The Wonderfully Complicated World of Poetry

Of course, Dickinson is not my first encounter with what may possibly be one of the most difficult types of literature to read. However, after having read numerous poems, I often still find myself completely at a loss, scratching my head and wondering, “What did I just read?” Furthermore, pinpointing exactly what is causing my complete lack of understanding is as difficult as the actual material. I can never seem to name precisely who the culprit is, and soon everything—from the language, to the structure, to odd punctuation—becomes suspect. Why does poetry seem to be some foreign language only a select few can comprehend?

One trouble I have noticed not only in myself, but also in others who have voiced opinions in my literature classes, is that the major problem is not the poem, but rather, it’s the lazy reader who wants the answers right now. This laziness is in large part the fault of today’s instant-gratification society. Now is a time where magazines have replaced books, only to be replaced by blips and clips posted on the internet. The average reader has become an impatient reader who does not want to work for the information. Still, noting this one dilemma does not completely account for my personal problem with poetry. I am well aware of my own laziness, and am willing to overcome it by putting forth the work, however, I still find myself stuck in a bog of ignorance when trying to discern the ultimate meaning to some poems. An example is probably the best way to show what I mean:

Emily Dickinson’s poem #1163 [1138] begins well, and I am happy to say I completely understand the entire first stanza. Clearly she writes, “A Spider sewed at Night / Without a Light / Opon an Arc of White - ” (1-3). It’s a phenomenon I’ve witnessed in my own backyard, noticing fascinatingly intricate spider webs materialize overnight. With the first part a success, it is time to undertake the next stanza. Here the lines start to climb the scale of mysteriousness stating, “If Ruff it was of Dome / Or Shroud of Gnome / Himself himself inform -” (4-6). The old, lazy reader I was would give up at this point, deciding if the author wants to be obscure, then I will gladly let her, but the determined me is curious. My best guess says that Dickinson is trying to convey images of what the web looks like. Ruff could be describing the pleated collar popular in British fashion, or it could also be referring to the thickened fur or feathers some animals carry around their neck. In either case, a “Ruff” is a decorative touch much in the same way the web of a spider is a decorative dome. The last line tells of how the outward appearance of the web is actually an informant, telling of who the spider inwardly is—the web is a physical manifestation of the spider’s personality. As for the middle line, I am truly at a loss, for the word “Gnome” only conjures up images of lawn decorations or Travelocity commercials.

With two stanzas down, there is only one left, but it is composed of the most confusing, and frustrating, three lines in the entire poem: “Of Immortality / His strategy / Was physiognomy -” (7-9). As many times as I read those words, and as much as I understand the meaning of each (since the book so kindly provides the definition of “physiognomy” in the footnotes), I cannot devise a consequential conclusion. At best I guess the spider wants not to literally live forever like the typical definition of immortality implies, but rather, if one interprets immortality to mean “being famous,” or living on in memory, then of course it makes sense he creates an amazingly unforgettable web to show the outside world who he is (physiognomy). Then again, what is the larger implication? I am sure it is some insinuation as to the cosmic order of the universe and the true meaning of existence, but I have trouble making such connections to my conclusion. As a result, the spider’s secret is safe, and I am all the more wary of poetry. It leads me to believe that the best poetry is that which has some ambiguity, but is still accessible, able to speak to those of any reading ability, sharing its message with the masses and not just a few (unfortunately, I believe I just created criteria only Dr. Seuss could fulfill).

Dickinson, Emily. "1163 [1138] A Spider Sewed at Night." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 2589.

Getting the Last Laugh

Asking “Why the chicken crossed the road?” is a question that will receive a slew of answers, all of which will be met with laughter, but is it a joke that can bring change or usher in a new era of thought? To answer “Yes!” is almost as funny as the inquiry itself, but the truth is that humor is not usually thought of as the stuff one can use to illustrate a serious point—such hefty matters it seems are left to those of a somber nature who will write lengthy, well-thought out arguments which present every detail for their cause. Luckily, there are those who laugh in the face of convention, and do not shy away from using the comical to present their case in what is perhaps the most non-threatening way available. Fanny Fern is one of these wonderful non-conformists who recognized that through humor, she could make a strong, effective point, calling attention to injustices by exaggerating the absolute worst qualities of what was miring the women of her time.

