Taking a Deeper Look at "Introduction to Poetry"

I looked deeper into Billy Collin's poem "Introduction to Poetry". I wrote the poem out by hand and annotated it with thoughts, insights, and questions I had well analyzing the poem more thoroughly. I found that the author is really trying to send a message that it is becoming more and more difficult for students to be able to look at a piece of poetry and see it as a human being with a personality, background, and meaning.

Looking Deeper at Ars Poetica

Upon looking further into Ars Poetica it was clear to see the amount of metaphors that build on one another to bring validity to the closing thought, "A poem should not mean but be.". Throughout the poem different objects and concepts are introduced some of them such as a palpable fruit, or a maple leaf are tangible real objects.  Some on the other hand are not tangible such as the grief of history, or love. All of these elements combine to create something that is three dimensional and real, in other words something that is "being".

Possible claims for this poem.

Policy: The metaphors in Ars Poetica should be seen as building blocks that make up a being.

Definition:The metaphors in Ars Poetica are elements that make up an actual being.

Comparison: Metaphors in Ars Poetica are like trains of thought that the author has about what makes up something of being.

Evaluation: The comparison of objects in Arc Poetica are made better by the conclusion of a poem being rather than meaning.

 Casual: The layout of thoughts in Ars Poetica cause the reader to look into the mind of the author to view his thoughts on poetry.

Further Thoughts on "'Poetry Makes Nothing Happen'?"

While analyzing the poem "'Poetry Makes Nothing Happen'?" by Julia Alvarez (pictured above), I was amazed to see just how much more of the poem I was able to understand and analyze. I noticed in particular that the author adds her personal opinion in the last couple lines of each stanza. This offers a resolution and purpose to the poetry, reiterating the theme which Alvarez is trying to portray: that poetry indeed does make a difference.

Several different claims can be made about this poem including:

• Policy: One should look at the poem's allusions, especially in the title, in order to have a full understanding of the theme.
• Definition: The author's opinion is shown in a couple lines at the end of each stanza. 
• Comparison: The way in which Alvarez uses punctuation functions like the flow of thought.
• Evaluation: The characterization within the poem very accurately emphasizes the ties between poetry and humanity.
• Casual: The use of various authors named in the poem causes the author to gain credibility.

Ars Poetica

By Archibald Macleish

A poem should be palpable and mute   

As a globed fruit,

Dumb

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   

As the flight of birds.            

A poem should be motionless in time   

As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   

Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time   

As the moon climb          

A poem should be equal to:

Not true.

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love

The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean   

But be.

Prewriting: I Believe

I did some prewriting regarding "Ars Poetica #100: I Believe" by Elizabeth Alexander. As seen in the photo above I wrote out the poem by hand and added several annotations and thoughts that occurred as I did so. I discovered new things in the process.

An Intro or Lecture to Poetry...?

 

pic cred: http://thebandwifeblog.com/2013/03/09/painted-books-diy/

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe its way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

What I Believe about "I Believe"

Photo cred: Penn State University

Ars Poetica #100: I Believe by Elizabeth Alexander

Poetry, I tell my students,

is idiosyncratic. Poetry

is where we are ourselves

(though Sterling Brown said

“Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”),

digging in the clam flats

for the shell that snaps,

emptying the proverbial pocketbook.

Poetry is what you find

in the dirt in the corner,

overhear on the bus, God

in the details, the only way

to get from here to there.

Poetry (and now my voice is rising)

is not all love, love, love,

and I’m sorry the dog died.

Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)

is the human voice,

and are we not of interest to each other?

Poetry, Poetry, Wherefore Art Thou Poetry?

