Modernism Applied - "T. S. Eliot & E. E. Cummings: Poets for a New Time"

...For many years, poets considered the strict form of poetry equally important as the message that the poem conveyed. However, during the early years of the twentieth century, poets saw themselves as able to reinterpret or abandon traditional forms and themes to suit a new age and its unique issues. This questioning of form and tradition became known as Modernism; its basic premise was laid down by Wallace Stevens in "Of Modern Poetry," and further explored by T. S. Eliot in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and by E. E. Cummings in ""next to of course god america I"...

(To read the rest of the essay, click here.)

"In 2009, Dorothy Speaks Out"

Something that came to me on the drive home from class today...

I am
too tired
to walk the yellow brick road
which stretches on for endless mile upon mile
up hill and down dale,
and besides,
my feet hurt
and these shoes are killing me.

For that matter, I am through with all
but emotionally-stable travel companions.
the Tin Man is insensitive and offends everyone we meet;
I have not had a moment to myself since the severely co-dependent Lion joined us,
and if I turn my back for one second the stupid Scarecrow will hurt himself or me – or both.
Don’t I have enough problems of my own, without babysitting three emotionally-challenged grown men?
Enough. I am done.

Besides that, I am not so sure that trekking down this road to meet the Wizard is the best way to find my place in the world.
This Wizard means well, I’m sure,
but Wizards are people too, and people make mistakes.
I would probably learn more from the experience
if I set out on my own path, my own journey
sought out my own guides of questionable nature
(perhaps write my memoirs when I’m through).

The state of Munchkin society bothers me –
Sure, there were riots of happiness in the street when I ‘liberated’ them from the Witch of the East,
but who’s to say that the vacuum of power will not be filled by another, even less desirable leader?
Besides, who was I to decide that the Witch deserved to die? After all, she
was a person too,
who had family who loved her.

That’s another thing – this sister Witch, the one from the West.
I’m not at all convinced she’s as evil as the Munchkin leaders would have me believe; am I not partially to blame, having killed her sister?
I am sure she is misunderstood,
and that if we could just sit down, woman to woman, and talk things through
that we could reach a peaceful agreement.
(I am sure her attacks so far have merely been in retaliation for my perceived crimes, and that if I assured her of my peaceful intentions to withdraw just as soon as possible, she would immediately lay down her arms.)

All in all, I am fed up with the whole state of affairs,
these poppies are so soft,
and I am so tired…

A "Fairy Story" For Today: George Orwell's Animal Farm

"In what sense can Animal Farm properly be called a fairy-story?" wonders C. M. Woodhouse, a reviewer for The Times. "There is no element of magic… there is no happy ending… there is no Prince or maiden in distress" (Woodhouse viii-ix). However, "a fairy-story" is exactly how George Orwell labeled his novel – it was a "fairy story with a political purpose" despite the objections raised above (Woodhouse ix)...

(To read the rest of the essay, click here)

As Published In Connections - "When I..."

My introduction for the Connections reading:
Poet Lucille Clifton wrote a poem called "the lost baby poem" in which she speaks to her unborn child, her "almost-child," and thinks about the life it would have had if it had been born. If you believe, as I do, that life begins at conception and that we are all "fearfully and wonderfully made," then the loss of a child, even an unborn child, is a tragic loss, made all the more painful if the child was wanted and loved. I have several siblings who were lost in utero, and I've seen firsthand the very real pain that surrounds the loss of an unborn child.
On the other hand, I am reminded of a line from one of my favorite musicals, Steven Sondheim's "Into The Woods," where a not-so-wicked-witch reminds us that "wishes are children." Children are symbols of endless possibility, unrealized potential, and those of us who have not experienced firsthand the loss of a child have probably nourished a dream, a wish, that became so real to us that we felt we could touch it, "take it in [our] arms," only to wake up one day and realize that that dream was not to be.

When I
exhausted, weary beyond endurance,
fell into my bed, and my head hit the pillow,
I dreamed of a dark-haired babe
with eyes like hazelnuts,
dimples like the dips in chocolate candy
who laughed when she saw me, that laughter
reserved for the one called "mother."
And I took her in my arms,
my heart warm,
and kissed the downy head,
felt the softness of her skin against my own.
Then I awoke, suddenly, confused,
wondering at the ache in my empty arms.

"Echoes"

We are God’s fingerprints
And of fingerprints, they tell us no two are alike
(God must have many fingers).
I scream to the world, to you,
a rant of humanity –
love, despair, hope, deepest longing –
you understand me, and my soul is soothed.
Funny how, though we fight for our individuality
our originality, our singularity
what we really want to know
is when we scream into the night
that what comes back
are not
echoes.

