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(This one’s for you, Niner.)

Instead of offering just one poem today, I would like to introduce a poet. Not that he needs introduction per se, as he is already fairly well-established, but even if only one person starts to read his works because of my musings to follow, then it was worth it. The poet in question is Terrance Hayes. (You are probably going to notice throughout the month that I have a knack for African-American poets and their work.)

He was born in 1971 in South Carolina, earned his creative-writing MFA at UPittsburgh, and has been teaching the same at Carnegie Mellon for a number of years now. (In case you are curious, the person right above Hayes on the CMU staff page, Yona Harvey, is his wife.) He has published three collections to date: Muscular Music (1999), Hip Logic (2002), and, most recently, Wind in a Box (2006).

I would very much argue that he is a legitimate heir of Langston Hughes’s, in terms of style as well as in his scope, the choice of thematic elements, and his efforts to place African-Americans in an all-American cultural and historical context. This is especially true for Wind in a Box, a remarkable collection of which I still have vivid memories. I devoured the entire book in just a few hours almost exactly one year ago (on April 10, 2007), having read Hip Logic right before within two days.

Numerous passages from Wind in a Box struck at my core. Here are just two:

When I threatened to run away
my mother said she would take me wherever I wanted to go.

from “The Blue Terrance”

or that we were too dumb to run the other way
when we saw the wide white sails of the ships
since given the absurd history of the world, everyone
is a descendant of slaves (which makes me wonder
if outrunning your captors is not the real meaning of Race?)

from “Woofer (When I Consider African-American)”

The latter poem, “Woofer,” is also the one I want to draw special attention to today. It was the first Hayes poem I read. That was two years ago during the second round of the Daily Poem Project. Strangely enough, the month the poem appeared on Poetry Daily was also April. I am beginning to think that there must be some supernatural connection between Terrance Hayes, myself, and the fourth month of the year (the first time I encountered Hayes was in April 2006, the first time I read two of his books was in April 2007, and now, in April 2008, I am praising him to high heavens). What is going to happen in April next year, I wonder. More likely, it is all mere coincidence. Also, my vote during the grand finale of DPP2 went to this poem.

Anyway, back in 2006, I wrote a short close-reading essay on “Woofer” which you can read just a bit further down at the end of this post. But first, indulge in this fantastic poem (do not forget to come back here when you are done):

Terrance Hayes, “Woofer (When I Consider the African-American)”

I looked around a bit on the internet for some more legitimate material by and about Hayes. Here is what I found:

• profile at the Academy of American Poets – links to several poems in the right sidebar
• short portrait at the Poetry Center at Smith College – includes photos (check out that mohawk) and a few poems
• selection of a few poems from his staff page at Carnegie Mellon (PDF) – mind you, there is a “The Blue Terrance” among them, but it is not the same I quoted from earlier; there are several “blue Terrances” in Wind in a Box
• three poems at the Fishouse – each with an audio recording; you have to check out “The Blue Seuss,” one of my favorites from Wind in a Box
• “New Folk” at Poetry – with a short Q&A
• three poems over at Guernica – rather recent, from this past November
• a review of Wind in a Box – by Peter Blair from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
• a five-day journal for the Poetry Foundation – from June 2006
• “Carp Poem” – at the Konundrum Engine Literary Review
• “The Blue Bowie” – from Jubilat 6
• “Serenade” – at Fugue

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Other poems for April

Poets.org: Ciaran Carson, “The Assignation”

Knopf: Kenneth Koch, “To Psychoanalysis”

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And here goes the slightly revised version of my 2006 essay on “Woofer.” Please read the poem first.

Woofers: New Drums for a New Generation

TERRANCE HAYES has written a beautiful poem about the new African-American self. In order to describe it, he mocks cliché traditions, ridicules stereotypes, and satirically plays with the term “African-American”. All of these methods involve the reader’s experience with race and racism.

Hayes juxtaposes the stereotypical African-American image and the way he sees it by using the formula “When I consider the African-American, I think not of [...], but of [...].” This is a paradox, though. It is impossible for him to state what he does not think of (as it is for everybody); by saying what he did not think of, he had to think of it. This method plays with people’s inevitable associations when they see someone of another race. The racial stereotypes are automatically projected onto that person, and Hayes does exactly that when he (paradoxically) says what he does not think of.

