Saturday, May 30, 2009

Unemployed No Mo

Hey y'all!

So my unemployment woes are no longer! Now I work for a little company named "Photogenic, Inc." Heard of it?

Probably not. I'm going to take pictures of tourists at such fun Chicago locales as Navy Pier, Museum of Science and Industry, Sears (or Willy Billy) Tower, and Hancock Center. Fun times.

Ah, yes. I also write theatre reviews for Chicagotheatreblog.com. Check it out. Or just goggle my name, check it out.

Love,
-Barry

P.S. Barry officially apologizes for not updating this blog much lately (like the past year). Stuff has been pretty cra-azy. I'll try to be better.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Stuff keeps Going and Going

So......changes.

First off, apologies all around. I haven't updated since the Bush administration. And yes, stuff happened to me. No, I didn't die.

And all of the academic posts about Romantic poetry was for my English class last semester (Engl 288, Nature in Literature....decent class). The blog wasn't hijacked or I didn't weirdly specialize in that area.

Now it is the summertime, and the living is easy. Sort of....dealing with unemployment and weather that is too cold for May, yet finding the money for drinking somehow.

Also, I blog "professionally" now, writing theatre reviews for chicagotheatreblog.com.

CHECK IT OUT, WHY DON'T YOU!!!!

Peace, love, and soul,
Barry

Thursday, April 23, 2009

To Autumn


Original Illustration by W.J. Neatby
To Autumn
By John Keats

Text is here: http://www.rc.umd.edu/editions/poets/texts/toautumn.html

In my last post I discussed Keats' theory of negative capability. Basically, he believed that truly great writers could surround themselves with life's monumental problems and be satisfied with simply dwelling with the questions instead of scrambling for answers. In his later work, especially in his later series of odes, he really started to incorporate this idea of negative capability.

To Autumn seems like it would be a turn from this idea. Only three stanzas long, it is very short, not typical for the traditional ode. The poem is very positive. Keats joyously describes the autumn harvest; he discusses trees producing fruit, bees producing honey, and fields producing grain. You'd be hard-pressed to find anything melancholy in this poem.

Keats had tuberculous for much of his adult life. He recognized that he had the disease, and he was aware that there was no cure at the time. It seems that he would be confronted with his death every day, which did eventually kill him in the 1820's. 'To Autumn' was one of his last poems ever written. It is easy to see then, that human mortality probably plays a part in the work.

I think Keats chooses autumn as his subject matter because it is the season directly before winter, traditionally associated with death. Instead of mourning the loss of the summer, though, he revels in the moment. He accepts that winter will come, but he doesn't let that ruin his enjoyment of what life has to offer. I think "To Autumn" dwells in a sort of positive negative capability. Keats is confronted with death; winter is coming. However, instead of brooding, he enjoys his life in the moment. It almost seems like this is an emotion that transcends negative capability. Instead of being surrounded by life's impossible questions, the speaker accepts that they are unanswerable, and that allows him to find pleasure in the world around him. "To Autumn" is a fitting end to a writing career; it shows a clear switch from struggle to acceptance of things that cannot change. To me, the feelings of the speaker is a noble mode to enter death with.

--B.E.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Ode to a Nightingale and Negative Capability

"Ode to a Nightingale"
By John Keats

Text can be found here: http://www.rc.umd.edu/rchs/reader/nightingale.html

Yes, folks, another romantic poem about nightingales.

Since Classical times, nightingales have been associated with melancholy and sadness. The Romantics did love their melancholy (they'd probably be prescribed Zoloft today). In another poem we read, by Samuel Coleridge, the speaker discusses how we have projected this melancholy on the nightingale, and he proposes we project happier meanings to the nightingale's song. Keats doesn't seem to agree with this theory; instead, he uses the bird as a metaphor while he meditates about his own demise. Basically, "Ode to a Nightingale" is pretty depressing.

