Tag: poetry

Just a fun prompt from my Coursera course: “Sharpened Visions: A Poetry Workshop”

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“Breaking Good”:

Re-poemifying a famous poem that has been de-poemifyied:

The line breaks have been removed from a well-known poem. The task was to turn this bit of writing back into a poem, creating lines and stanzas where we felt it made sense. Inevitably, the meaning of the poem would be altered, showcasing the importance of the “line” and “line break”. It was fun – give it a try!

ORIGINAL PROMPT

tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. out, out, brief candle! life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

 

MY VERSION

tomorrow,

and tomorrow,

and tomorrow,

creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

to the last syllable of recorded time;

and all our yesterdays

have lighted fools

the way to dusty death.

 

out, out, brief candle!

life’s but a walking shadow,

a poor player,

that struts and frets

his hour upon the stage

and then is heard no more.

it is a tale told by an idiot,

full of sound and fury,

signifying nothing.

 

ORIGINAL POEM

Speech: “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow”

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth)

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

Drunk on Nature in Dickinson’s World

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I read aloud this poem several times before any sort of meaning emerged. Interpreting poetry is still a weakness of mine, but I think I have deciphered a bit about Dickinson’s poem.

The poem inspired by this critical analysis essay:

A poem by Emily Dickinson, known by its first line, “I taste a liquor never brewed.”

I taste a liquor never brewed —
From Tankards scooped in Pearl —
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air — am I —
And Debauchee of Dew —
Reeling — thro endless summer days —
From inns of Molten Blue —

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door —
When Butterflies — renounce their “drams”
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats —
And Saints — to windows run —
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the — Sun —

First, the form, particularly how each line is either punctuated by dashes or rolls into the next line, is essential to realize connections between stanzas. There is an unmistakable rhythm and musicality that is pleasant to the ear, but more importantly, the long stops serve to showcase how nature is a central theme in the poem. Resting on “Dew”, “Butterflies”, “Inebriate of Air” especially… this emphasis on key nature-derived phrases paints a picture that the writer is not inebriated by alcohol, which one would assume if a person is drunk: “Not all the Vats upon the Rhine/Yield such an Alcohol”. Note the capitalization of Vats and Alcohol, drawing attention to the inadequacy of man-made liquor.

Second, the narrator is inebriated by nature itself, demonstrated by numerous metaphors throughout the entirety of the poem. The “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee out of Foxglove, a flower, while Butterflies abandon their “drams” (a medieval liquor flask), which allows the writer to drink all the more. She — presumably she, since we don’t know if the narrator is Dickinson herself, is drunk on summer days, reveling in her mirth as a “Debauchee of Dew”, which sends her “Reeling”, out of control, until the Seraphs (angels) of winter interrupt her drunken state.

I have discovered at least one interpretation of this poem, but I am sure there are many others unknown to me. I am stuck on the last stanza’s meaning and significance, and I have yet to figure out what happens to the writer in the end. What consequences might she suffer? I cannot uncover the meaning of the last three lines: “And Saints — to windows run –/To see the little Tippler/Leaning against the — Sun –“. I sense the results of the narrator’s actions are present in these lines, but the meaning is unclear to me.

If this poem were to reveal the inner mindset of Emily Dickinson, I would say that it suggests she would find herself among the naturalist writers of the 19th century, like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. She doesn’t state, necessarily, the importance of communing with nature, or preserving it, but instead becoming completely entranced by it. If you’ve ever stood on the grass, in the sunlight, focusing on nothing but the sun’s rays beating down on you, you can feel the power of nature – how it fills you with unencumbered joy and a sense of wonderment, how it makes you feel stronger and more aware of your natural surroundings, while the man-made world seems dim and gray in comparison. This is what I think of as I read her words. Nature is so potent that one can become drunk on the dew. If I were to guess at the idea presented here by Dickinson, broken down into its simplest form, it would be “Nature trumps civilization.”

 

*I feel it is my responsibility to note the possibility of bias on my part in this interpretation because I subscribe to the transcendental, naturalist view of the above mentioned writers. I may be attributing ideas to Dickinson that are of my own design, but I have attempted to read this poem with an open mind and no predetermined expectations.

 

Breaking Dreams For Love

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“For this activity, you’ll break something as an act of literary analysis. Choose a selection of words from A Midsummer Night’s Dream and rearrange them into something else. You can use any or all of the words as many or as few times as you’d like. What you build from them can take any shape: text, image, video, a collage, a poem, a pile, digital, physical, sense-making or otherwise… For this assignment, you will borrow ideas but you should also make them truly your own—by playing with, manipulating, applying, and otherwise turning them on their head.”

