What Has Become of Me?

What have I learned from this project? That’s an interesting question. I wish I could tell you that I had the time to devote hours and days on end into it. The truth is though, my obscure reality is that I don’t. I guess if I had to ask myself honestly, and render a candid response I would have to acknowledge three things: 1) I seriously need to learn time management, 2) blogging is kind of fun, and 3) I disagree with typical literature studies.

First of all, despite the help of Ritalin, my time management skills are seriously lacking. I found the assignment interesting, and was sure that with a dedication to time, I would be able to easily achieve success in the project. However, even though I found the project interesting, I seldom found the time to devote to it. I sit here, hours before it’s due, confessing to you that as a student, intelligence is about worthless unless its properly applied. If I ever expect to do well in the world of academia, it is imperative that I learn how to manage my time more wisely, and resist the impulsive urge to do whatever happens to be distracting me. I appreciate that aspect of the assignment though. I would much rather receive a less than desirable grade, and learn something valuable, then receive and A in exchange for a cheated education.

Second of all, I found that blogging is kind of fun. I do enjoy playing with the different bells and whistles, expressing myself through the net, and getting responses back. I think that I may find myself blogging more and more in the future. I enjoy writing quite a bit, and I think that I will, in the future learn more about it. I may even get a passion for it. My brother says that I should pursue a career in journalism. He thinks I should be a columnist. Everyone has at least one family member that thinks too highly of them, but hey! It makes me feel good, so I might exercise my creativity through blogging instead. Is it really all that bad to believe that you might be greater than you are? The Death of a Salesman, should answer our questions on that. But I may have to disagree. They say ignorance is bliss. Maybe it’s true. The happiest people I know are the ones who know very little at all. But the point is, this blogging stuff may be a great way for me to spend my time in a semi-academic way. Who would have known.

Now, lets get to the nitty-gritty of it all. What did I really learn from the project. Well, the project was about poetry and study of. I have found through the poem that I chose, as well as the studies involved, that I am definitely not a “victim of conformity”, as my friends in Greenday attest. I have found that my “out of the box” way of thinking resists the norms of, not only conservative America, but conservative Academia. If I choose to conform, I will by all chances do well - Not GREAT, but well. However, if I continue down the path of non-conforming thought, I will either find myself failing, or I will achieve great success. I’ve never been much of a gambler, and I hate to say that I will follow a path that doesn’t promise as sure-fire success, but I may have to. There is something inside of me that does not allow the answers given to be the only answers allowed. In my studies on the world, I have found that true greatness in government, war, art, and literature are not found in perforated lines - sadistically rhythmic and in sync. The black and white world of man, where rules and values are set forth by white-haired men, with deep pockets, sugar-coated lies, and deceptive diplomas, is not the world that I choose to be a part of. Rather, I am part of a world that chooses to ask questions, abandon norms, and never apologize for its offensiveness. These studies have taught me, that I will either achieve great success through unconventional means, or that I will die a martyr - working towards a cause that is scorned upon by those that sit in over-priced attire, and command truth, rather than
demand it.

http://flickr.com/photos/cool_colonia4711/1006801982/

What Does it Mean?

To me, this poem speaks a weighty discontent. It tells me that the problem with poetry is in the format in which it’s suppose to be written. A lot of poetry is about nature, love, and all the beautiful things in life. Some of it is humorous, and some is long drawn out logorrhea. Most of it is obscure and puzzling.

Someone once said “The best poets are trained”. Trained? Why do they have to be trained? Should a poet go to a special school and take special classes to learn how to group words in clever patterns? Should they have pretty degrees hanging on their walls, to document their ambiguous intelligence? Should they have special certificates and awards to prove their worth as a poet? Was Emily Dickinson formally educated and renown for her work? Whose poetry, during their lifetime, is honored in the manner that it should be? Has not the best poetry ever written, only found its true worth, after the death of the poet? Was Edgar Alan Poe’s “Dream Within A Dream” worthy of awards and special recognition during his lifetime? How can a man, kicked out of college and WestPoint, be recognized as a “trained” poet? I ask the same question of many of today’s authors. Who will be known for their work 100 years from now? Who will be the center of poetry studies in your great, great, grand-children’s classes? Will there not be poets from today, whose lives were in shambles during their late nights with pen in hand (or at their computer rather)? Will they be discussing the work of authors that you and I have never heard of? I think that may turn to be exactly the outcome.

We, as a society, never recognize the true value of things, until they are no longer easily accessible to us. Our grandparents never learned from their mistakes, but the advice they give us is priceless. But, in getting back to the topic at hand, the point is that the word “trained” is, by chance, a false classification of greatness. Many of you are familiar with Quentin Terintino. He is the famous writer and director of the movies Pulp Fiction and many other disturbing movies. Who has not fell in love with Pulp Fiction the moment they saw it? Maybe some of you. But the point is that, he never even went to film school.