Keats is famous for coming up with the poetical theory of negative capability. Negative capability, according to Keats in a letter to a friend, is when a poet can express feelings of uncertainties, mysteries, and doubts without necessarily trying to find solutions or answers to these problems. He said Shakespeare was a master at negative capability. He was able to wade into these deep, dark questions regarding death and the afterlife and accept the fact that the questions might be unanswerable. Keats attempted to use negative capability technique in "Ode to a Nightingale." He delves into his fears about his own mortality. Throughout the poem he tries to escape his fears, but keeps bouncing back into anxiety. He tries alcohol, escaping in nature, and finally finds that death is the only escape. Pretty melancholy.

Throughout the poem, he never really finds a satisfying answer to his depressing situation. This is why "Ode to a Nightingale" is a brilliant exploration of negative capability.

--B.E.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Ode to the West Wind

Ode to the West Wind
By Percy Shelley

Link to text:http://www.rc.umd.edu/rchs/reader/westwind.html

Although this poem is titled as an ode to the wind, Shelley is actually describing the poet's role as an instrument for moral and political change. In describing the wind, he discusses how he wishes his words could be swept around the world like the wind blows. He also goes into great depth describing how the wind effects all of nature. The wind changes the seasons and weather, even changing things underwater. Shelley desires that sort of ability; he wants to have that sort of wide-ranging effect on people.

The poet's ability to reach people was especially dear to Shelley, who was in self-imposed exile in Italy when he composed his poem. He spent the rest of his life away from England and found it difficult to reach a large English audience with his poetry. "Ode to the West Wind" is sort of a description of his life-long goal. England, in the throws of the Industrial Revolution, was constantly changing and modernizing. Shelley lamented not being able to shape this change in any substantial way from his Italian home.

So instead of being an ode to the west wind, this poem is actually about poets. Shelley was truly writing to change the world; he believed poetry had a transformative power. "Ode to the West Wind" is a cry asking for the ability to make the change he desired.

Monday, April 06, 2009

Shelley's "The Cloud"

The Cloud
By P.B. Shelley

Text: http://www.english.upenn.edu/Projects/knarf/PShelley/cloud.html


Shelley's poem "The Cloud" is told from the point of view of the cloud. The cloud, aware of his powerful and immortal position, revels in his abilities to control the weather. The cloud is haughty and proud of his capabilities of effecting the sun, moon, and the sea.

Percy Shelley was very interested in the developing field of natural science that was blooming during his lifetime in the late 17th/early 18th Centuries. Shelley was vastly fascinated by the progression of science during this time, which included giant steps in the study of biology and chemistry. This interest shows up in the poem. Shelley has the cloud describe such natural processes as storms, the water cycle, and precipitation.

However, the poem is also figurative. It is a narrative description of the sublime from the point of view of the sublime. Instead of just discussing and admiring the sublime like most Romantic poets, Shelley actually tries to speak as the sublime. In doing so, he seems to think sublime entities are aware of their sublimity. Being concerned with science, he seems to be breaking down sublime beings and taking away some of their awe as well.

The poem is also interesting because it makes hydrologic cycle poetic.


-B.E.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Rime of the Ancient Mariner
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Link to text: http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/~rbear/ballads.html#THE%20RIME

Being in Loyola's production of "The Pirates of Penzance," I found "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" very interesting. Even though the poem is relatively recent, the legend of the poem has had a resounding effect on our culture. The "Pirates of the Caribean" series copies scenes from the poem almost directly. Pirate Captain Jack Sparrow and company end up in a frozen wasteland, they deal with slimy things in the form of Davy Jones, and a supernatural character plays dice for the crew's souls.

The sea has always mystified us; especially us land-lubbers. It is dark, deep, and huge, with unknown lands beyond the horizon. The concept of sea monsters still intrigues us, as evident in movies in "Jaws." The narrative of "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" taps into our fear of the sea, and combines the supernatural with the natural, real world. Although everything that happens is very real to the ancient mariner, his story seems to suggest that he may be hallicinating from dehydration and/or being on a ship with a bunch of dead bodies. Both Coleridge and Wordsworth were fascinated by the proto-psychology that was being developed in their day. As a result, this poem also has a psycho-analytic side. The multiple layers are one reason this poem has been as influential as it has been.