Source

"Poetry Makes Nothing Happen"?
By: Julia Alvarez

Listening to a poem on the radio,
Mike Holmquist stayed awake on his drive home
from Laramie on Interstate 80,
tapping his hand to the beat of some lines
by Longfellow, while overcome by grief
one lonesome night when the bathroom cabinet
still held her husband's meds, May Quinn reached out
for a book by Yeats instead and fell asleep
cradling "When You Are Old," not the poet's best,
but still ... poetry made nothing happen,

which was good, given what May had in mind.
Writing a paper on a Bishop poem,
Jenny Klein missed her ride but arrived home
to the cancer news in a better frame of mind.
While troops dropped down into Afghanistan
in the living room, Naomi Stella clapped
to the nursery rhyme her father had turned on,
All the king's horses and all the king's men ...
If only poetry had made nothing happen!
If only the president had listened to Auden!

Faith Chaney, Lulu Perez, Sunghee Chen --
there's a list as long as an epic poem
of folks who'll swear a poem has never done
a thing for them ... except ... perhaps adjust
the sunset view one cloudy afternoon,
which made them see themselves or see the world
in a different light -- degrees of change so small
only a poem registers them at all.
That's why they can be trusted, why poems might
still save us from what happens in the world.

Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins: An Introduction to Poetry?

Found at https://hawaiiwatersportscenter.com/wp-content/
uploads/2015/02/HWS_Waterski.jpg

Introduction to Poetry
By Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
__________________________________________________________

Finding What She Wants in "What I Want"

What I Want

What do I want?

Well… besides such and such.

Just someone to spend eternity with, that’s all.

Is that to ask too much?

Imagine, if you will, a small pudgy white boy alone in a small house, on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I was serving a mission for my church in the small island Kingdom of Tonga. My companion, or as I called him my com-pain-ion, was asleep in the other room suffering from puke faka-ngaue (the sickness that conveniently overtakes a person when work is to be done). Like all of the other young men I was paired up with, I was assigned to work with him. He was a local kid who had very little work ethic and liked his sleep.

Once Upon a Snowy Night

Source

It is a few days from Christmas. Snow drifts lazily down in the cold air as a little girl is hoisted onto her father's shoulders. She is surrounded by softly glowing lights, scattered in the bare trees. A knit hat falls over her eyes and her laughter mingles with that of her father. A white castle rises in the distance, crowned with a golden angel. A sweet melody, drifts throughout the square as if sung by unseen heavenly hosts:

The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!

The latter-day glory begins to come forth;

The visions and blessings of old are returning,

And angels are coming to visit the earth.

We’ll sing and we’ll shout with the armies of heaven,

Hosanna, hosanna to God and the Lamb!

Let glory to them in the highest be given,

Henceforth and forever, Amen and amen!

"The Spirit of God" by William W. Phelps is a beloved hymn within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (more commonly known as Mormons). It is a song of triumph and joy which looks forward to the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. It is often sung around Christmastime. Every time that I hear or sing this song, I am brought back to that night in temple square. The lyrics to that song have long been one of my favorites, even when I was too young to fully appreciate their meaning. The sweet feeling that accompanies the music always makes me warm, no matter now cold it may be outside. 

Can I Just Have a Sick Day?

As a child, some of my fondest memories I have are snuggling up in my nice warm bed on a cold, snowy, drab day and listening to my mom read me the "funny stories" from the "book that had silly drawings". Little did I know, Shel Silverstein was providing a type of solace for me then and now.  I pretty much had those short little poems memorized, and I probably still do. Looking back to those care-free days where all I really had to worry about was being able to spell my own name, I remember the poem that I always loved my mom to read and I found it to be the most entertaining. Perhaps I enjoyed it so much because I could relate to it fairly well.

Not so Flowery Poetry

In the year 2015 I was introduced to what would become one of my favorite podcasts of all time. Set in a small desert community Welcome to Night Vale is the story of a weird little town where strange is the norm and all that is too be expected is that you can never really predict what will happen next.

