Interact 4 "The Nightingale" Angeline

[jd4george]

quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted by Angeline

I often see things in my poems long after I write them that I find revealing--as if I may have subconsciously revealed something that I wasn't aware of consciously at the time of writing. Does anyone else ever feel that in their poems?

On the other hand, maybe I should just have some coffee and not think so much.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Angeline, I go through that experience so often that it scares me. Weeks, even years later, I discover meaning and metaphor hidden away that I had never intended. All-too-often, I feel like I have revealed part of my subconscious that might be better left alone!

Maybe it's the old Robert Frost thing. Years ago I watched an interview with him, and the "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" poem came up. Frost looked at the interviewer like he was a demented madman, and said something to the effect of: "I don't know what all the talk about death came from. I was just writing a simple little poem wondering about what might be going through my horse's head."

Serendipity? Cause and effect? Happenstance? Inspiration in its purest nakedness?

I don't know. "I was just writig a simple little poem!"

Having avidly read these "interact" threads, I am in awe of the craft (and the understanding thereof) that the four of you have demonstrated.

In this case, I'm pleased to discover that I can include you in my short list of talented "Maine poets". (It's short, because I'm a judgemental and opinionated SOB).

 

[Angeline]

Boy am I glad to hear I'm not alone in that, lol. Poetry is many things to me because it's so important to me, but theraputic is high on the list.

jd, I think I recall that interview with Frost and thinking that the ascerbic old boy was lying through his teeth--at least at the time of the interview. And I'm glad to hear you mention him at all--he's so underrated by younger writers who grew up in the shadow of the beats and don't see his value (or, for that matter, recognize Whitman's influence on Ginsberg).

And we can both be talented Maine poets. I want to see both our books on that "Maine Poets" shelf I see at Borders.

Pat, you can be on the "NYC Poets" shelf. I wanna be there, too. The combination of my NYC/Joisey accent and the growing Maine-ah inflection in my voice earns me both spots (yes, it's a frightening mix, I know). And I had the coffee, but I'm still thinking.

 

[BooMerengue]

Mornin y'all!

Normally I just lurk at these highbrow threads, but I have to say that that happens to me. I can't think of a poem of mine where I actually set out to say something profound, but when I read some of my reviews I'm amazed at what others see. And of course the're right, most of the time, and I just look on in awe. Someday I hope to write one where I knew what I was talking about before anyone else did!

 

[Angeline]

Mornin y'all!

Normally I just lurk at these highbrow threads, but I have to say that that happens to me. I can't think of a poem of mine where I actually set out to say something profound, but when I read some of my reviews I'm amazed at what others see. And of course the're right, most of the time, and I just look on in awe. Someday I hope to write one where I knew what I was talking about before anyone else did!

Mornin baby.



It's all an illusion, lol, but if it makes a good poem who cares?

 

[BooMerengue]

say this with Cajun inflection...

Yeah, you're right!

 

[jd4george]

Angeline... I agree about your assessment of Frost. Like Sandburg, he is too often overlooked as an old fuddy-duddy. I'm fortunate to have an old LP recording of him reading some of his poems. He wrote well.... but couldn't read for shit! He was one boring-ass reader.

As for my bestowing the title "Maine Poet"... it is honorary:

You see, there was an old fisherman sitting on a Maine dock. A New Yorker struck up a conversation. "I've lived here for years. Am I a Mainer?"

"Nope."

"Will I ever be a Mainer?"

"Nope."

"Well, what about my kids? They were all born here. Surely they're Mainers."

"Nope."

The New Yorker was somewhat affronted. "Why not?"

"Simple. If your cat gives birth to kittens in the oven, you don't call'em biscuits."

 

[BooMerengue]

Really laughin hard here- that is soo true!

We lived in Easton, Ct for 30 years... when we finally sold The House, people still referred to us as the new folks on the corner!

