A Different Version of T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland."

I came across this interpretation of "The Wasteland" a couple weeks ago. I don't know if anyone is aware of the internet phenomenon known as LOLcats, but someone was inspired to rewrite the poem using the typical LOLcats jargon. Anyway, I thought I'd share it with any of you who might be going over "The Wasteland" for finals and would like to see a very simplified version of it, or maybe just a few laughs. Even if you're not aware of LOLcats, it is still quite silly and ridiculous to read.

Enjoy!
http://www.corprew.org/content/lolcat-wasteland/

--Jessica J.

341 Years Later ...

... England has its first female Poet Laureate. Aurora Leigh and the Lady of Shalott would be proud to see today's overdue news that Carol Ann Duffy is the first woman to assume a post held by Wordsworth, Tennyson, and a parade of men dating back to the seventeenth century.

Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

"Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" and even includes a quote from the poem.

Other poetry

I have talked quite a bit about my writing in the afternoon class and I would really like feedback since no one, except my wife, has looked at it. here is the address, http://myheartmytales.blogspot.com. Enjoy.

Travis

Coming Soon to a Theater Near You: ENLT 219?

Greetings everyone (notice that Travis, in the previous posting, has invited some reflective/evaluative responses to To the Lighthouse, now that we've finished the novel (or nearly finished it, since I still want to devote another 10-15 minutes to it tomorrow)). Additionally, I wanted to let you know that I've posted three examples of effective responses from previous iterations of this "literary awards" paper; you can find them on the announcements section of the course website, along with some questions and contextual/biographical information for the Auden and Smith poems for Monday's discussion.

Now, a question for you ... or a kind of informal survey, I guess. Part of our departmental discussions about these survey classes involves wondering whether we might experiment by making it more of a large lecture class: i.e., opening it up to more students (e.g, 50 or more), which (unless we could arrange it so that there are small break-out discussion groups, the equivalent of labs in science courses perhaps) would involve reducing its current status as a pseudo-discussion course. There are economic reasons for such a consideration, of course, but part of the pedagogical rationale would be that the course only unsteadily works as a discussion class at the moment anyway -- given that it typically is populated with 30 students and has to cover such a wide swath of material. I, myself, do the best I can to make it a discussion class, but as you know there are times when the relentless demands of the schedule cause me to have to take control more than I might otherwise wish. At its worst, the lecture-based model would be based on a faulty principle of education: i.e., that the teacher dispenses knowledge and the students receive it (the so-called "banking method"). On the other hand, at its best, I suppose the survey class governed by this model might be a tighter, more efficient ship of state, with fewer chances for getting behind, and might allow those who are still getting used to poetry (and the like) to feel less pressured by the oral participation expectations and thereby get more comfortable before the upper division electives. Then again, one could argue (and one of my colleagues does, very persuasively) that students would be more inclined to benefit from a large lecture class later in the curriculum rather than earlier. Ah, what to think ...

Nevertheless, I know how I grateful I am for all of your comments and responses to these texts in class, and every class period finds me learning more about the texts as a result of our discussions -- so I'd be loath to give up the course's current orientation as a kind of discussion/lecture hybrid. But I suppose I could also imagine the course still being effective and desirable as a large lecture class if it could be conducted in a really nice, theater-like media room, and if the technology aspects (PowerPoint, music, video clips, etc.) could be made even more regular and dramatic. What do you all think? You are important stakeholders in this issue, of course, so your voices should be heard!

Virginia Woolf

Now that we are done with Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse, I wanted to take a moment to see what people had to think about the story and Woolf as a writer. For me, I both loved and hated the book. As an aspiring novelist, the only reason I can see to have so many phrases and choppy sentences is to show how good of a writer someone is. I understand she was simulating the thought process, but the difficulty of understanding and following the narrative are difficult. Another complaint I have is the lack of context for the text. She gave just enough, which was her intention, but that doesn't make following the thoughts any easier. It would be hard for any writer today to get away with so little context for what is going on in a character's mind.

In praise of her and her book, I haven't read a book where I have had so much in common with the characters before. She succeeded in making them come alive and so much so, I found myself sympathizing with almost all the characters on many levels. Something I really liked was she seemed to keep her personal sympathies out of the story. She didn't, in what little narration there was, giver her opinion of who should be felt sorry for and who we should despise. I guess that is possible since the narration took place in people's thoughts and we see the characters from different perspectives instead of from the perspective of the omniscient narrator.