When my cousin first explained to me about the show and how it was a series of broadcasts from a community radio station in a fictional town I thought it was strange, and it is. But from the first episode I was hooked, the stories were goofy and engaging and host Cecil Baldwin has a wonderful way of presenting and expressing himself. Needless to say I have been listening ever since and I love it. In addition to giving updates on the town and residence of Night Vale however the show often has sections of poetry and music as well. On February 19 2015 the episode Poetry Week was released, creators Joseph Fink and Jeffery Cranor invited listeners to submit their own works of poetry for a chance to be read on the show. Just recently I was rereading some of my favorites when I stumbled across this particular piece that was submitted by a fan and while it was never aired on the show I fell in love with it. The short piece is entitled Nympholepsy and reads as follows;

There once  was a time when man

claimed the jungle as his garden

... and paradise died

So man reconstructed a new garden

out of concrete and steel

... and earth wept

In this man-made garden

there was little room for flora and fauna

brother turned against brother

and sister turned upon sister

The garden stank of death and hate

... and earth wept

within this diseased and dying concrete jungle

balance became unbalanced

man's garden became rife with nympholepsy

Soon callousness and greed became the paean of humanity

And the descent from grace became a nuclear race

to defile yet even another garden

Making Friends with Pablo Neruda

Poetry had always been an assignment rather than an art form. I did not connect well with poetry; whether it was due to the fact that I did not understand it or simply because I was forced to read it, I will never know. I flew through my public education experience with an apathetic approach to poetry and thought I would never have to encounter it again, let alone connect with it. My life drastically changed when directly after high school I chose to serve as a missionary for the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Saturday Night Slam

This past weekend I had the chance to attend a slam poetry session hosted by The Saturday Night Slam Series at BYU.  About once a month people gather from all around to share their poetry, support local poets, or simply happen to walk into the wall restaurant on a day when its packed wall to wall with poetry lovers and choose to stay and listen. I honestly was not expecting a whole lot from the evening and was surprised to see so many people in attendance, and they were not your typical quite audience either. It was fairly clear that slam poetry was a very exciting and energetic event just from how many cheers and whoops and shouting was coming from the audience when I walked in.

The quality of the poetry that I heard was actually really good I had no idea there were such talented people here. The energy of the crowd was nothing in comparison to the energy of some of the presenters either, I have never seen such enthusiasm before in a person reading poetry. It really reinforced the concept that poetry is meant to be read aloud, and being read by the author is even better because they know better than anyone what the emotion behind this poem is. It was really well done and I had a good time defiantly would recommend to a friend. 

Pink Floyd Meets Shakespeare

Source

Pink Floyd's David Gilmour has long captivated audiences around the globe with his mesmerizing voice. His music is considered a staple of classic rock, so I was surprised when I saw his adaptation of William Shakespeare's Sonnet 18. Even though I had watched videos of several different poets, I was still the most impressed by this video. His musical rendition of an old poem appeals to new audiences, creating a fresh experience even for those who have read it a number of times. Gilmour seamlessly blends the sonnet's beautiful words to the soft sound of a piano, merging two masterpieces.

The text in and of itself is not a new. It has been recited over and over again for hundreds of years. The vast majority of students have been assigned Sonnet 18 as homework in high school, and have been asked to read and analyze it. There is also an overabundance of movies which allude to this work. The sheer amount of popularity that Shakespeare has leads to its overuse. This can often make the text seem dry and boring -- in dire need of some sprucing up -- something that David Gilmour effectively does.

In the video, there is also a large use of cinematic effect when it comes to lighting and calming images. It was interesting that Gilmour chose to include scenes filmed on a sunny and peaceful river to his adaptation. The song does not require any such images and could have been produced as a stand-alone adaptation. However, the gaiety and innocence of such scenes create a spell-binding tone for a sonnet about admiring a lover, allowing it to be more effectively consumed by the audience.

New Perspective on Poetry

After watching several different videos of poetry ranging from being performed, read by the author of the poem, or turned into animation, I have a different perspective on poetry. I used to not be the biggest fan of poetry, and I'm still not, however, I have a new found appreciation for it. I enjoyed listening to and watching poetry being displayed in numerous different ways.

