I am not a formalist. This is probably because I am a poet. Self-proclaimed, but nonetheless, someone who writes poetry--a poet. Oh tautology.
My brain is littered with literary (alliteration and consonance) terms. That's what mid-terms for English classes will do to you. And also I finally received M.H. Abrams's A Glossary of Literary Terms. As geeky as it might be, I could pour over those terms and definitions and examples for hours. I find that book completely fascinating.
But I am not a formalist. And I disagree with the idea that looking at the intention of a work is a fallacy. Formalism says that the form of a work is its meaning. They do not account for the writer's intention, the historical context. Form. Only. They strip a text of all its feeling, all its beautiful emotion and passion. Reduce it to enjambment, semi-colons, and bloody dashes.
As a writer am I completely botching up writing? I write because I have to get certain phrases out of me or I can't sleep. I write because it's often the best way for my emotions to emerge. Yes, I write because I sometimes have artistic ideas that don't correspond with any of my own feelings. But there is still a piece of me in those words. How can you possibly separate the writer from their work?
In my Love Poetry class, my professor asked us about the correlation between art and passion. Somethings are passionate but not worthy enough to be labeled as "art" (i.e. my fifth grade diary). Some pieces of art don't come directly from an artist's passion (i.e. "Porphyria's Lover" by Robert Browning... or at least I hope he didn't feel anything similar to that poem, for Elizabeth's sake). Here is my thought:
Passion is not always art, but art always incorporates passion in some way, small or large.
Charles Bukowski came the closest to describing how I feel in his poem "so you want to be a writer?"
I am not a formalist. This entire blog entry would spark numerous arguments in my Intro to English Language and Lit. But that is why I am not planning on becoming a literary critic (I can however, pull off sounding like one in a critical essay, as evidenced by the grade received on my Conrad paper). That is why I am a poet. And future children's librarian.
Literature loses its divinity when you reduce it to the form.
Anyway, all this lovely english-ness has been quite encouraging for my own writing and I am trying to write a poem everyday this month. I also finished two compilations of poems which can be found to the left of this entry under "Pages". Here are the poems for the last three days:
(Okay, I lied. I wrote this one a while ago but I am counting it for the first one)
The Pomegranate
The pomegranate stain on your blanched white shirt
(Where I so faithfully reside --
By the ever-present vigor of your heart)
When you squeezed too tightly
Dug your thumb into a seed so bright
(Did you notice the string attached --
I mean the dripping vein
Ceremonial gushing of the dyeing life liquid
Seed of fruit,
Paper of cut,
Slice of heart...
...likened to a bleeding confectionary pastry
(With an almond based crust)
The Violinist
Sinewy nerves
--snap--
bend, break and wither in pain
as the horsehair releases
through a flurry of vibrations
Performance for darkling faces
that exit into snowstorm
exit like his subtlety
--snap--
broken fingers
Cut his dreams to halves unequal
snapped from the bow
amidst favorite soloists'
rest.
Forgotten Ars Poetica
Bishop said it wasn't "hard to master"
Moore didn't like it
And incomparable "Courser"
as Dickinson exalted
A piece of fruit ridden with ontology
Tautological by nature - "a holy thing"
Great and alike
The famous ars poetica
But they overlooked
The missed divine necessity
Bukowski came closest - "unless
the sun inside you is burning your gut"
Air though
Infinitely more than molecules inhaled
__________________________________
The last poem is what I was doing instead of studying for my midterm. But I figured it had enough poetic terms included in it that it didn't matter.
A few final thoughts:
Currently, my absolute favorite poem is "To Be Liked By You Would Be A Calamity" by Marianne Moore.
TO BE LIKED BY YOU WOULD BE A CALAMITY
"Attack is more piquant than concord," but when
You tell me frankly you would like to feel
My flesh beneath your feet,
I'm all abroad; I can put my weapon up, and
Bow you out.
Gesticulation—it is half the language,
Let unsheathed gesticulation be the steel
Your courtesy must meet,
Since in your hearing words are mute, which
to my senses
Are a shout.
--Marianne Moore
Also, tonight I watched "New York, I Love You." Brilliant film. I adored every minute of it. And that's coming from someone who is still struggling with the concept of love. There was a vignette centered around Crime and Punishment. It completely caught my heart.
Lucky me.. I found the youtube video:
Lastly, I am very happy that coffee is now a part of my life once again. And Peanut Butter Puffins are amazing. They do not taste like cardboard.
No comments:
Post a Comment