, Against Forgetting. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. 1993. 708-709. Print
Hejinian, Lyn. Introduction. Lyn Hejinian and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2004. Scribner, 2004. 9-14. Print.
Hejinian, Lyn. Autography. My Life. Green Integer, 2002. Print
Komunyakaa, Yusef. Introduction. Yusef Komunyakaa and David Lehman, eds. The Best American Poetry 2003. New York: Scribner, 2003. 11-21. Print.

My guitar

blues guitar,
vibrate a path through my freckled chest
cuz i like you best.
don't fret, love
we're strapped together
forever, makin' me bleed
takin' my nails away,
droppin' chords like seed,
makin' me crazy like no other,
as you should
especially cuz no lover,
ever
ever
ever could.

~Jenica M. Corbett

Letter for little sisters

they never teach
you
in grade school
how to focus--only to sit
still.      feet flat, back straight.

no one ever tells
you
that spending endless nights--weeks
awake reading
is mania.       strings pulled by God, or pills.

he never told
you
that "no" was an option--that
not all hands and words
control.       only female roses have thorns.

so let me tell
you
that--writing lines isn't so bad,
         shrinks are overpaid,
         "no" is sometimes all you'll have, and
           there will be times
           when all
you
           have is
you.

~Jenica M. Corbett

Phenomenal Woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Sticky Vows

impurity
honest,
the white wedding gown
slit up the side of my mocha thigh
snagging on the pine pew as i retrace my steps down
God's isle, feeling His sigh
on the back of my neck,
and between my toes--my bare toes
ran
pure
like the raw honey we poured on the deck
in June because the ants marched in 2x2
--sugared suffocation
and ended up sun-baked on the maple 2x4's
because,
they had to, and
we
had to
acknowledge 
knowledge of
i do's
and sticky foot prints messing
the too short summers
and the beaded hem of my amazingly ruined
dress.

~Jenica M. Corbett

Monday, April 25, 2011

Over-dosing on Lyn Heijinian's "My Life"

   Re-reading poet Lyn Heijinian's autography, "My Life" did not have a very different ride than the first time. When I first picked up this pocket-sized notebook, I had an inkling it would disrupt my usual way of comprehension --most likely because the stoic photo Lyn gazing off at what seems to be nothing is slapped on the front. Pictures are supposed to tell a thousand words, right? Well, her's didn't tell me squat except that the then seemingly 40ish author favors straight bangs, 80's style hair cuts, little make-up and long earrings (and apparently likes to gaze off into the distance, which inevitably tells me absolutely nada about what to expect from the words strung together on the pages beneath this photo). So, yeah...I judged this book by its cover (or at least attempted to). The cliche tells us not to, but guess what, we all do--so don't judge me for the sin of literary judgments based on black-and-white photographs of wispy looking women.
   Coming back on topic now, let's just say that reading the 165 pages of this book the first time was like doing one of those 10,000 piece puzzles of a bunch of roses, whose pieces where all the same shape. What I mean by this is that Heijinian's style is so far from linear, yet the pieces can be put together in ways that seem to make some sense in terms of linear thought; so you never really know if the way you lined them up in your head is actually the way they're supposed to be. Or even if you're supposed to try to comprehend what the titles of each chapter in this wickedly written book do not seem to hold any relativity to the chapter it's placed upon, yet pops up in later chapters and makes sense there. Her style in this book could be the bases of why some would consider it poetry, but personally I believe it's just plain too fragmented. Books such as this are in a category all their own, and should be based on the amount organized chaos that is distilled into them. It frustrates me. It makes me slow down and re-read. It made me pop an Excedrin. I love it-- in small doses.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

The Cocktail Lemon (an N+7 poem constructed from G.C. Waldrep's "Feeding the Pear")

