Crystal Williams Reading

On Thursday night I went to the UMMA to see Crystal Williams perform some of her poetry. She is an African American poet from Detroit and Madrid. She has published several collections of her work and currently teaches in Oregon. Her first poem was called "Ritual". In it I noticed several things that were prevalent in the other poems she read. Thematically I noticed that in "Ritual", as well as others like "Nightbloom for Jade" and "At the Water", Williams has the speaker talking to a child subject. It seemed to me that Williams was talking as her adult-self to herself as a child. This format allows for unique reflection and a personalizing quality. Also, I noticed in "Ritual" that she uses a conversational tone that makes her work easier to relate to. However, this authentic quality doesn't prevent the poems from having a universal quality as well. Her poem "This Parable, This Body" exemplified well her sonic techniques and how the performance enhanced her work. First, Williams uses a lot of repetition. This emphasized important ideas, enhanced different moods-defiance, weariness, sarcasm-and helped to establish a rhythm. Along with repetition, Williams used speed variances, pauses and elongated words (especially important ones) to establish a flow and rhythm that made the performance more entertaining. This style reminded me of slam poetry and it helped to draw me into the poems. Also, Williams was very laid back and joking with the audience which fit with her conversational tones.
Most of the poems she read were from one of her published collections called "Troubled Tongues". They dealt a lot with ideas of appearance and identity. There were several references to birds, which made me think of their symbolic link to freedom. There was also a lot of references to her own experiences, mainly dealing with her skin color. This is especially true in my favorite poem of the performance called "How to Become a Black Woman". In it she sarcastically describes how she "became black" after being raised by white parents through adoption. It was in a step-by-step format and exemplified many of the things I have already mentioned: rhythm, repetition, conversational/relatable, etc. The rest of the poems were ones that she is still working on and that were inspired by her return to Detroit. It was interesting to see that these poems were darker and more serious. Overall, I enjoyed the performance and look forward to reading more of her work in the future.

Backward

We started out laughin, ended up cryin
The coming tide is losing momentum
And the ceaseless singing has lost its rhythm.

The trees are all fruitful but the plates remain empty
The blind man sees the world as a dream,
But with regained sight he sees its a nightmare.

The sun won't set cuz it don't want me sleeping
The voice of the thrushes has forgotten the spring
The people are all busy being lost on the street.

You said you got no time cuz you're lookin for answers
But, hey man, you can't find answers without knowing the questions
You can't go forward until you recognize you're backward.

Robert Frost Analysis

acquainted with the night

When looking at Robert Frost I have always been conflicted. Normally, I gravitate towards free verse and risky poets, but with Frost I have always found that he has made his poems interesting within the scheme of rhyme, traditional structure, etc. I find it interesting that within the context of these traditional constraints he usually avoids cliche or melodramatic lines and instead uses more common terminology and imagery to convey his ideas. At the same time they are employed to usually create a strong message or feel. This is true in "Acquainted with the Night".
In this poem I actually initially saw comparisons with the work of Bob Dylan (which I have previously covered). The poem follows a traveler, making his way through the night, in a world that seems less than welcoming. It seems almost that the wanderer in this poem is the boy in Dylan's "Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" that has gone back out to change the world-and failed. "I have walked out in rain-and back out in rain," (Line 2). I see the rain as being a fairly universal symbol of misfortune and bad times, and in that way seems to be the Dylan traveler returning home again after failing (as if the hard rain had overcome him). The repetition of "I" in the first five lines gives off a sense of weariness, which the sixth line concludes in context, "And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain". In such simple ways Frost has conveyed an intense feeling of weariness and hopelessness; the speaker too distraught to bother to explain. The silence of the street except for his footsteps signifies loneliness, or that he seems to know something that makes him no longer able to relate with others. Then, the call that is neither "to call me back or say good-bye" furthers this point. The "One luminary clock against the sky," (Line 12) appeared to me to be the moon, and the fact that it read the time as neither right or wrong furthers this feeling of indifference, hopelessness, loss of purpose, etc. The idea of being "acquainted with the night" itself signifies loneliness as most people are active during the daytime. For me the rhyming in this poem (although Frost almost always did), the common images/terminology, and the ambiguous setting, time period, location, etc. made this piece archaic and pertaining to folklore. Even the simple rhymes bespoke the every man. This was interesting because it reminded me of how Dylan used similar tactics to accomplish a related feel in his piece. This was not elitist, it was the poetry of the average man.
Frost has accomplished conveying his feel of failure, loss, etc. by depicting images of a lonely traveler of the night, a common man alienated from everyone, indifferent, and in a way that could be applicable to any time or place.