In the end I enjoyed the novel. It was very well written, and as Eric pointed out on the handout for class, there are little things, such as the fountain, that make the novel interesting to read. I will surely read this novel again, but next time, since I know the story, I will hopefully be able to find more of the nuances that seem to make this book extraordinary.

Travis

Woolf's Scintillating Similes

Regardless of what you end up thinking of To the Lighthouse overall, I can't imagine that there aren't individual lines, images, passages, etc., that don't nearly take your breath away (you know, in the vein of "if I could just write one sentence like that in my lifetime, I would die happy!"). There has to be at least one pearl on every page. I don't know, for example, if I've ever encountered a better writer of similes.

How about that moment when Mr. Ramsay, in an endearing if ultimately unsuccessful way, tries to make amends with his son. The passage then moves into a positively stunning example of descriptive writing (amateur nature photographers like myself will appreciate the concluding image):

"Already ashamed of that petulance, of that gesticulation of the hands when charging at the head of his troops, Mr. Ramsay rather sheepishly prodded his son's bare legs once more, and then, as if he had her leave for it, with a movement which oddly reminded his wife of the great sea lion at the Zoo tumbling backwards after swallowing his fish and walloping off so that the water in the tank washes from side to side, he dived into the evening air which, already thinner, was taking the substance from leaves and hedges but, as if in return, restoring to roses and pinks a lustre which they had not had by day" (32-33)

Then there's the bee simile, which in many respects distills a major component of the thematic interests of this novel. We're essentially alone as individuals, it seems to say, and can only ever have access to the outer shells of others:

"How then, she had asked herself, did one know one thing or another thing about people, sealed as they were? Only like a bee, drawn by some sweetness or sharpness in the air intangible to touch or taste, one haunted the dome-shaped hive, ranged the wastes of the air over the countries of the world alone, and then haunted the hives with their murmurs and their stirrings; the hives, which were people" (51).

I'll be asking you to find and write about (in a paragraph to be turned in next Wednesday) a short passage/moment from the novel that speaks to you in some way: something you can relate to in some way, something you admire stylistically as notable writing, etc. But maybe we can catch and compile more such highlights and ruminations here ...

Of Joyce's Ghost Story

Well, we can use this thread to share and discuss any passages from "The Dead" that you find to be worthy of comment or question, but maybe, as I look ahead to the second half of class on Friday when the film concludes, I'll query you with responses to the end of the story. What would you say, for example, if I were to ask what/when, specifically, is the moment of epiphany for Gabriel in this story? If an epiphany involves seeing the world or one's self anew, what is it that Gabriel learns? What is his first response upon hearing Gretta's story about Michael Furey and then in what sense does that response evolve? What does it mean when we learn that "the time had come for him to set out on his journey westward" (2199)? By the end of the story, how do you understand the (multiple?) connotations of the story's title? No need to answer all of those questions, of course, but maybe there's something in there that will incline you to share some thoughts!

A Breather

Thank you, everyone, for all of your patience, contributions to class discussions, and hard work to this point. I hope all of you have at least a partially restful and restorative break (!), and, if you're leaving Missoula, travel safely! When we reconvene, of course, we'll have a week to spend with Joyce's stunning short story, "The Dead." As always, you can see the announcements section of the webpage for some context and guiding questions.

Itineraries

Is anyone making any interesting tracks over Spring Break -- heading to the mountains, seeking to gain an upgrade in the thermometer's mercury reading, visiting family, etc.? As for myself, I'm taking my mid-semester, increasingly weary, and possibly half-sick self to Palm Springs (via one of those cheap flights to Las Vegas and then a desert drive) for (hopefully) some restorative high-desert air. Such an excursion suggests its own soundtrack, right? I'm thinking I probably need to bring (not that we'll be driving around in a convertible, but still!) U2's "The Joshua Tree" (desert sky, dream beneath a desert sky, the rivers run but soon run dry, we need new dreams tonight), Frank Sinatra's "Sinatra at the Sands" (I've always loved Dean Martin's line: "It's Frank's world; we just live in it") ... and, well, that's as far as I am so far (maybe I need Robert Plant's song "29 Palms," since we'll undoubtedly pass through that dusty town, and which I have to admit is a song I've always found to be irresistible). All to say, or all to ask (besides my earlier question about your travel plans), what would be on your Top 5 list of all-time best driving cds? For some reason, I tend to think of David Gray's "White Ladder" in this category, even though I haven't listened to it in a good while ...

