Stevens and the Chicken Joke

Our discussion today in class about Stevens' epiphany of sorts has so many implications. How often in our lives do we have those moments when things become clear and it is obvious that we should turn over a new leaf or follow a path other than the one we are traveling? How often do we have those moments and then not do a single thing to change our course?

It had me thinking of that old chicken joke. The chickens all take flying lessons, learn how to fly, then they all walk home after the meeting. lol. That is definitely Stevens and I know it has been me several times in my life. We have probably all walked home from flying lessons a time or two. :)

Although, in defence of Stevens, we don't really know what he is thinking. Perhaps him learning to tell jokes is his way of turning over a leaf. After all, he has been a particular way his entire life and all of the sudden we expect him to transform. If there was a bit more of Stevens tale perhaps we would see some change in him yet.

My Take on Remains of the Day

First, let me say that I enjoyed this story as much as I was annoyed by it. At certain points I wanted to shake Stevens: What in the world are you thinking?! For example, when he dismissed Miss Kenton's news that she was going to marry her acquaintance I really wanted him to just suck it up and tell her how he felt. And then when Mr Cardinal was telling him that Mr Darrington was being used as a pawn by Hitler, I wanted him to LISTEN and at least think for himself. That said, I was also very taken with his pride in his work, and respect for his employer, and the dedication he had in all that he did.

Steven's narration was reliable only in what he was overhearing, what he was observing. He wasn't even completely honest about how he was feeling or what he was thinking. I'm sure that if he had opened up at all we would have heard all about how he felt about his employers, Miss Kenton, his father, his job, etc. But he was even fooling himself, I think. He was so dedicated to the cause of "dignity," so closed off that he couldn't even let his narration be betrayed by his emotions.

What remains when duty is lost?

When reading the first few pages of Remains of the Day I have to admit I was laughing. Stevens truly cracked me up, with all his “dignity” and “greatness” and the way he tried the best way he could to banter with Mr. Farraday. To me he seemed pretty hysterical. But as the book progressed I realized why this seemed funny to me; I had no respect for someone who took his job that seriously especially since he was just a butler. This was a sobering thought and I no longer read the book in a jovial manner. I began to reflect why I felt this way and I could think of nothing except of something that Stevens said about Mr. Farraday: “But then I do not mean to imply anything derogatory about Mr. Farraday; he is, after all, an American gentlemen and his ways are often very different.” I realize I have been raised in a very "different" and "Who cares" society that is very removed from Stevens, or at least it may be what Stevens is fighting against. I truly think this book can be seen as both a tragedy and a triumph in more ways than one, because it isn't just about a man who hides in his world of decorum and responsibility, but a man who is losing a fight with modern thought and the world and its changing lifestyles. I believe many of these "Modern" changes were good, but in some ways I think we have all lost a certain amount of loyalty and sense of duty to the way we work and live. To Stevens every task was important, every request needed a reply; of course Stevens took it to an extreme, but even with that extreme example we can see what to avoid. To me Stevens was a person of great feelings even if he didn’t know how to show all the feelings he had.

The Remains of the Day (Redux)

Now that you've finished the novel, I want to add some additional questions and expand the conversation. Feel free to revisit anything we talked about in class; there were several students absent who will benefit from hearing your analysis.

1. If you could choose three adjectives to describe Stevens, what would they be? Why?

2. What do you think of Stevens's definitions of "greatness" and "dignity"? Would you define these things in the same way? Are there any flaws in his definitions? In the end, do you think he is dignified?

3. In what sense is Stevens reliable as a narrator? In what sense is he unreliable? As you read the novel, did your level of trust in his narration change at all? Where?

4. Stevens's life could be called a symbol of a fading England in the midst of a changing, post-war Britain. If that is true, what are the characteristics of the England that is fading, and how do we see it exemplified in Stevens?

5. What does Stevens's discussion of the English landscape reveal about his worldview? What does it reveal about his own interior landscape?

6. This question is related to the last. Although this is a very reflective novel, and there are moments of apparent introspection throughout, I am curious to know how well, in your view, Stevens knows himself. Does he understand his own emotions? His own actions? His own experiences?

7. Why do you think Stevens denies having been Lord Darlington's butler? Do you believe his reasoning? How do you think Stevens ultimately feels about having been so closely associated with him?

8. Sometimes Stevens uses the first-person pronoun "I" to refer to himself, but at other times he speaks of himself in the third person, "one." Do you see any significance in this?

9. How do other characters in the novel work as foils for Stevens? How are they like him? How are they different?

10. Why doesn't Stevens tell Mrs. Benn (Miss Kenton) how he feels when she admits, at that rainy bus stop in Weymouth, that she often thinks about a life with him? Do you think she ever knows that he returns her feelings?

11. How has Stevens's journey (both physical and emotional) changed him? Or has it? In thinking about the arc of his character, what is your conclusion? Has he overcome anything, changed his ways or ways of thinking, come to terms with anything? How does the Stevens on the last page compare to the Stevens on page 1?

12. Some critics argue that The Remains of the Day is ultimately a tragedy. Do you agree?

See you on Tuesday.

Guilty of Neglect

I probably should not be admitting this on a blog that our teacher reads, but I didn't really give much thought to our paper because I was so wrapped up in the novel. I enjoyed the movie version of "The Remains of the Day." I can't imagine why I never thought to read the book. I quickly saw how stellar it is and wasn't able to put it down over the weekend.
I don't want to ruin anything for those of you that haven't finished it yet, but I'll just quickly say what a fantastic character Stevens is. He is written so simply yet he embodies a sort of complexity which he mostly ignores in place of duty and dignity. I think he is a perfect personification of the Britain that once was, all virtues and faults included.
Slacking off and not writing my paper until the last minute was actually a wise decision on my part because my topic was influenced heavily by my reading of "The Remains of the Day."
Happy reading. :)

Dylan Thomas and the Decemberists

I remembered a post about Fleet Foxes and Romanticism--

Apparently Dylan Thomas, the poet we discussed in class on Tuesday, is very influential to the lyrical talent of Colin Meloy of the Decemberists. The song, "The Chimbley Sweep," is an interpretation of one of those "disembodied voices" of Thomas' play "Under Milk Wood"

From "Under Milk Wood" ---

"In Pembroke City when I was young I lived by the Castle Keep Sixpence a week was my wages For working for the chimbley-sweep. Six cold pennies he gave me Not a farthing more or less And all the fare I could afford Was parsnip gin and watercress. I did not need a knife and fork Or a bib up to my chin To dine on a dish of watercress And a jug of parsnip gin. Did you ever hear a growing boy To live so cruel cheap On grub that has no flesh and bones And liquor that makes you weep? Sweep sweep chimbley sweep, I wept through Pembroke City Poor and barefoot in the snow Till a kind young woman took pity. Poor little chimbley sweep she said Black as the ace of spades O nobody's swept my chimbley Since my husband went his ways Come and sweep my chimbley Come and sweep my chimbley She sighed to me with a blush Come and sweep my chimbley Come and sweep my chimbley Bring along your chimbley brush!"

And here's the Decemberists --

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Q3gO4LSPxk

(I apologize for that corny, corny video)

"The Pomegranante" - Live and Let Learn

I really loved the moral universe of Boland's poem. An intricate part of being a parent is wanting to spare your children from making the same mistakes you made. It is natural to want to protect them, to look ahead in the road and try to steer them away from the obstacles you know are coming. But it is also important for them to learn their own lessons, to have personal experiences to draw from as they constantly face the storms of life.

