Allegory on the Art of Making Poetry: The Lost Alphabet

“I’m working with a family of flower feeders,” is what a nameless narrator shares with us, an ardent naturalist who travels to a nameless village to study moths.  Early on, it’s clear the text hinges on the narrators routine observations of these ‘specimens,’ but at heart Olstein uses this instance as representative of even greater thematic concerns: questioning propinquity and a pursuit of knowledge.

Although a bit hard to follow and not necessarily my favorite work that we have encountered this semester, The Lost Alphabet leaves much to be discussed.  My biggest take away was Olstein’s development of the narrator and her narrative technique that cleverly holds the reader’s attention.  Retaining epistolary undertones, the text moves from poetic to documentary to diary-like.  In select instances, we are given a glimpse into Olstein’s more personal thoughts, readily tangible to the reader, “Some mornings I’m filled with longing, with sadness that has no cause” (35), and become more bold and apparent by the book’s end, “In wanting to show the best of myself, I reveal only a fraction” (67).  The snippets are fantastical notions, constructing a dream-like world of fiction.  This is furthered by the many proverbs and sentiments sprinkled throughout, “Am I meant simply to observe, to record?” (55) and “How will I know when this work is done?” (56).  By doing so, Olstein strikes a balance between the provincial and personal in her own lyrical manner, reigning in the reader to an inventive and imaginative world.

Narration is best depicted in the poem entitled, “[the immovable moves]” where the reader is given a very precise instance that is broadened before our very eyes, reflective of a much larger conceptual issue at hand.  Here we exhibit the “nature” and observance of the pursuit of knowledge:

I have learned to peer at specimens through a small crack at the center of my fist. It’s a habit herders use for distance: vision is concentrated, the crude tunnel brings into focus whatever small expanse lies on the other side, something in the narrowing magnifies what remains. At the table, my hand tires of clenching, my left eye of closing, my right of its squint, but the effect: a blurred carpet of wing becomes a careful weave of eyelashes colored, curved, exquisitely laid. It is a lens for looking at fractions; I’m unable to bring even a whole antenna or eye into view. The result is kaleidoscopic: I see one sharp fragment after another break clean before me, piece it to the others in my mind’s eye.

Again in a uniquely epistolary tone, Olstein posits what it means to hold and discover knowledge that is inextricably linked to the creativity of the natural world--a passage definitely worthy of 'emulating.'

When two points join, the suspense will be over

In Er’s “Verse on Birds,” the poem titled “Bridge Under Construction” spoke to me most.  Unlike the other texts we’ve encountered in class, it’s apparent the impact of diction and language is lost from the Chinese translation.  However, I don’t think it matter much because for the reader as the message is still quite compelling and clear.  Er’s style is prophetic, awkward, and at times downright beautiful.  I appreciate the strong affinity to the natural world, love, and light.

What I am most inspired by in “Bridge Under Construction” is the statements Er makes in a quick and concise form.  It opens with a beautiful image, “When two points join, the suspense will be over.”  From the onset, we know this will be a poem about love.  Again, Er fantastically employs a series of images that bring the natural world to life, “[probing] the bottomless heart of the river,” “[spreading] its wide shoulders,” and “flowing water tenderness.”  These snapshots allow us to archive a still-life memory of the setting Er is creating—a skillful technique that the reader can only but help to admire (and emulate).  Another powerful series of lines are viewed when Er brings up the questions love: “Birds above natural immovable, mountain embraces, huts, houses, highrises, Is this it, love? Calm surface, yellow water, yellow soil.”  As the reader we distill these images of a place that is unknown to most but familiarized and made almost sacred.  

On a final note, we must consider the complexities of Er’s poems.  It takes several reads to really plow through the meaning behind Er’s words.  There are two lines that puzzle me being the mentioning of the seventh and tenth layers of the yellow soil, which I believe are used to express the passage of time, however, I could be mistaken.  The stand out awkwardly against the rest of the poem—and I think it’s intentionally on Er’s part.

 

Longingly

Longingly I look at the old tractor.  I listen to the rattled chug of the engine as it spits and gasps for life.  

