A Look at Shane Hawley's Untitled Poem about Wile E. Coyote

This was a very interesting poem to listen to.

At first, the some-reason audible gasps between the lines were a bit disenfranchising to hear, but as his delivery became more understood and I got what he was getting at, I think his breathing actually added an entirely new layer to the poem itself. He discusses addiction, satisfaction, being trapped, and what it's like to be like that through the eyes of Wile E. Coyote as he chases and ruminates upon the Road Runner. Pondering the flat tunnels, giant magnets, rockets, the times he's been diced up, exploded, pancaked, and destroyed, he turns the character into an evangelical torch of addiction-fueled inspiration.

This vocal inflection is also made much more prevalent when he tones it down throughout; where the breaths are not so obvious, and the lines flow together more just before the booming crescendo of the next stanza. This is a great example of how to use your voice as a dynamic tool, instead of a medium for getting your poem through a microphone. In many open mics we have on campus, there tends to be a theme of the readers; a monotonous, analogue voice that recites words without any inflection of their own accord. They don't breathe life into the works that they bring. I think if they see this post, and this video, they'll understand better what I'm talking about. The transduction of a poem from script to wind is an art in and of itself, and Shane nails it in my opinion.

This isn't so much a discussion about the poem Mr. Hawley made, but it did spur a group discussion about vocal dynamics in poetry; thought it would be good to share a bit on here about it, too.

A Look at Taylor Mali's "What Teachers Make"

This is absolutely one of my favorite works from Taylor Mali. The rest of his pieces generally share his animation and almost cinematic appeal to the crowd. However, this particular one stays with me. You can really receive the conviction of his position from his performance. Towards the end however he begins to fall into some clang and incidental rhyming that, to me, disrupts the general flow of the piece 

"Now let me break it down for you so you know what I say is true
teachers make a god damned difference, now what about you?"

These are nice lines, but when compared to the rest of his body of work in the poem itself, they stand out as a bit bland at a time when closing up the narration is a time to be concise and memorable. To me, falling back on this despite the rest of the poem kind of takes the wind out of the sails a bit of the energy he builds up throughout; here he is, putting together this intense free-verse, narrative poem, and then ends with a few lines that incidentally rhyme with each other. The flow and feeling of the work, in my opinion, takes a heavy blow to the general pathos that Mali spent his time crafting in his three minutes. Then again, it may be effective for some since it provides the listener an easy way to remember the final lines with their rhyming format.

If it is anything, it's definitely interesting way to finish out a work, and a great poem all around.

A Look at "Pretty" by Katie Makkai

First off: 

Let us discuss this wonderful work from Katie Makkai.

My only grievance against this work is towards the beginning; the sing-song way of the first few lines, I feel in a way, overextends herself in the piece. That format of delivery doesn't come up again at any other point of the poem. The momentum of the sang lines also doesn't feel well when put against the entirety of the rest of the poem; it feels like it simply just doesn't belong. I recently performed this poem at a gathering and experimented with the un-sung lyrics, and I thought it felt a bit more natural. 

Though, I can understand the sang lyrics from a conceptual perspective. In some ways, it captures the audience's attention and keeps them grounded as the speaker takes them through the journey of the poem. With that being said, I think there has to be some other way to translate that grabbing effect without having to rely on the sang stanzas.

After this part though, it goes into an expansive aria of reality and clarity; one of my favorite pieces to listen to and most of all share with people. An overall fantastic work; I think the beginning portion is more of a personal preference than anything.

A Look at 'Beethoven' by Shane Koyczan

Being at the top of the page, I hope you've spent a little bit of time to check out Shane Koyczan's spoken word poem "Beethoven". If not, the video should be linked above from YouTube.

The reason I chose this work to look at is because it stands very differently in comparison to the rest of his works that (at least) I've seen/heard him perform. The energy is much more intense in this, and flows directly through and into his words. In his works such as "Tomatoes", "To This Day", and "The Crickets Have Arthritis", his momentum is slower (in music terms, largo), and full of expectancy. I think the reason I've always enjoyed "Beethoven" so much was because it breaks what I think is my general heuristic of what his poems generally are: emotive, intimate performances that move with you slowly mostly, but sometimes quickly-- like a crescendo in a waltz.

This piece though feels like a trip downhill on a bike or running through a field.There are some slower portions, and these make me think that he simply "flipped" the format of his delivery. Moving from a slow-fast-slow, to a fast-slow-fast approach.

In my opinion, I think it works very well, and hopefully I come across more in this style.