This mother in "The Pomegranate" identifies with Ceres because she recognizes that to take those experiences away would be doing a greater harm to her child than good. Protection is necessary to a certain extent. However, when a parent tries to rob their child of experience in the name of protection they are depriving them of those character building opportunities that will make them a better human being.

I am in no way saying that a dad can't bring out the shotgun when his daughter goes on her first date or that a mom isn't allowed to hate the girl that gives her son his first kiss. What I am suggesting is that the important lessons in life will be so great as experiences that a parent couldn't possibly shield their child from every direction and in fact shouldn't. You can feel the mother's heartache as she looks upon her sleeping daughter who is struggling to find herself. Perhaps the greatest test for a parent is actually stepping back and letting go when all you want to do is hold on.

Heaney's "Bog" Poems

It may help you to understand Heaney's "Punishment" to know that many of his early poems are inspired by bodies that were discovered in the bogs of Europe. Ireland is a country that is full of bogs (peat, an important fuel source, is harvested from boglands), and Heaney draws comparisons between the bogs and bog-bodies of central and northern Europe and the history of his own Northern Ireland, particularly the period known as The Troubles. Something about the bogs causes people and animals to be incredibly well-preserved in them. We don't know for certain how these people ended up in bogs, but it appears as though they were sacrificial killings. One of the bodies, of the so-called Tollund Man of Denmark's Jutland Peninsula, has a noose around his neck ("The Tollund Man" is one of Heaney's well-known bog poems: "Some day I will go to Aarhus / To see his peat-brown head,/The mild pods of his eye-lids, / His pointed skin cap..."). You can see a good picture of the Tollund Man (he is the first image), as well as other bog-preserved bodies, at http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2007/09/bog-bodies/clark-photography.

In particular, have a good look at the last photograph, of the "Windeby girl" (who it turns out is a boy, but that is of little consequence). This is the body that inspired "Punishment." It's one of Heaney's most controversial poems. In the 1970s, several Catholic women in Northern Ireland were abused--their heads shaven, their faces tarred--for fraternizing with British soldiers. Heaney yokes this history with the body pulled from the German bog. This is controversial enough, but the real controversy comes from the way Heaney sexualizes the experience, and from the way he seems to understand the atrocities on an intimate level. We can talk more about these things in class, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on this or any of the other poems by Heaney.

It's tragic, really, that we are only discussing one poem by Eavan Boland. She is one of my favorite poets (That's not why it is tragic, of course). If you would like to write about "The Pomegranate," I'd be pleased to read what you have to say. And if you want to study Heaney or Boland (or Yeats, or Joyce, or any of the other Irish writers we've seen glimpses of this semester) in greater depth, there's always my Modern Irish course, 486R. :)

Mrs. Dalloway...Irrevocable

There was one sentence in the very first chapter that really made me think when I read it and then reflected on it later. The part is where Mrs. Dalloway is just getting started with her day. She is just thinking about Big Ben when her next thoughts are these, "There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable."

I really liked the very last part of the quote, "...then the hour, irrevocable...". To me, there was something very poetic about this part. I read "then the hour"- kind of fast, but the then came the comma and then "irrevocable" which I just read very slow, and melancholy even. But this line also made me reflect on time itself. After I had read and thought about it, it made me ask myself some questions. Some of the questions were "Why did the hour fly by so fast?" and also "Did I do anything in the last hour that was worth anything?" "Did I contribute anything to myself or others?" "Was the last hour productive?" "Was the last hour valuable?". Then there were other questions about the future like, "What can I do to make the next hour better or more productive?" "Or am I just going to waste the next hour wondering what could have been or what could be?"

I think that the last question especially reflects on the book. I mean the whole book is about people thinking about what happened in the past, and what is to come in the future. Time is definitely a huge theme in this novel.

Mrs. Dalloway

I hope you are enjoying Mrs. Dalloway. Over the next few days I'm going to be beginning some threads on a few of the works we have been reading. I have been meaning to do this but a combination of illness and midterm grading has resulted in a slight delay. Ryan was good enough to start a thread on Wilfred Owen, and Emily posted a very thoughtful response to Joyce, so I won't need to start new threads there (though I would like to encourage a dialogue, especially on "The Dead," which we were unable to discuss in class), but I will be posing some questions about Conrad, Eliot, Yeats, and Woolf.

1. One thing you have no doubt noticed about Mrs. Dalloway is that there is no real plot, or at least the plot is very thin. This can be a bit surprising, even offputting, for readers who are used to a traditional plot line. Every work of fiction needs some kind of engine, something that makes the reader want to turn the next page. If it lacks this engine, a story or novel will not succeed because the reader will put it down. So here is my question: What is the engine in Mrs. Dalloway? What makes you want to keep reading? (Or, if you hate the novel, you can write about why you don't want to keep reading). If this is not a plot-driven novel, what kind of novel is it?

2. Mrs. Dalloway seems to be very random at times, jumping in and out of characters' minds. Can you discern any rhyme or reason to this? Are these characters connected in any way? I realize you have probably not finished the novel since you only needed to read part of it for today, but try to draw some connections between the characters and/or their stories if you feel these connections exist.

3. Do you see any similarities between Mrs. Dalloway and The Dead?

4. In one sense, we can think of Clarissa and Mrs. Dalloway as two separate characters in the novel (see the bottom of 2560: "She had the oddest sense of being herself invisible, unseen; unknown [. . .] this being Mrs. Dalloway; not even Clarissa any more; this being Mrs. Richard Dalloway). If we accept this premise as true, what are the characteristics of each woman?

5. How is the theme of memory/reflection/nostalgia important to the story? And is it just a theme, or is more than this?

There is more I want to ask, but I can't really ask it without giving away the rest of the novel. I will post a Part II on Thursday.

It is fitting and sweet...

Maybe I am misinterpreting the saying, but when I hear "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori," I don't actually take that literally. I don't think that they actually meant that you would be happy to die, that you would actually feel joy while you were dying. Maybe I am wrong, but I don't think that's what is meant by the saying that Wilfred Owen is reacting to.

When I hear the saying, I imagine myself in a scenario. I think, if someone were to threaten harm to my family, would I be willing to stand up against them, even if it meant that I could be hurt? If someone were to threaten the liberties and freedoms of my country, would I be willing to fight, even if it meant I could die? I have never been forced into either of those scenarios, but I would like to think that I would, in fact, be willing to fight and die to protect those whom I love.

In his poem, Wilfred Owen called this saying a lie. Yet, ironically, he did die for his country. Thoughout his poem, he describes the terror, the deprivation, and the pain that these soldiers went through. I don't doubt that conditions were horrible, that they suffered greatly. However, that brings up a question I think is important: despite the horror and pain (physical, emotional, mental) that he experienced in the war, he still returned to fight. Why would he do this? If he honestly thought that there was no value to be found in fighting for one's country, why did he return to the battlefield, particularly after his breakdown? Faced with the terror of almost certain-death, why didn't he desert or defect? He must have found some reason for fighting, something more important than the terror of dying, something that would have transcended that fear, to bring him back to the battlefield.

I don't want to die, but at the same time, I believe that there are certain things that are worth dying to protect. I would like to think that, despite his words, Wilfred Owen felt the same.