Prose Form Analysis

I figure that I'll write about the similarities and differences between the form of poetry called prose and the other forms. Prose is different from the other forms most obviously in its structure. Whereas most other forms break their poems into stanzas and lines, prose poetry is more like a paragraph. This makes it almost more similar to a vignette or very short story. Also, there is almost never a rhyming scheme or meter, which is common in most other forms of poetry. These differences allow the prose form to tell more of a narrative in a shorter more free style.
There are also similarities between the prose form and other forms. For one, they both often incorporate a lot of images. Also, although there's often not rhyming or meter, I noticed a lot of prose poems still incorporate sound devices like alliteration and repetition. Lastly, prose poems are generally pretty short as are a lot of poems. The shorter form allows for a sketch of a story, such as making one point, or one feel.
I really like the prose form of poetry mainly because I prefer to write short fiction. The short form gives me an ability to convey a short idea I have, a sketch, that might not transfer into a longer short story. Also, I can be less formal in both the sense of poetry rules and in common rules of short fiction.

Termites Gift-Prose Poem

Praise to the termites! Praise to the termites whose scuttling and scratching break the oppressive, thick, stifling silence of this four-walled cubicle of claustrophobia. Of claustrophobia and contamination. The contamination of my own self-pity and despair that barely, just barely, outweigh the sickening anxiety of the claustrophobia. Praise to the termites! Praise to the termites who nibble through my electrical wires. Who blind me from the water-stained, grime-covered, blank-staring walls. Who put out the one pale light bulb dully flickering; swinging from its wire like the pendulum in my father's grandfather clock. He was a university professor. He wanted me to be a lawyer. Fuck that, I hate lawyers. Praise to the termites! Praise to the termites who chased away those who once came concerned. I hated their pity. I hated their condescension. My own self-pity will suffice. They were driven away in disgust, and lost hope. The termites give me company now. The one thing remaining to be conquered, to complete the self-imprisonment, is the window. Right now it is only barely visible. I can faintly see snowflakes lazily drifting to the street below without care or haste. They compel me. They also kill me. They remind me of more innocent times when I had ambition and a curiosity for the world. Hot coffee, a pretty girl's soft sweater, talk of change and love and culture. How naive. I look out the window now. Past the snow I see, a ways away, the cleague lights of some big event downtown. Fuck them and their limousines, their jewelry and fame. I also see, in a break in the clouds, a patch of stars against the velvet black. I see the stars and the cleague lights. I see them, but to be honest, from here they look exactly the same.

supernova's son

i EARNED THIS TITLE FAIR AND SQUARE,
tHE sUPERNOVA'S sON, oh yes
sOMEWHERE pAST NOWHERE, pAST ELSEWHERE
nEVER ASKING FOR MORE OR LESS.

iT'S STRANGE TO GRASP SUCH A DISTANCE,
tO FEEL THIS AGE-OLD NEW-FOUND LINK,
tO REACH FOR THIS ANCIENT ESSENCE,
bUT TO THINK IS TO hAVE ANOTHER DRINK.

i CLAIM NO OTHER HERITAGE,
eXCEPT WITH THIS; cOMMON TO aLL,
oUR BIRTH CONCEIVED FROM the CARNAGE,
cOSMIC DEATH BREEDS AN ENDLESS SPRAWL.

and me, like you, like everything,
bits of dust from that happening.