This video in particular really stuck out to me. The way that the animation was done adds to the fluidity of the words in the poem. I also enjoyed the way that the speaker narrated the poem, emphasizing the more impactful lines by fluctuating his voice. The speaker is very engaging and keeps you interested by varying his voice and letting his personality shine through his work. The overall message of the poem is something that is very important and very real in today's world. The poet is very open and vulnerable by sharing personal stories and that engages people. You are able to relate to his work.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching this video of slam poetry. Anis Mojgani does an excellent job of portraying this poem. The first line he says "This is for the fat girls" gets an almost immediate reaction of laughter from the audience. Because he is such an entertaining performer, he is able to keep the audience's attention. Being able to hear the live audience in the background of the video adds to the humor that Mojgani communicates through his speech. Mojgani uses hand actions, which could be seen as distracting, however I think it adds to the humorous tone that he is portraying.

Poetry in motion

I have often wondered about the true purpose of poetry. To entertain? To show off? To woo women? For the longest time, I thought the only reason poetry existed was to torture English students. But over time, I realized that there was some reason that poetry existed beyond filling pages with ink. I came to this conclusion after realizing that most of scripture is poetry of one kind or another. We have been told that we should read scriptures daily, so maybe it does have a particular function. I soon became very respectful of the art of poetry, but I couldn't quite put its function into words.

It was while I was watching some videos of performed poetry when I was able to figure out poetry's purpose. I came to this conclusion while watching the video above. In it, Mike Myers' character performs a bit of poetry with a bit of accompaniment. It was fun to watch, but something struck me about it. It was like when you forget something, but only the important parts, like what a particular jingle was actually selling. The poem and jazz band's contribution sounded extremely familiar, but I just couldn't put my finger on exactly why. But then it all came to me.

Shake the Jabberwocky

Having recently experienced poetry in a new light than I had previously done, I have enjoyed listening and experiencing poetry in its different forms whether that be through simply reading or with the added experience of a poetry performance or adaptation in the sense of another work of art.

The first rendition of poetry that struck me was the Muppet's rendition of "Jabberwocky"  by Lewis Carroll. I have heard this piece in several forms before and even performed it myself in song. Yet the rendition by the muppets harmlessly mocked the absurdity of the poem itself. The characters, complete with costuming and vocal inflection, added a setting for the Jabberwocky that I had not necessarily identified. Even the usage of twin characters to tell the story in the beginning added an understanding of absurdity to the piece. The Muppets made the poem humorous instead of serious, as the author may have originally intended. The Muppets, I believe proved a point of the monotonousness of goth literature (or dark romanticism as it is often referred) that often befalls our culture of the knight in shining armor saving the day.

The second rendition that was enlightening to me was the poem "Shake the Dust" by Anis Mojgani. There is certain poetry that begs to be performed and this is one of those pieces. This piece could not be performed by anyone but Anis because he shared how he wants to be remembered. Anis barely breathes as he rambles off the list of individuals who live in this fallen world. Yet he encourages them to shake the dust. And finally as Anis slows down and takes a breath is the moment when he calls for change. The punctuation is impactful.

Finding What I Want in "What I Want"

What I Want

What do I want?

Well… besides such and such.

Just someone to spend eternity with, that’s all.

Is that to ask too much?

Imagine, if you will, a small pudgy white boy alone in a small house, on a small island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. My companion, or as I called him my com-pain-ion, was asleep in the other room suffering from puke faka-ngaue (the sickness that conveniently overtakes a person when work is to be done). I was doing all I could do to stay busy. I had listened to the past 5 years worth of general conference, translated "Any Dream Will Do" into Tongan, and I had even counted the number of rules in the missionary handbook.  

I want someone patient and smart,

someone who is strong and brave.

Someone kind, someone bold,

someone whose presence I crave.

It was during this time that I figured I would try my hand at poetry. My com-pain-ion was a well known songwriter and a good poet and I thought I could give it a try.  

What do I want?

Just an eternal companion.

An eternal companion who loves me,

With a love with of no comparison.

I took inspiration from the lists they made us write in primary about what we wanted in a future spouse. I realized that our primary aged brains could only come up with superfluous attributes like "My wife will be a good cook" or " My husband will be a doctor" or "My spouse will have a super hawt bod." 