Re: Deviating from the Original Cause

The previous poem I've posted is from a larger, unnamed collection of works I've been appending together in the free time I manage to still have. It started after I went through a recent stint of watching and listening to spoken-word poets, more specifically the works of Anis Mojgani. 

Mojgani's works. to me, have been incredibly interesting. When I see them written, they tend to be a little flat or a little confusing at times. When they're just words on a page I can't really take much from them, but when I experience his performances of them they make a little more sense. The way he writes them is reminiscent of ammunition being prepared for him to fire at an audience. That last poem I wrote with Mojgani in mind, and hopefully I had it sit well on its own without having to rely on a voice to deliver it, but that may be the case. 

It's interesting how a work can be very un-engaging when we read it, but when we hear it we get hit with the "Oh okay, I get it now" factor, even if the work itself is abstract beyond what we can take from it. Let's take his work "My Library has 17 Books", a very popular poem of his. The parts are separated into 17 pieces, each representative of a book. But entirely, it's a bit confusing to me. I do not know what he means to send to his audience with it; his other works by contrast all have their own discriminatory aim. "Four Stars", "Milos" etc. all have a point that they make. Despite this, "My Library has 17 Books" remains a solid staple of his set up.

Here is his work in action:

I wonder why that is.

Deviating from the original aim of this cause:

A long form free verse poem - "Ruminations on Ships in Bottles"
----

When I was a kid

I heard a joke from a friend to the effect of

“knock knock”

“who’s there?”

“booger”

And that’s as far as she and I ever got

Before I was on the floor face up

Tears flowing into my ears

All I can hear, the muffled laughter from my own

Marble diaphragm

The mausoleum of my insides shone

From her lamp as she excavated from me

A glimpse of a childhood.

She became vapor

And left again was I, to my studies.

Eight under the belt so far,

I was the solitary reigning champion of my flash cards

It’s late and I can hear the crickets outside

Their violin legs speak to me, beckon me

To the window, and the sinew shades part to reveal

The suspended dinnerplate on the onyx tablecloth

Ready for me to devour the cosmos.

The bottles on the top shelf hoard

Battleships what will never know water

But you better damn well believe they’d know what to do about it.

The carpet is beige and I have licked the pavement outside

From trying to climb into my window

I sit near the bench of the ivory Steinway, and the French doors are open

The honeysuckles send me their manifestos.

It’s dark, and I tell myself stories by flashlight

And I fend off the dark beings of beyond with my crude

Whittled

Knife.

I find the books that make me feel as though a hand reached out

And took my own.

I keep them hidden away tight against the many crypts of my stomach

And I can feel them drop still when their names are smeared.

The milk goes between the shards of the cup and my tears find my mouth

And my hands are covered in chocolate dust

The spoon is upside down on the vanilla floor

The ship’s bottle rocks against the wind

I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard a joke.

Nine years,

And I’m sitting in front of a mirror truly considering myself.

I’m looking back into emerald saucers and outside

I hum, and I find that

There are sparrows in my throat.

I see a girl in yellow, and her nose reminds me of silver.

If you cross her, her glare can shave diamonds.

I get the impulse to craft entire planets with her;

Our imagination together to be the pulpit

That screams out across the park

And remind everyone that we’re the children who survived.

She would be a mermaid,

Hair made of seaweed and her nails are the spines of pufferfish.

Her mission is to drag down my crewmates to drown them

I invite her to be my first mate.

Her mother pulls her arm up from the sandbox.

I never see her again.

Ten years now

And my sleep is disturbed.

It is from no phantom nor ghost but my own mind rattling my chains.

Eventually, I do greet a dream.

In it, I am in the yard, now filled Snapdragons.

I sit to watch them, and a honeybee comes by and I remark

“What a strange cat that bird is.”

I am volted from my sarcophagus by the slam of a door

My capillaries cold and solid; like a transit system and all the trains have died.

My body feeling like unused ticker tape

The cobblestone debris in my stomach is a stowaway

And nobody thought to check the barrels labeled “Apples” for confederates.

I look across the comforter and the wrinkles form disfigured flowers

And all I can think of are honeybees.

Eleven so far,

And I have carved for the world a Louvre in my lungs

Where no statues or Rembrandts sit

But the wallpaper is up and the trim is finished.

My flash cards have evolved into the warm buzz of electricity beyond glass

Ghosts relay to me my times tables past the twelves and thirteens

And the dust at the bottom of the bottle

Sits as a beachhead underneath the ship

The crickets don’t come around anymore

The honeysuckles have moved

The stain in the kitchen reminds everyone.

I learn about Michelangelo and I remark

About his prediction of angels.

I wonder if I pull my own love from my own marble

If angels will pour out to fill the room

And help me plant a garden.

