Below I have linked the responses I cross-posted from Moodle. The dates with which they appear on PPP are the dates on which they were posted, but this provides a place-marker for them when they were added to this site.
9/11 Poem Responses (Jan. 19)
T.S. Eliot Responses (Jan. 28)
"Heritage" vs. J. Alfred Prufrock (Feb. 4)
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Welcome to PPP!
What is PPP? If you said purchasing power parity, points per possession, or perfect passive participle, you'd be right. Sort of. While all of these would fit the acronym, this PPP stands for Peculiar Poetry Philosophizing. It's a lengthy title, I realize, but that is why I made it alliterate -- therefore, the unofficial abbreviation will be PPP (or P3 if you prefer).
Peculiar Poetry Philosophizing is an offshoot of my English 210 class, Modern and Contemporary Poetry, taught by Ann Hostetler at Goshen College in the Spring 2011 semester. Here I will post various musings as they transpire (or are assigned). Sometimes the posts will even be at odd hours such as this one — although I suppose 2 a.m. is technically even, it would be 1 a.m. if Indiana understood the geographical basis of time zones.
As the previous sentence shows, I make no guarantee that my logic is perceptible to anyone else.
Until next time, keep the creative juices flowing!
Peculiar Poetry Philosophizing is an offshoot of my English 210 class, Modern and Contemporary Poetry, taught by Ann Hostetler at Goshen College in the Spring 2011 semester. Here I will post various musings as they transpire (or are assigned). Sometimes the posts will even be at odd hours such as this one — although I suppose 2 a.m. is technically even, it would be 1 a.m. if Indiana understood the geographical basis of time zones.
As the previous sentence shows, I make no guarantee that my logic is perceptible to anyone else.
Until next time, keep the creative juices flowing!
Friday, February 4, 2011
"Heritage" vs. J. Alfred Prufrock
CROSS-POSTED FROM MOODLE -- 3/6/11 23:28
I think that “Heritage” seems less American at first glance than “Prufrock” does. But upon closer inspection, that would imply that people of African descent were non-American, and clearly that is untrue. So perhaps the better statement is that my first response was that “Prufrock” seems to fit more into traditional Western thought than “Heritage” does. That could be interpreted to mean that non-Westerners cannot assimilate to our culture, which was not my intent. At any rate, you have my initial reaction – now I am going to stop before I wedge my foot further into my mouth.
Moving on, I don’t see a whole lot of new in either poem; maybe it’s my definition of new that is skewed. Before I wrote this post, I intentionally put aside these poems for a couple of days to see what about them would stick in my memory. For “Heritage,” it was the memory of thoughts of Africa, which Cullen speaks of in the past – almost as if he were expected to be more nostalgic for it than he is. In “Prufrock,” the major mental image is of the middle-aged, balding guy with parted hair walking by the seashore in rolled white pants while eating fruit. That image, I think, remains in my head more because it is rather disturbing than for any poetic reason whatsoever. It reminds me of my grandfather – or would if Grandpa liked fruit and owned white flannel trousers.
For something known as “modernism,” harkening back to Africa, white flannel trousers, and mermaids seems relatively outdated. And in this era of political correctness, it seems strange that I’d have stuck my foot so far into my mouth so far that it’s hit my stomach. Extricating that before class could be a challenge.
I think that “Heritage” seems less American at first glance than “Prufrock” does. But upon closer inspection, that would imply that people of African descent were non-American, and clearly that is untrue. So perhaps the better statement is that my first response was that “Prufrock” seems to fit more into traditional Western thought than “Heritage” does. That could be interpreted to mean that non-Westerners cannot assimilate to our culture, which was not my intent. At any rate, you have my initial reaction – now I am going to stop before I wedge my foot further into my mouth.
Moving on, I don’t see a whole lot of new in either poem; maybe it’s my definition of new that is skewed. Before I wrote this post, I intentionally put aside these poems for a couple of days to see what about them would stick in my memory. For “Heritage,” it was the memory of thoughts of Africa, which Cullen speaks of in the past – almost as if he were expected to be more nostalgic for it than he is. In “Prufrock,” the major mental image is of the middle-aged, balding guy with parted hair walking by the seashore in rolled white pants while eating fruit. That image, I think, remains in my head more because it is rather disturbing than for any poetic reason whatsoever. It reminds me of my grandfather – or would if Grandpa liked fruit and owned white flannel trousers.