Longingly I smell the dewy grass on a clear spring morning and at the mere thought of it, imaginary mist tingling my nose.  Longingly I savor the sour bit of dirt and sweat the collect around my kerchief planting the rows.  Longingly I touch the raw cattle hide saddle hung loosely around the barn door—abandoned as if it has no owner.  Longingly I live for those days growing up on the farm when life was much simpler.

A River Dies of Thirst

Darwish is the premier poetic voice of the Palestinian people . . . lyrical, imagistic, plaintive, haunting, always passionate, and elegant – and never anything less than free – what he would dream for all his people—Naomi Shihab Nyei

What I think I enjoyed most about Mahmoud Darwish’s A River Dies of Thirst is its format.  I appreciated the manner in which Darwish fuses poetry and prose into a sleuth of compelling and provocative mini pieces.  It was inspiring to see how he was able to carry an ongoing conversation through each reflection, often circling back to the precariousness of life, to meditations on the human condition, or to the nature of love, loss, and death. 

In “the colour yellow,” Darwish is able to take something a simple as a yellow flower, and through personification and detailed imagery applies it on a much larger scale.  As the reader we are able to trace this technique in a series of steps.  First, the significance of the object is identified being a yellow flower as a messenger of spring, in the context of a real life case where a woman presents the narrator with one: “I envy her this focus that transports her far away from our fragile life” (21).  The case is vividly and beautifully broadened at another level,  “..we end up reflecting one another’s translucence.”  We are given time to relish in the narrators construct of the object as it’s given human-like attributes—the flower is personified with having a “hoarse voice,” and emitting a “neutral tone.”  And then in an instant the narrator takes us out of the comfort of a yellow flower and into the reality of the situation, “If there is any point of jealousy—then it is that we view our surroundings with the heroic spirit of one defeated, and learn to focus on correcting our mistakes in honorable contests.”  The development and format of this passage is one that best conveys Darwish’s sense of style.  This process is also fantastically carried out in the title poem “a river dies of thirst” where the river is given human qualities of laughing and singing—but starkly juxtaposed with a bleak image of death at its end (36).

As this text is translated, I’m wondering if the images and lexicon of language carry over well in English.  Often times a lot is lost in translation.  At heart, Darwish appears to be most fascinated with truth—and how it is (or is not) derived from dream and myth.  From this text, I was inspired to draft sketch pages based off of Darwish’s style and form.

King of Shadows

At heart of Shurin’s personal writing style seems to be the flux of time and memory, blended between lyrical lines.  He skillfully infuses insight and intellect in discerning tropes of identity and sentiment, and how they are fashioned by internal and external factors.  Within this compilation of essays we see Surin’s dual development.  The first is on a personal level as a gay poet coming into himself and his poetic identity.  This is observed as he traces an affinity with Oberon of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “I could be, I would be, Oberon, King of Fairies…restless, a king of Fairies, but surrounded by the shadows of men, boys, men, their shadowy parts…” (37-38). This seemingly reflects his semi-acknowledgement and understanding to come into himself and his sexual orientation. 

The second level is based more on the development of his meditations—an accumulation of biographic and literary descriptions acting as ingredients for quite a visionary “dreamscape.”  This is influenced by the politically progressive 1970s that lent itself to such a renewed sense of personal and literary freedoms.  Shurin presents us with such a distinct style as he laments on anxieties over his appearance before leaving to a bar, “oh, my wiry, independent, shtetl hair, my Ukrainian ribbons from my mother's side, folkloric bonnet of curls, was out of the question, way too heavily accented, ruefully unacceptable, untidy, un-Californian....” (144).  These lines act as another instance of his duality: we see Shurin uncomfortable in his own skin, but also uncomfortable of his apparent misplaced appearance in Californian culture.  By implementing this technique, his vignettes evocatively and provocatively grab our attention on many levels. 