At the single sometime handed me a
pearl
and said "Feed italic."
there was a little moxa drawn on the flap of the pearl, but
no note, no Eyre, no ease.
iamb had no idem what a pearl would
eat.
iamb tried carry sickle.
iamb tried a paclitaxel of suggest
from the fellowship hallow.
the pearl remained oblique, its moxa
drawn on, as with the magic marketeer. the
musing started up again, but my
plague on the bend had been taken
by someone else. anyway,
iamb was preoccupied.
iamb wanted to be gentle,
iamb didn't want to bruise the pearl, but
iamb didn't want to advertise my igorot, either. there had to be a waylay.
iamb started to carry the pearl away with
mead after the last of the hymen had been closed.
"No," sometime said, catching mead by the armada.
"the pearl stays heresy."

 ~Jenica M. Corbett (inspired by G.C. Waldrep)

   

Monday, April 4, 2011

Battery O'Rorke unpacked

     Of all G.C. Waldrep's battery poems, I find myself pulled into Battery O'Rorke in particular. There are fourteen separate stanzas, including single line stanzas, and in free verse form. The form itself is fitting to the poem, as the first stanza speaks of flitting existence, as if to imply that the strictness of any other form would just be a waist of time that could be used to more fully communicate the poem's meaning.

"What is written here fades quickly.
           Faces drawn in chalk,
                       names,"
  
      Faces and names-- the two facets of people as identities that we commit to memory are revealed to be brief in reality. I feel as if Waldrep is reminding us that we are perennials, not annuals.

The poem's next stanza touches on what I take to referencing the actuality of California's battery forts, and the military thought processes behind them.

                                                  "the idea/
          of defense, of a beach/
                                   ripe for landing."
 
  This particular stanza is pretty much staraight forward in referring to the military's reasoning behind developing the batterys on the California coast; that the straight and level beaches provided ideal landing strips to be utilized by either the U.S. or other forces. As it is our coast, the forts would ensure that they would be for America's use only. The batteries are longer lasting than their actual intended purpose, which reflects the perrenial claim of the first stanza. According to the The California State Military Museum,

"Battery O'Rorke was built to mount four 15-pounder, 3 inch guns, serial numbered 90, 91, 92 and 94, on Model 1903 pedestal mounts. The mounts were built by the Watertown Arsenal and were serial numbered 68 through 71. It was not armed for many years, at least not until 1909. The battery was nevertheless named by War Department General Order 194 on December 27, 1904 in honor of Colonel Patrick Henry O'Rorke. Colonel O'Rorke, at native of Ireland and a graduate of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, was killed at the age of 27 at the Battle of Gettysburg during the Civil War in July 1863. Each gun could fire shells weighing 15 pounds a distance of five miles. These small guns were important because they could be loaded and fired more rapidly than larger weapons. The guns were located at their location to prevent enemy landings on Rodeo Beach. The battery was inactivated in 1945 and its guns scrapped in 1946."  The history of the O'Rorke battery is testiment to the perennial theory in that the man by which it was named after lived and died a short life of 27 years, in a war that was unlrelated to the purpose of the battery itself. therefor the name was just a name, and held little inictail meaning or purpose to the fort itself. The name was still there, but faded away, as the battery is as it stands today. Sanding with little or no purpose, the face of the battery has faded with its already faded name.




The Irish namesake also ripples through the poem through references to the sea. As the country is an island, the sea is significant to both culture and native literature. The significance of an American battery on the California coast being named after an Irishman who fought and died during the Civil War could have been part of what Waldrep was trying to distill when writing this poem.