I wash my hands in icebergs to find goosebumps

To trace so I can rip from my skin the things

I know I don’t know, but I’ve got to know them somewhere

Because I’m sure as hell not going to find them from another.

How to tie a tie.

How to ride a bike.

How is a person made.

What am I doing here.

How do you love.

Does it go on the left, or the right.

How do you change a tire.

How do you be a good son.

Twelve years over the fence

And the dog bites at me as I cross

But I am too quick for it

And I get a little quicker every day

Someday, I will catch up to my DNA donors

For they seem to have forgotten me.

When I try to sleep

My hand rests beneath my head

Beneath my ear

It’s warm and when I wake I find it there.

The ghosts and cards on the table unused and replaced with notebooks of periodic tables

Knead me.

It’s nighttime, and the ocean is vertical against the windowpane

I imagine myself laying on the deck of the ship

The dark cradling me and rocking us back and forth

And back and forth.

Thirteen years and I’m hiding underneath my ironwork bed

I’d stolen their time by swiping a cookie from the slate countertop.

My legs sting like hornets from the hands upon them

I sit and stare at them

I’m waiting for honey to come from these combs.

The blanket pinned over my window

Has crumbs of light poking their fingers through

And lay themselves across the carpet in gentle tiger stripes.

I find a book and flip through it, it’s about a man on a ship and the whale he chases.

I can relate.

Fourteen years sailing with Captain Ahab

And I have found the most appealing of reflections in these stories.

I experiment with spray painting

Making shapes in the yard

I remember what it says because the shouting afterwards had three times as many syllables.

All else I can remember is feeling like a dandelion in the grass after I finished my stanza,

The rest is preoccupied with red faces and disappointment.

Fifteen,

The lightbulb in my room goes out, and it’s eight months before it’s replaced.

I do not mind the dark, because it reminds me of ships in the ocean.

Sixteen

My ribs are church pews
I take my breaths from walking briskly in the school halls
to avoid the evening janitor as I jimmy the lock to the art room
and I turn them into collages of prayers that what I do now
may someday pay off.

The lines I make across the paper ring true to me

and my nails are filed down to blood moving to get a ruler

The things I read echoing around upstairs and the wheels that turn

Skipped training altogether.

I’m cascading the pastels across the board and I’m collecting my thoughts

Like rainwater in a bowl.

The janitor has left.

The sky is splattered with clouds

And the roads are wet-- I can tell because of the sounds of the cars.

I make it home, and the door is locked.

I think I hear a cricket but these days I think their strings are broken

Because the universe couldn’t even set the table.

And I wait there

In the middle of the ocean.

Seventeen years under the belt,

And my eyes have grown sandbags to keep the shells at bay.

My Louvre has slowly begun to fill,

With hurried spraypainted mantras that I can barely hold on to.

The ghosts are gone

The plot of honeysuckles is trampled

I can hear the dinner conversation down the hall,

And I squeeze underneath my bed to hide for a while.

I fall asleep there.

A leaf stuck in the futon’s prison arrangement falls on my nose

The rainwater makes the plastic window frame warp

They didn’t come for me.

There are no plates.

There’s enough Reynolds Wrap to craft a lightning rod,

Which I do and leave it on the porch nearby

I wait until it’s charged to kiss it.

I leave

And come back.

The rain has carved oceans and all I can think of are bottles

Full of cedarwood in special constellations.

The front door is unlocked

My room is nothing but faux-wood slats on the floor

I lay on it, and can feel the vibrations of my heart sputter

Across the boards.

My teeth bite into my knuckle and my Louvre begins to crumble

The manifesto of the honeysuckles is splashed with white out

The bottle cracks and the wood was never prepared

My veins writhe against my muscles for disappearing ink

My tears travel up my forehead

I’ve become a caterpillar doubled over

Waiting to kiss away regret.

My ribcage becomes a wreath of juniper leaves

And my impression impresses the floor boards

I can see the receipt from Goodwill crumpled on the table

Like a balled-up ballad about how they’ve beaten me

On the porch, the topsy nailheads balance under my soles

I roll my ankle on the second to last step to the sidewalk.

I am on the ground, a chrysalis waiting for an occupant better than I

One that can be loved by monarchs

One that also feeds ants slices of pomegranates

One who doesn’t need to rely on synthetic release

Just to find rest.  

One who will find forlorn mermaids who remind them of silver.

Who breaks glasses of milk.

Who laughs with sparrows in their throat.

Who falls in love with the world every time they learn something new about it. every single time.

Every. Single. time.

I lay there and I realize, I am the only Me that will come around.