Using shock to force people’s attention towards the problem is one method Fern used magnificently writing, “Next morning, ask him to leave you a ‘little money,’ he looks at you as if to be sure that you are in your right mind, draws a sigh long enough and strong enough to inflate a pair of bellows, and asks you ‘what you want with it, and if a half-a-dollar won’t do?’ Gracious king!” (1795). But why end it there? Continuing she writes, “O, you may scrimp and save, and twist and turn, and dig and delve, and economize and die; and your husband will marry again, and take what you have saved to dress his second wife with; and she’ll take your portrait for a fire-board!” (1795). To think that all marriage offers a lady is the chance to be a beggar of her husband, and what one may manage to save is of no consequence as she will surely die, and her spouse will simply move on to the next wife in line, is a miserable outlook. Of course, this is one of the most dreadful depictions of what marriage means for women, and was not indicative of every union. However, that does not mean that there is not a strain of truth behind such outrageous statements. For many women, if they wanted something, it was ultimately the husband’s discretion. For those who would argue that women would never be able to support themselves if allowed the same privileges as men, now may see the opposing side of the issue, noting women have never had the chance given the constraint and financial control granted only to husbands. Fern’s outlandish set-up is actually creating a well-placed argument for women’s rights, and her humor is calling attention to some of the more unfavorable aspects of society.

Now that is has been show how humor can be used to make a point, the question remains: Exactly how effective is it? Can humor really bring about change? Is it a medium strong enough to insight revolutionary action, or does it cause people to merely laugh and continue living in their patterns? When considering these questions, it is important to remember, even though a person may be laughing, it can still be a serious matter. Though it is contrary to what one may typically think, humor can be as funny as it is grave. This is especially true of written humor where without a spoken tone with which to base any judgments, the reader is left only with the text, their perspective, and if they are lucky, some background on the author. And though it is a considerably difficult task to undertake, certainly, it is crucial to decide with what kind of tone the author means to convey in their humor. Is it lighthearted, or bitingly sarcastic? Do they wish only to point out what is wrong, or are they calling others to action, seeking change? It is hard to argue that Fern has a bitterness in her work, after all, she desires to ask the “Bearded Lady” if she shaves with a “Women’s Rights razor,” but that does not necessarily mean her work is all about garnering laughs. Because she is dealing with such a weighty issue (especially for her time), her humor is something more than mindless joking, and should be considered as poignant and influential as her contemporaries who preferred the route of non-fiction for their shared cause.

Fern, Fanny. "Aunt Hetty on Matrimony." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1794-1795.

Why D'ya Do It?

MOTIVES—responsible for a person’s actions, they are the driving force behind why—and the justification for what—someone does. For that reason, it is hard to overstate the importance of the motive, especially when considering it in regards to perceivably peculiar events. Accordingly, it is with special attention that one should examine motive in regard to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s unusual Mr. Wakefield of his likewise titled, “Wakefield,” as well as the darkly eccentric narrator, Montresor, of Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “The Cask of Amontillado.

Within the first paragraph, Hawthorne states neatly in one sentence the entire crux of his story. “The man, under pretence of going on a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years” (1298). Clearly, Hawthorne does not intend to propose a cause as to his character’s actions, but that does not necessarily mean he offers no assistance for those who wish to discern one themselves. According to Hawthorne, if one were to ask Mrs. Wakefield what type of man her husband was, she would aptly described him as someone with a “peculiar sort of vanity” that would keep “petty secrets, hardly worth revealing,” prone to what “she called a little strangeness” (1299). Obviously, there is some inherently curious quirk in the mind of Wakefield, and what society would see as outlandish (a 20-year self-banishment), Wakefield may arguably see as “par for the course.” Certainly, Hawthorne’s intentional description of the man lends credence to the assumption that it may be nothing more than an odd personality that is responsible for an even odder action.

In his first paragraph, Poe similarly reveals a crucial aspect concerning his following story. “The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge” (1612). After this brief introduction, Poe makes no further remarks on the supposed insults or injuries Fortunato has committed against the frightful narrator. The beginning is the first, only, and last mention of the motive behind the entire revenge plot. Unlike Hawthorne, Poe gives the reader no clues, insights, or evidence that help the one decide if what the narrator said was true, or what he did was justified. The basis for the story is completely the reader’s discretion. Supposing the narrator is merely insane or suspecting Fortunato truly committed a heinous crime are likewise viable explanations, since Poe’s lack of detail makes anything plausible.