 

[Maria2394]

quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted by Angeline

I often see things in my poems long after I write them that I find revealing--as if I may have subconsciously revealed something that I wasn't aware of consciously at the time of writing. Does anyone else ever feel that in their poems?
~~~

usually when I write, I get invisible to the real me and just let whatever come on out, and then when I think i have written something benign, such as red bricks, then I get FB that says, wow,....( whatever) and I feel like I am standing naked in teh forum, all my thoughts fears and boobies bared so then I stop posting for a while and hope people forget what I wrote so I can submit again

 

[flyguy69]

quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted by Angeline

I often see things in my poems long after I write them that I find revealing--as if I may have subconsciously revealed something that I wasn't aware of consciously at the time of writing. Does anyone else ever feel that in their poems?
~~~

usually when I write, I get invisible to the real me and just let whatever come on out, and then when I think i have written something benign, such as red bricks, then I get FB that says, wow,....( whatever) and I feel like I am standing naked in teh forum, all my thoughts fears and boobies bared so then I stop posting for a while and hope people forget what I wrote so I can submit again

So... "red bricks" are a metaphor for your boobies? And you want me to forget them? I'll think of you every time i walk a cobblestone street, now!

 

[Angeline]

quote:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Originally posted by Angeline

I often see things in my poems long after I write them that I find revealing--as if I may have subconsciously revealed something that I wasn't aware of consciously at the time of writing. Does anyone else ever feel that in their poems?
~~~

usually when I write, I get invisible to the real me and just let whatever come on out, and then when I think i have written something benign, such as red bricks, then I get FB that says, wow,....( whatever) and I feel like I am standing naked in teh forum, all my thoughts fears and boobies bared so then I stop posting for a while and hope people forget what I wrote so I can submit again

If your boobies are in my thread, Eve's ass must be around too.

(oh look. there's Tath)

Ok. Now I've trashed this lovely academic thread. I think it's Tath's fault!

 

[Angeline]

So... "red bricks" are a metaphor for your boobies? And you want me to forget them? I'll think of you every time i walk a cobblestone street, now!

I hope you realize this suggests a really strange fetish.

 

[Maria2394]

ohh, no, red bricks is a metaphor for my life, a mango, a breast ( which you helped me edit, and I appreciate it so much xoxo) was my boobies poem

 

[Angeline]

ohh, no, red bricks is a metaphor for my life, a mango, a breast ( which you helped me edit, and I appreciate it so much xoxo) was my boobies poem

lol. I remember sis.

 

[twelveoone]

Repitition 3a&b sang-sing.

I love the rep in this poem. It ties it all together and makes it sing.

I am not getting into anything deep here, I'm making a point about repitition.
Of course Eve gets it right - The focus of the poem in the nightingale singing, 7 times "Sang-Sing", I noticed the slight change, from the older one.
When I first read this, I didn't notice the amount of repitition, it was subtle.
My guess is no one noticed it, Ange, where you aware of all of it?

First set of three does double (triple?) duty - this is a pattern - it is being drilled into your head. The focus is the Nightingale singing, Flyguy mentioned monotony and imprisonment. Note shift from "for" to "to", breaks it up, very old trick, this also sets up the end 7 lines.
This is the heart of the poem, the theme.

I sang for him.
I sang for him,
I sang to him~

I sang. I tried to love
the jeweled perch for him.
I sang. I tried for him,
but I was dying.

I listen to the forest
sing to me. I sing
to the night, the sky.

or as Ange herself said...

"That goes with my idea of poems being musical--I want to hear the rhythm of it and make sure it sounds right (no "off" notes). It's more something I feel is right, than know in a logical way. "

I wish I had a musical analogy for what happened in the last seven lines, the shift from 2 "sang"s to 2 "sings". There is more, this is quite awesome, what was done.

 

[twelveoone]

Re: Re: "Watched Me" I sang Repititon 2&3

Good morning.

Well, there is literal death and there is spiritual death. The emperor's impending death is a release from a long life; maybe it's his time and his imprisomment of the nightingale is an attempt to not let go. She is dying inside because she needs freedom, but maybe her attempt to prolong his life is a way of imprisoning him. Maybe she is less selfless than she may seem. So in a sense, they both contribute to each other's pain or loss.

Nowhere in the poem is it mentioned the emperor is dying, it may be alluded to, but it is not there. Nice, saying without saying, there are a lot of nice subtle things you do in this.

 