Heart of Darkness as Undercover Cop Narrative

As I've been reading Heart of Darkness, I've been struck how big of an influence it is on the pop culture I surround myself with. While I've managed, for the most part, to limit my fanaticism for superhero comics from coming into these blog postings/comments, anyone who has read (or seen since last weekend) Alan Moore's Watchmen can see all sorts of parallels in it (Moore's League of Extraordinary Gentlemen comic series also features Kurtz himself...hooray for the public domain!). But the other thing I always think of is any undercover cop movie (Eastern Promises, Donnie Brasco, Training Day, Reservoir Dogs). You know the cliche...good cop goes undercover to work for a bad man, but ends up realizing that the bad man maybe isn't all that bad, maybe it's the societal constructs that have created him, etc.

Also, Apocalypse Now is more or less a straight adaptation (if not a transposition) of HOD (and is also a huge influence on Watchmen...full circle!).

In any case, I think it's fascinating how a single type of narrative can permeate the entire Western artistic consciousness and leave its stamp on just about every popular/relevant medium. Quite an achievement for a hundred-page novella about ivory traders.

The Lady: A Contradiction

Do you remember a time in your life when you were so "rest-less" with your situation that you couldn't decide if you were coming or going? I think this is what the Lady of Shalott must have been experiencing in this poem. As I read and reread her story, I couldn't help but notice what a contradiction she is. In line 64, "But in her web she still delights / To weave the mirror's magic sights." She doesn't seem to be at all dissatisfied with her situation, but she delights in her work and all that she is able to see in the mirror. Just a few lines later the words tell a very different story. In line 71, " 'I am half sick of shadows,' said / The Lady of Shalott." You can feel her dismay which follows so quickly after her delight. Is this not the essence of restlessness, the turmoil we often feel inside to be out and doing?
On a side note, I keep going back to the recording of this poem that we heard in class. It has so much life in it when accompanied by the music. Perhaps Tennyson envisioned it being told in such a way. Though he didn't have the music, he certainly had the words. :)

Is it just me or does anyone else see the resemblance??

The Windhover (a crack at the last three lines)

I thought you might be interested in seeing what a “Windhover” looks like. They are also called the Common Kestrel and Eurasian Kestrel. If you can’t tell, the crest (head feathers) are “blue-bleak” in color, the chest is “dapple-dawn” (spotted-tawny), and the back is “gold-vermillion.” So aside from the title, we know Hopkins is talking about this bird. It is the only European falcon that can achieve hovering mid-air while waiting on prey.

In falconry (back in the day), the kind of bird you flew reflected your status in the social system. Below is that system:

• Emperor: Golden Eagle, Vulture, & Merlin
• King: Gyrfalcon (male & female)
• Prince: Female Peregrine
• Duke: Rock Falcon (subspecies of the Peregrine)
• Earl: Peregrine
• Baron: Male peregrine
• Knight: Saker
• Squire: Lanner Falcon
• Lady: Female Merlin
• Yeoman: Goshawk or Hobby
• Priest: Female Sparrowhawk
• Holywater clerk: Male Sparrowhawk
• Knaves, Servants, Children (Chavalier: the lowest title of rank in the old nobility): Old World Kestrel (The Windhover)

Reading Hopkins’ lines, “My heart in hiding / Stirred for a bird -- the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!” I can’t help but think of falconry. But, if Hopkins wanted a bird so bad he could have easily accessed and trained a Sparrowhawk, his priestly right. However, it’s almost as if he knows he shouldn’t want a Kestrel because it’s for the Knaves, Servants, and Children. But as a priest, he yearns to me more like Christ, and the Windhover is an expression of Christ who came and sank below all social status, served the meek knaves, and succored the servants and children.

The Kestrel is also one of the only “hawks” that you can firmly determine sex by color. And Hopkins’ assessment is correct, that this coloration (blue, vermillion, and dappled) confirms the falcon is a “him” and relatively “Him.”

I haven’t read the criticisms about this poem. But, I’d like to take a shot at the last few lines. If we go off the precedent that the falcon is Christ it becomes clearer:

No wonder of it: shéer plód (trudging) makes plough down sillion (ditch work)
Shine (miracles or the Son of God), and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall (bitter rancor) themselves, and gash (crucify) gold-vermillion.

I’ve inserted some possible clarifying words in parenthesis. I believe he’s possibly saying, “No wonder then, that Christ who worked in the ditches (this may also refer to Christ’s walk to Calvary) among the low social status, was crucified (gashed) by the people who could not accept that he, “from humble birth,” could “Shine” and be the "Son of God."

But, a Kestrel can hover.

Half Sick of Shadows

The Lady of Shalott by John Everett Millais



One thing that we didn't really touch on in class is the restlessness in both "The Lady of Shalott" and "Ulysses." We were working under the assumption that the Lady was so enamored with Lancelot and his song that she couldn't bear not to look at him and go after him. In other words, we were talking about it in very Romantic terms. But isn't it also possible that she was just sick of being in the tower? "I am half sick of shadows" she says. In this sense, she is not so very different from Ulysses who cannot rest. They are both rest-less. Joseph Conrad, whose work we will read in a few weeks, calls the sea "the accomplice of human restlessness." This certainly seems appropriate to "Ulysses." And John Ruskin, probably the most influential of Victorian critics, famously said, "Some slaves are scoured to their work by whips, others by their restlessness and ambition." There is, in fact, a kind of restlessness in Victorian literature that manifests itself in a desire to get out, even flee. Thinking about Victorian society, where do you think this tendency might have come from?

We didn't get much of a chance to discuss "Fra Lippo Lippi," so I would like to continue our discussion here. We talked a lot about art last time (you will recall our discussion of the Lady of Shalott, who is an artist but, ironically, becomes a work of art at the end of the poem). In a similar way, Lippi is both an artist who, by painting people he knows into religious scenes, captures the world in which he lives AND a reflection of that society (the poetic persona, after all, is an artistic creation himself, brought to life by Robert Browning). He "illustrates" many of the vices of his day both by painting them and living them.

I also think Browning is satirizing the Church, and religion in general, throughout the poem, and he is absolutely calling into question the accepted idea that art and religion go together, that there should be some moral or spiritual property in all art. Horace says that the purpose of art is twofold: to delight and to instruct. What do you think Browning would say about this?

I would love for you to read the poem again with these questions/ideas in mind and then respond to anything that grabs you.

See you tomorrow.

Filippo Lippi's Banquet of Herodius

Simple Beauty, Simple Truth

I had a thought. There are so many questions asked in the "Ode on a Grecian Urn"; I began to think of questions I've had throughout my life and questions others I know have had. And most deal with these: What is beautiful and where can I find it? And, what is truth and where can I find it? During this poem I felt tense; the questions were provoking and difficult ("Who are these coming to the sacrafice?"). But when those lines "'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'"--that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" came in, I felt simplicity come; I also felt a measuring stick revealed, something I could use in my judgement. I felt that Keats was saying, "You don't need anyone to tell you what is beautiful or not. You don't need anyone guessing what is true for you. It's simple, just know that Truth is beautiful and Beauty is truthful and you can be on your way.

Truth, Beauty, and Happiness

Thinking of the subject of truth and beauty reminded me of a conversation one of my classes had. I remembered my teacher bringing up the fact of when he went to school soooo long ago and his education. I laughed when he commented that all the textbooks relating to science, etc., are now false- they've been proved wrong. So is truth really just based on our minds and the knowledge we have? In many cases I think that this is the case. At least for the way we personally see it. How are we to define what is true? Depending on various interpretations, truth can be defined with an assortment of meanings to every person. Truth, therefore, is also "in the eyes of the beholder." Keats further comments, "that is all / ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." We are content in seeing things the way we want to see them. For us, perhaps that's all we need to make us happy. We are so much better off than those figures painted on the urn, because be have the ability to interpret beauty the way we will. Our minds have the freedom to explore and discover for ourselves. It is a personal journey to interpret the world in our own eyes and this is what brings happiness to us.