 



    
   

Monday, March 21, 2011

do i need?

do i need to
feel your arms tight around mine
to remember
that
i
am a woman?
more-over
the question--
do
i
want your calloused hands
to tell me
that
i
still have curves to keep
my thoughts
company--
that
i
still am capable
of screams & chills beneath
my blue'n black
blanket
worn supple from the heavy
onyx river stones
pulled out
of
your de-Nile
that
i
hauled to the sandbox
beneath the sickly maple
so
i
could build my castle
because
every castle needs
a wall

~Jenica M. Corbett

Sunday, March 20, 2011

A German Requiem

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.
It is not the houses. It is the spaces in between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
It is not your memories which haunt you.
It is not what you have written down.
It is what you have forgotten, what you must forget.
What you must go on forgetting all your life.
And with any luck oblivion should discover a ritual.
You will find out that you are not alone in the enterprise.
Yesterday the very furniture seemed to reproach you.
Today you take your place in the Widow's Shuttle.

*

The bus is waiting at the southern gate
To take you to the city of your ancestors
Which stands on the hill opposite, with gleaming pediments,
As vivid as this charming square, your home.
Are you shy? You should be. It is almost like a wedding,
The way you clasp your flowers and give a little tug at your veil. Oh,
The hideous bridesmaids, it is natural that you should resent them
Just a little, on this first day.
But that will pass, and the cemetery is not far.
Here comes the driver, flicking a toothpick into the gutter,
His tongue still searching between his teeth.
See, he has not noticed you. No one has noticed you.
It will pass, young lady, it will pass.

*

How comforting it is, once or twice a year,
To get together and forget the old times.
As on those special days, ladies and gentlemen,
When the boiled shirts gather at the graveside
And a leering waistcoast approaches the rostrum.
It is like a solemn pact between the survivors.
They mayor has signed it on behalf of the freemasonry.
The priest has sealed it on behalf of all the rest.
Nothing more need be said, and it is better that way-

*

The better for the widow, that she should not live in fear of surprise,
The better for the young man, that he should move at liberty between the armchairs,
The better that these bent figures who flutter among the graves
Tending the nightlights and replacing the chrysanthemums
Are not ghosts,
That they shall go home.
The bus is waiting, and on the upper terraces
The workmen are dismantling the houses of the dead.

*

But when so many had died, so many and at such speed,
There were no cities waiting for the victims.
They unscrewed the name-plates from the shattered doorways
And carried them away with the coffins.
So the squares and parks were filled with the eloquence of young cemeteries:
The smell of fresh earth, the improvised crosses
And all the impossible directions in brass and enamel.

*

'Doctor Gliedschirm, skin specialist, surgeries 14-16 hours or by appointment.'
Professor Sarnagel was buried with four degrees, two associate memberships
And instructions to tradesmen to use the back entrance.
Your uncle's grave informed you that he lived in the third floor, left.
You were asked please to ring, and he would come down in the lift
To which one needed a key...

*

Would come down, would ever come down
With a smile like thin gruel, and never too much to say.
How he shrank through the years.
How you towered over him in the narrow cage.
How he shrinks now...

*
But come. Grief must have its term? Guilt too, then.
And it seems there is no limit to the resourcefulness of recollection.
So that a man might say and think:
When the world was at its darkest,
When the black wings passed over the rooftops,
(And who can divine His purposes?) even then
There was always, always a fire in this hearth.
You see this cupboard? A priest-hole!
And in that lumber-room whole generations have been housed and fed.
Oh, if I were to begin, if I were to begin to tell you
The half, the quarter, a mere smattering of what we went through!

*

His wife nods, and a secret smile,
Like a breeze with enough strength to carry one dry leaf
Over two pavingstones, passes from chair to chair.
Even the enquirer is charmed.
He forgets to pursue the point.
It is now what he wants to know.
It is what he wants not to know.
It is not what they say.
It is what they do not say.