Answering Achebe

Greetings, everyone. The responses to Achebe's response to Conrad and Heart of Darkness were predictably interesting. Maybe the best way to give you a representative sampling would be to present two distinctly differently responses. This could be an example of "he said, she said," except for the fact that it's in fact a case of "she said, she said" (Annie from the a.m. class, Lindsay from the p.m. class).

ANNIE: "My position is that I agree with virtually everything Achebe says, including his arguments that Conrad was a racist (I would actually take it a step further and add that he is also a misogynist and flat-out misanthrope but will not digress for this piece). Looking at the novella stylistically, I appreciated Achebe reasserting F.R. Leavis's criticism of "adjectival insistence" and how it is "engaged in inducing hypnotic stupor in his readers," because I was blaming the ridiculously long paragraphs for that. A reader can get so lulled into this story that you do not notice immediately that at no point in the story does an African simply speak. Their only language is incomprehensible grunts, yelling and singing. None are physically attractive. And while all earn a little pity, none receive genuine help. Marlow not only tosses the body of his steerman into the river, unapologetic to the rest of the African crew, he also notes how those same crewmen are likely starving, without making any effort to alter the situation. As Achebe quotes, he likes them in their place (as he does women). I find the argument that Conrad was a man of his times tiresome. When he wrote Heart of Darkness, the "dark side" of imperialism was nothing new. England had been controlling Indian with a very heavy hand since 1858. And with Frederick Douglass having completed his famous two year lecture tour of Britain between 1845-47, the American Civil War, and the global popularity of books like Uncle Tom's Cabin, Conrad's "times" were much more progressive than he chose to be."

LINDSAY: "While I do consider parts of Heart of Darkness questionable in regard to Marlow's portrayal of the African natives, I do not regard either the text or Conrad as racist. Achebe's arguments are not quite persuasive, albeit they are interesting. I found the tone of his argument to be irritating and charged with a somewhat patronizing quality towards both the reader and Conrad. True, he is attacking Conrad's work, but it is a little over the top and hard to take seriously. Also, his arguments were weak in my opinion, particularly in response to those in Conrad's defense. The distinction between Marlow and Conrad is all too important when questioning the racial implications of Heart of Darkness, but Achebe dismisses it, arguing that if Conrad felt differently he should have shown it. Well, I do not know what he has in mind by "an alternative frame of reference," but my own judgment was sufficient in judging the characters, and if Conrad had indeed added a noble, morally straight perspective the integrity and effect of Heart of Darkness would have suffered. Achebe seems insulted that Conrad does not emphasize the equality of the Africans, but I do not know why anyone, upon meeting such drastically different humans of which they have never had knowledge of, would be contemplating issues of equality. Marlow's reaction is appropriately realistic, especially in an era before information was as accessible as it is now. Achebe's final paragraph led me to believe that his roast of Conrad was motivated more by a desire to "reveal" how deep racism pervades Europe, and he decides the purpose of Heart of Darkness is subservient to his own mission. Assuming that the novel "celebrates the dehumanization" is more than a stretch; I read nothing in the text that celebrates anything. Conrad uses Africa as a "backdrop" for literary purposes, not to dehumanize; he could have used many other places in the world, I'm sure, but he chose one he was personally familiar with. I can not believe that anyone could be so strangely passionate about that argument, because it seems to have no bearing. Did he read Heart of Darkness? I'm sure he did, but with the idea that he wanted to be insulted, perhaps. To me this is an essay using Heart of Darkness as a vehicle to make a statement that is related to the novel in certain respects, although Heart of Darkness is not solely about Africa, which is not racist, and using the modern standards of political correctness to analyze a work of literature written when it was not necessary to tiptoe around such correctness in order to not be sued."

