Carnival

According to Hillman, revelry (music, carnival, circus, clown) represents "riotous rebellion (revel/rebel), discord" (175). He also contends that these types of dreams are more common than you may think. Even if there is no carnival or circus scene in the dream, if your dream is literally or figuratively "upside-down," then an element of carnival is present.

A couple of interesting ideas.

1. Carnival comes from the words meaning "putting away the meat, or flesh." In addition to the flesh reference, carnival and sparagmos are further related. Hillman says that when "Dionysos entered Thebes, there was also this kind of terror and excitment. Identities became uncertain. Young women left their family attachments and personal relationships to take to the streets and the hills"(177).

2. "Where else but the circus will we ever see the underworld in daylight?" (178).

3. Aren't your dreams like circuses or carnivals? A bunch of freaky people come in the middle of the night and set up camp in the middle of town.

4. Clowns - Hillman has an interesting take on clowns. He says that the "comic spirit masquerades in all things we do and say; we are each a joke and do not need to put on a white face"(180). by this, he means that we don't have to become clowns, we just need to learn what the clown has to teach us - like "making an art of our senseless repetitions, putting on the face of death that llows the dream world in and watching it turn ordinary objects into amazing images" (180).

5. Listen carefully to ALL music in your dreams - not just literal music in the dreams, but the music of the dream itself - its phrasing, rhythm, themes, etc.

Prose poetry

Here are some rough copies of some prose poetry. At this point, these are definitely not my final copies, but I thought I'd post them anyway.

Divine Punishment

After her son died, she wouldn’t take communion, though she sat in the back of the church every Sunday. She refused to approach the altar. She refused to kneel. She refused to let touch her lips the body and blood of an indifferent god. In her mind, well-intentioned, well-worn clichés. Well-intentioned, well-worn, useless. “Everything happens for a reason.” She intentionally held words like these in her mouth, leaving no room for the bread. Or the wine. She pursed her lips and gagged. Every Christmas since then, her house held no evergreen tree. Instead, she chose a colorless day. A brutal, cold, and windy prairie winter day. Alone, far up in the north country, she bent against the wind. She knelt beside the barbed wire fence to retrieve a large tumbleweed. This tumbleweed would stay in the middle of the living room well after the new year. Her protest.


Therapy

“If you are your problem,” the therapist intoned, “then, stop thinking about yourself.”
One – mountains. Think about the mountain. (no, not about how your mother wouldn’t let you go to summer camp) How the mountain holds the forest on its back. The mountain is worn by time. It ages gracefully.
Two – trees. Think about trees. (no, not about what kind you would be) Think about how a flock of birds emerge from the spring branches. You didn’t even know the birds were there. You didn’t recognize them as birds while they were in the tree. But, now aflight, they are not an extension of the branch, they are birds, and there are hundreds of them.
Three – clouds. Think about clouds. (no, not about the dark one hanging over your head) Think about the motion of clouds. The clouds change and move on effortlessly.
Mountains. Trees. Clouds. It’s really very simple. Put yourself in the back of your mind. Keep yourself there.

Olena Kalytiak Davis

Of the poets we last read, Olena Kalytiak Davis really appealed to me. In “A Small Number” and “Six Apologies, Lord,” I appreciated her deft manipulation of repetition. Often, her spacing and line breaks caught me off-guard. And, even though I don’t pretend to understand everything that she’s writing, I have the feeling that with studied attention, some sort of understanding would be within my reach. She doesn’t have sewing machines flying out of aliens’ ears or elephants tap dancing on toilet seats….and I appreciate that.

Olena Kalytiak Davis
Six Apologies, Lord
I Have Loved My Horrible Self, Lord.
I Rose, Lord, And I Rose, Lord, And I
Dropt. Your Requirements, Lord. 'Spite Your Requirements, Lord.
I Have Loved the Low Voltage Of The Moon, Lord,
Until There Was No Moon Intensity Left, Lord, No Moon
Intensity Left
For You, Lord. I Have Loved The Frivolous, The Fleeting, The
Frightful
Clouds, Lord. I Have Loved Clouds! Do Not Forgive Me, Do Not
Forgive Me Lordandlover, Harborandmaster, Guardianandbread,
Do Not.
Hold Me, Lord, O, Hold Me

Accountable, Lord. I Am
Accountable. Lord,

Lord It Over Me,
Lord It Over Me, Lord. Feed Me

Hope, Lord. Feed Me
Hope, Lord, Or Break My Teeth.

Break My Teeth, Sir.
In This My Mouth.

The poem “Six Apologies, Lord” immediately gripped me. I want to know what six things she could have done that could require apology. Why would she apologize for loving clouds? And why is every word capitalized? Although she is apologizing to “Lord,” I’m not sure if this Lord is actually God or a metaphorical, representational God – her husband, her father – herself? My thinking is led down the husband/male figure path due to the fact that the lines “I Rose, Lord, And I Rose, Lord, And I /Dropt. Your Requirements, Lord” is reminiscent of Emily Dickinson, of whom I am a fan. “She rose to his requirement, dropped / the playthings of her life / to take the honorable work / of woman and of wife. / I aught she missed in her new day / Of amplitude, or awe, / Or first prospective, or the gold / in using wore away, / it lay unmentioned, as the sea / Develops pearl and weed, / but only to himself is known/ the Fathoms they abide.” Also, the words that have been combined “lordandlover” hold some meaning, as does the abrupt switch to "Sir. " The poem itself, again, has a hypnotizing, mesmerizing effect on me. I just love it.