Mortality: The Constant Chase for Immortality

"She cannot fade, though thou hast not they bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!" (Ode on a Grecian Urn, 19-20)

Our class discussion had me thinking, not of timeless beauty, but of imitation beauty. Oh how that Grecian Urn is representative of our society today. We seem to always be chasing something that we can never quiet reach. "What maidens loth?" Though she will ever be fair and beautiful she will never be real.
It seems that beauty is truth and vice verse because it will always be true in the society in which it is accepted. In Keats' time it was more attractive for a woman to be fair of skin and untanned. We would laugh at that in our society as we rush from the makeup counter to the tanning salon and back again. I'm not criticizing by any means, merely observing that we aren't very dissimilar from those figures so artfully displayed on a piece of clay. I suppose the only difference would be that they actually are in their immortal state, and we are still chasing after ours. :)
I don't really know how I feel about Keats. He is a bit of an enigma to me. We will have to get to know each other a bit better as I continue reading. He seems such a dreamer. Not only that, he's a believing dreamer: still young and untarnished by the cynicism of the world. I too hope that Shelly wouldn't have had to write a To Keats at the end of his life.

Beauty and Truth

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ("Ode on a Grecian Urn" lines 49-50)

I liked the discussion we had in class on Tuesday about these lines and what they could possibly mean. I don't know if we'll all ever agree on what they mean, just as we discussed. Beauty and truth are both up for interpretation; they are, as the cliche goes, in the eye of the beholder.

To me, this statement is one of those universal knowns, something that just is. Whatever is beautiful, whatever anyone calls beautiful, is truth. And vise versa. We wonder at "true beauty" and whether it really is only skin deep, or just on the surface. Do we wonder the same thing about what we consider to be true. Is it true for right now or is it eternally true? I don't expect to get an answer here. Again, I think this is something we'll never have a definite answer to, and yet is universally accepted as fact. That, in an of itself, is a bit of a conundrum!

What a wonderful, thought-provoking line, though. It almost forces us to think outside the box and try to define for ourselves what beauty and truth really are.

Immortality of Works

I think that Keats' ideas of mortality and immortality are best exemplified in his poem "Ode on a Grecian Urn". The entire poem is posed as a question, with Keats wondering who is being represented in the images, what events or actions are being immortalized. Nothing is known of the original artist, or the event he was trying to immortalize, but Keats admires the work, maybe even enjoying it more for not knowing. He states:

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

The creator of the urn is long dead, leaving us no knowledge about who he was or the particulars of the tale he was trying to tell. Despite this, we can still appreciate the immortal beauty of his work, which is timeless and will never fade. I think that Keats, despite dying young, would appreciate the fact that his works are still celebrated centuries later.

Which is the tragedy?

As we were prompted to think about the theme of immortality in some of Keats’s poems, I thought about the poem “Ode to a Nightingale”. I saw the theme of the immortality in the poem, but overall I saw the poem as a tragedy.
In this poem, Keats makes it very clear about his fondness for the Nightingale bird. He talks about the journeys that the Nightingale has been on, and what it has seen. On lines 13 and 14 he writes, “Tasting of Flora and the country green/Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!” Not only do these lines show what the Nightingale has seen, but also some of the attributes that Keats admired.
The tragedy in this poem is not that the Nightingale dies, because on line 61 Keats declares, “Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!” The tragedy is that Keats (or mankind in general dies). The tragedy is not death itself. It’s that in dying and being mortal he can no longer hear the Nightingale sing. He can no longer just sit and watch the bird (or for that matter write any more odes to them.)
Another thing that struck me about this poem is that in lines 24-30 he implies that men just sit and waste away when there is beauty all around them to be seen and heard, and the Nightingale is just one example of what men are failing to observe and appreciate in their mortal lives.

Static Immortality and Beauty

In the final stanza of Ode on a Grecian Urn, after contemplating the timeless images displayed on the urn, Keats delivers his final thoughts on the immortality of the urn itself. The final two lines, with dramatic abruptness and clarity, preach the notion:

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Keats builds up to this idea through contemplations on the static images displayed on the urn. In realizing the paradox that these images create, the human figures both free from time’s withering constraints and immobilized by suspension in time, he weighs the importance of each image’s timeless depictions over the fixed circumstances of each image. While he revels in the freedom of the first, he mourns the static nature of the images: the urn can not explain the circumstances of any situation and the speaker feels helpless to identify with these images. However, the speaker praises the notion of a world forever young, where passions are never spent, and time cannot wither. It is from this that the speaker derives the importance of beauty and truth.

Coupled with Keats’ mindset, where he is contemplating timelessness by both immortality and suspension as well as wishing to experience this state, he may be concluding that, given aforementioned state, beauty is the only constant. If this is the case, I disagree with Keats because of the existing paradox between art and life. As hard as we try, humankind will never experience this state. Time always withers beauty. Perhaps Keats is expressing beauty as a “truth” because we should ignore the wilting aspects of time. Perhaps it is a truth because this mindset will bring us to happiness.

I’d love to hear any further thoughts on this, because I feel like these last two lines deliver a wildcard complexity to this poem.

Hubris - Pride and Mortality

Sorry in advance for my delayed response on Shelley!!
Here's my response to Ozymandias

The most pertinent theme of Shelley’s poem, Ozymandias, is pride. Pride is discussed at several different levels within the poem—this unusual sonnet is not meant just to describe both the political and strictly human spheres of the pharaoh’s egoism, but also the pride of mankind in general.

The structure of the poem itself allows for an irony which helps emphasize just how prideful humans can be. The poem is split into three parts: the teller’s description of the dilapidated monument, the arrogant inscription on the Pharaoh’s tomb, and the teller’s response. Shelley chooses to begin with the traveler’s description, the ironic sight of a crumbling monument meant to “immortalize” a ruler’s legacy, and juxtaposes it with the prideful inscription on the tomb. The Pharaoh’s arrogance in his own works is sneering and disdainful, however “nothing beside remains.”

This not only emphasizes how egotistical the Pharaoh is because of his political prowess, but reflects how arrogant humankind can be as well. We are hindered by our mortality, and our consequent inability to see our works in the proverbial “bigger picture” often drives us to become self-absorbed. Like Ozymandias, we begin to see our works as timeless landmarks on some eternal plane of humankind. However, as the traveler responds to the inscription, we see that “nothing beside remains”---Ozymandias’ empire has decayed with time, as will the works of mankind.