~James Fenton

Thursday, March 10, 2011

What My Kids Will Read in Their History Books

(Freestyle enjambment inspired by Di Brandt)
What My Kids Will Read in Their History Books

I need a bumper sticker that says, “DRIVING WHILE BROWN”
& save my local law enforcers & tax dollars the time
& energy of discerning my worth of
whether or not I should be driving my tan (hopefully not too tan)
2001 Alero to pick up my sister Maria, who jokingly says she
will have to change her name when she turns 18 & cannot hide the
fear & confusion beneath thick lowered lashes, or behind her American History book
which makes me wonder
if I should think ahead & counter my irritating knack for losing & forgetting
things & visit my favorite tattoo artist
to ink my social security number on my arm
so they know what I am & forget who I am
because apparently those white stars next to those red stripes
turned piss yellow & we forgot the 12 years
worth of American History book lessons & lectures
funded by the people, for the people,
with liberty & justice
for all.


by:Jenica M. Corbett

I Take Cream and Sugar in My Coffee

(Father and Mother poem)
I Take Cream and Sugar in My Coffee

Daddy gave me color,
a piece of his--
forgot the height,
gave sissy double,
tryin’ to make up the slight.

Momma shared her freckles,
a dustin' here, mark there,
makin’ sure I wasn’t bare.

Temper that tames,
Curls playin' games
above his smile,
won’t hide her guile.
Creamed egg shell
met June’s night
--some said a match made for Hell;
Presbyterian and Mennonite.

Dad and Mom used that heated fire,
for I am evidence
of their passionate desire
to take ax to picket fence.

by: Jenica M. Corbett

poem seedling #1 (why stop signs are good)

(Villanelle style using lines form Jane Roher’s “The Gearshift Poem” and “Room 703”)
Why Stop Signs Are Good
By: Jenica Mae Corbett

Eight years it is still happening-
on the day of his death

I strip butterfly petals, pink pollen lightening
my palms, gathering sticky beneath nails
holding them as he held me bleeding
eight years it is still happening.

petals fall into May’s damp breath
plucked of stem, young life
promised myth--
on the day of his death

the breeze turns, as if to accuse me of lying
leaving me to pick my picked from my lashes
picked as he did those glass shards, ignoring my pleading
eight years it is still happening

pink on white, cross on road leading
to every and nowhere, an etched name – Seth
eight years it is still happening--
on the day of his death.

Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea; poems and not quite poems




         Born in Knoxville, Tennessee on June 7 1943, Yolande Cornelia “Nikki” Giovanni became one of America’s most influential literary writers. Evidence of this can be seen in her 2002 anthology, Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea; poems and not quite poems, where her humanitarian passion couples with her interest in history to develop a consistence theme.
      Growing up close to her grandmother in Lincoln Heights, a suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio, exposed her to the post Harlem renaissance culture that shaped her early career. Another influencing force to her concisely raw voice is Giovanni’s education at Fisk University (1960-1967), a prestigious black college in Nashville, Tennessee. Her schooling there coincided with the university’s own black renaissance, influencing her ideals of raising political and spiritual awareness, particularly (though not restricted to) in relation to the plights and rights of black people.  Giovanni’s first expressions took root in her college job as editor of the campus literary magazine, participating in the Fisk Writers Workshop, and in her work to restore the Fisk chapter Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) ( Poets.org). She graduated with honors and B.A. in history, giving her a strong platform to build her voice by using her literary skills and history’s credibility.
Corbett 2
 Giovanni’s early work caught the public’s attention with her marriage of controversial issues and unrefined style of poem and prose. Her first published volumes were in response to the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, Medgar Evers, and Robert Kennedy. It was in her books: Black Feeling, Black Talk (1967) and Black Judgment (1968) that she established her early voice of jarringly raw reality-ism that became a prominent voice in the African-American community. This period of publication for Giovanni can be categorized as the post- college and pre-motherhood era of her life. Her work reflects her life experiences, from travels to Europe and Africa, the birth of her son Thomas Watson Giovanni, on August 31, 1969, to her battle and survival of breast cancer that started in 1995. The transformation of her voice polishes away the roughest of the jagged-edged words of her early work with time, crossing over from the 20th to the 21st century with a deeper style that still retains its sporadic doses of harsh reality, laments of personal loss. Scattered with socio-political controversies capable of capturing and maintaining the public’s attention, Giovanni’s latest publication, Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea (Poems and not quite poems) (2002) exhibits this tone through poems and prose that remember the reality of the Civil Rights, the effects of 9/11 on American society, alongside her own personal trials in life. The works in this anthology maintain the common theme of calling upon the past in order to look to the future, through a lens of humanity issues pertaining to past, present, and future societies. Giovanni calls the audience to remember specific historic events pertaining to the Civil Rights movement and the 9/11 attacks, and then takes that energy of enduring hope and uses it in her poems about her personal struggles pertaining to her fight with breast cancer and the loss of her grandmother.
   