Of personal appeal was “Reading in Time, Reading in Place.”  In it, Shurin experiments with tackling an explanation for the unique and uncanny relationship between a place and what you are reading in that place.  He cites his own memory of a piece as linked to where he was and who was at the time of reading, “The mood is October.  I’m contemplating my poetic practice jogged by a memory after my father’s death that rewrote history…’Thought and the form are equal in the order of time’ ” (76).  In retrospect, I think Shurin’s thoughts are spot on.  So much of who we are and what makes us tick are directly shaped or impacted of what we read.  Conversely, whatever particular juncture we are at can also be indicative of what we choose not to read.  What I appreciate most in Shurin’s writing is his candid honesty, we really get a sense of him as a person and we relate and believe what he is saying.  Undoubtedly his essays capture the essence of life, pulling us with him to the center of its complexities and contradictions in a whirl wind of colorful imagery and anecdotal meditations. 

SSU Writers' Series Reaction

Steve, Robert, and Matt proved to be quite the dynamic trio in last week’s presentation.   Hearing their own writings, in their own voice, lent itself to a unique experience in and of itself.   Also curious for me was to hear what material is currently being circulated and published by aspiring and established writers.

The most meaningful part of the evening came in the Q&A session.  Steve made a lasting comment in regards to an audience question that stuck with me: “The physical and tangible needs to happen, how a character moves—make it strange, keep yourself aware.”  The three then encouraged the audience, assumedly aspiring writers, to utilize this practice of breaking beyond the barriers of writing.  As Robert advised, “Write what you know,” and later reinforced by Steve, “take and idea and run with it.” 

At heart, what appeared to be integral to the process is the role of description.  This was very apparent in Matt’s “The Cartographer’s Girl,” where not only alongside descriptive navigation by symbols we got a very good sense of the cartographer himself, his character, his emotions—we were able to develop a keen sense of who he is and what the plight he faces, roaming endlessly around for a lover whose whereabouts are unknown. 

Steve’s piece also addressed the importance of description.  From the start, he catches us with sensory appeal, the “tapping finger on a manila folder.”   Early on it becomes clear he is quite attune to the stylistic elements of setting up a sentence.  This is seen as he stylistically employs techniques like end focus and “if then” subjunctive clauses.  We see him cleverly personifying a computer (“let is sleep”) and effortlessly incorporates witticisms and puns.

Description is central to Robert’s story as we develop an image of Abraham, his bold white and red pajama suit and the play on these colors muted with images of life, death, and cleansing.  Robert heavily exercises repetition to enhance description which at times presents ‘odesque' elements to his writing (“Remember this man, Remember this boy”).  Unlike Matt and Steve, Robert utilizes description to further provocative symbolism and imagery in his writing that captures the essence of the human sensory experience, “each night my dreams are filled with the thunder of clothes.”  All in all, this experience was quite memorable and overall inspiring to see and hear firsthand.

Dillard's "The Writing Life"

“Almost everything on Wikipedia about me is wrong.  I’m not a real painter.  Nor am I an “eco” anything, nor have I ever been.  I have no religion, or many religions.  The teacher in my says, “the way to learn about a writer is to read the text.  Or texts.” ~ Annie Dillard

While reading “The Writing Life,” I couldn’t help but think how it serves as condensed manual or bible for writing.  As Dillard recounts the writing process as a whole she imparts on the reader a laundry list of items that we must keep an inventory and apply to our own work.  What I admired most was Dillard’s format was that given the context it did not come off as preachy.  She speaks freely, candidly, smartly, and strategically.  The vignettes reach out to us with vivid metaphors and sage advice as she goes through the motions, the place, the faces, and the spaces leading her to where she is today. 

One section that captured what I feel is a great display of Dillard’s style begins on page 44 where she explains the life of a writer in terms of one “recalling the real world.”  She posits this as the reasoning behind many writer’s describing their childhood.  Though Dillard begins the section with a comment on the “mind of a writer”—this is bridged with real world ideas that beautifully showcase her style as she journeys into an instance where a burnt tea kettle, jerry rigged in such a way that it could not be heard turns into an instance where a clothes pin plays a pivotal role to result in, “This action, and the pain, kept me in the real world until the water actually boiled.  This was the theory, and it worked.  So that is how I wrote those nights…” (45).  She postulates on an idea, reels us in with a real life example, then ties back into her original thesis so effortlessly that we wonder if she battles with writing so much as she describes then how does she make it look so easy?