A Small Number
So far, have managed, Not
Much. So far, a few fractures, a few factions, a Few
Friends. So far, a husband, a husbandry, Nothing
Too complex, so far, followed the Simple
Instructions. Read them twice. So far, memorized three Moments,
Buried a couple deaths, those turning faces. So far, two or Three
Sonnets. So far, some berrigan and Some
Keats. So far, a scanty list. So far, a dark wood. So far, Anti-
Thesis and then, maybe, a little thesis. So far, a small Number
Of emily’s letters. So far, tim not dead. So far, Matt
Not dead. So far, jim. So far, Love
And love, not so far. Not so love. So far, no-Hope.
So far, all face. So far, scrapped and scraped, but Not
With grace. So far, not Very.

I also enjoyed “A Small Number.” When I read this poem, I had just finished reading Sandra Alcosser’s poem “My Number,” which also intrigued me. But, I prefer Kalytiak Davis’s style to that of Alcosser. Again, I think I spot an Emily Dickinson reference in the line about “A small number of emily’s letters.” Like in “Six Apologies. Lord,” she so defly manipulates words that her repetition is mesmerizing. Her up-front linguistic style, I think, is largely responsible for catching me off guard. I am lulled into a kind of false sense of simplicity due to the word choices and repetition. Content-wise, it seems that she may be trying to put a value on her life by making a list – and finding her list and her life lacking. By the end of the poem, where she is listing off people who are “not dead,” I am totally sucked in. Totally. Just the wording connotes that she expects tim, Matt, and jim to not be among the living for as long as she – her expectation seems to be that they will soon join another list, becoming another small number.

The Sparagmos Game

Let's play "The Sparagmos Game." It's fun for the whole family - especially if you're an ancient Greek family. Here's how you play. I'll post pictures. You decide if the pictures contain or are examples of sparagmos (ritual tearing of flesh). Ready? Remember, displacement and/or omophagia (eating the flesh) may be involved.

1.

This is Mike Tyson biting Evander Holyfield's ear, and Evander Holyfield's ear in the aftermath. Sparagmos?

I think so.

2.

These are grandmothers holding their grandchildren. Sparagmos?

Well, unfortunately, these innocent-looking grandmas probably just said something like, "You're so cute, I could just eat you up, sweetheart." So, sparagmos? Yep. Displaced? I think so.

3.

This is a WWII map. Sparagmos?

Did you guess no? Well, you were probably wrong. Sure, it's not literal sparagmos, but neither was the grandma example. This, I think, could be classified as an example of geographic sparagmos. Countries were conquered (swallowed up) and then rent asunder by those who were victorious.

You're doing well, though. Two left. Keep up the good work.

4.

Cheese. Not sparagmos.

5.

This is Osiris. (Hint: He was chopped into 14 pieces and scattered.) Sparagmos?

Did you guess yes? We'll you're most decidedly correct.

Good job today! Maybe we can play again next week! (The accuracy of my responses has yet to be determined.)

windmills of my mind

I guess Chaundera ( the quixotic windmills), Arianna ( the labyrinth-talk), Ed (inspiring speech on circles), Charity ( blog on reality), and Wayne (for just being Wayne) all, in some way, made me think of the song "The Windmills of Your Mind" from The Thomas Crowne Affair. Doesn't it all relate to class? (I deleted some repetitious portions.)

Round, like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel.
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever-spinning wheel
Like a snowball down a mountain
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that's turning
Running rings around the moon

Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes on its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream.

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle your head
Why did summer go so quickly
Was it something that I said
Lovers walking along the shore,
Leave their footprints in the sand
Was the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand

Pictures hanging in a hallway
And a fragment of this song
Half-remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong
When you knew that it was over
Were you suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the color of her hair

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning,
On an ever-spinning wheel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Surreal poetry

If Mondays were Sundays

It all started simply enough
A small and cozy white house, A man, A woman
A child named Sammy.
Or a child named Betsy.
Or a child named (write your name here).

But, then something went terribly wrong
You were just trying to wash your face.
With the click-clack typewriter
The slippery soap squirted from your hand.

With the whales spouting nonsense
Margaret aimlessly whistled Dixie
On a shore long forgotten

The Light switch

If there were no pizza for breakfast
I would make you soup
Tomato soup
While we laughed instead of cried at our poverty

Cats’ tails twist on the veranda
The slaves will sweat for supper
Cotton mouths like Uncle Tom
Thanksgiving for the turkeys this year.

And Stan won’t come back
If the light is off
But the power failed
And tomorrow has come

Today’s News

The world is mother-of-pearl
With the fallen snow
When she steps outsideto gather the news of the day.

Sitting at the table and feeling vaguely content.
The news is white and black
Outside the falling water
Swirling through the galaxy
Where wingless birds fly on featherless wings

Africa is traced by yellow on the map.
And blossoms of cherries bloom in the mirror
She is cracked and old
But, the luck will be good.

I wonder what became of me?