(Come see the Pirates of Penzance, starring me, next weekend!)

-B

Friday, March 20, 2009

The Nightingale


The Nightingale
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Text can be found here: http://www.online-literature.com/coleridge/642/

The Romantic poets were oft criticized as committing "pathetic fallacy" in later years. They were seen as projectors, projecting their own human feelings and moods on inanimate objects. They would see the weeping willow as sad and crying, and a crumbling castle as dieing and old. Of course, the weeping willow is not sad, its just chilling as a tree. This is why the romantics were seen as unrealistic, and well, romantic. However, humans have been projecting their own qualities on things that have no ability to fear since the dawn of humanity. The Greeks and Romans created myths about the world around them; in Christendom, for example, we often view the snake as evil and vile because of Adam and Eve. Projection is nothing new, the Romantics just embraced it.

The Nightingale by Coleridge is interesting because it tries to reverse projection. Throughout the poem, Coleridge is critiquing how Western thinkers have viewed the Nightingale as melancholy and sad. Instead, Coleridge hears the nightingale's song as a celebration of life. He truly enjoys it, and thinks it is a shame that so many people hear it as sad.

Nevertheless, Coleridge is committing the same crime that he is railing against. Instead of not projecting his feelings on the nightingale, he's just projecting feelings different than the traditional ideas. Actual nightingales aren't happy or sad when they sing, they are just singing to attract a mate in order to perpetuate the species. Perhaps, though, Coleridge's projection isn't all that bad. When we see the nightingale's song as a happy song, I think it would push us to more to protect the earth we all share. So maybe the Romantics' projection isn't such an awful "pathetic fallacy."

Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey

Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey
By William Wordsworth

Kinda long; the text can be found here: http://www.rc.umd.edu/rchs/reader/tabbey.html

Here is what Tintern Abbey looks like to us this very day:




This poem is fascinating to me because it explores the Romantics' concept of the "sublime." In the poem, Wordsworth describes this mood as:

that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world
Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

I think that the last line of this stanza is particularly interesting. The idea of something being "sublime" is an idea that philosophers have discussed since ancient times. Basically, we have this feeling when are confronted by something that reminds us of our smallness. We are filled with awe and terror at the same time, like when see a huge mountain or vast dessert, or even a tiger or bear. It reminds us that we aren't the creators of this world, we are merely inhabitants.

The last line suggests that when we witness the sublime, we see some sort of "inner life" of things. Wordsworth seems to focus way more on the joyous half of the sublime mood, as opposed to the frightening part. He seems to suggest that when we see the sublime, we are privy to the inherent harmony of the earth. We even feel that we are part of this harmony. When we witness a sublime scene, all of our earthly cares and stresses go away. It is a distraction from our material world, and it soothes us. The sublime mood is a divine experience. Wordsworth is telling us that we should celebrate this.

Also, sublime is a pretty rockin' 90's band.

Peace,
-B

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

The Last of the Flock

The Last of the Flock
By William Wordsworth

In distant countries I have been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad high-way, I met;
Along the broad high-way he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet.
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
Then with his coat he made essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I follow'd him, and said, "My friend
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock."

When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran.
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see,
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increas'd my store.

Year after year my stock it grew,
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As sweet a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the mountain did they feed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive.
--This lusty lamb of all my store
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.

Six children, Sir! had I to feed,
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief,
I of the parish ask'd relief.
They said I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the mountain fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread:
"Do this; how can we give to you,"
They cried, "what to the poor is due?"

I sold a sheep as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away!
For me it was a woeful day.

Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopp'd,
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.
Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
And I may say that many a time
I wished they all were gone:
They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind,
And every man I chanc'd to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without,
And crazily, and wearily
I went my work about.
Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress,
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock, it seemed to melt away.

They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;
And then at last, from three to two;
And of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one,
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock.




Wordsworth seems to be pointing to a proto-workaholicism in this poem. However, instead of sweaty middle managers, his subject is the pastoral shepherd. In Wordsworth's day, at the peak of romanticism in England, shepherds were revered and idolized. City-dwellers imagined they lived an idyllic life out in the country, living incredibly close to nature. Most pastoral art shows shepherds lounging about their sheep in green pastures. This 18th century painting by Nicolas Poussin gives us a glimpse as to how intellectuals and romantics viewed the lives of shepherds:

As wonderful as this all seems, it is all a romantic fabrication. Being a shepherd can really suck. You are subject to the elements and totally dependent on the health of your sheep for a living. Why didn't all the romantics run from the cities and enjoy the "pastoral" life? There is definitely a reason. Life on the pastures looks appealing, but it is obvious that there is a lot of hard work involved.

Wordsworth is getting at this idea through the poem. In it, he breaks down the idyllic idea of a shepherd. Instead, the romantic shepherd is a broken, poor old man crying in the middle of the street. It is a very different view from the painting above. And the man doesn't even seem very venerable either. As the poem goes on, we learn that maybe the guy likes his sheep more than his own family. It is a specific twist on the romantic's notion of pastoral life.

The poem is an attack on certain socio-political movements of the time. First, as mentioned above, it tears apart the Romantic pastoral ideal. The poem shows that shepherding life is not easy; there is a ton of work involved. Second, the poem presents the plight of the real-life shepherd. During the 18th and 19th Centuries, the common land in Britain was abolished, and most land became private property. Prior to this, shepherds could graze their sheep on common land that was open to everyone. After the re-organization of the communities, it became impossible to be a shepherd unless you were rich enough to own a sizable amount of land. This was a huge social problem of the day, and we witness this issue in the poem. As life becomes harder and harder for the shepherd, his family suffers. Not only fiscally, but the shepherd actually starts to despise those mouths he has to feed. Although this is hardly a sympathic response, it is definitely understandable. Even today we can see how stressful jobs can tear families apart. So although it just describes an everyday occurance, this poem is clearly about social justice.

Wordsworth is railing against the cultural and political changes that were killing the livlihoods of a whole sector of society. Shepherding had been around for millenia, and now it was slowly dieing out. But at the same time, city-dwellers were almost coveting the shepherd's life. Wordsworth is pointing out the hypocrisy of idealizing a group of people while not trying to help actual humans.

--Barry

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Dorothy Wordsworth's Daffodils

I tried to find some pictures that reflected Dorothy Wordsworth's descriptions of daffodils in her journal. Here were some of the passages I was looking at:

When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow park we saw a few daffodils close to the water side. We fancied that the lake had floated the seeds ashore and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet more and at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever glancing ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot and a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity and unity and life of that one busy highway. We rested again and again.



This image reminded me of the "laughing" daffodils. They are shown against an alluring blue sky, signifying the end of winter and the return of life to the world.


I related these daffodils to the ones against the stone in the entry, although the environment is a little different. Either way, I think these seem like they are resting upon the rocks, just like Wordsworth says.

This is an awesome image of a field of daffodils, like the large "belt" Dorothy came across in 1802. The sheer number of daffodils is amazing, like a bunch of grounded stars in the daytime. I never been to a daffodil "farm" but it looks like it is an amazing experience.

One thing that really connected with me about Dorothy's work is that it seems really simple, yet it still describes things beautifully. That is why it is possible to find truly fitting images for her entry; her language is poetical, but still provides a down-to-earth explanation of the world around her. She is almost like a journalist, observing the natural world as it flourishes about her. I find I almost like her work better than her brothers, because she lets her descriptions speak for themselves; she does not need to embellish them with overly-figurative language and shrouded metaphor.