His “not-thoughts” are filled with self-mockery, which indicates that he is basically immune to accusations, such as “we were too dumb to run the other way / when we saw the wide white sails of the ships.” But his “thoughts” are not exactly free of clichés, either. On Thanksgiving, a chicken was “slaughtered” and not a turkey, by a witchdoctor to boot, a clear reference to voodoo. The closest he has “ever come to anything remotely ritualistic” were drums from hi-fi woofers. It is one of the clichés that all African-Americans still connect to their African roots and heritage. That they might have a culture of their own does not come to mind. The “drums drumming from woofers” combine these two cultures. The woofers are the drums of the new generation—again a cliché that African-Americans always listen to loud, thumping music.

Hayes also plays with the term “African-American” itself, raising the question why they are not just called “Americans,” or why people have to be divided into races at all. The girl’s “bi-continental nipples” are a great example of this. They are bi-continental in so far as that she is African and American, but also, on a smaller scale, that one is on each breast. They both belong to the same body, as Africa and America belong to the same world. “Linked by a hyphen filled with blood” is also ambiguous. For one, it points out America’s history of violence and slavery. But since Hayes uses the expression in connection with “the two of us there in the basement,” it can also be a reference to them having sex.

Hayes questions race and racism in a funny way that never loses track of its purpose or its audience. The pickup line he uses in the beginning of the poem — “‘You can return it when I see you again’” — is not only meant for the girl, but also for the reader. Since the line is so original, he can count on the reader to keep going, hopefully beyond the poem as well.

(written on May 30, 2006)

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Alright folks, this is yet another essay I wrote. It was sort of due last Friday (February 9^th), but I just finished it. Anyhoo, it is on Robert Browning’s canonical poem “My Last Duchess.” Enjoy, or don’t.

The Duke did not feel love for his previous Duchess and he will not feel any for his next one. What he does love are his ancestors and the name they have bequeathed over the centuries, along with the art collectibles. He is a status-driven and materialistic Duke who could not care less about other people. But it is not his fault, it runs in the family.

Here is another essay I wrote for an English class very early on Friday morning. [I slightly revised it but the early-morning writing still shows, so be gentle.] This one is on Edgar Allan Poe’s "The Cask of Amontillado." You might want to read the story first. It is not very long. After all, it is a short story.

Gravely Fooling a Jester

Shortly before Montresor tricks Fortunato into taking “a draught of Médoc” to make him drunker and more obedient than he already is Poe lets the bells on Fortunato’s cap jingle: “He raised it [the wine] to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.” They jingle to signal Montresor’s triumph over his foolish friend.

Poe clearly sets the roles for his two characters in “The Cask of Amontillado”: the smart avenger and the ignorant victim. To emphasize these roles he makes use of the jingling of the bells upon Fortunato’s cap. Whenever he is about to be tricked by Montresor, they emit their typical sound. It is a very subtle indicator for Montresor’s cleverness and a sign that Fortunato gets closer and closer to his death. The bell tolls for him, so to speak.

For the first time the “bells upon his cap jingle” shortly after Montresor leads Fortunato into the catacombs of his “palazzo,” thus they indicate the success of the first trick. They can be heard again right before the second lure, when Fortunato is about to drink the Médoc, and right after Montresor tells his victim what the motto on his family’s coat of arms is: “Nemo me impune lacessit,” which functions as a justification for Montresor’s actions. Poe lets them sound only one more time at the very end of the story: “No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells.” The last “jingling” is a sign that it is finally over. Fortunato gave up and does not fight the chains anymore. His death is imminent.

The “tolling bells” are also a feature of the execution that is taking place, Montresor’s “mask of black silk” (an executioner’s mask) being another. Their recurring sound is Poe’s way of announcing Fortunato’s death. The bells are his and he jingles them himself. These are additional indicators of Poe’s morbid irony. Church bells were and still are tolled before funerals and “The Cask of Amontillado” is nothing but a funeral, albeit a very strange one. Another similarity with the tolling of bells for announcing a funeral is the number of occurrences: four times. Churches knell every fifteen minutes during the hour preceding a burial, so four times*. Fortunato’s bells can be heard four times as well—last of all shortly before Montresor “forces the last stone into its position.”

Poe uses the bells on the cap in such a way that they can be considered a subtle precursor of Fortunato’s death, among all the obvious ones. Apart from this, they are also a sign for the success of every stage of Montresor’s deadly plot and for Fortunato’s foolish character. After all, he is wearing motley. But he does not live up to his costume. As a jester, he is being fooled himself.

* As I found out after writing the essay, this is a very local thing.