A Query

Here's a quirky question for you (and perhaps a difficult one). I was just asked by the Associate Provost to serve on the committee that chooses the book for next year's First Year Experience. I expect it will be difficult to get eight people to agree on a single book, but we'll see what happens. In any event, let me ask you: if you could pick one book that next year's incoming class of freshman would be expected to read, and around which some events could be planned in the Fall (a visit by the author, perhaps integration into the requirements/curriculum for a cross-section of classes), what might it be? I imagine many of you were asked to do this when you first arrived at U.M.: what do you remember about it? Was it worthwhile? What can we do to make this a more successful enterprise?

Let me give you a little more context for the decision process. It has to be a book you can imagine an incoming freshman class reading on their own during the summer before arrival (therefore, it can't be too difficult, too esoteric, etc., and it needs to get their interest). It would ideally be a book that would be of interest to students (and faculty) from all disciplines (i.e., it should be of potentially general interest and not lean necessarily towards "literary types," etc.). It would ideally be a book that can be used to create various campus events (lectures, discussion groups, essay contests, films, etc.) in the Fall when the students are on campus. One particular feature of this Fall will be an exhibit of Pulitzer prize-winning photographs in Missoula; it has therefore been discussed that a book relevant to such an exhibit would be intriguing (e.g., something involving photojournalism, or something dealing with the power of images, or even a Pulitzer-prize winning book to make this a big Pulitzer theme). But that's just one line of approach ...

The Brownings

I don't want to get in the habit of posting these kinds of reading-related items on the blog (I use the announcements section of the course website for this purpose, of course), but since the College of Arts & Sciences's server has been down over the past day or two, and since they still have not been able to restore my directories and websites, I figured I'd put these thoughts on the blog and hope at least some of you stop by these parts before class on Friday. Thus:

We move from the brother-sister Rossettis to the husband-wife Brownings: Elizabeth Barrett and Robert. The former (1806-1861) actually outshone Robert in both general popularity and critical esteem for a good while and, really, was probably the most celebrated woman poet of the Victorian era (these days, Robert is generally deemed to be the greater poet, but she rightfully remains a major figure). She suffered from ill health in childhood and essentially was reduced to invalid status, and eventually moved to the south coast of England where she lived a rather reclusive, Lady of Shalott-like existence. Her courtship with and subsequent marriage to Robert, though, led to sixteen happy years and an outpouring of creative energy.

The poem you'll read, Aurora Leigh, is one of the best-selling, most ambitious, most feminist and longest poems in the English language. As what's called a verse novel (you'll notice the poetry reading nearly like prose fiction), Aurora Leigh becomes a kind of female counterpart to Wordsworth's The Prelude, an autobiographical epic poem that puts the life of the poet at its center (rather than battles and traditional epic fare). Along with C. Bronte's novel Jane Eyre, Aurora Leigh is probably one of the two most indispensable feminist texts of the Victorian era. You might pay particular attention to Books I and V (only portions of the poem are included in your anthologies), and especially to the figure of the aunt in the beginning (e.g., Book I, lines 270-309), the aunt's plan for educating Aurora (e.g., Book I, lines 399-449, and Aurora's subversive resistance to that plan (e.g., Book I, 465-480). In Book II, you might take note of how Aurora fights back against male prejudices (lines 342-364 and 433-439) in debating with Romney, her aristocratic cousin. Then, in Book V, the poem ends with a rather rousing and celebrated admonishment of her (male?) Victorian peers. As you read lines 183-222, consider how she might be critiquing poetry like Tennyson's and try to figure out what she's arguing about the Victorian age.

As for Robert Browning (1812-1889), he was perhaps second only to Tennyson in terms of widespread cultural pertinence and critical acclaim. He's a master of the dramatic monologue, which is probably the Victorian alternative to the Romantic lyric. You'll read one of his earliest (1836) and most shocking dramatic monologues, "Porphyria's Lover," which will serve as a kind of devilish warm-up to the more subtly chilling (and more famous) "My Last Duchess." With "Porphryia's Lover," you might try to identify the "plot" of the poem and maybe think about characterizing just what kind of woman and what kind of man the two "characters" in the poem are. Is he plainly and simply mad, in your estimation? Can we have any sympathy, at any level, for this murderer? Can you in any way connect this poem and its subject matter/concerns with anything else we've read so far this semester? Then, with "My Last Duchess" (which is actually loosely based on 16th century historical events), try again to determine the situation, the context, the plot of this poem. How does the Duke wants us to think of him? What kind of person does he think he is? Subsequently, perhaps beginning at around line 13, what do we in fact come to realize about him? What is his grievance against his previous duchess and how did he deal with that grievance? As you reach the conclusion in lines 47-56, you'll want to look for the aggressively ironic choice of words and imagery as the Duke continues to negotiate for a second marriage.