I want someone that helps me be better.

Someone who speaks honestly.

Someone who isn’t scared to talk,

someone who loves Him more than me.

I had come to realize on my mission that there was way more to a person than just their looks or skills, so I had made a list of real attributes that I thought were important to have in a spouse and What I want was born. 

Who do I want?

I want a beautiful daughter of God

Whose virtue radiates from her soul

and who keeps her hold to the Rod.

It turned out decent. I should have focused less on the rhyming and more on the flow and meter, but for my first foray into the world of poetry I thought it went well. 

So, who do I want?

Well, let me see…..

I want an eternal companion

who also happens to want me.

At this point I put it away, never to be looked at again until I had returned home from my mission. 

I don’t want an eternal companion,

I simply just need one.

That is the whole point of life, right?

Just find her and I’ll be done.

I pulled it out one day when, after a few weeks of dating this girl, I was thinking about marriage. I was amazed to find that she surpassed all of my requirements. I could see myself marrying this girl, but I felt like I was forgetting something. 

But there is more to it than that.

There is way more to it than finding.

Not only must I find, but while I look,

I must work on my becoming.

I couldn't figure out why I felt so weird, but then I had a thought that maybe she also had a list that she was comparing me to. Was I passing all of her tests? Was I all that she wanted? I thought. 

Becoming the one that she wants,

no, becoming who she needs.

Becoming better than I was yesterday.

And pulling many of my life’s weeds.

It was only fair that if I was going to hold her to such a standard, I had to hold myself to a high standard as well. 

So the day comes that I find her.

Hopefully that’s sooner than later.

The hard part is, now here’s the kicker,

Will I be the right one for her?

So I continued to write on What I Want until I found that it was not only a fair statement of my feelings, but I also had more accountability on my part. 

That’s what it boils down to.

This is not a one-way street.

We must study each other out

To see if we’ll compete or complete.

I continued in faith that she would be all that I needed and wanted, but I also tried to emulate the same traits. 

I’m not looking for perfection,

hopefully she isn’t either.

If that is all we really wanted, we’d search forever,

but never find each other.

I figured that we had the same desires: a temple marriage, a family, happiness; so I assumed that she would expect the same things that I expected from her. 

I’ll never ever find perfection

Because I will always be far from flawless.

So we will look for, and be, who we need,

And hopefully find never-ending solace.

So I put myself to the test. 

So, who does she want?

Nothing too much.

Just someone to spend eternity with.

Will I be worthy of such?

I tried my best to be my best. We continued to date and the more we dated, the more I fell for her. 

Am I patient and smart?

Am I strong and brave?

Am I a kind and bold person?

Am I someone that she craves?

I soon found myself in love, and to my delight the feelings were reciprocated. 

What does she want?

She wants an eternal companion.

An eternal companion that loves her

With a love without comparison.

I found myself being a better person. I was kinder, more focused, and I grew more during that time than any other time in my life. 

Am I someone who helps her be better?

Is honesty what I prefer?

Am I someone who isn’t scared to talk?

Do I love Him more than her?

I also became closer to God, which actually brought me closer to her as well. 

Who does she want?

She wants a handsome son of God,

Whose virtue beams from his soul

And who keeps his hold on the Rod.

And so after a while, I knelt down in a puddle and asked her the most important question I have ever asked anyone. 

So, who does she want?

Well, hopefully me.

She just wants the eternal companion,

That I am trying to be.

And then I read this poem to her at our wedding. 

Can I Just Have a Sick Day?

As a child, some of my fondest memories I have are snuggling up in bed on a cold night and listening to my mom read me the "funny stories" by Shel Silverstein. I pretty much had those short poems memorized. Looking back to those care-free days, I remember the poem that I always loved my mom to read and thought it was the most funny. Perhaps I liked it so much because I could relate to it...

“I cannot go to school today,"

Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

“I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I’m going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox

And there’s one more—that’s seventeen

And don’t you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke

I’m sure that my left leg is broke—

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button’s caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains

My nose is cold, my toes are numb

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?