Thought poetry is sweet, but spoken poetry is sweeter

We have talked a lot about the form that poetry takes and how that needs to be taken into consideration when considering the overall artistry of a poem. But with Keats' poetry you must also consider the sound of the spoken word. His ability to use alliteration is genius. Take the poem "Ode to a Nightingale" for example, in the 17th line "With beaded bubbles winking at the brim," if you read it in your mind you may just miss it, but if you say it out load then all the sudden your lips are making you feel the bubbles of whatever wine the guy is longing for. Again in line 50, "The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves" if spoken there is a movement and a vibration made that makes you think of the flies.
It is too bad that Keats died so young because it would have been nice to have more of his poetry and to see how it would have evolved through the years. I think part of the reason he was so good was because he truly wrote according to his rules about having the emotion take over you so strongly that the poetry either flows out spontaneously, or you don't write anything. This belief of his does not take away from any of the other writers greatness, but I only think it adds to his. That sudden spark of genius, like Handel's' "Messiah", is awe inspiring. Perhaps that is what is meant by '"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"-- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know", perhaps what he is talking about is living so much in the moment that we are being true to ourselves, to our lives, to the opportunity we have to exist, and by so doing we will be caught up in the beauty of the moment and thus find that the beauty of our soul lies in the moment. The pictures depicted on the urn could not fulfill the measure of creation. They will never die, they will never experience anything but that singular moment, and in that moment Keats finds great beauty, beauty that moves him to the point of "wild ecstasy", and perhaps each and every moment if it could be frozen in time would be that beautiful. Truth in the moment, truth to be able to live in the moment and be truly human, but also to live in the next moment, and the one after that and so on, experiencing every beauty in each moment is also being true to ourselves, and is anything more beautiful than that?

Shelley and Keats

I'm going to have to do double time since I forgot to write about Shelley last week, but I think some interesting comparisons can be drawn between Keats and Shelley, those two amazing Romantic poets. First, I was surprised to hear that Keats died at 25. That gave me a little taste of my own mortality, since I'm turning 25 this March. To be so young and to already have become such an influence on poetry and language says a lot about Keats. In a way, his continued fame has gained him that immortality that he so sought after.
Both of these poets' works evoked a sense of deep sorrow in me after reading them. I have a constant vision in my head after reading Ozymandias of a sneering statue lying forgotten in a vast desert. While there is definitely much symbolism that can be drawn from this poem, the imagery itself stands out in my mind more than anything else. I agree with everyone that the picture of nature standing triumphant over kings and tyrants reigns supreme in this poem.
As far as Keats' poetry goes, a sense of melancholy overwhelms my senses when reading it. It's as though he was constantly searching for this truth and beauty that he writes of, but anytime he came close enough to catch it it slipped out of his hands. In spite of this, I think he believed that the pursuit of these two ideals was always worthwhile, even if never fully attained.

Completely Random Side-Note

I just love that there are so many perspectives about the poems we are reading. I used to stop and think that a writer must be twisting in their grave by the way I slaughter their intentions through my own assumptions. However, I have had an epiphany and come to the conclusion that they probably love the symphony of thought that stems from discussions of their writing. Speaking only for myself, I love being able to read every one's response and being enlightened by a perspective I never would have thought of on my own. Though our conclusions may not be theirs, though our ideas be out in left field or no: isn't it the journey that makes the difference and not necessarily the destination?

This is a picture that comes to mind when I think of Romantic poetry. It just says to me "the possibilities are endless."

Slow Time

I've been enjoying your responses to Shelley very much and haven't wanted to cut them short by posting some questions about Keats. But time's winged chariot is hurrying near, so...

I would really like to hear your interpretations of what are perhaps Keats's most famous lines:

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. ("Ode on a Grecian Urn" lines 49-50)

I would like your response to be grounded (primarily, though not necessarily exclusively) in Keats's work and in our discussions of this period.

Alternatively, I'd like to hear your ideas about how the twin themes of mortality and immortality are treated in Keats's poetry. Keats wrote gorgeous poems about immortality, some of the most revered in the English language, yet he died at the age of twenty-five. He never lived to experience the "few, last, sad gray hairs" he writes of in his "Ode to a Nightingale." I often wonder what Keats would have written had he lived as long as, say, Wordsworth, but then again, perhaps one reason Keats's poems resonate as they do is because of his short life. Maybe Shelley, who immortalized (and mythologized) Keats in Adonais, would have ended up writing a "To Keats" sonnet to go along with "To Wordsworth." But I like to think otherwise.

We'll continue this discussion up through Thursday's class. See you later tonight.

Irony in the Tellers

If "Ozymandias" started with the first words "Two vast. . ." instead of "I met a traveller. . .who said. . ." I would have loved this poem less. Irony upon irony is what gets me in this writing. You find Ozymadias's message ironic because there are no grand works to look on after he is gone, and you think, "It serves you right for mocking 'ye Mighty.'" But there is something even more poignantly ironic and it is in the structure of the poem, in the introduction of this poem:there is a teller number 1 (the traveller) and teller number 2 (Shelley). The message is being moved along time. Ozymandias, King of Kings, is known; it's what he wanted, too. We know of his arrogance and message. So the joke or irony, really, is on us.  "The lone and level sands stretch far away" to us, to our ears; we've now heard and bare the story on, immortalizing Ozymandias--and the arrogant don't mind if their's is an uplifting legacy or not. Rally and be a teller!

A Mirror Which Obscures the Image of Life

I really liked the definitions of poetry by Shelley, they really identified what poetry was. Being a history major, most of my reading consists of facts dates and written accounts of past events. Life contained in a history book is very different from life in a book of poetry. One contains facts, and dates, the other contains feelings and emotions, one helps you see what life was like, the other helps you feel what life is like. I never understood the purpose of poetry, but now I have a better understanding, it is not a factual account of something, rather it is “The very image of life expressed in its eternal truth.”
For example, Shelley is not teaching about the existence of Ozymandias, but of the existence and consequences of pride, he is not even telling the story of a fallen kingdom, but the insignificance of human power in relation to nature. The same can be said of We Are Seven, it is a picture of the innocence and purity of children, the pure understanding of unadulterated minds. The story in itself is not of any significance, the presence of death at that time was not uncommon, but the expression of innocence and purity is an amazing insight on the nature of man.

The Somnambulists

I thought you might enjoy these photographs, especially since so many of you have been responding to the "shattered visage" of Ozymandias. These images are not broken statues, but neither are they very far removed from faces half-buried in the sand. I find them haunting and beautiful and deeply moving. They are the work of UK photographer Joanna Kane. In this particular series, called "Somnambulists," she photographs death masks and life masks from the nineteenth century and then slightly digitizes them to give them the appearance of having skin. The masks are real, though, and she leaves the plaster detail as part of the image. It is amazing how life-like they appear. Let me know what you think of them. You can read more about Kane's work on her website, http://www.joannakane.co.uk/.

A Face of Significance

In Ozymandias, it was ironic that Shelley was sure to point out the face of the statue still existing. When you think of a statue wearing away, you would think extremities like the nose, mouth, etc. would be first to wear away, ridding the statue of details. But the facial expression of Ozymandias remains, perhaps reminding us what is remembered in history. How often are those full of power remembered for goodness? We are quick to notice the bad, and those things leave a lasting impression on our human minds. We can't pretend like certain events haven't happened, but there will always be a greater good. It is also ironic to think of little tiny grains of sand, wearing away a huge, stone statue. Although there is corruption, grief, or sorrow in this world, nature will always take it's course, like Emily and others have said.

