POEM#7: Other People's Poems

After the remarkable work you all did Monday in class... I  thought we'd keep that valve open (writing about things close to the bone), while giving you a little distance (putting yourself inside someone else's consciousness). After meeting with Sarah C.  -- I think this is a good plan for this week.

ALSO--BRING ME A POEM YOU WANT TO MEMORIZE--14 LINES MINIMUM

So... THE DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE

A poetic dramatic monologue (also known as a persona poem), is similar to its counterpart--the theatrical monologue--in several ways:  an audience is implied (even if the poet seems to be talking to herself, she IS talking and this is important because a way of formulating thought which is uttered has qualities that differ from a stream of consciousness which is perhaps less located, less logically ordered, etc); there is no dialogue (only one character please--though she may speak of others); and the poet speaks through an assumed voice--a character, a fictional identity, or a persona (this mask can be as close or as far away from the poet as she chooses, as historical or fictional, as found or created). Because a dramatic monologue is by definition one person’s speech, it is offered without analysis or commentary, so the drama of this type of language comes when there is a gap between how the speaker describes the situation and how the audience perceives that rendering.  In other words: how does this particular persona see/experience her world? What is particular or peculiar about that seeing? ("The Monologue of the Girl in the Refrigerator" by Adam LeFevre that I handed out on your diction sheet is an example as well).

Best O Luck, my Valentines.

Read HERE

And HERE

And Hamlet--

I have of late, (but wherefore I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition; that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterrill promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this Majesticall roofe, fretted with golden fire: why, it appeares no other thing to me, than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. 'What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an Angel! in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!' And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor Woman neither; though by your smiling you seem to say so...

And finally

one of my favorites, for how close to bone and how without answers-- 

"The Mother" by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Mother

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?--
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All.