What’s that? What’s that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

I can remember my mom and I laughing as we acted out the poem. Eventually the two of us had it memorized by heart.

Part of the reason I think this poem was particularly easy for me to memorize was because of the rhyming words that Shel Silverstein uses. The rhyme scheme in this poem help it to flow and roll off the tongue easily. Another reason I was able to memorize this poem so quickly was also because I could and still can totally relate to Peggy Ann McKay. Shel Silverstein did an incredible job of describing exactly what a young child would say/do to not have to go to school.

Silverstein does a great job demonstrating the use of imagery in his poem.

"A gash, a rash, and purple bumps".

This particular line of the poem is just one example of imagery. As the reader, I can physically see a gash, a rash, and I can even imagine purple bumps. "Purple bumps" is terminology a young child would most definitely use to try and get out of going to school.

This is my first year at BYU and I live over 1,600 miles away from home. Needless to say, last semester was a learning curve for me. I can't remember how many times I felt lonely, sad, and homesick. Whenever I was feeling this way, I would read this poem in particular and remember the fond memories I have as a child and my homesickness would begin to dissipate. I am a big fan of Shel Silverstein, and an even bigger fan of Peggy Ann McKay.

Once Upon a Snowy Night (draft)

Picture this. Snow drifts lazily down in the cold air as a little girl is hoisted onto her father's shoulders. She is surrounded by softly glowing lights, scattered in the bare trees. A knit hat falls over her eyes and her laughter mingles with that of her father. A white castle rises in the distance, crowned with a golden angel. A a sweet melody, drifts throughout the square as if sung by heavenly hosts:

The Spirit of God like a fire is burning!

The latter-day glory begins to come forth;

The visions and blessings of old are returning,

And angels are coming to visit the earth.

We’ll sing and we’ll shout with the armies of heaven,

Hosanna, hosanna to God and the Lamb!

Let glory to them in the highest be given,

Henceforth and forever, Amen and amen!

Every time that I hear or sing "The Spirit of God" by William W. Phelps, I am brought back to that night in temple square. The lyrics to that song have long been one of my favorites, even when I was too young to fully appreciate their meaning. The sweet feeling that accompanies the music always makes me warm (no matter now cold it may be outside).

The poetry that makes up this song is best appreciated when critiqued in its historical and religious context. The song was written in response to the building and dedication of the LDS temple in Kirtland, Ohio. A video on the Mormon Channel describes the incident as follows:

"As the blessings of heaven were poured out upon their heads, many of the Saints spoke in tongues, while others were given the power to interpret. Many saw angels atop the temple roof or heard heavenly singing, and there were wonderful manifestations of healings, of visions and dreams. The Savior Himself appeared in five different meetings held in the temple, and visions were given to many of the Father and the Son (source)."

When critiqued through the lens of new historicism, the poem changes meaning. The historical background to this piece makes all the difference in determining its meaning. In the first verse, it discusses visions and blessings of the past returning, alluding to the miraculous occurrences that seemed to be all so common in the Old Testament. The author believed that he was witnessing some of the signs of the last days as he described the angels, visions, and wonderful things that were occurring at this point in time. The audience is able to sympathize with the utter joy that the author must have been feeling at the fact that God was still a God of miracles. How wonderful that the burning bush of Moses' day continues to burn today!

Being a hymn, there is also a significant amount of biblical allusions within the text, which are especially prevalent in the fourth verse which reads: 

How blessed the day when the lamb and the lion

Shall lie down together without any ire,

And Ephraim be crowned with his blessing in Zion,

As Jesus descends with his chariot of fire!

The metaphor of the "lamb and the lion" can be analyzed in two distinct ways. 

