Literary criticism is a farce

In Seattle, there is a fun little program called "Poetry on Buses," where they put poetry on buses. The poems are sometimes fun to read, if you've got nothing better to do. Anyway, I spotted this gem on Wednesday night:

untitled
By Giovanni Paredes, age 6

I dreamt that a zebra was talking to me
I gave him some food
And walked away

The zebra followed me
I yelled, "GO BACK!"

He didn't want to go back
But he went back
Ate some grass
And then drove off
In a red monster truck

I like it, but here's the slightly maddening thing: I was an English major in college, and this little ditty by a six-year-old is, with a few possible exceptions, way better than any poem I encountered in four years. You could probably trick someone into including this in the next Norton Anthology. I've heard tenured professors ramble on for an hour about poems far less profound or pleasing than this one. And it was written by Giovanni Paredes, age 6.

Literary criticism is a farce.

"Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward," by John Donne

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.

Beowulf

I had high hopes for Robert Zemeckis's "digitally enhanced live-action" film adaptation of the Anglo-Saxon epic poem Beowulf, which is set to be released next Friday. I read Seamus Heaney's wonderful verse translation of the poem in high school, and I got to study it in the original Anglo-Saxon at Harvard. Beowulf has a reputation for being unbearably boring -- and it is, at times -- but I found it absolutely fascinating for the most part, mainly because Beowulf is such a captivatingly cocky character, and he's got the goods to back up his numerous boasts. There's also the poem's strange mix of pagan and Christian worldviews, not to mention the pulsing power of Anglo-Saxon poetry itself. The one passage that sticks in my mind whenever I think of Beowulf is the introduction of Beowulf's primary foe, Grendel, in which the monster's biblical genealogy is explained. Here it is in Heaney's translation:

So times were pleasant for the people there
until finally one, a fiend out of hell,
began to work his evil in the world.
Grendel was the name of this grim demon
haunting the marches, marauding round the heath
and the desolate fens; he had dwelt for a time
in misery among the banished monsters,
Cain's clan, whom the Creator had outlawed
and condemned as outcasts. For the killing of Abel
the Eternal Lord had exacted a price:
Cain got no good from committing that murder
because the Almighty made him anathema
and out of the curse of his exile there sprang
ogres and elves and evil phantoms
and the giants too who strove with God
time and again until he gave them their reward.

Just fascinating, at least to me! I also have to include one of Beowulf's fantastic boasts:

"When it comes to fighting, I count myself
as dangerous any day as Grendel.
So it won't be a cutting edge I'll wield
to mow him down, easily as I might.
He has no idea of the arts of war,
of shield or sword-play, although he does possess
a wild strength. No weapons, therefore,
for either this night: unarmed he shall face me
if face me he dares. And may the Divine Lord
in His wisdom grant the glory of victory
to whichever side He sees fit."

Grendel, by the way, had earlier "grabbed thirty men" and dragged their "butchered corpses" back to his lair, just to give you an idea of what Beowulf was up against. What a great story.

So I had high hopes, as I say, for the film adaptation of Beowulf, but I'm a little bit nervous after seeing the trailers, which look, in my opinion, silly. Fidelity to the original text certainly doesn't seem to have been a high priority for the filmmakers. I can't make heads or tails of what many of the plot differences are between the poem and the movie, but I'm fairly certain, for example, that Grendel's mother is not portrayed in the poem as looking anything like Angelina Jolie. I tried to embed one of the TV spot videos here, but it was way too big and it looked silly, so here's a link to the movie trailers and such.

The Raven

One thing I noticed almost immediately when I moved to Seattle was that there are an extraordinary number of crows in this city. They're everywhere. And they always make me think of the poem "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe. And since it's a creepy poem and we're closing in on Halloween, this seemed like as good a time as any to post about "The Raven."

(Before I go on, I'll make a feeble attempt at tying this post in with the Catholic theme of this blog.) Though he was baptized in the Episcopal Church and was not, I don't think, very religious, Poe once wrote and published quite a lovely piece called "A Catholic Hymn," which is addressed to the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus. Here it is:

At morn -- at noon -- at twilight dim --
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
In joy and woe -- in good and ill --
Mother of God, be with me still!
When the Hours flew brightly by,
And not a cloud obscured the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be,
Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast
Darkly my Present and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine!

Anyway, back to "The Raven." Most kids are forced to study this poem in school at some point, but in my opinion it's one of those poems that should just be enjoyed without too much analysis. I think the majority of my generation has seen the James Earl Jones-narrated version of the poem on The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror special, which is excellent. Unfortunately, it's a little abridged, so you miss out on some of the story.

Luckily, there's an awesome film version of the entire poem, made in 1963 and starring the ridiculous Vincent Price, which I highly recommend. Here it is:

The poetry of John Donne

One of my favorite literary discoveries during my time as an English major was the poetry of John Donne, who was one of the 17th century's so-called "Metaphysical Poets" as well as a clergyman in the Church of England. The Norton Anthology of English Literature gives this summary of his early life and fascinating family history:

"Donne began life as an outsider, and in some respects remained one until death. He was born in London in 1572 into a devout Roman Catholic household. The family was prosperous, but, as the poet later remarked, none had suffered more heavily for its loyalty to the Catholic Church: 'I have been ever kept awake in a meditation of martyrdom.' Donne was distantly related to the great Catholic humanist and martyr Sir Thomas More. Closer to home, a Jesuit uncle was executed by the brutal method of hanging, drawing, quartering, and disemboweling, and his own brother Henry, arrested for harboring a priest, died in prison of the plague. As a Catholic in Protestant England, growing up in decades when anti-Roman feeling reached new heights, Donne could not expect any kind of public career, nor even to receive a university degree (he left Oxford without one and studied law for a time at the Inns of Court). What he could reasonably expect instead was prejudice, official harrassment, and crippling financial penalties. He chose not to live under such conditions. At some point in the 1590s, having returned to London after travels abroad, and having devoted some years to studying theological issues, Donne converted to the English Church."

I have a few favorite poems of John Donne's. One is his "Good Friday, 1613. Riding Westward," which I will post on its appropriate day. Another is his "Holy Sonnet 14," which I will post right now:

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labor to admit you, but O, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.