What does such a purposefully ambiguous motive do for the story’s overall effect? Foremost, it makes it a stronger story with a more momentous impact. Hawthorne’s description of the lofty Mr. Wakefield supports the claim that his strange behavior was the result of a quirky personality flaw (an incredibly weak reason to give to his outlandish behavior). It is the equivalent of saying, “Oh don’t mind him, he’s just weird,”—an explanation which is never adequate. Conversely, Poe’s absolute absence of particulars concerning his narrator leaves no details with which to promote or deny an explanation of what drove that desire for revenge. By leaving the motive purposefully in question, the reader must inevitably formulate a reason they feel is most logical. Essentially, the story becomes more real to them since it is their theory which explains the man’s actions. Indeed, it leaves me to conclude that for the sake of the story’s effectiveness, the author must give substantial and complete reason to the character’s actions, or none at all—anything else just leaves you wondering “WHY?”

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. "Wakefield." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1298-1303.

Poe, Edgar Allan. "The Cask of Amontillado." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1612-1616.

One Nation, Under Nature, Indivisible...

Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are unanswerable. We must trust the perfection of the creation so far, as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy….nature is already, in its forms and tendencies, describing its own design. Let us interrogate the great apparition, that shines so peacefully around us.

From Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature, page 1111

I absolutely love Emerson’s view of Nature (most likely because he so rightly states what I have come to believe). Effectively, what he has done in this argument is place Nature in a spot commonly thought of as solely attributable to God. The elusive and ethereal concept of Creator becomes the more tangible and immanent presence of the natural world which surrounds humanity. He speaks of having to trust that Nature will answer any, and all questions which may be aroused in the mind—a premise that sounds surprisingly like a description of faith. Furthermore, he credits Nature as self-revealing, since by its very design it describes itself. Of course, this is another one of the major beliefs associated with God, a being who reveals himself to man through his own gift of grace. Yet, perhaps the best feature of his entire statement would have to be the accessibility Nature offers to the individual who desires to discover life’s answers or solve its mysteries. The essence of the natural world is everywhere, and all one has to do is stop and observe her evident beauty if he wishes to know her better. No longer does someone need to be the divinely chosen (“the elect”), or have others provide their interpretations as the key to salvation. Instead, the individual can be his own guide on the path to achieving complete unity with the universe. Essentially, the life of happiness in heaven religion seeks is likewise attainable by those who would look more to Nature, seeing God, creator, and universe wonderfully manifested in this entity that envelopes humanity, revealing new splendors daily.

Now I must come to a point inevitably raised by the first selected quote: Does Emerson’s argument advocate non-belief in an actual God by replacing it with Nature? My short answer would be “not really,” but more clarification is probably for the best.

Standing on the bare ground,—my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space,—all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball. I am nothing. I see all. The currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.

From Ralph Waldo Emerson's Nature, page 1112

The description of the “transparent eye-ball” is this notion of existing totally and completely in harmony with Nature. It is a state of being where “you” no longer exist, but alternatively are a part of a much larger notion (Nature and the universe). It is the reason that everything is visible even though the person is no longer there. In this state, Emerson speaks of being a “part or particle of God.” This condition of being in complete unity with everything is responsible for making him feel as though he is sharing in the experience of God. For that reason, I would assert that Emerson sees God and Nature as intrinsic parts of each other. Both are equal sides of the same coin. Nature seems to be the perceivable part of what God is, and it is through her that humanity can come to know God best. I do not feel as though he promotes non-belief in a deity, but rather looks more to Nature as the visible aspect of that power in the universe which is commonly thought of as God. Nature is not God’s replacement, but instead is his reflection.

Of course, all these thoughts raise more questions. If satisfying life’s puzzles is possible by merely observing Nature, does humanity need organized religion? Is believing in the power of Nature the same as believing in the power of God? Can Nature actually provide answers to universal mysteries, or has Emerson simply over idealized the natural world? Realistically, can the average person ever hope to be so connected to the world that they become the “transparent eye”? How can a person even begin to understand the vast wealth of knowledge present in Nature?

Whatever the answers may be, for certain, Nature is a complicated part of existence, and therefore, deserves all the consideration humanity has to offer.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. "Nature." The Norton Anthology of American Literature Vol. B. 7th ed. Ed. Nina Baym. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2007. 1110-1138.