1.   The "lion" described in this verse can be attributed to the house of Judah (a traditional symbol that can be found in Genesis 49:9), while the "lamb" refers to the Savior Jesus Christ. If the symbols are taken in this way, readers can assume that the Jews will accept Christ and his message once the Second Coming occurs.
2.   The metaphor could be taken in a more literal sense as meaning that there will be no more violence and strife, and that enemies will cease to be and peace will reign as king. A similar metaphor is found in the Bible in the 65th chapter of Isaiah, where it states that the "wolf and the lamb shall feed together... they shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain".

The word "Zion" is also closely connected with both the Bible and the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. The symbol of Zion changes throughout scripture, first being used to describe the City of David in the Old Testament to just refer to the City of God in the New. However, when taken hand in hand with the historic context, its meaning changes. In Mormonism, Zion is often referred to as more of a mentality, more specifically the "pure in heart" (Doctrine and Covenants 97:21), and the followers of Christ. However, it can also be interchanged with the "New Jerusalem", where the new Holy City will be located.

This song not only inspired the early Latter-day Saints, but continues to do so every day. It has touched my heart many times, from the snowy scene at temple square as a child to the times I have sung it while sitting in a church pew. It is a beautiful literary expression of faith and emotion that all people, religious or not, can appreciate.

Not So Flowery Poetry (Draft)

In the year 2015 I was introduced to what would become one of my favorite podcasts of all time. Set in a small desert community Welcome to Nightvale is the story of a strange little town where strange is the norm and all that is too be expected is that you can never really predict what will happen next.

When my cousin first explained to me about the show and how it was a series of broadcasts from a community radio station in a fictional town I thought it was strange, and it is. But from the first episode I was hooked, the stories were goofy and engaging and the host has a wonderful way of presenting and expressing himself. Needless to say I have been listening ever since and I love it. In addition to giving updates on the town and residence of Nightvale however the show often has sections of poetry and music as well. I have always loved the poems and ideas that have been presented on the show so recently I was rereading some of my favorites when I stumbled across this particular piece that was submitted by a fan and while it was never aired on the show I fell in love with it. The short piece is entitled Nympholepsy and reads as follows;

There once  was a time when man

claimed the jungle as his garden

... and paradise died

So man reconstructed a new garden

out of concrete and steel

... and earth wept

In this man-made garden

there was little room for flora and fauna

brother turned against brother

and sister turned upon sister

The garden stank of death and hate

... and earth wept

within this diseased and dying concrete jungle

balance became unbalanced

man's garden became rife with nympholepsy

Soon callousness and greed became the paean of humanity

And the descent from grace became a nuclear race

to defile yet even another garden

I was struck by so much in this poem and I have since reread it at least one hundred times. The message, the religious themes and powerful ending sentences struck me really hard. It really compelled me to think about the first garden that man was given, the garden of Eden. This poem is a statement of the imperfection of man that has been present since the very beginning, and the terrible habit that we as humans have of ruining things that have been given to us. 

I thought it was so interesting how much the author focuses on the hatred of humanity. They paint a vivid picture of violence and killing in the setting of a garden, which by nature is full of life and peace. In a way its kind of a display of the fact that everything must have its opposite. The garden that man inherited is painted here as being lush and beautiful, only enhancing that which it touches. And in stark contrast man his painted here has being terrifying and destructive, only ruining that which it touches and never stopping to consider the consequences. While I think this is a bit of an extreme view I do have to agree that we do not hesitate to destroy something in order to build something new. I like the way this message made me think about how that sacrifice has to be made whenever anyone wants to create anything. 

It was a really powerful prompt for me to stop and think about my part in all this, after all I do live in and contribute to the garden of concrete and steel described here. The wording is very powerful and the image of a weeping earth really upsets me and I dont want to be someone that has played a part in making earth weep. Unfortunately this fall from grace is so ingrained in us as humans that perhaps we hardly notice the impact that we make anymore. The path that we are headed down is as a result not the greatest, but I was very grateful to the author of this poem for helping me to take more notice of the impact that I have in this fragile garden that we live in.   