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       A selection of this anthology that strongly supports this theme is, “Another Aretha Poem”(36), which pulls significant events from the Civil Rights era with the purpose of bringing humanitarian focus to the audience.  “Another Aretha Poem” is the twentieth piece in Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea. This poem is a free-verse piece that consists of seven stanzas, eight single lines, and one couplet, with a total count of fifty-two lines in all. The overall style is that of enjambment and selective line placement and capitalization, with an overall theme of the Civil Rights Movement starting with the Great Migration of African-Americans in the early 1900’s to current times. Giovanni’s focuses are influencing people and events in a historical context, which when analyzed alongside the enjambment and overall structure of the poem unveils the correlations between the different contexts. Giovanni’s love and knowledge of history and English knit together smoothly and with the strong voice of her call to remember certain aspects of the Civil Rights movement.
     She does this through reference to the Great Migration, racism in the 1920’s music business, Brown vs. Board of Education, Gwendolyn Brooks, the role of religion among African-Americans, Emmitt Till, and the bloodshed at the bus terminal in Nashville, Tennessee as a result of the freedom rides. “no. not tired. sick and tired. asking the Lord for strength. asking/ the Lord to guide her feet. tired of her people being killed./ tired of 14-year-old boys being castrated. tired of not being able to/ stop it. no sir. I’ll sit today. this evening. Right now. I shall not be/ moved. no sir.”(pg.37, lines 35-40) Giovanni’s use of the adjective “tired” gives this particular stanza a passive tone, which conflicts with the aggressive content of mass murder and 14-year-old boys being castrated.
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      This particular technique keeps the content of the poem from becoming over-bearing to the reader, thus making her work more effective by accomplishing her goal of raising awareness by remembering without alienating her audience. The gradual transformation of Giovanni’s style is said to be partly attributed to her becoming a mother. Giovanni gave birth to her only child, Thomas Watson Giovanni, on August 31, 1969,(ohioana-authors.org)  while visiting Cincinnati, Ohio for Labor Day Weekend. She later stated that she had a child out of wedlock at twenty-five because she "wanted to have a baby and she could afford to have a baby" and because of her conviction that (marriage) as an institution was inhospitable to women and would never play a role in her life. After her son's birth, Giovanni rearranged her priorities around him and has stated that she would give her life for him. "I just can't imagine living without him. But I can live without the revolution, without world socialism, women's lib...I have a child. My responsibilities have changed." (Conversations with Nikki Giovanni, University Press of Mississippi [December 1992], p. 66) This turning point in her life still did not stop her from producing award winning works that pertained to these issues, as seen in Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea.
     “Desperate Acts (For 9-11)” (45), gives a more concise and compact example of her ability to take events from the past and relate them to the future through a humanitarian’s eye. The poem is composed of eleven lines in four short stanzas that allude to the difficulty of embracing empathy in the face of violence from others, and the ability to accept that life contains painful hardships. “It’s easy to strike back/But hard to understand” (lines 10-11) is the last couplet in the poem and delivers a message that is versatile enough to pertain to many of the historic and current issues in which Giovanni writes.
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Bibliography
·         Nikki Giovanni’s Official Website, Biographical Timeline ; http://nikki-giovanni.com/timeline.shtml
·         Giovanni, Nikki; Quilting the Black-Eyed Pea (2002); HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022
·         Conversations with Nikki Giovanni, University Press of Mississippi (December 1992), p. 66