The Mighty Immortal

Irony in form, irony in language, and irony in the prevailing poem itself are all the ways that Percy Bysshe Shelly's poem "Ozymandia" could best be summed up. Starting with the very form of the poem about a king that ruled a great civilization and accomplished great and terrible works one would assume that such a king would have books and books written to record such works, but there are only fourteen lines that tell about this once great king. The lines are compact and never comprised of more than ten words. What greatness could possibly be summed up in so few words? So forgotten are the deeds of the ancient king and the kingdom he built that only a traveler who stumbled upon the crumbling engravings has any knowledge that either ever existed. The king boasts of his greatness and challenges anyone to look upon his accomplishments and to try to surpass what he has done, but now only a vast emptiness remains to replaced his works. What does the statue that is slowly falling to the decay of its environment; where the eyes, mouth and ears are slowly being covered up by the sands of time to never be known again, what does that say about our own futile existence? What work can we do that is so great that it will stand the test of time and will be remembered for the generation to come? The king called himself the "King of Kings", but there is only one King of Kings who is still remembered, worshiped and revered today. Ironically Jesus of Nazareth never wore a crown and never built towers and cities to honor his name. Perhaps the only works that live on after us and keep our name alive are the works of kindness and love towards our fellow man. While it is true that people remember the tyrant, they remember and revere those that fought against the tyrant. All tyrant builds will be pulled down and laid to waste and in their place monuments will be erected to depict those who fought against the oppressor.
The only things remaining of the great king and his accomplishments were his carved statue and the written words carved upon its base. Much like Shelly's poem where the words have not dimmed, perhaps the mighty immortal lies in the record of our deeds through the medium of art and the written language.

Death of A Hero

We spoke once in class about heroes and the image that we typically create about our personal heroes. I couldn't help but think about that discussion while reading Shelley's To Wordsworth. It is clear that Shelley looked up to Wordsworth and felt that they were cut from the same cloth. I can't imagine the grief and desertion he must have felt at Wordsworth's later swing to conservatism. To Shelley it must have seemed a complete betrayal to all that Wordsworth once held dear.
Shelley speaks of Wordsworth as though in death, that he should "cease to be." Don't we often feel that way when our perspective is shattered, when the foundation for our ideals is ripped from us and we are left to pick up the pieces that remain? Shelley's words show us a glimpse of the acute grief that must accompany the death of a hero.
Similarly in Ozymandias, Shelley is telling the tale of a man once great, but now reduced to nothing more than ruble and remains. I don't get the feeling of grief from this poem so much as acceptance of the inevitable. He focuses on the fact that though the man no longer remains the passions and politics of him live on beyond the grave. The "wrinkled lip" and the "sneer of cold command." Couldn't those very thoughts be applied to many great and terrible men from history? I still wonder why he speaks of it in third person. It's almost as though he is distancing himself from the reality of what remains.

Power and Decay

Okay, first of all, he was married to the Frankenstein author?! How cute is that! That randomly makes me really happy.

Next, I really enjoyed the poem “Ozymandias” and, strangely enough, have found myself thinking about it a lot over the past few days. I really like what this poem is saying about the shallow nature of power. He starts the poem by talking about an “antique land,” which automatically seems to distance the reader from the king. By having the story told by a traveler, it makes the subject seem even more distant and unimportant. Not only did it happen long ago and far away, but it’s a secondhand account. He then describes the statue that has been destroyed and engulfed by the sand, which shows even more the absolute insignificance of the man depicted. Although he was once great he is now “trunkless.” There is no heart, no backbone, no power. The words of domination on the pedestal become ironic as we see that he is no “Kings of Kings,” only “shattered” stone.

On my first few readings I was a little bit confused by this poem. Although I enjoyed it, I didn’t see how it fit in with the romantic themes that we had been following. After thinking on it, though, I saw that it ultimately did come back to nature. This man thought that he had the power and the control, but ultimately the desert overcame and decayed him. When he was gone, the “level sands” still “stretch[ed] far away.” I think that this poem continues the theme that ultimately it is nature that lasts and has the real power.

Shelley - Making the Distorted Beautiful

If I could see the life of one Romantic poet made into a feature-length film, it would be the life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. It would include, among other things, getting kicked out of Oxford for promoting the importance of atheism, eloping with a 16 year-old (Shelley was only 18 at the time), eloping again with the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft (Mary Shelley, of Frankenstein fame), suffering the loss of several children, travelling Europe with Lord Byron, falling in love with the wife of a friend, and finally dying in a shipwreck. Oh, yeah: he also wrote some of the most beautiful poetry of the 19th century.

By this point you will have already read the assigned poetry from Shelley. I would like to hear your ideas about a few things.

1. Write about "Ozymandias," focusing on the theme of pride, politics, or irony.

For extra brownie points, talk about what might be called "structural irony," or ways that the form and structure of the poem set up ironies.

2. Shelley might have started "Ozymandias" like this: "I am a traveller from an antique land." Why do you think Shelley frames his sonnet like he does, in the voice of someone who heard a story from someone else?

3. "Ode to the West Wind" is written in terza rima. In this form, which uses 3-line stanzas, the terminal word of the middle line becomes the rhyme for the first and third lines in the subsequent stanza. The last stanza is a couplet that takes its rhymes from the terminal word of the middle line in the penultimate (next-to-last) stanza. "Ode to the West Wind" is composed in five terza rima sections. Remembering what we have discussed in class about the relationship between form and content, talk about why you think Shelley may have chosen this form. Is there something about the content that lends itself well to the inter-linking rhymes and short stanzas?

4. In "Ode to the West Wind," Shelley is not merely writing about nature. He is very self-consciously part of nature, both as poet and part of the poetic subject. How is this similar to other works we have read? How is it different?

5. Below are several excerpts from Shelley's A Defence of Poetry, part of which appears in our anthology (867-876). Choose one of them and apply it to Shelley's work AND the work of one other Romantic poet. (Note: This is the kind of question you might expect to find on a short answer mid-term exam.)

A. "Poetry is not like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination of the will. A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the colour of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the conscious portions of our nature are unprophetic either of its approach or its departure. Could this influence be durable in its original purity and force, it is impossible to predict the greatness of the results; but when composition begins, inspiration is already on the decline, and the most glorious poetry that has ever been communicated to the world is probably a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of the poet."

B. "A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth. There is this difference between a story and a poem, that a story is a catalogue of detached facts, which have no other connexion than time, place, circumstance, cause, and effect; the other is the creation of actions according to the unchangeable forms of human nature, as existing in the mind of the Creator, which is itself the image of all other minds."

C. "A story of particular facts is as a mirror which obscures and distorts that which should be beautiful: poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted."

D. "Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar."

Thanks. I will post some Keats-related questions over the weekend, so please begin reading the selections from his work. In the meantime, let's talk about Shelley.

Fleet (Thought-)Foxes

I was a fan of the Fleet Foxes video, Austin. There was something very Coleridgean about it, wasn't there? It could have been filmed in a claymation Xanadu: rivers, birds, magic mushrooms...and then the whole thing gets interrupted when the man lets go of the wheel. The person from Porlock probably startled him.

Now, the gothic side of Coleridge might have actually changed the song lyrics so that the neck-scarves came untied and the heads literally fell into the snow, then stared with wide-open eyes.

There may have been a little Wordsworth there, too. Compare these lines:

Fleet Foxes:

And, Michael, you would fall
and turn the white snow red as strawberries
in the summertime.

Wordsworth:

From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings.

And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

Hmmmmmmmmm......VERY interesting :)

Oh, and FYI, a much later British poet, Ted Hughes, compares the kind of thoughts that lead to poetry--indeed the very act of writing poetry--to a fox. I hope we have time for some Hughes when we get into March and April. He is amazing.

