My Poem: Requests for a Toy Piano

          Requests for a Toy Piano by Tony Hoagland is a poem in which nothing is as it seems. Classic and often romanticized situations are juxtaposed by their darker counters. If the woman in love is wearing a sweet perfume, the author is sure to mention it is made from the destruction of a hundred flowers. In the modern world of affluence and materialism, where society is based upon principles of capitalistic business rather than the rudimentary, concrete basis of moral evolution, the motivations of people are similarly translucent. Infiltrated by corruption and blind ambition, displays of supposed altruism are often projected from individuals eager to reap the psychological rewards of reciprocation. However, just as the rare acts of true character can be convoluted, it would be irrational to speculate that they do not exist. Just as the water rises within the daffodil, these anomalies represent a "flushed conviction" of the goodness within man, even in the face of his garish flaws.
         I connected with the poem because of its accessibility. One does not require prerequisite knowledge of the subject matter, because the events are so current and relevant to modern life. This is a rarity and something of extreme importance in a world where most famous poems address antiquated subject matter. This accessibility made it convenient to draw a relationship with the poem. Its harsh and dark critique of society is one that you feel a connection with at the end of the piece.
          Similarly, I was also lucky enough to distinguish my own morality within the poem. So many of Hoagland's ideals mimic those I have grown up with. As a young person, I find many of his metaphors holding a strong symbolic message for the flaws in our society. These issues are artfully concealed within a beautifully sinister poem of human error.

Fun with Poetry

 Part One

1. Agoraphobia

by Linda Pastan

2. Requests for Toy Piano

by Tony Hoagland

 

3. Clothespins

by Stuart Dybek

 

4. The Tyger

by William Blake

Do Not!

by Stevie Smith

Part Two

1.        Out of the poems above, I most enjoyed Requests for a Toy Piano by Tony Hoagland because of its criticism of the modern societies that are plagued with hypocrisy.

 2.       I enjoyed least Linda Pastan's poem called Agoraphobia, which, while beautiful, failed to instill upon me a greater message other than appreciation for the environment.

3.        I would definitely choose Tony Hoagland's poem because it is relevant to the flaws and fallacies of our society today.

4.        I genuinely believe in the message of Requests for a Toy Piano. It evokes a liberalism which is relevant and poignant in today's society that is based upon fundamental values of hypocrisy. 

Part Three

1.       I believe the criteria in which I will achieve the highest scores will be in Physical Presence and Level of Difficulty. This is derived from my extensive acting experience and fearlessness in accordance to memorization.

2.       The two criteria which will be most difficult for me will be Dramatic Appropriateness and Voice and Articulation. I generally consider poems not as monologues to be performed, but as hidden codes to be deciphered. This could impede my ability to perform the poem dramatically. Furthermore, when I am nervous, I can talk very fast. This could make me unintelligible to the audience.

 3.       Overall I believe I will impose a strong recitation upon my audience through good posture, confidence, evidence of understanding and subtly dramatic projection.

Part Four

Stanley Andrew Jackson

Writ on the Steps of Puerto Rican Harlem
by Gregory Corso 

     Jackson did an incredible job of subtly portraying the tone and mood of his poem through his acting. He eloquence did justice to the poem by presenting it clearly and concisely, maintaining the integrity of the piece.

 

William Farley

Danse Russe
by William Carlos Williams

      Farley demonstrated his clear understanding of the poem's direction through his manipulation of pause, drama and time. By stretching every second of the poem, he had the audience hanging on his every word, relishing every instant of this William Carlos Williams classic.

 

Part Four

       My experiences today on Poetry Out Loud enlightened me with a sense of the expansive choices I have in choosing a poem for this national competition. By not taking the time to truly appreciate the vast resources of the site I failed to understand the complexity of the project, and the many directions that I can take it. Lost upon the academic treadmill, I failed to take advantage of the enormous opportunity I have been presented with. Instead I will choose a poem I haven't studied before (not The Tyger by William Blake as I had originally planned), and so expand my understanding of literature and creative writing.

Is It a Bird? Is It a Plane? Or Is It Just a Lobster?

                    

      (Should be read in the voice of David Attenborough, though with a more sarcastic tone. Note: none of what is stated below should be taken seriously as criticism. I thought y'all were fabulous!)