[Angeline]

The dying is alluded to in a number of places:

First here--

The old man watched me,
sitting in the tatters of his skin,
brittle as a dying branch,
pale and parched.

and then calling his eyes "lusterless"

His lusterless eyes watched me.

but mainly here--

All these riches are nothing
to the dust of a man,
to an arid ruler fading
into twilight’s expanse,
shrinking on a velvet throne.

and of course here:

Live a little longer,
old man, live
a little longer.

I did five or six versions of this poem, and I remember that the earliest ones did have the word "dying" in them--maybe the first and second drafts. I decided though that the allusions to it were strong enough that it would work fine suggested rather than stated (which is what poetry mostly should do, to my thinking--I like subtle allusion most of the time). Also, it sort of doesn't matter whether his death is physical or he is simply turning away from the world for her to be drawn to him, though that was a point where I wondered how true I needed to be to the actual story.

 

[twelveoone]

The dying is alluded to in a number of places:

First here--

The old man watched me,
sitting in the tatters of his skin,
brittle as a dying branch,
pale and parched.

and then calling his eyes "lusterless"

His lusterless eyes watched me.

but mainly here--

All these riches are nothing
to the dust of a man,
to an arid ruler fading
into twilight’s expanse,
shrinking on a velvet throne.

and of course here:

Live a little longer,
old man, live
a little longer.

I did five or six versions of this poem, and I remember that the earliest ones did have the word "dying" in them--maybe the first and second drafts. I decided though that the allusions to it were strong enough that it would work fine suggested rather than stated (which is what poetry mostly should do, to my thinking--I like subtle allusion most of the time). Also, it sort of doesn't matter whether his death is physical or he is simply turning away from the world for her to be drawn to him, though that was a point where I wondered how true I needed to be to the actual story.

Right, the power of the rewrite, it is much stronger without the old man dying overtly, it is not the point of the poem. Everything about this poem has a subtlety to it. The more one looks, the more one sees how finely it is crafted, and the level of craftmanship in this amazes me.

 

[twelveoone]

That goes with my idea of poems being musical--I want to hear the rhythm of it and make sure it sounds right (no "off" notes). It's more something I feel is right, than know in a logical way.

In those passages I wanted to use the repetition of watching to show the emperor's growing understanding that the nightingale would not survive if he kept her imprisioned, or even his growing recognitition that what he was doing *was* imprisoning her. The repetition was a metaphor for that, and I knew the poem was long enough to handle it.

and every note has overtones, and must resonate well with the other notes. As every word has connotations and also resonates.

"watching" is there a better word to use for what you are trying to say?
"branch" ?
"watching" has a connotation of time, that other words that mean the same doesn't.
This is why I find this use of branch so perfect. Any repeated word is a signal, something that should be paid attention to.
Why does branch work, while limb doesn't? Slight difference in connotation. Branch suggests reach. The repeat makes a link between the nightingale and the old man. So in effect line two and three define the relationship, the next four line, hint at what is to come.
"branch" is also the first repeat, begins and ends enclosing the beginning of the second repeat, anybody notice that? Anybody notice the subtle power that begins to take effect by these repeats, that are not detracted from by the obvious use of repeats?
The use of psychological patterning, starts ("he watched me", used four? times) and it is hidden by a false start (branch, used only twice, and in a different way)

I came to the window,
the branch closest to it,
and he watched me.

The old man watched me,
sitting in the tatters of his skin,
brittle as a dying branch,
pale and parched.

 

[twelveoone]

More

I'm sorry, I love this.

The Nightingale
by Angeline ©
I love your heart more than I love your crown.
~Hans Christian Anderson

I came to the window,
the branch closest to it,
and he watched me.

The old man watched me,
sitting in the tatters of his skin,
brittle as a dying branch,------
pale and parched.

His lusterless eyes watched me.

All these riches are nothing,
brocades woven in shining threads,
brilliant gold, turquoise lapped
against ivory silk.

All these riches are nothing
to the dust of a man,
to an arid ruler fading
into twilight’s expanse,
shrinking on a velvet throne.

I sang for him.

He was so still, my heart
moved in my breast,
my sharp eyes moist.

I sang for him,
crept closer, fluttering,
offering small lilting notes.

I sang to him~<<<<<

Live a little longer,<<<<
old man, live
a little longer.<<<<<<

Even in the cage,
I sang. I tried to love
the jeweled perch for him.
I sang. I tried for him,