--B.E.

Friday, February 13, 2009

We are Seven


WE ARE SEVEN.
by William Wordsworth

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?



I met a little cottage girl,
She was eight years old, she said ;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That cluster’d round her head.



She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad ;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
—Her beauty made me glad.
“Sisters and brothers, little maid,
“How many may you be ?”
“How many ? seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.



“And where are they, I pray you tell?”
She answered, “ Seven are we,
“And two of us at Conway dwell,
“And two are gone to sea.


“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
“My sister and my brother,
“And in the church-yard cottage, I
“Dwell near them with my mother.”


“You say that two at Conway dwell,
“And two are gone to sea,
“Yet you are seven ; I pray you tell
“Sweet Maid, how this may be ?”


Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we ;
“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
“Beneath the church-yard tree.”



“You run about, my little maid,
“Your limbs they are alive ;
“If two are in the church-yard laid,
“Then ye are only five.”


“Their graves are green, they may be seen,
”The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
“And they are side by side.


“My stockings there I often knit,
“My ’kerchief there I hem ;
“And there upon the ground I sit—
“I sit and sing to them.


“And often after sunset, Sir,
“When it is light and fair,
“I take my little porringer,
“And eat my supper there.


“The first that died was little Jane ;
“In bed she moaning lay,
“Till God released her of her pain,
“And then she went away.


“So in the church-yard she was laid,
“And all the summer dry,
“Together round her grave we played,
“My brother John and I.


“And when the ground was white with snow,
“And I could run and slide,
“My brother John was forced to go,
“And he lies by her side.”


“How many are you then,” said I,
“If they two are in Heaven?”
The little Maiden did reply,
“O Master ! we are seven.”


“But they are dead ; those two are dead!
“Their spirits are in heaven !”’
Twas throwing words away ; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven !”

We are Seven is an interesting narrative poem which poses an interesting view on death. The speaker has a traditional view of death, and seems totally unable to comprehend the little girl’s more liberal ideas. The little girl feels that her dead siblings are still around in some way. She feels their presence around her. It is a very positive view of death. The speaker refuses to understand the little girl’s opinion.


Wordsworth got the idea for the poem while he was traveling around England in 1793. Wordsworth visited Goodrich Castle and met a little girl who served as a basis for the girl in the poem. He never took the name and didn’t really document the conversation, but the encounter had a major effect on the man.




The Romanticists have a specific view on children. They represent a simpler type of existence, untainted by civilization. The little girl’s ideas involving death are totally in line with this. She doesn’t view death as a super negative or bleak aspect of life. Her ideas of death pay respect to the natural cycle of renewal. Death is a natural part of life. The little girl has a much better understanding of this than the much older gentleman. The poem is an excellent example of the significance of children to the Romantic writers.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

London by Blake

We talked about William Blake's social issue poems in class this past week, and I thought it would be interesting to illustrate his poem London with pictures of poverty in today's Chicago.

London
By William Blake (1794)

I wander thro' each charter'd street.
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness. marks of woe,


There are an estimated 110,000 people without homes in Chicago today. A flourishing drug epidemic and the bitter cold winters claim many of these less fortunate.

In every cry of every Man.
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban.
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear



Chicago contains 10 of the nation's 16 poorest neighborhoods. One half of the city's children are impoverished.

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blacknng Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls


Chicago gang violence is some of the worst of the nation. In the past year, there have been 469 homicides in the city, one of the worst in years. Many of these are gang related.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse


The life of a prostitute is not easy in Chicago. The average prostitute is beaten up once a month by a client. They also fall into heavy drug use, debt, and poverty.

It seems clear that the face of poverty has not changed much in 200 years. Blake's bleak view of London has many parallels here in Chicago.


-B.E.