              
                  Never has a humble crustacean been the subject of such heated debate! Never has the worry of plagiarism made us twitch in our seats,incessant, nervous energy manifested in the prospect of a peer bringing up our own idea before we have a chance to interject into the heated battle of literary wills. The stress of discussion is magnified only by the separation of groups, wherein one fraction inevitably feels like the lobsters in the Super Duper holding tank that we are meant to be analyzing. Perhaps the venerable poet, Howard Nemerov, foresaw such angry mobs of overrated Honors English students verbally pummelling each other with under thought theories on the significance of the lobster. What a clever fellow! Such postulation certainly prophesied the events of our latest discussion, in which some intelligent ideas were declared, but for the most part was a morose occasion of philosophical dribbling. However, the few poignant perspectives should be awarded credit. A night is, for me at least, too little time to spend really understanding a poem, so their quick witted bamboozling was greatly appreciated.
             It was projected immediately that the lobster must harbor some further meaning. Poems about crustaceans are a bit generically domestic for a classroom of our stature. But what could they possibly symbolize? Everyone expelled confident propaganda that the metaphor of the cadaver indicated the most likely suspect of the lobster's alter ego was a human. Though a bit obvious, this idea took us a step in the right direction. Because the lobster symbolized a human, it was clear the crustaceans in question must play some role in society. Lured away from the poem's truth by several far fetched dogmas, including my own in which the lobster represented a community of people mutually exploited by and for the benefit of their society, I watched in a state of a postponed snooze. It became apparent that an individual may analyze a poem for whatever theme they want and find support. I might find an allusion to Winnie the Pooh, but that doesn't mean the prose is about an overweight, yellow bear. This allowed me to realize that however convoluted some answers might be, the purpose of the poem had to be much simpler. This moment of penetrating light showed me a glimpse of the true intention of the poem, to represent the inevitability of death. This is the purpose of discussion. However hectic or even dull it can be it allows us to share and exploit the ideas of others so that we may find our own truth within any work of literature.

Paragraph Analysis

In my class there was an expansive range of diction, creativity and success within the paragraph assignment. Most of the paragraphs possessed unique topics supported with commentary and concrete details that effectively expressed their individual opinions. However, this being said, there were consistent errors within each paper. Transitions seemed to be the most difficult aspect of the piece for my classmates to remember. Without calling people out over a blog, which I find to be a fairly low way of expressing criticism, it can be said that transitive sentences and phrases posed a unique challenge for my peers. Word choice prevailed as another insecurity for the writers of the class. This could have been because of the myriad literary voices in our group. As we are all individuals with distinctive challenges as writers, we express our personality uniquely on paper.

It cannot be fair for me to criticize my fellow comrades without sharing my own weaknesses. In the paragraph assignment I was critiqued for my use of “this supports the thesis”. While personally I find this to be a fine, if analytical, way of portraying my intent, it was mentioned on the rubric. This indicates that my main difficulty as an in-class writer manifests itself in my unwillingness to sacrifice voice in order to conform to the assignment given.

My weaknesses, as well as those of my peers, pose a unique opportunity for individual improvement. We as students can take advantage of each failure we weather and improve our technique and quality of writing. For those who rose to the top of the class during this assignment, and for those who feel they did not do their best, we all eventually find ourselves on the same level: individually talented and challenged students with continual prospects of self and literary improvement.

   

Mouse Nests in the Oven

Safeway chicken filled the house with a nostalgic bouquet. The buzz of familiar primate energy made irresistible a social smile and witty comment exchanged between glances of friends and family. Standing up, I walked into the kitchen to pop the couscous in the oven from its perch on the top of the stove. Peering inside the depths of its iron gullet, I detected an unfamiliar shape on an old tray. I pulled out the oven rack to find a pile of insulation and anonymous fluff that some nasty little rodent had collected. Ah, a pocket to deposit one’s young. With a plastic spoon I nudged aside some of the debris, to find some old chocolate chip cookies that had long since vanished into the gloomy cavern we call our kitchen. So that’s where they had gone! With a deep and lethargic sigh I returned to the table to relay my awesome discovery.

                “Mouse nest,” I mumbled into my glass of chilled milk, “In the oven.”

                In the silence that followed I batted away one of the copious flies that are prolifically breeding in the center of all our rooms. So impishly they buzz around the assorted, but rarely effective, contraptions of defense we have erected in vain attempts to control their frightful libido.