My 5 for Your 5, Part I

OK, lest we get too serious and work-oriented here on this blog, let me try for a bit levity (and, by the way, do feel free to start your own new thread of conversation via a new posting: you'll just have the pressure of coming up with a good title!). We'll eventually watch a film later in the semester, and in anticipation of that maybe you'd be willing draw from your moviegoing careers and nominate your Top 5 films (it doesn't necessarily have to be the best five films, as you'll see from my list, but might also include films that just represented a memorable moviegoing experience). Annotations are optional (and maybe next we'll try music). This is difficult and provisional, but here's an attempt:

• Wings of Desire (Wim Wenders' most transcendent film; haunting, poetic, beautiful story about an angel who decides to give up immortality to become human)
  
• Jaws (I can never get enough of this one, perhaps because, while still thrilled by the narrative, I increasingly appreciate the craft and the genius of the filmmaking. It's also probably the most memorable "film event" of my life: my grandparents took me to see it as an eleven year-old, against my mother's strict warning that they not do so! I remember wearing brand new sneakers that night, which ensured that my visceral discomfort stretched from head to toe. Incidentally, my grandparents would further enrage my mother by taking me, the following summer, to see Tarzan -- the version where Bo Derek is naked for about 100 minutes; this film (but for Bo, of course) would undoubtedly be in my list of Top 5 most horrible films I've ever seen).
  
• The English Patient (This would probably also be in my Top 5 literary works list. I'm a sucker for this film. I was so sad when I learned that the director, Anthony Minghella, died suddenly last year; he was an amazing talent. This is one of those rare cases when book and film nourish and augment each other in the best of ways).
  
• It's a Wonderful Life (Does it need a justification? Is there a film with a bigger emotional payoff at the end than this one?)
  
• Cinema Paradiso (This is perhaps the most flawed of the five films I include, but you have to love a film that celebrates the love of film. And it comes with its own wallop of an emotional payoff during the poignant coda)
  

It's painful to leave out Peter Jackson's stirring Lord of the Rings films, as well as the first Alien film (sci-fi suspense doesn't get any better), and somehow I feel Star Wars should be in the running merely because of the movie experience it offered to this then twelve year-old ("You're all clear, Kid, now let's blow this thing and go home!" ah, the goosebumps!) -- it's also the only film I ever saw more than twice (five times, in fact) in the theater ... And I've neglected comedies ... Anyway, have at it ... if you'd like!

News That Stays News

I'm always interested in writers who can describe the virtues of reading poetry, in part because some of us often need to be reminded of its value. Wordsworth, Shelley, and Arnold have done it in their various "manifestos" that we've discussed, but I recently came upon a contemporary version. Here are some snippets from an essay by Jane Hirschfield -- "Poetry and the Constellation of Surprise" -- that tell us how poetry can enrich our lives if we open ourselves up to it, read it regularly, listen to its music, seek out its insights and meanings, etc.:

"Each instant of a good poem provides the enactment of an unfathomable transformation. From the silence preceding the title's first word to that first word, from the first word to the second, everything is changed. The illimitable possibility of the empty page becomes some constellation of feeling, thought, interior shift, and musical gesture: the many-leveled experience we feel as 'meaning.' A good poem makes self and world knowable in new ways, brings us into an existence opened, augmented, and altered. Part of its work, then, must also be to surprise -- to awaken into a new circumference is to be startled.

"Poems transport us into unanticipatable comprehensions. In this, lyric epiphany is like any learning sharply won: its surprise is the signal of strongly shifted knowledge. But one of the distinguishing powers of art is that it unseals its experience freshly not only once, but many times. Good poems provide an informing so simultaneously necessary and elusive that they are never, it seems, taken in fully, and can never be fully used up. New each time they are read, good poems offer a kind of mirror-reflection of Tantalus's Hell -- each time we enter poetry's realm, we find hunger both wholly present and wholly answered....