Wednesday, February 04, 2009

Roses in Blake

The Sick Rose by William Blake

O rose thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
(1789)

Roses are a pretty giant symbol in Western civilization. They have been a symbol of love and sexuality since ancient Greece. As the Western concept of romantic love developed through our stories, roses starting growing into our consciousness as representing aspects of love. Red roses became connected to passion and sexuality, while white roses became to represent innocence and virginity. We still make the same connections. We give roses to loved ones on Valentine's Day and a myriad of other holidays, a few of them seem to be made up by the Flower and Candy conglomerate (Sweetest Day, anyone?).

Blake seems to be making a point about our concept of Romantic Love. A sucker for symbollism, Blake must use the rose in this poem as a symbol. The rose is sick, he claims; maybe our view of romantic love doesn't work for us. Blake thought that prostitution was a result of our traditional monogomous relationships. STDs like siphilus were also quite a problem in Blake's day.

This poem has multiple levels and, thus, can be intrepeted in multiple ways. I believe the poem is Blake's commentary on modern love. Blake noticed problems that he attributed to romantic love: prostitution, STDs, and unwanted children. In "The Sick Rose," he takes a classic symbol of Romantic love and parodies it. He says the rose is dieing.

-Barry

Friday, January 23, 2009

The Tyger

The Tyger
By William Blake
01 The Tyger.
02 Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
03 In the forests of the night;
04 What immortal hand or eye.
05 Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
06 In what distant deeps or skies.
07 Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
08 On what wings dare he aspire?
09 What the hand, dare sieze the fire?
10 And what shoulder, & what art,
11 Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
12 And when thy heart began to beat,
13 What dread hand? & what dread feet?
14 What the hammer? what the chain,
15 In what furnace was thy brain?
16 What the anvil? what dread grasp.
17 Dare its deadly terrors clasp:
18 When the stars threw down their spears
19 And water'd heaven with their tears:
20 Did he smile his work to see?
21 Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
22 Tyger Tyger burning bright,
23 In the forests of the night;
24 What immortal hand or eye,
25 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


I found “The Tyger” by William Blake incredible. After ruminating upon it, it seems really subversive, but it is very subtle. He is able to package all of his radical theological claims in a children’s poem.

The poem tackles the problem of natural evil—an ethical dilemma that thousands of theologians, philosophers, and everyday citizens have wrangled with since the dawn of civilization. Why do natural tragedies, like earthquakes, tidal waves, and volcanoes, exist? Does this disprove the existence of God? Or is the world naturally evil? It is one of the unanswerable questions of human existence.
Blake discusses this issue in a very interesting way, and covers it all with imagery and symbolism. The “tyger” in this poem represents natural evil; he is terrifyingly huge, cunning, and powerful. But he is part of the natural world. Line 21 asks the underlying question of natural evil: “Did he who made the lamb make thee?” Did God, who created the harmless and innocent (not to mention tasty) lamb, also create the murderous tiger?

However, I would not say Blake is personally criticizing the existence of tigers. The tiger seems to have as much right to live and do his thing as the lamb. The narrator seems to have it wrong. He is so terrified by this animal that he is blinded to the natural cycle of thing. I feel Blake, as a Romanticist, would say the tiger is as beautiful as the lamb because both are of the natural world. We are supposed to see that the narrator is mistaken in his initial judgment of the natural world. Although the tiger can be scary, it’s also awe-inspiring.

We talked briefly in class about how beat-poet extraordinaire Allen Ginsberg would perform this poem live. I’m in an advanced directing class (as a theatre major), and one of our assignments is to devise our own piece. I think I’m going to bring it in, because there are some fascinating elements that would make in a multi-faceted piece of theatre. Obviously, there are the questions concerning natural evil, but then there is the dynamic of the terrified narrator versus the somewhat docile-looking tiger (according to the image on the plate). I think it would be a strong candidate for the basis of a theatrical work. Wow, isn’t it fun to cross-reference classes?