The Thought-Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

A Little Opiate Music: Fleet Foxes

I just found some music. Some of you may be familiar with them: Fleet Foxes. I can't help think about Blake, Wordswith, and Coleridge taking down some opiates (not to imply they all did that) listening to some Fleet Foxes; it's actually great music. And one of the best selling albums of '08. Tell me what you think; I found it to have a real "Romantic" feel. You can check on Itunes. But you might want to watch one of their music videos. Props to claymation! Here's the link: http://youtube.com/watch?v=DrQRS40OKNE

Opium: Nature's Inspiration

I love the introduction to Kubla Khan about the possibility of Coleridge being in a drug induced state. It's almost as if it is being added as a disclaimer to poem. I was having flashes of late-night infomercials where they inform you that the views and opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the broadcasting station. It's almost as if to say that if you liked the poem, thanks be to the opium. If you didn't, just blame it on the drugs and not necessarily the writer.
Many artists claim that some form of sedative helps them to connect with their inner self and helps them produce their art. I doubt Coleridge ever made this claim, but it is a possibility that due to the effects of the drug he was able to think/imagine more clearly in order to create.
This has some reference to the commonality of "writer's block" in the sense that sometimes a writer can't let go of or overcome whatever is keeping them from creating. A writer's creativity may be blocked by the inability to connect their conscious state with their subconscious state.
Not to change the subject too drastically, but the artist Dali said something to the effect that everything he created was a recreation a of subconscious idea/dream that he brought into consciousness.
I think it is within the realm of possibility that Coleridge, in a perhaps inebriated state, was able to connect more fully with his creative well and draw from it something that his subconscious had created while he dosed. Upon awaking, he attempted to recreate his thoughts but it was soon taken from him as he was distracted by other things.

Hotel California

The prologue to the Kubla Khan suggests that Coleridge fell asleep after taking his medicine; it neglects to come straight out and say his medicine was Opium and that he more likely was in a drug induced sleep for several hours rather than taking a quiet little nap. With that knowledge now in play it is easier to understand why Coleridge was able to furiously write a few lines, then after an interruption which took him away from his writing for over an hour (sufficient detox period when combined with his little nap) he found that he could not exactly remember nor continue on the same vein.
The poem did remind me of the song by the Eagles, "Hotel California", because there is something about the draw of the "stately pleasure-dome" in the sky that makes you want to see what lies within, see the gardens, and smell the fragrence in the air, but at the same time you know that warnings of "Beware, Beware" exist all around. Once inside the pleasure-dome you find that there are endless caverns and from inside are issued crys of endless turmoil. The palace with its caves of ice seem to be lifeless tombs ready to draw in any unsuspecting victem that falls prey to the melodious music that draws them there like the pied piper leading the children away.

Coleridge's Constant Commentary

I, for one, found all of Coleridge's little side notes to be fascinating. Not necessarily because I thought what he said in them was interesting, but more because I just had to wonder what compelled him to include so many. I have never seen another poet explain his or her poetry from the sidelines quite like he did. Reading Rime of the Ancient Mariner along with all of the margin notes felt kind of like watching a movie with commentary from the director. They were certainly helpful, as I admit there were some sections I probably would have glossed over if I hadn't read the margin notes and understood what exactly was going on. I still haven't been able to decide whether or not Coleridge's commentary adds or detracts to the overall feeling of the poem though, and in hindsight it probably may have been a good idea to read it once through without reading the margin notes first and then gone back again for a closer look. After all, nobody watches a movie for the first time time while listening to the commentary. On the other hand, the notes were, in a way, their own sort of poetry. They added a dimension to the poem that I've never seen done anywhere else.

Accepting the Impossible

I used to be really involved in theatre, and the phrase “suspension of disbelief” is one that we used often. As actors, it was our goal to create this overall suspension. That meant that we had to convince the audience, and ourselves, that we were who we were pretending to be. Although the audience would know that I was really just “Emily,” I had to persuade them to “suspend” or put on hold that disbelief and allow themselves to really believe that I was Lady Macbeth in a Scottish Castle or a dancing teacup in “Be Our Guest.” We had to be so convincing that even though the audience really knew the truth, they chose not to believe it for awhile. I think this same concept applies for poetry. It is up to the author to become so convincing that, although we know certain things are not possible, we allow ourselves to be consumed in the fantasy and believe it to be real. For example, I don’t rationally believe that angel spirits really came and possessed the bodies of the dead sailors. However, Coleridge describes this so vividly that I can see it in my mind and almost believe it. I think this “suspension” is much easier for our day than it would have been in Coleridge’s. Today we have special effects, we have Star Wars, we have an endless supply of sometimes-half-decent horror films. It’s easy to imagine fantastical happenings because our minds have been trained to accept them since we were small. Back then, however, I would think that it would be much harder for the people to accept these fantastic stories and it was likely much more shocking.
I definitely believe that the “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” could be considered gothic. The poem is obviously very romantic in nature. It presents the idea of the sacredness of nature (the shooting of the bird) and has many supernatural occurrences (the entire second half of the poem is an example of this). In addition to the romance, however, I feel that this poem has quite a bit of horror as well. Some of the images presented are disturbing even to me, and I live the time of the Saw Movies! The entire idea of the bodies of the crew being brought to life is very frightening. Coleridge’s description of how they “gave a groan” and didn’t “move their eyes” is just down right creepy! Even his description of the sea is unsettling. He states, “Slimy things did crawl with legs upon the slimy sea.” Just thinking about that gives me goosebumps! If it can give me the heebie jeebies in 2009, I think it definitely qualifies as gothic.

Coleridge's Writings

I find it interesting that Coleridge was the one picked to write these "fantasy" poems and Wordsworth to write about the things of nature and a more uncommon view of reality. How did they decide this? Maybe I'm far off, but I picture Coleridge being the more light-hearted of the two, perhaps throwing out a joke as they walked along the lake preparing "Lyrical Ballads". Wordsworth was the more reserved, thoughtful one. I picture the two men, walking along a lake, with two great minds and looking at the world in different ways. Perhaps they both agreed that each was best at writing those certain kinds of poems. Wordsworth seems to be more in touch with nature and senses, while Coleridge seems to have endless ideas to sort through, letting his imagination take him where it will.
I think they wanted to bring out a different "color" to the imagination with Coleridge's writings. A "willing suspension of disbelief" is the hope that you allow yourself in believing these things you read. They called it an "inward nature". Our human nature gives us the tendency to enjoy our imagination's exploration beyond reality and the things we know. We enjoy reading poems and stories like his because, well, we just can't help it.

Willing Submission of Disbelief

Of the two poems that we read, I liked The Rime of the Ancient Mariner  the most. I found it the more sensible of the two, and easier to understand. I really liked the imagery that the poem conveyed, as well as the story that it told. 

I almost sensed that Coleridge was mocking the superstition of the people at the time, specifically when referencing the death of the albatross, at first it was seen by the crew as a terrible thing, 'Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!' that it was the bird that somehow made the wind blow, and then immediately after cursing his actions, they seemed to applaud them 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist' giving the killing of the bird credit for the passing of the fog. It seemed that he was almost mocking the changing opinions of the common man, always looking for some supernatural explanation for normal occurrences

This superstition seems to be a reoccurring theme in the poem, later he uses the almost 

superstitious religious beliefs of the common people at the time to explain the story and make the tale almost believable. Giving credit to the fantastic rescue of the mariner to his guardian Saint was something that the common man of the time would understand, and even relate to. Yet at the same time it would require more than the belief in the power of a protecting saint, it would require the reader to surrender their understanding of reality, and become part of this tale. 

Xanadu, An Albatross, Opium, and Nature's Revenge

For Tuesday and Thursday, we are going to continue to post our responses to the blog as opposed to bringing written responses to class. Your responses may be original posts, comments on the posts of others, or (ideally) both. At this point in the semester, you definitely don't have to answer my questions (although you are welcome to). You can combine the prompts, alter them, or just go your own way.