A love story that is NOT a love story, turned on its head, is a love story. Thus, this is my version of “breaking stuff”:

 

PROLOGUE

Shakespeare tells a tale of woe –

Of betrayal, hate, confusion, and spite.

This story of love is but a farce,

For love is made a mockery of:

Unrequited, illusioned, forbidden in the night.

Here protest I in love’s favor!

Not a comedy, but a tragic labor:

So go!

Hence you be soothed

In fairies’ soft light.

 

ONE

Fickle Demetrius proclaims, “I cannot love you” to fair Helena,

Yet she, in earnest, doth proclaim “I love you the more”

I will fawn on you, give me only leave to follow you.”

“How can dost love Hermia whilst you gave your love to me?

I shall change the story, as the dove now pursues the griffin.

The wildest creature doth not compare to thee or have your heart

As you have mine.”

Oh, the forgeries of jealousy!

 

When true lovers have ever been star-crossed,

Is it destiny or some other force,

Playing a scene on the stage of life?

 

Lysander, in defiance of gentle Hermia’s tyrannical father’s wishes

Asks “May I Marry Thee?”

“Steal forth from thy father’s home, into the wood.”

Hermia doth swearest her deepest vow:

“By Venus’ doves, by Cupid’s bow,

By all the vows which knitteth souls and prospers loves –

Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.”

 

Oh, the night approaches…

And Hermia recalls to Lysander,

“In the wood where you and I

Were wont to lie

Upon faint primrose beds,

We shall meet,

Until then, we starve our sight

Till morrow deep midnight.”

 

TWO

In the darkest hours, the fairies play,

In forests, and meads, by paved fountains,

By rushy brooks – where there is nature, there are fairies.

“Let us dance our ringlets in the whistling wind and

Sing our sweet lullabies:

 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby,

Come not near our Fairy Queen

Never harm, nor spell or charm,

Our lovely lady, have thee peaceful slumber,

Lulla, lulla, lullaby,

Good night, sweet Queen,

This melody spells good night.

 

Waxen in their mirth,

The fairies away…

And that knavish sprite,

Robin Goodfellow, known as Puck,

Creates mischief in the woods.

“I, a merry wanderer of the night,

Jest to Oberon and attest to make things right.”

 

Asleep in the woods,

Lysander and his beloved, hiding from the Court,

Helena and her prey, the man who once loved her.

“These human mortals fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;

Sweet summer buds adorn the couples

As the moon washes the air of this ‘mazed world.”

Robin reflects, “This flower’s force in stirring love, long forgotten…

But here lies the maiden, sleeping sound on the dank and dirty ground.

Pretty soul, this charm doth owe…”

Sweet Puck anoints the eyelids of Demetrius, to right the wrong he committed.

 

THREE

Awake, they all, as daylight abates.

“Sweet Helena,” Demetrius praises.

My goddess, my love, divine and rare!”

“Do you mock me? To proclaim love to the unloved?” Helena asks with disdain.

Demetrius begs at her feet, “Tis you, my love, that I hast forgot…

Tender me, forsooth, with affection!

My heart is yours; one heart we can make of it

If we shall be interchained with an oath.”

“How I do quake with fear, if this but be a dream… I swoon with fear!” Helena exclaims.

 

“Heavens shield us gentle lovers with the break of day,” pleads Hermia.

“Alak, Lysander, where are you? No sound, no word?”

“Fear not, my precious Hermia.

Take thee at my innocence, for I was lost in the woods.”

 

By Nature’s hand, dew drops rest on crimson petals

And daylight shines through the forest canopy.

Nymphs and fairies hide away to sleep soundly.

 

From his palace, the Duke brings sweet peace.

With Demetrius desirous of Hermia no more,

Lysander is free to marry his beloved with blessings of the Court.

This eve, they shall blessed be,

And ever true in loving be.

 

EPILOGUE

All is mended, and tragedy avoided, which is a lover’s dream intended.

 

*This poem, though an original work of my own, borrows many lines, verbatim, from “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” by William Shakespeare. The lines have been altered in context, and in some cases, spoken by different characters, but nevertheless, the lyrical language is owed only to the great Bard.

*I read from the Folger Shakespeare Library for this edition of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”:

http://www.folgerdigitaltexts.org