An Untitled Poem

I recently submitted a slew of poetry to Connections Literary Magazine, a local literary magazine published by my college. It occurred to me after I submitted that I loved every poem equally, so I honestly couldn't guess which one they might choose. One was selected, but since I love them all, I thought I'd post the "runners up" here :). If anyone is interested in coming to see/hear me read the poem that was selected, details for the reading are on the Connections website.

Far away, an earthly rhythm, one that stirs the heart
to thoughts of You, pulses beneath the sky.
The ancient music-makers –
the harp, the flute, the fiddle –
all seem to be one, in accord
with Your perfect holiness.
Perhaps that’s why the music of such beauty breaks our hearts
reminds us of what we lost, tossed aside in pursuit of temporal lusts.
We raise our voices, fit our lips to divine sound
and our fingers to the instruments
and fall short,
our souls longing for the heavenly, ne’er ending music,
for home,
and that we, too, as Your instruments,
might be tuned to Your heart.

Snowfall

The idea for Snowfall was conceived one winter night, but it was only much later, the morning of the first winters snow, that it became a story. When I shared it with people, I was surprised at how well received it was. However, like one comment said, it reminds us that the things we take for granted are miracles in themselves.

Taleia woke and froze for a moment, unsure of what had awoken her. There was a moment of silence and then - just as she was about to roll over and go back to sleep - there came a volley of shouts, followed by someone hollering, and a hysterical scream.She was out of bed in a flash, groping wildly for her Jedi robe and lightsaber in the darkness, fumbling as she tripped over her boots in the quest. Finally finding the object of her search hanging on the opposite wall, she threw it over her shoulders, igniting her lightsaber, and stepped cautiously into the hall.The bright neo-florescent lights that hung from the ceiling assaulted her eyes immediately; she stifled a yawn as she took the stairs, turning her lightsaber off in the meantime.

The lobby was deserted when she checked; unusual for a Sunday morning, but not unheard of. As she stood hesitantly there was another round of shrieks, followed by a clatter off to her left, and she turned - still groggy from her rude awakening - and tripped into the kitchen.

Luke was in the process of retrieving the pan that had dropped from his hand onto the tile floor when she entered.

"Morning, 'Leia," he greeted, smiling. "Did they wake you up? Corin was trying to keep it down when I came in."

"Corin's out there?"

Taleia moved in alarm towards the huge glass doors at the end of the kitchen… and stopped in surprise.

"The X-wing squad got off this morning and they've been out there ever since," Luke replied, not noticing her awe. "Corin's the ringleader."

He glanced up, and a knowing look entered his face. ”It's snow."

Taleia was moving, as if in a trance, towards the transparent doors. The world was white; as perfect as the day it had been created. Everything had been washed clean in a celestial blanket and lulled to sleep on Mother Nature’s lullaby. The reddish roof of the DOAD was ever more vibrant against the pure white of it's expansive lawn. The landing pads were buried.

She opened the door and bent to retrieve a handful of the white stuff that had been kicked against the steps (the only thing which had, so far, been shoveled). It was freezing cold and burned her fingers, which were rapidly turning red and numb. She could feel the tiny pressure as it melted in her palm, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to keep it forever, this tiny bit of frozen water, that if she could, everything in the world would suddenly be alright.

Out of the blue a sphere came hurtling at her; instinctively she ducked, and it hit the side of the building with a puff and exploded on top of her, sending her toppling into the snow. Then suddenly Corin was beside her, brushing her off and helping her to her feet."No fair!" he called to the other snowball throwers that lingered behind hastily erected snow blocks. "She isn't even wearing gloves!"

Taleia slipped on the icy pavement and clung to him, laughing.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Corin asked her, grinning as he helped her to her feet a second time. "I've waited fifteen years for this."

"Fifteen years?" He slipped her a pair of gloves and she put them over her numb fingers with relish. "Thanks," she added.

Corin explained. "Every fifteen years, because of the rotation of the other four moons between Yavin, we get a bitter winter. It kills off a bunch of the wildlife; I guess you Jedi could say Nature was cleansing herself. I was five when my dad taught me how to throw a snowball. Haven't seen the stuff since."

"I've never." Taleia spoke without much sense of loss; she wasn't sorry. Corin knelt beside her and gathered up a handful of the white stuff, packing it expertly, and handed it to her. "Len's the one who got you," he whispered. "Get him now while his back is turned."

Taleia accepted it with relish and gave it her hardest throw. She'd never thrown a snowball before; but her aim was true.

Len sprawled in the snow, belly first, before rising with indignation. "My back was turned."

She laughed, and Len turned on her with zeal. "Guess Corin's a good teacher," he commented, making a show of patting another ball together. "He's met his match this time."

He threw it, and Taleia ducked easily; it sailed over her head and hit Corin in the face.

"Corin, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, her gloved hand rising to smother a laugh.Corin wiped snow from his face and growled, "It was a fair throw. So is this."

He charged at Len with fire in his eyes, Taleia hot on his heels.