And were all in the same ocean together

With our own precious Louvres erected in our chests, our minds, our hearts

And while I can’t expect enlightenment I can offer swimming lessons.

In the echo of the nighttime the percussion rises over the treetops

A stampede of water as though the sky understood

The rain greets me as an honorary guest

Though my thoughts are tainted by happenstance

I return briefly to an ivory bench beside a honeysuckle patch

My body becomes a dam for the wash, and all I feel is the warmth of the rays by the garden

The orchards of my heart have grown their fruit

The branches, reaching out to the highest window

Waiting for me to perch.

My ocean is carved in the shape of my soul

And I can’t help but smell the blossoms in the drainage ditch

The relief effort for the Louvre is underway

Please

Come sail with me.

On Sickness and Nonfiction

This blog has been very on and off lately, and I apologize for that. School has been keeping me from making this the height of my attention (ironic considering one of my classes required this blog be made), as well as a bout of an upper respiratory infection.

This morning after I dragged myself from bed, and sat at 7am in front of my computer to register for my fall classes, I noticed I had a message from a friend asking about what's so special about non-fiction writing. Here are some of my thoughts on it.

For a while I was interested heavily in high fantasy, or fiction in general, because it required a high degree of world and character building, and afforded myself the ability to literally craft whatever I wanted in this story. However, at the end of the writing, I often felt very hollow; it was more than likely a result of my poor ability to write fiction, but when working on non fiction devices, I felt that hollowness cleansed.

Working in non fiction is a lot like the art of Kintsugi; the art of repairing broken pottery with gold. The act is symbolic of making things that have been damaged much more valuable because of the fact that they've had a history. Non fiction writing I feel operates in this same way-- you're forced to search and reevaluate all these different parts of your life, and sew them together into something much larger, and much more important than they were on their own. It turns the seemingly mundane into these symbolic, story driven elements that serve the reader. It's an outlet for primal, first hand experience. 

I think it's a way to better define the kaleidoscope of human experience into an applicable, understandable mode.

"The Inner War" Analysis (part 2)

Investigating Heartbeats (continued)

For the first part, head on over to:

http://anauthorodyssey.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-inner-war-analysis-part-1.html

We move on from the dream sequence, and eventually to a real-life situation the narrator finds themselves in. With this new context, but the same rapid-heartbeat texture of the sentence, a new understanding is made for the reader about how the illness of PTSD affects a person; not just in expositional evidence of case studies, but by actually implanting the reader into the emotive shoes of the writer.

“On the subway, I hope I can somehow control the whole car I am in. Make everyone behave, stay in their own personal spaces. Be aware of themselves.”

Here, we have an interesting amalgamation of complex construction and compensation for short sentences. “Be aware of themselves” in such an odd-duck fashion that it skirts the boundary of the two styles of construction the author has already showcased for the reader. Moving from there, we go from the nervous-breath construction (shorter, compound sentences) into the characteristic heartbeat momentum (concise, rapid delivery, short sentences), utilizing even contextually sound words such as “Ready,” a single sentence, with two beats. We reach the height of this scene with the narrator saying “I am suffocating.” A poignant end to an intense area, still following the heartbeat paradigm;

“I – am”, “Suf – fo”. “Ca – ting”.

We’re given time and time again this aesthetic blueprint to experience not only the author’s research and knowledge, but obtain a slice of their life. This heartbeat motif follows the reader through each author-involved scene; whether it’s  (“I’m choking her”; “…I would cut to the bone”) or (“Hooray for me”; “Early spring”). However, a contextual shift occurs through the use of this heartbeat device. In all the times this ability was used, the scene wherein it took effect tended to be violent or driven with anxiety, which transferred directly to the reader. By the end of the essay there is a distinct polar shift in tone from anxious and outward, to positive and more inward—yet the heartbeat remains in the text. How does this translate to the reader?

The new shift in tone presents a context not for anxiety, but for a sense of peace—almost meditation. The concluding sentence of the essay reads “”I keep writing. I must. Over and over and over. The same story a million ways”, or, using the view of the heartbeat meter; “I – keep”, “wri – ting”, “I – must”, “o – ver”, “and – o”, “ver – and”, “o – ver”, “the – same”, “sto – ry”, “a – mill”, “ion – ways." 

Author Hallie Ephron states about rhythm and momentum in action scenes “Choose your verbs carefully to convey exactly the kind of action you are trying to evoke in the mind of the reader. Then structure your sentences to reinforce the kind of momentum you're aiming for.” This stands true for this essay, but in a different way than a semantically-linked one. The structure of the author’s sentences conjures not only a feeling of action happening in the story, but an inward emotion that links the reader not necessarily to the scene, but as the character in the scene. You’re provided a microscope-perspective of not only the mind, but also the literal feeling of the author as they experienced it.