For something known as “modernism,” harkening back to Africa, white flannel trousers, and mermaids seems relatively outdated. And in this era of political correctness, it seems strange that I’d have stuck my foot so far into my mouth so far that it’s hit my stomach. Extricating that before class could be a challenge.
Friday, January 28, 2011
T.S. Eliot Responses
CROSS-POSTED FROM MOODLE -- 3/6/11 23:22
A response to the number of questions in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock":
I count twelve occurrences of questions, but only nine questions, as variants of "how shall I presume?" occur thrice; "Do I dare?" is written twice in the same line.
This is not at all related to questions, but were I a mermaid, I would have no desire to sing to an aging man with his hair parted, eating a peach, and walking along the shoreline in rolled white flannel trousers.
"The Wasteland," sections IV and V (originally posted 49 minutes after above)
I agree with Daniel's assessment of Section IV to an extent, but it almost feels like the intensity of the cautionary tale is almost magnified -- not a warning that this CAN happen, but that it WILL.
Similarly, there is no denying that Section V is disjointed and discomforting. As I read it, my first thought is of someone perishing in the desert, like Jeremiah's vine (with added vultures for cinematic effect). Continuing, then, along those lines, is it possible that the first part of the final stanza (lines 425-7) are a sort of final flashback? Fishing does not seem logical as an action for the life stage at which the rest of the section places the protagonist, nor a likelihood that near to an arid plain, nor something one would do from London Bridge.
A response to the number of questions in "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock":
I count twelve occurrences of questions, but only nine questions, as variants of "how shall I presume?" occur thrice; "Do I dare?" is written twice in the same line.
This is not at all related to questions, but were I a mermaid, I would have no desire to sing to an aging man with his hair parted, eating a peach, and walking along the shoreline in rolled white flannel trousers.
"The Wasteland," sections IV and V (originally posted 49 minutes after above)
I agree with Daniel's assessment of Section IV to an extent, but it almost feels like the intensity of the cautionary tale is almost magnified -- not a warning that this CAN happen, but that it WILL.
Similarly, there is no denying that Section V is disjointed and discomforting. As I read it, my first thought is of someone perishing in the desert, like Jeremiah's vine (with added vultures for cinematic effect). Continuing, then, along those lines, is it possible that the first part of the final stanza (lines 425-7) are a sort of final flashback? Fishing does not seem logical as an action for the life stage at which the rest of the section places the protagonist, nor a likelihood that near to an arid plain, nor something one would do from London Bridge.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
9/11 Poem Response
(CROSS-POSTED FROM MOODLE -- 3/6/11, 23:13)
My first thought upon finishing "Try to Praise the Mutilated World" is that Zagajewski never mentions how the world is mutilated -- the second thought was that I usually see the negatives (the exiles whose homes are overrun, for example) rather than the positives, perhaps more of an optimist/pessimist dichotomy than Zagajewski would have preferred.
In "Alabanza," coming to the poem with a knowledge of baseball history, the juxtaposition of the 9/11 airplane with Roberto Clemente's DC-7 in 1972 struck me. Clemente was flying to Nicaragua for relief efforts after an earthquake; his plane went down and all on board were killed, but it had no effect on the intended recipient. The attackers of September 11 knew into what they were getting, but the recipients had no clue what was to come.
"Dropping Leaflets" feels almost more like a collection of phrases than a more traditional poem; I think that enhances its mood, as especially in moments of crisis but often in the rest of our life as well we think not in long chains but short bursts. Particularly in the aftermath of 9/11 as I recall it, the only length to be seen was the path of those who (figuratively speaking) ran around in circles screaming.
My first thought upon finishing "Try to Praise the Mutilated World" is that Zagajewski never mentions how the world is mutilated -- the second thought was that I usually see the negatives (the exiles whose homes are overrun, for example) rather than the positives, perhaps more of an optimist/pessimist dichotomy than Zagajewski would have preferred.
In "Alabanza," coming to the poem with a knowledge of baseball history, the juxtaposition of the 9/11 airplane with Roberto Clemente's DC-7 in 1972 struck me. Clemente was flying to Nicaragua for relief efforts after an earthquake; his plane went down and all on board were killed, but it had no effect on the intended recipient. The attackers of September 11 knew into what they were getting, but the recipients had no clue what was to come.
"Dropping Leaflets" feels almost more like a collection of phrases than a more traditional poem; I think that enhances its mood, as especially in moments of crisis but often in the rest of our life as well we think not in long chains but short bursts. Particularly in the aftermath of 9/11 as I recall it, the only length to be seen was the path of those who (figuratively speaking) ran around in circles screaming.
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