Making Friends with Pablo Neruda (draft)

Valparaiso: home to seven universities, known as "Little San Francisco," and the second biggest metropolitan area in Chile. Valparaiso became my home for ten months as I walked the streets as a missionary for the church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I taught the people, served the people, and experienced the Chilean culture in a unique way. I was required to learn Spanish but did the majority of the learning process in a "hands on" sort of way. After six weeks in a training facility to learn the language we were tossed to the wolves and were required to converse with complete strangers in a language we hardly understood.

I lived with another missionary, American like me, who had more experience in the workings of proselyting and a broader understanding of the language. The two of us lived on the highest hill in Valparaiso. Being the "Little San Francisco" of South America denoted the steep hillside landscape that contained more stairs than people. Every day we descended the heights of our house to reach the main square where we would contact people to spread the message we bore. Along the way of this journey was a street that I especially enjoyed. Every wall of every house contained murals and poetry along the descent of my favorite street. There was a school at the top of the hill that contained a large mural of a man in a beret. The name of the school was "Pablo Neruda." Across the street from the school stood a square with statues, which I assumed were Neruda himself. We stopped often at that square to rest our feet and eat a snack, occasionally taking pictures with said statues.  I would attempt to read and understand the poetry that scattered the streets but with limited Spanish ability it was harder than I expected.

I eventually returned to the US and began my life as a college student, forgetting about the Pablo Neruda memorial and the statues that had been my friends during a time when I could hardly speak Spanish. Having spent a year and a half in Chile allowed me to become conversationally fluent and I decided to minor in Spanish in order to master the language and open my horizons. As part of my studies I attended a poetry slam in Spanish at a nearby community library. The most commonly recited poet that night was Pablo Neruda. Suddenly all the memories from Chile flooded back and I remembered the memorial that had been a staple in my daily routine. I payed special attention to all of Neruda's works that night and one of the pieces was especially influential. 

The words of the piece whispered over me as I not only listened but felt the poem. I had been going through a break up, and as many college-aged young women, I was bitter and hurt. The poetry became a balm to calm the wounds. 

Quiero que sepas                                                                                               I want you to know
una cosa.                                                                                                            one thing.

. . .                                                                                                                     . . . 

Ahora bien,                                                                                                      Well, now,

si poco a poco dejas de quererme                                                                    if little by little you stop loving me
dejaré de quererte poco a poco.                                                                       I shall stop loving you little by little.

Si de pronto                                                                                                     If suddenly
me olvidas                                                                                                       you forget me
no me busques,                                                                                               do not look for me,
que ya te habré olvidado.                                                                               for I shall have already forgotten you

I loved the way the words were expressed, especially in Spanish. At the time I only knew how I felt and not why the poetry made me feel as it did. After looking up the poem both in English and Spanish I was able to identify the genius that Neruda employed. Neruda used descriptive language in a mesmerizing way to express the monotonousness of every day existence. 
if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch 
of the slow autumn at my window, 
if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash 
or the wrinkled body of the log, 
everything carries me to you, 
as if everything that exists, 
aromas, light, metals, 
were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Additionally, Neruda uses several sound devices in this piece. Mesarchia (repetition of the same word or words at the beginning and middleof successive sentences) is also used when saying "little by little" to show the difference between the lover and the loved. Neruda employs consonance in the original Spanish language as the repeated "s" sound falls at the end of words and lines. See minute 0:36 for a small sample of explained consonance.

Pablo Neruda deserved every statue and artwork depiction that lined the Chilean streets from Valparaiso. While I didn't quite understand the importance of the words scrawled on the walls of the houses on Pablo Neruda's street, nor did I hardly understand the words themselves at the time, I did know that someday I would understand them. Fortunately, I stumbled upon the opportunity to make friends with Pablo Neruda's words once more. Perhaps "If You Forget Me" was powerful due to my tender situation. Perhaps it was powerful due to the connection to a growing time of life. Perhaps it was powerful because I could finally make sense of the Spanish being thrown into the air with literary appeal and artistry. But for whatever the reason, the poem is still one I read or listen to occasionally to remember Neruda, Chile, forgotten love, and a delight of latin poetry.