Original Poem-- Imagist Poem #2

THE RABBIT IN THE BELLY

In the prison of the smiling serpent
the seventh of furry princes,
sleeps gnawing, gestating.

-Rachel Doda

Poem Analysis: "Edward Hopper and the House by the Railroad" by Edward Hirsch

Edward Hopper and the House by the Railroad

Edward Hirsch

Out here in the exact middle of the day,
This strange, gawky house has the expression
Of someone being stared at, someone holding
His breath underwater, hushed and expectant;
This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed
Of its fantastic mansard rooftop
And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed
of its shoulders and large, awkward hands.
But the man behind the easel is relentless.
He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes
The house must have done something horrible
To the people who once lived here
Because now it is so desperately empty,
It must have done something to the sky
Because the sky, too, is utterly vacant
And devoid of meaning. There are no
Trees or shrubs anywhere--the house
Must have done something against the earth.
All that is present is a single pair of tracks
Straightening into the distance. No trains pass.
Now the stranger returns to this place daily
Until the house begins to suspect
That the man, too, is desolate, desolate
And even ashamed. Soon the house starts
To stare frankly at the man. And somehow
The empty white canvas slowly takes on
The expression of someone who is unnerved,
Someone holding his breath underwater.
And then one day the man simply disappears.
He is a last afternoon shadow moving
Across the tracks, making its way
Through the vast, darkening fields.
This man will paint other abandoned mansions,
And faded cafeteria windows, and poorly lettered
Storefronts on the edges of small towns.
Always they will have this same expression,
The utterly naked look of someone
Being stared at, someone American and gawky.
Someone who is about to be left alone
Again, and can no longer stand it.

Response:

In Edward Hirsch’s poem,  “Edward Hopper and the House on the Railroad”, I really enjoyed how Hirsch brought the house to life by describing how lonely it was through its actions. It’s strange, because looking at the painting, the subject it looks like an ordinary house. It is only after Hirsch describes it as being a building holding its breath underwater, and feeling shame for its exterior does the house in the painting begin to look more and more that way. Also, I really liked how Hirsch took an omninescent point of view with the painter (Hopper) and the house, rather than describing the house from the painter’s P.O.V.

Poem Analysis: "Naked Girl and Mirror" by Judith Wright

Naked Girl And Mirror

Judith Wright

This is not I. I had no body once-
only what served my need to laugh and run
and stare at stars and tentatively dance
on the fringe of foam and wave and sand and sun.
Eyes loved, hands reached for me, but I was gone
on my own currents, quicksilver, thistledown.
Can I be trapped at last in that soft face?

I stare at you in fear, dark brimming eyes.
Why do you watch me with that immoderate plea-
'Look under these curled lashes, recognize
that you were always here; know me-be me.'
Smooth once-hermaphrodite shoulders, too tenderly
your long slope runs, above those sudden shy
curves furred with light that spring below your space.

No, I have been betrayed. If I had known
that this girl waited between a year and a year,
I'd not have chosen her bough to dance upon.
Betrayed, by that little darkness here, and here
this swelling softness and that frightened stare
from eyes I will not answer; shut out here
from my own self, by its new body's grace-

for I am betrayed by someone lovely. Yes,
I see you are lovely, hateful naked girl.
Your lips in the mirror tremble as I refuse
to know or claim you. Let me go-let me be gone.
You are half of some other who may never come.
Why should I tend you? You are not my own;
you seek that other-he will be your home.

Yet I pity your eyes in the mirror, misted with tears;
I lean to your kiss. I must serve you; I will obey.
Some day we may love. I may miss your going, some day,
though I shall always resent your dumb and fruitful years.
Your lovers shall learn better, and bitterly too,
if their arrogance dares to think I am part of you.

Response:

There is a mournful and beautiful tone to Judith Wright’s poem, “Naked Girl and Mirror”. It’s a story about a woman who, after feeling years and years of being detached to her body, finds herself truly noticing it through a mirror. It’s an idea that I think most people can relate to—the concept of finding things about yourself physically that you find unattractive. This is especially true in the case of women, as most ideas of what true beauty is in advertisements are directed towards them. Anyway, while this poem isn’t my favorite, I still found it to be an interesting read—the language tends to get a bit flowery for me for some reason, but overall I enjoyed it.

Imagist -- Poem 4

THE DEER IN THE CAVE

Den swallowed in flesh
Bulking, black bear sleeps
Cuddling carnage

-Rachel Doda

Experience--Poem 3

Toasted

11:30 a.m.

We’re sitting at the bar

of a breakfast café.

The lady next to us has had

one too many mimosas,

Swaying side to side

a little-diddle,

rubbing, bumping

her fatty elbows

into my side.

You go to the bathroom--

I ask her where she’s from.