                “A mouse nest?”

                “Oh yeah,” I said with another geriatric sigh, “They are reclaiming the wilderness we have taken from them. Rumor has it they’re lead by Al Gore.”

                Another silence dominated the room in a tired and fly ridden pall. Then, as was a shibboleth for our family, abruptly the clanking of appreciative forks began again and the same proverbial socialization found its element. What audience could dismiss such a shocking display of yet another brash animal attack on the feeble and vulnerable human species? Perhaps one which is well acquainted with our close friends: peromyscus polionotus. Indeed, the company we had over that night was with us when these adorable little vermin were introduced into our 68° habitat.

                As stated in an earlier blog, each autumn I volunteer at the Kennedy Creek Salmon trail. My friend, Kayta, a hopelessly maternal girl, was with me at the time. With ears unnaturally tuned to hear the small cries of endangered infants, she rapidly noticed an incalculably small noise of a distressed brood of deer mice. Charmed with naturally large, imploring eyes and velvety pelts, this abandoned litter of babies beckoned for the help of some higher power. "Who are we to play God?" I said wisely, but she was dedicated to a personal agenda of altruism. Cupping the eight tiny things in her hands she found our parents who were absorbed in the examination and dissection of a rotting salmon.

                “May we please, Mama?” She asked beseechingly, holding out her mammalian find to her parental guardian.

                The answer, however, was a firm "no". Kayta had raised far too many baby mice and her mother had quite enough, thank you very much. Then, looking to me with eyes a cocktail of  resolution and vehement desperation, she held the delicate and flea bitten creatures out to me. Taking the shivering, pee-stained things in my hands, I cooed pleasurably and correctly about their appearance before stuffing them in my warm coat pocket. As fate would have it, it was these mice (for whom I woke up once every two hours during the night to feed) who now corrode our dwindling supply of ice cream cones. Naturally, they had escaped as soon as they were weaned and now keep us company in the bath with their scuttling and squeaking in the hollow walls. We still see them from time to time: feasting on the contents of our garbage can, or perhaps even cuddling up in our socks. However the surest way to know they are there, ever present shadows of our waste, is to look out for the nests that they compile out of what we have discarded.

My Origins as a Writer

                                            

The process of becoming a writer, by any accomplished definition, entails a long process of experimental dabbling. Writing is a form of art and the expression of oneself, so naturally the germination of a linguistic artist begins at home next to a piece of paper or a computer screen. I have been writing since I was seven years old. Consecrated with a mildly competitive spirit, I was in a benevolent and eternal rivalry with my sister. The title of “biggest tomboy” was coveted (my sister always won), as well as most proficient and gifted writer. Inspired by dramatic and heart-wrenching games of Playmobil, we rapidly gained a firm control over plot lines, word choice and an impressively expansive vocabulary. As we became older, these games evolved into massive projects. These fixations of our amusement would carry us from day to day. Because my sister dominated the stories with her gift for narration, I was often compelled to sit and listen while she domineered the main antagonists and protagonists and often everything in between. The following is a paraphrased quote from one of these soap operas:

“…When she bent to the gallows, she never portrayed an emotion. Even as the executioner walked up from behind her, grazing the nape of her neck with a glinting ax, she only looked determined. When the ax was brought upon her head, not a cry escaped from those stony lips. While the head of most victims wore a grisly mask of terror and pain, hers was still and contained. There was a pall over the crowd…”

However, before you think we were completely morbid, you have to picture this with two pre-pubescent girls crouched over their tiny Playmobil dolls. Full of hushed intensity, one looks grim and the other (usually me) has tears streaming down her face at the grisly end of this much loved protagonist. These stories inspired creativity through words. They allowed us to harness vocabulary and master the art of language. My first stories are also the ones I am most proud of, because they influenced me as a writer. Essays have to come from somewhere, and my place of origin happened to be a series of short stories about a chicken named Ebony. Based on a true chicken who lived at my friend’s house on Johnson Point, this original heroine faced fences, imminent execution and of course the classic and wily fox. From simple pages with continuous sentences and frequent but ignored misspelling, these narratives evolved into complex chronicles of the adventures of a Gallus domesticus. In its final draft the story was narrated by a prudish Canadian goose named Clarence with a fervent dislike at his species stereotype. Apparently, being associated with white birds in bonnets and ribbons was a negative juxtaposition to his actual, accomplished individuality. This story proved my understanding of perspective. By creating a character to narrate the adventures of Ebony, I could follow her without generically narrating from third person omniscient. These stories, however threadbare, provided the foundation of my creative and academic writing for years to come, and have guided me into Honors English and hopefully a brightly linguistic future.