Review: 'Longa Viagem de Volta pra Casa' by Eugene O'Neill

One of the most magical aspects of the on-going Eugene O’Neill festival at the Goodman Theatre happens when a company takes a play by the founding father of American Realism and crams it full of the abstraction and experimentation that has characterized the modern theatre. When badly done, the O’Neill’s Nobel Prize-winning dramas lose coherence and the characters become cardboard cutouts. In the hands of a skillful director and team, however, the themes behind O’Neill’s work become strikingly clear. Experimental takes on these nearly 90-year-old plays can reveal ideas buried deep in O’Neill’s heavy language. Companhia Triptal, hailing from Sao Paolo, Brazil, perform O’Neill’s early “sea play” trilogy (for the first time in the United States) with complexity and an inherent sense of wonder; it’s almost as if they never knew O’Neill was known for his realism.
To be honest, the text of the “sea plays” is not particularly great: they were among O’Neill’s first attempts at writing. The language can be wooden and antiquated. However, Companhia Triptal perform the plays in Portuguese, which has a revitalizing effect on the World War I-era colloquial. The subtitles projected above the stage, on the other hand, need to be rehearsed more. The errors in projecting the subtitles cause a pretty big rift between the audience and the actors. With everything else pumped full of creativity, it seems that they could have done something really awesome with the subtitles.
The real magic in the performance does not come from O’Neill’s language itself. Instead, the staging of the plays and experimentation with the space are the real draws. At one point in Longa Viagem de Volta pra Casa (or The Long Journey Home), the lead character is drugged, and to simulate “the spins” he climbs onto a doorframe and is rapidly spun around. There is live bottle blowing. Wooden crates are stacked up and knocked over. This isn’t merely O’Neill, this is O’Neill in the 21st Century.
O’Neill based his “sea plays” on his experience as a merchant marine in World War I. The Long Journey Home is about the difficulties the sailors faced once they landed ashore. For the metaphor lovers, it’s telling us that you can remove the sailor from the sea, but you can never remove the sea from the sailor. Supposing most of the audience aren’t sailors, Companhia Triptal is telling us that going home is harder than it sounds. The actors embody the themes incredibly, transforming from living statues to humans motivated by love and/or greed and then degenerate to unfeeling automatons. There is a fascinating use of repetition in the play that makes it appear like the story of the play is actually an everyday situation.
Although spinning these plays in a modern light can highlight hidden messages, the abstraction of O’Neill misses a good amount of the time as well. At one point the house lights turn on and this has no effect on the audience besides letting everyone see the people they are seated next too. And sometimes the bizarre physicality makes the characters ungrounded and unbelievable. They lose their reality in a way. O’Neill’s plays depend on his characters, and making the characters too weird conflicts with the text and the audience can’t figure out who to root for.
It takes bravery and intelligence to perform plays that were written before Prohibition. By using the past century of advancement in theatre, Companhia Triptal is able to sniff out relevance. People are still struggling; they are still getting screwed over. By appealing to universals and drawing upon a myriad of theatrical traditions, they can blow the dust off of these early works. It’s pretty amazing these “sea plays’ can pull out emotions almost a century later, but there was a reason O’Neill was awarded four Pulitzer prizes.

Star rating: ***

Monday, January 12, 2009

Resurrection

Hello readers.

It's been a long time.

Half a year by some accounts. I figured the middle of January would be as a good as ever to kick this sucker back into gear. So get ready, and stop crying.

Like most long periods of time, a lot of things have happened in the past six months. Black dude elected president of the United States. I moved back to Chicago. Worked as a happy-go-lucky SOB at an effin' Jamba Juice. Dark Knight continued to be awesome. I'm working hard on set designing a show going up next month. Got a printer, socks, and a coupon for Applebees for Christmas. Turned 21, drank legally. 2008 Olympics, that Michael Phelps. Was in a Brecht show, as well as wrote a 30 page biography chapter about Brecht for the worst class I have ever taken. And the economy tanked like a biznatch.

But we'll get through this together. Hopefully.

Here's to the rebirth of blog.

Yes,
Barry