"It is, of course, we who house poems as much as their words, and we ourselves must be the locus of poetry's depth of newness. Still, the permeability seems to travel both ways: a changed self will find new meanings in a good poem, but a good poem also changes the shape of the self. Having read it, we are not who we were the moment before.... Art lives in what it awakens in us.... Through a good poem's eyes we see the world liberated from what we would have it do. Existence does not guarantee us destination, nor trust, nor equity, nor one moment beyond this instant's almost weightless duration. It is a triteness to say that the only thing to be counted upon is that what you count on will not be what comes. Utilitarian truths evaporate: we die. Poems allow us not only to bear the tally and toll of our transience, but to perceive, within their continually surprising abundance, a path through the grief of that insult into joy."

I love that last sentence about poetry helping us bear the "tally and toll of our transience" and directing us to joy, but if you want a one-line substitute for all of this, how about this nugget from Ezra Pound: "Poetry is news that stays news." I hope each of you manage to house at least a few poems after this semester, and that you will thereby find some news that stays news.

The Gorgeous Gloom

I draw my title phrase from section 86 of "In Memoriam," mindful that even when Tennyson's poetry is most anguished it can't help being alluring and darkly beautiful. Anyway, I don't know if any of you will be reading these words (i.e., this blog posting) in advance of Wednesday's class, but especially since we have so much ground to cover with "In Memoriam" I'm wondering if any of you might be willing to share an observation here. Favorite section, for example? I know I'm always moved by #7, which describes the speaker/Tennyson visiting the house of his now-dead friend ("dark house, by which once more I stand"), almost hoping against hope that he'll see him come out the door; and then what a devastating final line to that little poem, "on the bald street breaks the blank day." That may be the most powerful and stark articulation of despondency to be found in the entire poem. I also love the music and freshness of #86 (a song of Spring amidst the gloom), and then the poignance of #95, when the speaker is moved upon re-reading the letters of his dead friend ("so word by word, and line by line, / The dead man touched me from the past"). How are you all doing with this poem, which may be one of the more ambitious (at least in terms of length and scale) that we'll read all semester? Incidentally, for those of you desperate for some prose at this point, take heart: we'll be entering Heart of Darkness in precisely two weeks ...

Music Lessons

I'm always so taken by that last stanza of "To Autumn," even though I'm never quite able to articulate its power and meaning fully enough -- I feel its truth more than I understand it sometimes, you might say. In any event, I'm fascinated by the fact that it seems to be nature's music that, above all, has something to teach the speaker. What and how does it teach is, I guess, the big question? It reminds me of a wonderful quote by the great composer/musician, Daniel Barenboim, which I had on the board for the afternoon (but not the morning) class: "Music provides the possibility, on the one hand, to escape from life and, on the other hand, to understand it much better than in many other disciplines." Do you agree with that, I wonder? It's easy to buy into the part about escape (how many of us turn to the ipods when our airplane hits some turbulence, for example, or when we need to unwind after a taxing day, or when we need to keep ourselves motivated during a workout, etc.), but in what sense do you think music helps us to understand life better? Somehow answering that question might help attune us to the mindset of Keats's speaker in that serene and yet foreboding final stanza ...

Bird Calls

OK, to the important things first. I'm thinking there must be some good songs out there that would be relevant to our variety of bird poems this semester. We've already heard Neil Young's "Birds" ("When you see me fly away without you / Shadow on the things you know / Feathers fall around you / And show you the way to go"), and I've also tried to connect Cohen's/Buckley's "Hallelujah" to "Ode to a Nightingale," but do any of you have any other relevant songs to recommend? Annie (10:00) recommended the Hoagy Carmichael/Johnny Mercer jazz standard "Skylark." I know Shearwater has a song called "Sing Little Birdie," but I haven't seen the lyrics. Goldfrapp's "Little Bird"? Maybe someone would want to invoke that 70s southern rock chestnut (gulp), "Freebird"!

A Visionary Gleam

I'm thinking of that line from Field of Dreams: "if you build it they will come." Will you? Well, we'll see, I guess! In any event, it occurred to me that it might be a good idea to create a kind of electronic parlor room, an overflow vestibule, where we might share and collect some thoughts, observations, and questions that elude the headlong rush of our fifty-minute class periods. No need to be formal, necessarily -- in fact, a dash of irreverence now and then would be a good thing, I'm sure!

I had meant to share with you, by the way, this poem by Billy Collins. There's some instructional value in here regarding waterskiing and feeling around for light switches:

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.