The Count of Monte Cristo

           The Count of Monte Cristo is a novel that incites deep complexity of thought within its audience. It illustrates the layers of human personality, justice and the overall definition of redemption. A classified masterpiece, the novel indicates the vengeful ghost in each of us, waiting for the first opportunity to influence its host into a gratuitous journey towards retribution. Addictive and easy to read, The Count of Monte Cristo is only difficult in its myriad characters. The reader must cut through the superfluous individuals to the ones that are important for complete comprehension of the novel. This introduction of personalities enriches the novel and provides a deeper appreciation for its setting. This enrichment of character turns the novel from a direct story of Edmond Dantes’ path towards redemption, to a study of 18th century society.
            In the beginning of the novel, Edmond is unassuming and simple. His devotion to his father and his fiancé is almost comical in its reverie. Even when he is detained as a Bonapartist, he vacillates in ridiculous fantasies of friendship with those responsible for his arrest. This naivety is soon shattered through his friendship with the wise Abbe Faria, who endows him with knowledge and a more mature perspective of the world. While he is not described as going insane for his imprisonment, the cell soon begins to dangerously alter his mind. By the time Dantes escapes, he is an extreme eccentric who craves revenge. It is arguably this motivation that kept him alive for the duration of his detention, not his friendship with the Abbe Faria, a man who, while instilled so much other useful knowledge into Edmond, failed to inspire him with an appetite for forgiveness. This abrupt contrast illustrates the complexity of human character, and how easily influenced it is by its environment.
            This study of human character reflects the theme of human complexity in To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.

What TKAM Means to Me

                      
                            

               "To Kill a Mockingbird"'s most primary themes are those of growing up. Already a guantlet of self flagellation and insecurity, Scout's transition to maturity is ridden with prejudice and examples of human atrocity and injustice. I think most of us can relate on some level to this kind of difficulty. We have all, in some way, experienced the moment when all innocence is gone. For me, this occurred relatively early.
             From a young age I have had an intense affair with the environment. Rain or shine, the world has always been a beautiful place to me. My collective experiences with my planet are small and insignificant compared to those who have had a real impact on its preservation. However, when I was first introduced to the negative influence of human establishment, it became apparent to me the inherent dangers of our society's niavety and love affair with industrialized technology. When you are very small, the world seems much bigger, so as a child I was never truly aware of the damage our impact has had. At nine, the world came crashing down upon me when this transition occured. Whether it was in mind, body, or spirt, I will never know, but this new awareness threw me into depressions. My inability to save the world was devastating. There were just too many people who didn't care, and each of them was launching a personal attack on a branch of myself. Their inability to connect themselves to the world around them baffled me. I had to realize that an individual is powerless against the storm, and only a worldfull will ever make a difference. I learned that contributing to the solution begins in your own life, and that the most we can do as people is educate and reinvent ourselves. Still, this transition has scarred me. I don't have as much faith in people as I used to, and I am deeply cynical about the identity of environmentalism being changed in the future.
               Another major transitional phase in my life was when my much loved Aunt Kathleen was killed in a freak accident. While her beliefs were not my own, I was bound to respect her dedication to them. A truck driver for over twenty years, her life had never seemed more bright. The road is a dangerous place for a woman to be, but she had her husband, Peter, with her. In a truck filled with apples, they drove away. Preliminary discussions identified this trip to be one of their last. They were excited to be over with this chapter of their lives, and ready to give it one more college try in the life of a sedentary couple. At the beginning of their trip, their truck ran into mechanical problems, and so they were forced to pull over and seek assistance. With their truck fixed, they continued on the road that lead to nowhere. Then, like some strange brush with chance, their brakes failed on a bridge. With no brake tracks to spell of their car swerved through several lanes, finally careening off the side into the cold water below. We were told she felt no pain, but Peter and his seat were not found for about a week. This tragedy crushed our family. We will remember her as a beautiful, vulnerable and insatiable person with a tremendous appetite for life. We will remember her as a melodious song of all things fragile in this world. We will remember how she taught our family to appreciate the moment, because the moment is bound to end in one way or another.
            These are only some of my transitional moments, but they taught me tremendous life lessons. Childhood is about innocence, and maturing is about evading bitterness. Some of us make it, and some of us don't. But it is the rare moments of intense beauty that see us through. The world and my Aunt are things of intense beauty, and they guided me though the arduous process of germination into adulthood. These themes will continue throughout my life, just as themes of continual personal growth will follow Jem and Scout.