    

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

complete and utter free-write on the modernism of "The Love Song..." & "Heritage"



 
Cullen begins his seven stanza iambic poem with a question concerning the nature of an abstract and rather remote Africa. He lists some tangible images such as; man and woman, sun, sky, sea and earth. The italics draws attention to his internal question of "what is Africa to me?", which is repeated throughout the poem in the same format at the end of each stanza as he tries to answer his own question. He is caught between two cultures, like the "patient etherized upon a table" which begins "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", that refers to a man not feeling his worth or influence in life. "Heritage" is the more modern poem when comparing the two, if you're analyzing them through a lens of addressable modern issues. The issue of ethnic identity crisis found in Cullen's poem in contrast to Prufrock's issue of "mid-life crises" depression is more modern in a societal focal view point. I do not think that one of these poems is "more American" over the other, because I do not think I am anywhere near qualified to distinguish what variables and facets of literature makes a work "American"; it is much too relative and I do not feel comfortable with it. As in regards to the poems "making something new", both Cullen and Prufrock take an internal conflicts that can be found in individuals throughout modern society and frame them in their own style, therefore making it new.
"So I lie, who never quite

Safely sleep from rain at night—
I can never rest at all
When the rain begins to fall;
Like a soul gone mad with pain
I must match its weird refrain."(C.Cullen)
Cullen gives an example of this by referring to the state of his own personal soul.

Shadow Response



 
Guillame Apollinaire's 'Shadow' is about a veteran's memories of the war, seemingly condensed into an ever present aura with the narrator. The poem starts out with the narrator feeling leery toward the shadow, "The changing form of my shadow/An Indian hiding in wait throughout eternity/shadow you creep near me". The piece then morphs into a setting where the narrator embraces the presence of the shadow, "But I hear you I see you still/Destinies/Multiple shadow may the sun watch over you/You who love me so much will never leave me".

eflections of 9/11 response poems


 
Espada's Alabanza provided me with a sense of connectedness between the past and present Latino world. I really like the reference to Roberto Clemente, who tried to aid the people of Nicaragua. This poem speaks of  culture born of a culture, within a city comprised of a multitude of cultures.
Zagajeweski's Try to Praise the Mutilated World is my favorite, because it's about hope. It acknowledges the fact that the world is damaged, yet reminds us to look and see how the world heals itself by just being...and through those personal moments that stay tucked away in our memories for us to pull out and unfold neatly for a moment of reflectve happiness...or praise.
Osman's Dropping Leaflets contained imagery that worked well with the overall theme. I enjoyed the comfortable flow of repetition and how that worked in sync with the vivid imagery.
The poem I chose from the Poets Against the War website is A Little Later, by: Behzad Zarrinpour. I did so, because of the reference of futility, lack of purpose, redundant and pointlessness, joined with no support of the people.

March 7th

a year ago
my fingers wove tight in yours
knuckles white as the sterile floors
cold
answering our heels' cries
with hollowed whispers floating
hand
in hand
down the hall
echoed
in our eyes
mine brown

        blank
yours hazel red
                  rimmed
moist
i can see your long lashes
cling
to each other
fused
by the gritty question
                              why?


by: Jenica Mae Corbett (3/7/11)

 

Monday, February 21, 2011

'round 8 o'clock

you there-
would your lips
twitch up a tune
if
i cracked
a cheddar grin?
-thyme aged, bold
would your hips
swing round
if
i slapped on Coltrane 'n Davis
- a few of my favorite things,
placed a sea salt cracker
on your tongue
would you
join me in depth of lung
or
spit me out, long steeped chai-
without asking
why?
the blush in your glass,
my cheek-
of plum and pear

still won't smile?
i can wait-
and make it worth my while.


~ Jenica M. Corbett (February 11, 2011) ~