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Daily Cartoon

A couple of days ago I read Ursula K. Le Guin’s short story "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas." [← PDF] Actually, it is more of a parable than a story.

In the fictional town of Omelas everything is perfect. There are no crimes, no one is ever hungry, and happiness is perpetual. This sounds like a perfect society. But, as we all know, there is no such thing as a perfect society. So, where is the catch?

In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door and no window. [...] The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect.

What is more, everyone in the town knows about this child. "Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there." All the people’s happiness, everything that is so great about Omelas, depends on the child’s "abonimable misery." The majority of the people can live with this knowledge but some just "walk away from Omelas."

This is the core of the story. There are no characters, no dialogue, and no plot. It is a simple description of a society, a very intriguing one. But there is one flaw in the story (or maybe in the society). Eventually, the child in the locked room will either die—no one could live forever under these circumstances—or commit suicide. (It is unlikely that it will escape because it is too weak.)

Then the people have to "replace" the dead child with a "new" one. But where do they get it from? Who in this town would voluntarily give up their own child when they know what is going to happen to it? It probably needs to be "replaced" every ten to fifteen years. That is not even one generation. Surely, people will not mind as much if it is not their own child. But when it comes to sacrifing one’s own flesh and blood for the good of the whole town—one life for several thousand—would they still take it upon themselves or would they also "walk away from Omelas?"

It is crucial for the understanding of this society to know how they would handle the death of that child. But not even Ursula Le Guin, who invented it, knows. It is not her fault, though, the flaw is in the society and not in the story she wrote. She is only trying to show that a utopian town cannot exist, hence the name (ou – no; topos – place).

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Daily Cartoon for the weekend (January 13 & 14)

Here is an essay I wrote for one of my English classes about a month ago. It is a reading of Shirley Jackson’s "The Lottery." (Beware of the typos in the on-line versions of the story!) Read the story first if you have not done so before (spoilers are awaiting) and do comment.

How Random?!

Tiny slip-ups can have huge impacts. Tessie Hutchinson, in Shirley Jackson’s "The Lottery," suffers from exactly that principle. She influences the draw herself by not remembering the traditions of the village she lives in, by not following the rules thereof, and by questioning them to boot. From the very beginning, before she is even introduced, Mrs. Hutchinson is bound to not see the sun set on the night of June 27^th.

Tessie would have been much better off if she had shown up on time. The sole act of "clean [forgetting] what day it was," forgetting about the tradition, makes her the chosen one. The lottery is not to be questioned in any way, not even by arriving a little late. When Mrs. Delacroix says, "You’re in time, though," a slight suspicion creeps in. Tessie is "in time" to be picked out, to pick herself out, actually. And Mr. Summers’s remark, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you," tops it off: the villagers "have to get on without" Mrs. Hutchinson because she is going to be dead by noon. That is also why she did not want to leave the dishes in the sink. Did she have a notion and want her husband to come home to a clean house?

Families that break the rules, or do not abide by them, are more likely to "win" the lottery. After the first draw, when the heads of the families look at their slips of paper, the women cry out, "’Who is it?’ ‘Who’s got it?’ ‘Is it the Dunbars?’ ‘Is it the Watsons?’" Everyone first suspects the two families that did not follow the rules entirely to be the doomed ones. The wife had to draw for the Dunbar family and the oldest son for the Watsons. For whatever reasons, the two fathers could not participate in the lottery. Tessie Hutchinson almost did not come at all, which is worse because there is no outside cause for her not complying with the rules. She is fully responsible for it herself. Thus, her family advanced to the second round, and she "won" in the end.

Tessie gives more cause for the lottery to pick her out. She wants to get as many of her children into the final draw as possible, so as to lower the probability of picking the wrong lot herself. This is the opposite of self sacrifice. Mrs. Hutchinson would rather give one of her own children than protect them. Questioning the lottery and the procedure ("I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose.") also increases the chances of her winning/losing.

The villagers would have stoned someone else to death if Tessie had arrived on time. Most likely it would have been a member of either the Dunbar or the Watson family because they were next in line of rule breakers. Then Mrs. Hutchinson would have been among the killers. So, one seemingly insignificant detail in the past has an unthinkable effect on the future, on the outcome of the lottery.

Richard Powers, who received the National Book Award in November, wrote an essay for tomorrow’s NY Times Book Review about speech recognition software and the importance of dictation while composing a text. It is quite an interesting article which proposes that writers should go back to dictating their works to typists or, in Mr. Powers’s case, tablet PC’s.