My Boo Radley

                 

       Ever since I was seven, I have been volunteering at the Kennedy Creek Salmon Trail, docenting and teaching visitors about the chum that run there every autumn. While my experience there is not a direct parellel of Scout's experience with Boo Radley, it has been instrumental in showing me the succession from stage to stage in the human life.

      Upon first seeing the chum salmon, gasping out their last breaths in the struggle to reproduce, I was filled with a sense of awe and curiosity. It was strange to me that such a beautiful creature could be found so close to my home. As I learned about them, their meaning to me changed. From a stinky smelling meal at home, they became an entity all their own. Day after day I returned to teach people about these fish, but ended up learning more myself.

     Each female salmon, upon finding a place in the gravel bed with significant oxygen, begins to excavate a nest. These nests are called "reds", and are made as the female flaps her coddle fin onto the stream bed, creating a small vacuum. These reds take days to make, and so, already moldy with the white film of exhaustion, the female must then fight to retain her spot on the gravel. The salmon slowly became individuals to me. That female had been working for days, her striped companion floating encouragingly beside her. This female, old and close to her end, grasped a protruding root with her powerful jaws, in a vain effort to stay with her bright orange eggs. That male, a once-was dominant, struggled to fight off his younger, stronger adversary. The more time I spent watching them, the more I came to respect them as individuals.

    Even though I might not have been going through puberty at the time, a similar disturbance was taking place within my life. Recently, my parents had divorced, and so I was in the process of discovering my identity without my family as a whole. Like the dying fish who struggled to hold her own in the current, I was striving to maintain my sense of self as everything I felt sure about was washed away from beneath my feet. The salmon always fought. I respected their courage in the face of ominous doom, and tried to reciprocate it within my own life.

    Eventually, the rain begins to fall. The current in the river quickens, dragging the weak from their reds and washing them onto the shore. So I had to let go of my past and embrace the new and strange. However, it was not the end for the salmon, and so I realized it didn't have to be the end for me. Even after death, the salmon enriches the environment. Its death is the equivalent for the life of so many others. This metaphor gave me the strength to realize that even after the loss of my previous life, my future could be just as bright. This, in so many ways, is true. In an odd way my family is closer than ever before. Our loss provided the nutrients for our future to grow and mature.

     In this way, docenting at the Kennedy Creek Salmon Trial parellels what Boo Radley was to Scout: a symbol to guide the process of transition, be it within yourself, or within your surroundings.
                          

Introduction

              This is an introduction to my Honors English blog. I'm honestly not sure what kind of English student I am, but I suppose that is one of things I hope to find out through my writing.  If you are one of the unlucky souls who intends to follow my blog, prepare to be indoctrinated by my incredibly poignant and poetic words of wisdom. The language I intend to use on this blog will be akin to a babbling brook, hopefully with a few really cool words like "pusillanimous" and maybe a couple I can make up, following suit with Roald Dahl and others of his kind. I can go overboard with vocabulary, so you and other readers will be forced to bare with me as I edit my way to legible. I really enjoy talking about literature, so I am extremely excited to discuss these topics on my blog. Hopefully my point of view will not be the same stale perspectives that have been batted around highschool classrooms for years, but will be fresh, different, and intelligent. English is important because it allows students the tools to express themselves and others in the future. It is important for me to excell at this subject, because it provides the basis for all proffessional careers. Employment in Business, Foreign Affairs, Politics, Sciences and even Mathematics require an advanced understanding of language. To excell in English means to have a headstart in any of these career genres, so that when my time comes at the crossroad called College, I will not be hindered by inability or ignorance.

                        But until my "eureka!" moment, I am just "Illiterate". Enjoy.