1. "Kubla Khan" is one of the best examples of something we have been discussing about poetry, namely that it is not prose and therefore cannot be paraphrased. Indeed, any extractable "meaning" of "Kubla Khan" is probably much less important than the effect the poem has upon the reader because of its sounds and rhythms. Read the poem out loud a few times. What is your biological response to it? What do you feel? What do you envision? Try, at least the first time you read it, to immerse yourself in its sonic properties instead of analyzing "what it means."

2. In what way(s) could "Kubla Khan" be called a poem about writer's block? Please read the introductory note and reference it as part of your response.

3. Do you believe that "Kubla Khan" could have been written in a drug-induced state? Why or why not?

4. In Biographia Literaria (629-641), Coleridge writes that he and Wordsworth, when planning Lyrical Ballads, decided that Coleridge's part in the volume "should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith" (634). What do you think this means? Does "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" require a "willing suspension of disbelief?"

5. During this period, much of popular literature was gothic in nature. Gothic literature has sometimes been described as a blend of romance and horror. How is "Rime" a gothic poem?

6. In his Lectures on Shakespeare (641-642), Coleridge argues that there is a difference between poetry written in "mechanic form" and that written in "organic form." A poem is "mechanic," according to Coleridge, "when on any given material we impress a pre-determined form, not necessarily arising out of the properties of the material;--as when to a wet mass of clay we give whatever shape we wish it to retain when hardened. The organic form, on the other hand, is innate; it shapes, as it develops itself from within, and the fulness of its development is one and the same with the perfection of its outward form" (642). He goes on to argue that just as Nature is "inexhaustable," so are its forms. I would like for you to look for places in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" or in "Kubla Khan" where the form seems organic, as opposed to predetermined, and to discuss what it is about the poem's material that is causing the form to change. In other words, how is the form of the poem changing to meet the needs of its material?

7. Did you find Coleridge's marginalia/commentary helpful? Why or why not?

The World Is Too Much With Us

I am reading this poem right now, looking out my hotel window at the Las Vegas strip, I wonder what Wordsworth would have to say about this place? Ironically enough, as I was walking past some of the mammoth buildings in the area today, I was thinking about this same principle of waste, about the amount of money required to build something like these, and how much else could have been done with this money. I really feel that when Wordsworth says 'We lay waste to our powers' 

I get the impression that our power is reffering to our potential, the ability that all men have in them. We have the ability to do so much, and yet often times we waste them on worthless things, on things that distract from nature, that cause us to throw away our potential. This thing called 'Social Progress' is often not progress at all. I really enjoyed his thoughts on the subject, especially considering my current surroundings they were especially powerful. 

The Wonder of Childhood

This isn't really a response to any of the prompts, but the most overwhelming feeling I got from reading Wordsworth's Ode is that of not just a lament of childhood innocence lost, but also a loss of the feeling of wonder and excitement at the newness of everything in life that a child experiences. I'm grateful, however, that the tone of the poem wasn't just one of sadness, but also of hope, fond memory, and optimism for the future. Yes, everyone loses most of the naivete and innocence of childhood as they grow older, but the memories of being children can't be taken away from us, and we can also focus on things we gain from the wisdom of experience as we age. I think this is a big part of the meaning that Wordsworth was trying to convey. We can look backwards with regret, or we can look forward with appreciation and determination to make the best of what still lies before us.

Actors of our own reality

First of all, I've never posted on a blog before, so replying to comments about the influence of technology, I feel pretty darn inadequate.
When I read lines 99-103 I couldn't help but think of my little nephews, ages two and three, who are so excited about everything and anything new! They also are quick to gravitate towards anything you seem to be remotely interested in. If you like it, they have to have it! Constantly fighting over each others toys, they always want what they don't have. "Ere this be thrown aside, / And with new joy and pride / The little Actor cons another part" (lines 100-102). Are we as a society very far from being "little Actors" in our own reality?
Some of us that have commented have brought up how we get older and lose our child-like ways, but I believe we still hold some of these ways. Who doesn't still see something bigger and better and want it for themselves? Fads come and go, phones get nicer, ipods hold more space, the world gets faster paced, and we move on to different things to fill up our "stage". Someone commented that the sad thing is we have done it to ourselves; I agree wholeheartedly. Perhaps it is human nature that we feel this way, and sometimes it can't all be bad. We simply want to better ourselves and to make our dreams come true! Although our dreams may have changed from when we were younger, we still have our fantasies. What we do with our dreams and aspirations is up to us as individuals. Perhaps our child-like fantasies are the ones that get us into debt and waste our time in front of the tv, but our adult-like fantasies are the ones that will lead us to be more productive and give lasting happiness in our life.

the curious cage of society

I loved what Jaree said. It is a curious thing that in our world today, we manufacture childhood in a way. Oftentimes when looking back on childhood, we recall pop culture or the toys we loved. Children are now growing up addicted to television, computers, nintendo, and whatever else is out there. the sad part: we did this to ourselves. We made nature work for us instead of trying to understand and commune with what's out there. It's just as Wordsworth says: as soon as we are born, the cage descends on us. Is it even possible to break free anymore? Technology is creeping in to every single facet of daily life. Sometimes I wonder if it's good or bad. It makes things easier, to be sure; but I also think as a whole we are too complacent, too sure of ourselves. Our society is crushing down on the individual, squandering what life was left in imagination. We let the world think for us. Is there a way to come back from that, collectively as a society?

Powers of Humanity

I am responding to the question in prompt #4.

I think that "powers" could be interpreted in many different ways. One meaning is the power of the mind. But it could be deeper than that. It could mean the power of the mind to think, ponder and imagine. The mind is a very powerful tool. Take some psychological disorders for instance, some can create a completely different reality for the person. Romantically speaking, power of the mind would most likely be the power of imagination. It could mean just simply pondering the world around you, not only the natural world but the human society around you.

Another meaning of "powers" could be that emotions are powers that we are laying waste to. He says in the same line that we are "Getting and Spending", what kind of emotion leads man to "getting and spending"? It could be the need to always have more and than thinking that it will make you happy, then it is spent, then the cycle of needing more, gettiing it and spending it starts over. I think Wordsworth is trying to say how much of an exhausting waste of emotion(s) that is. Then he tries to get the point across that the "power" of the emotions is just being wasted. You could have other emotions (powers) that will benefit you and others more in the long run. One can assume that those emotions are pretty much opposite of the emotions it takes for "getting and spending" (greed, envy). The less wasteful emotions that could do more for you could include compassion, love, and appreciation of nature.

Is Life So Bad?

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Throughout "Ode" I felt hope. Wordsworth fills his lines with loss; and then, he will put a single or a few "hope" lines. For example: after stating the "Rainbow comes and goes" and "That there hath past away a glory from the earth," and "To me alone there came a thought of grief," he writes, "A timely utterance gave that thought relief,/ And again I am strong:" Wordsworth's structure really amazes me how it, with a pattern of "loss, loss, loss, hope," takes you on a trip in a life. In lines 151-155 Wordsworth reveals how our "first affections" and our "shadowy recollections" have a power. Since we have experienced some grief and loss and that those times seem prolonged (longer than the good sometimes) these recollections will "uphold" us. He says they have ". . .power to make/ Our noisy years seem moments in the being/ Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,/ To perish never;" If we have the wisdom to know these moments will come and if we give time to recollection, the loss won't be as bad, and possibly of no matter if there is an Eternal Silence.