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.