Oh-Hi-Oh

Overbearing sister

of my Ol’ Kentucky home.

I should not

have talked to her.

She reminds me

of someone.

The nasal voice,

banshee tendencies,

the alcoholic vapors.

And she’s 

asking,

asking,

asking…

Where do you go school?

I tell her where I go.

What do you do?

I tell her what I do.

Oh…

How do you make money

off of that?

I am a snail, shriveling up

inside my shell.

You return,

I scoot my bar stool

a little closer

to you.

She continues with questions.

My answers are cryptic Atlantian.

Yet you and I speak

with that fire.

Flames flickering up from the forgery

of our shared dreams.

She asks us if we have that same passion

in bed.

--Rachel Doda

Poem Analysis: "A Hand" by Jane Hirschfield

A Hand

Jane Hirshfield

A hand is not four fingers and a thumb.

Nor is it palm and knuckles,
not ligaments or the fat's yellow pillow,
not tendons, star of the wristbone, meander of veins.

A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines
with their infinite dramas,
nor what it has written,
not on the page,
not on the ecstatic body. 

Nor is the hand its meadows of holding, of shaping—
not sponge of rising yeast-bread,
not rotor pin's smoothness,
not ink. 

The maple's green hands do not cup
the proliferant rain.
What empties itself falls into the place that is open.

A hand turned upward holds only a single, transparent question. 

Unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs.

Response:

I really liked Jane Hirschfield’s poem, A Hand, for many
reasons. First off, I love her use of repetition in the poem with the words “A
hand…” usually followed by the word “not”. It really helps create a rhythm within
the poem, and helps to drive the point about what really is a hand. I also
enjoyed how the poem spoke of what a hand isn’t by actually saying what most
people consider a hand. It really makes the reader think—if what has been said
isn’t a hand, then what exactly is a hand? What is the scope beyond it? Lastly,
I really enjoyed how some the stanzas within the poem are just one line. This really
creates emphasis on just what the poem wants to emphasis, as well as forces the
reader to really take in the line.  

Poem Analysis: "The Cuban Doctor" by Wallace Stevens

I went to Egypt to escape
the Indian, but the Indian struck
out of his cloud and from his sky.

This was no worm bred in the moon,
wriggling far down the phantom air,
and on a comfortable sofa dreamed.

The Indian struck and disappeared.
I knew my enemy was near - I,
drowsing in summer's sleepiest horn

Response:

The Cuban Doctor by Wallace Stevens is a strange poem to me. I know that some poems will utilize the idea of mystery and intrique as a way of making the poem have more meaning. However, I never really like those poems, because they tend to leave the audience out of the picture—with this one, I feel the same way. I understand that its simplicity is nice, and that the words are carefully chosen. But I just don’t understand what this poem is talking about—it sounds like a dream to me. If anything, I did enjoy the second stanza, and the visual—I just wish it had been stronger.

.

Poem Analysis: "Jungle" by Robert Kelly

The green that grows from me depletes my soil,
is not variety, does not mulch down
a complement of intimate support. Growth
stands between me & the sun, the branches
repeat endlessly the same ideas, the same form.
Rain comes through, I get the leach of it
colored by monotonous unstable leaves.
I thought these feelings into place & now
feelings have no place to thing their own.
The tree trunk is will, skeleton of earlier design
that leaves no room for breath or search or care.
A jungle has not heart. The core of it is to be more.

Response:

Jungle is a very visual poem—I love how Robert Kelly uses “me” as a way to compare the audience to that of the jungle; it’s a great way to help the audience relate to the different concepts of growth found in the forest. But rather than bring light to the subject, or romanticize the concept of the jungle, Kelly portrays it as a place that is lacking. It is a place that yearns to be more, as supposed to a world full of life. This is brought up by the juxtaposition of the two ideas of growing to meet the sun, and the water not reaching the leaves of a plant. Lastly, the concept of the jungle not having heart is haunting, since it is the exact opposite of what most people believe the jungle to be.

Some Place--Poem 2

Dusk at El Dorado 

Together on

A blue couch,

frayed pillows

shoving us off its edge.

This apartment is

old.

Fitzgerald, Capote, Vonnegut,

dead

men leaning

against each other on

a rickety shelf among

classics.

You mention

the lounge

in front of

us.

A lush, emerald sitting beast

where Jack painted Rose.

I chuckle at the thought

of us doing the

same.

But there is little light

in this rabbit hole.

And you must go

before four-eyed,

six-fingered,

eight-tongued,

ten-faced,

monsters

crawl out of the angel city

to ravage and devour

the flesh from our

bones.

You pick me up

twirl me

like a father saying

goodbye

to his little girl.

I wave,

turn away,

look back,

all I see

sitting now

your

ghost.

-Rachel Doda