but I was dying.-------

I am no creature built of tin,
covered with rubies, sapphires.
I cannot match a ticking beat,
a calculated chirp.
When evening shadowed
through my cage and laced
against my wings, I could not match
the brilliance of their emerald eyes.

He watched me.
and said,
Nightingale, live<<<<<
a little longer.<<<<<<

He fumbled at the cage,
and I am free.

I listen to the forest
sing to me. I sing
to the night, the sky.

The link between the nightingale and the old man set up with the repeat of "branch", now notice what she does with "live a little longer"; The bird first wishes for him, then he for her. Note repeat of the word "dying" it is suggested that he is dying, and also that she will. Note also it encloses "live a little longer" further weaking the repeat of dying. Note also, no one dies.
The message of life much stronger.
As a thought, I might have put another "listen" in the beginning for the old man.

Repeats reinforce the message, but it is difficult craft to master this well. The other thing repeats do is have a tendency to speed the read, note the adroit use of breaks that Ange uses to slow it down.

What I meant by "psychological patterning" can be illustrated by a pitcher throwing two fast balls, than a change up (offspeed pitch) or in boxing, jab, jab, hook.

Ange,


I was going to talk to jd4geoge, next week about the use of repitition. Oh, well, we'll figure something out.

 

[Angeline]

Re: More

I'm sorry, I love this.

The Nightingale
by Angeline ©
I love your heart more than I love your crown.
~Hans Christian Anderson

I came to the window,
the branch closest to it,
and he watched me.

The old man watched me,
sitting in the tatters of his skin,
brittle as a dying branch,------
pale and parched.

His lusterless eyes watched me.

All these riches are nothing,
brocades woven in shining threads,
brilliant gold, turquoise lapped
against ivory silk.

All these riches are nothing
to the dust of a man,
to an arid ruler fading
into twilight’s expanse,
shrinking on a velvet throne.

I sang for him.

He was so still, my heart
moved in my breast,
my sharp eyes moist.

I sang for him,
crept closer, fluttering,
offering small lilting notes.

I sang to him~<<<<<

Live a little longer,<<<<
old man, live
a little longer.<<<<<<

Even in the cage,
I sang. I tried to love
the jeweled perch for him.
I sang. I tried for him,
but I was dying.-------

I am no creature built of tin,
covered with rubies, sapphires.
I cannot match a ticking beat,
a calculated chirp.
When evening shadowed
through my cage and laced
against my wings, I could not match
the brilliance of their emerald eyes.

He watched me.
and said,
Nightingale, live<<<<<
a little longer.<<<<<<

He fumbled at the cage,
and I am free.

I listen to the forest
sing to me. I sing
to the night, the sky.

The link between the nightingale and the old man set up with the repeat of "branch", now notice what she does with "live a little longer"; The bird first wishes for him, then he for her. Note repeat of the word "dying" it is suggested that he is dying, and also that she will. Note also it encloses "live a little longer" further weaking the repeat of dying. Note also, no one dies.
The message of life much stronger.
As a thought, I might have put another "listen" in the beginning for the old man.

Repeats reinforce the message, but it is difficult craft to master this well. The other thing repeats do is have a tendency to speed the read, note the adroit use of breaks that Ange uses to slow it down.

What I meant by "psychological patterning" can be illustrated by a pitcher throwing two fast balls, than a change up (offspeed pitch) or in boxing, jab, jab, hook.

Ange,


I was going to talk to jd4geoge, next week about the use of repitition. Oh, well, we'll figure something out.

Thank you again, dear man, for the opportunity to do this thread, not to mention all the wonderful things you have said about my poem. Your thoughtful critiquing has helped me see things in it I had not before realized.

I'd gush more, but I'm on my third glass of sauvignon blanc and I'll sound silly.

 

[twelveoone]

Well, let me say some more.
With the repititon, the "patterning" Angeline drives home the "message" of the poem. Messages can be pretty boring, (pun intended), by themselves, but to compliment the message she provides a rich visual and aural landscape, and further amplifies it with contrasting images (Red looks Redder next to Green).

sitting in the tatters of his skin,
brittle as a dying branch,
pale and parched.

Contrasting this...

All these riches are nothing,
brocades woven in shining threads,
brilliant gold, turquoise lapped
against ivory silk.

I sang...
fluttering,
offering small lilting notes

Contrasted with

I cannot match a ticking beat,
a calculated chirp.

This is not meant to imply that it is easy, Angeline did it so well, I did not notice it at first. These techniques are something worth trying.
Repeat the most important words.
Contrast the most important image.

Ange, I thank you, and I thank the person that recommended this, I had no idea - I would have picked "Chichen itza"
Let's see how many of these I can put up