This is the fundamental idea of the power behind this essay. It reaches beyond its research and beyond even the scenes the narrator is placed in, and touches the reader to the point of being able to experience the similar heartbeat patterns of the author. As the context changes, so does the general flow of the piece; the hostile encounters such as on the subway and with their partner are read fast and move quickly because of the shortened breath-like sentence structure. However, in the more calm, peaceful, and rehabilitated portion of the piece, the sentence structure is experienced as a slowing of the heart beat because the surrounding pace of the work is also slowed down.

This incorporation of a heartbeat meter in the sentence structure I feel is an attempt by the author to not simply showcase the prevalence of PTSD in society, but to also tap into the emotional center of the reader and make them feel more involved. Throughout, the narrator feels dejected, out of place, awkward, and alone. It is through the heartbeat meter, and not completely the evidence provided that they accomplish this. The entire purpose of their work is to make the voices of those afflicted with this illness heard through at least her voice, and she communicates this not only by her writing, but also by contacting our innermost understanding of the human experience. 

"The Inner War" Analysis (part 1)

Investigating Heartbeats

In Greek, Rhythm was translated as “any regular recurring motion, symmetry”. This idea has been sought heavily in music and in writing as a way to carry the experience fluidly from one thing to the other. In “Sequelae: The Inner War” by Bindu Wiles, she showcases the issues and trials people who experience Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) have to face as they assimilate back into contemporary society. 

 

The specific paint the author uses to create this picture isn’t necessarily found completely in the semantics of her sentence structure, but also heavily in the syntax; the way their words were arranged.  On page 33 the author describes a dream they’re in and having a PTSD episode “The blade is rusty…I can see 360 degrees…I can hear everything people are saying; my skin vibrates and tingles with awareness”; the sentences become simple and in breaths as the narrator delivers them. However, let’s look deeper into this scene with “I am the wrong kind of Wonder Woman” on the same page. This falls into the same “breath” category as with the others, but if you separate the words within the breath into their syllables, a unique rhythm is crafted;

“I – am” “The – wrong”, “Kind – of”, “Won – der”, “Wo – man”

 This is a heartbeat rhythm which is also seen often in Polyphonic-textured music with lyrics to create these very human beats.

All the scenes where the narrator is directly involved also involve this specific paradigm of sentence structure. There’s a casual build up to this heartbeat rhythm. The build-up is the pivotal mode of this structure as it mimics the biological function of a rising heart rate. On the same page 33, the dream sequence paragraph begins with;

 “The recurring dream I have has been with me for nearly 25 years. In it, I am the owner of a large, square metal shovel with a wooden handle, the kind you find in a horse stable or on the back of an asphalt truck,”

 But her sentence structure evolves into;

“I am fast. Faster than they are.”

As we move farther away from the dream and back to the main researched characters of their essay, the sentences become more formed and elaborate.

What does this do for the reader? Robert Ray Lorant, in his essay “The Rhythm of Prose” writes “Good prose is rhythmical because thought is; and thought is rhythmical because it is always going somewhere, sometimes strolling, sometimes marching, sometimes dancing. Types of thought have their characteristic rhythms, and a resemblance is discernible between these and types of dancing.” It’s this understood rhythm that catches a reader as they’re working through a piece, and it’s what carries them throughout. The structure of Bindu Wiles’s sentences into the heartbeat pattern works so well because it captures the most basic and fundamental of human rhythms. 

This covers most of the dream sequence style of Wiles' sentence structure, but in the next part we'll dissect the structure of the real-world scenario sentences, and see if there is any further manipulation of cadence and rhythm to try and bring about a feeling of anxiety, desperation, or something entirely different.

 

What Is This Place

Beginnings and Introductions

Hello! Welcome to "An Author Odyssey", where we'll try to examine, understand, and generally look and different authors and their works; specifically with a focus as to what works, how it works, and why. While much of this page will be grounded in fact (such as the biographies of the authors, and summaries of work), a lot of the rationale behind why their works may be effective are to be my own opinion; here's hoping you enjoy!

As for myself, I'm currently a student trying to understand what I can while I'm still able to, with what I've got. Hopefully you'll come along and we'll be able to learn a few things together.

In Any Case

Please enjoy this video, narrated by voice actor Roy Kelly reading from a post on the Reddit message board; I leave you with this until I manage to get more substantial content up between the many readings of quine and take-home-exams. 

Until next time!