He gives a lot of classic examples of writers who preferred dictation (F. M. Dostoevsky, J. Joyce, W. Wordsworth, J. Milton &c.), and apparently he himself has not typed a single of his last 500,000 words of his published fiction and a mere 10,000 e-mails were sent out without ever touching a keyboard.

I am not quite sure what to make of this, though. Some people, such as Mr. Powers, say that speaking the words while composing a text creates an immediate feeling for them, especially for their sound. Also, writers can record their thoughts just as fast as they think them, without having to wait for their hands to write it all down or type it up.

Then there are others, such as Friedrich Nietzsche, who preferred (or still prefer) typewriters. F. Nietzsche said that using a typewriter changed his thinking process entirely.

And word processors changed it once again. Writers can easily erase what they just wrote or exchange one word for another. Here the words become ephemeral. They only exist as binary code bits composed of zeros and ones, until they are printed out. But what if the whole computer crashes completely before you can print anything and you have not made any back-up copies? When composed on a typewriter, words become eternal immediately, unless, of course, someone burns the pages.

It is unfortunate that pen and paper or typewriters have become unfashionable. Quite a big portion of a text’s myteriousness lies within the tool(s) with which it was originally written. Thomas Pynchon, for instance, still uses a typewriter. His letter to the Daily Telegraph, in which he defends Ian McEwan, was clearly typewritten and that alone gives it a certain aura of intellectuality, maybe even superiority (the good kind).

Personally, whenever I write an essay or any other text for that matter, it is a "hybrid" process of pen and paper and computer. It is a symbiosis that works quite well for me. All the thoughts come out on paper, in actual writing which probably only I can read, and the editing is done on the computer during and after typing up the words. Luckily, I do not have to edit a lot—at least I do not feel that I have to—and so I can say that most of my writing is done with pen and paper, notebooks actually. I would love to use a typewriter, though, just to see where it would take me.

This is a text I just finished about an hour ago for one of my English classes. Any comments are welcome.

Poison Ivy League: A Guide to Admission

Having studied at one of America’s prestigious universities sure looks good on one’s résumé, be it Ivy League or any other of the elite institutions (e.g. Stanford, Duke, or Berkeley). It is a goal many young people, American or not, would like to achieve. The sole question that has concerned generations of potential (and maybe lost) masterminds is, "How, for the love of God, do I get accepted?" Well, here’s the deal:

A) You are as smart as Leonardo da Vinci, Albert Einstein, and Stephen W. Hawking combined and your SAT score is a clean 1,600. This would of course mean that you are a wunderkind and would not have to worry about being admitted to any of the aforementioned. No, recruiters from these universities would actually come to you when you are still attending prep school and they would be courting you. Very much like the minnesingers did with the damsels, back in the good old days. Being courted by so many universities has one disadvantage though, you actually have a choice. Or,

B) Your daddy is neck-deep in cash. Let’s face it, this is probably the easiest way of them all. Just make sure your parents donate a sum that has at least seven figures in front of the decimal point several months before you apply. Or why not have them endow a whole chair? That way you will be personally acquainted with your future professor and nothing can stand in the way of your academic career, not even your own stupidity. Or,

C) You are as dumb as a bag of straw but, by God, you know how to kick and toss that football into the end zone. Don’t like football? No problem, pretty much any sport will do. Basketball, lacrosse, hockey… Recruiters from the athletic teams are courting even more than those on the lookout for the brainy guys. One might actually say they are sucking up. A good college basketball or football player is almost as valuable as a Nobel laureate. After all, an NCAA title really brings in the money and that’s why, as an athlete, you get a full athletic scholarship to top it all off. Sadly enough, this is also the only way an underprivileged teenager from the "projects" can get into the big leagues. Even if he (or she; not so much though, since women’s college sports are by far not as popular) is smart.

Brains, cash, or being a jock are the three major ways through which you might want to consider applying to an elite university. One way or the other, you will get in, provided you are supreme in one or more of the above. And once you are in, nothing else matters. None of your future bosses will care how good (or bad) your grades were at Harvard, Yale, or Columbia. The mere fact that you went there will get you the job, unless, of course, you are applying for a chair at your alma mater.

Inspired by Michael Wolff, "Show Them the Money," The New York Times Sunday Book Review, September 17, 2006, and,
Dorothy Wickenden, "Top of the Class," The New Yorker, September 25, 2006 (online), October 02, 2006 (print).

This essay, of course, is not to be taken too seriously. I would love to attend one of those "elite" universities myself.