Greatness is not found inside of a classroom. Do not get me wrong by any means, greatness is nurtured within the four walls of a classroom, but it is not found there. Greatness is found inside the soul of an individual. It does not take “training” to bring it out. It only takes the will of the individual. If you could paint a picture at 12, that was worthy enough to hang in your room and disturb your parents, there is no school that will make that painting any more worthy of greatness. In fact, the rules of engagement found inside that classroom, may even hinder your creative rebellion and force you to only duplicate the work of others, rather than feed your creative drive and conjure up your own masterpiece.

So summarize, the poem, to me, is an attack on conformity. It is a brash statement against those who believe that a poem should look a certain way, sound a certain way, or make you feel a certain way. There is nothing in a poem that makes it great, other than the depth of soul that is put into it. If it solicits feeling, then it is poetry, despite critical review.


http://flickr.com/photos/pfv/2833168468/

Learning From Poetry

For my poem, I chose "I Know I'm Not Sufficiently Obscure" by Ray Durem.
The poem itself looks into the darker side of poetry and pointedly offers another view of this thing we call poetry. It makes an offensive stand against conventional poetry. It would seem that this stand against conventional poetry, is also a stand against conventional government. Ray Durem was of mixed heritage, but was part African American. He was known for his views against racism, and the U.S. governments policies. His work attracted author Langston Hughes, and many still see him as a man who stood up for the rights of all, specifically the African American community.

When I first read the poem, I did not even know that Durem was of African American descent, but I did agree with his views on how they were treated. In the poem he makes at least 2 references to African Americans and the lives they lead. He refererences the apathy that others have to the problem. He seems to be angry that no one else has acknowledged these problem in the literary world. So, in essense he stands up against everyone else and says. "Yes, this is a poem. No, I dont think it will get much attention. No, its not very sweet. It doesnt sugar-coat, or mislead. But it does tell you what the problem is. He points out the problems not only in society, but in literature and academia.

I absolutely love this. I stand behind anyone who is not afraid to point out the truth behind the lies of man. Men hide what is not pretty, as to pretend that all is well. Well, all is not well. Not everything is pretty. Not everything fits. Some things, are not ment to be pretty. Some things in life dont fit. But that does not mean that they are not worthy of telling. Durem stands up and tells the things no one wants to hear. And he does it in a poetic way that may not have pleased the critics of the time, but pleased my ears to hear. I love this poem, and it speaks to me in a personal way. Not because Im an african American, in a racist, changing America, but because I'm a non-conforming, unconventionalist, trapped in a stubborn, dogmatic society. I believe that

I were alive during those times, I would have stood by his side, and cavaliered the cause.

http://www.blackpast.org/?q=aah/durem-ramon-1915-1963

History of a Contemptuous Poet

I wish I could tell you the first poem I ever read. I wish I could tell you how old I was, and how it affected me, or recall the beautiful nostalgia that should come to mind when I think of my history with poetry. However, that memory has slipped from my temporarily vacuous mind. I can however, tell you the first poem that truly gave fuel to my interest in poetry. I was around the age of twelve and can remember reading Edgar Alan Poe’s “A Dream within a Dream”. Go ahead and read it yourself. It’s quite a piece of art if you haven’t familiarized yourself with it as of yet: (http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dream-within-a-dream/)

"A Dream Within A Dream"

Take this kiss upon the brow
And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand-

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep- while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

~ Edgar Alan Poe

I can remember feeling a closeness to the poem. I was in the midst of a parental divorce, school change, puberty, and all the other wonderful adversities that come with adolescence. I felt a bit like I lived inside myself during those times, and in a way, never quite fully removed myself. Poetry became my way of expression. It became a way to make sense of all the confusion in the world. It was the only way I knew how to harness that which could not be spoken plainly, and revamp it into an obscure puzzle that only my own mind would ever truly be able to piece together.

Over the years I have never sat down and said "I'm going to write a poem". I've never attested myself to be a great poet. I have never sat and played with words to create some magical rhythm. Leo Rosten once said "The only reason to be a professional writer is that you can't help it". Well, that's sort of what poetry is like to me. I find myself in a melancholy mood, and before I know it, words just start popping into my head in some random order. I write them down to try to make sense of it all. When I get done, I don't have something to put in a pretty book and sell at Barnes & Noble. But I do have a peace of mind after reading it, and finding that it makes sense of everything in my head. What is so great about it, is that no one ever knows what it's about or what it means to me.

I don't like to circumscribe poetry. I don't like to put it in a little box and say "This is what a poem looks like". Poetry is more than the clever grouping of words and intentionally obscure meanings. Its more than rhythm and rhyme. Poetry is a persons soul, graciously put on display for those who care to take an interest.

I don't know if you'd call whats written below a poem, but it just kind of came out one day while I was sitting at my desk at work. I haven't titled it yet. I'm up for suggestions though.

Untitled

On opposite sides of the river we both stand. Separated by the cold and parlous waters. The bitter wind burns my cheek, As if you had sent it over yourself from across the way. We cling to the earth beneath us, As that is the only binding force.

But soon the seasons will change, And the waters will warm. That is what we wait for.

As you can tell, Its a long cry from Poe, but if it makes me feel, then to me, its poetry.