It is difficult to choose a style of Larkin's that I like more, for I appreciate both. If "like" meant, which poem would I pick to save, apart from the rest; "Church Going" would be the one. It seems to be a perfect combination of both Larkin's cynicism as well as a deeper religious understanding of the world and people's search for transcendence. Probably the biggest draw for me in Larkin’s religious side is the fact that it does at times sound like he is yearning for an understanding in something greater. In the melodramatic and dark witted poems there doesn’t seem a way out of his negativity. He seems set and determined that marriage is a trap in “Talking in Bed” and it doesn’t sound like he could really be persuaded otherwise.
His yearning and nearly religious side of certain works I believe can also be applied to more than the ones that are labeled as such. It seems as though there is an internal struggle in “Church Going”, and this view can give a different reading to a work that can be seen as dark and negative, like “Talking in Bed”. If he figured out what there was behind church and why people were going he might find a way out of the feeling of loneliness that he seems to think coincides with the institution of marriage. His struggle with an understanding of a greater power I think is an underlying thread in his work. There are two sides to him, one that flatly negates that there is anything to yearn towards, and one that questions and possibly desires more. A lot of his work comes from the firmer more resolute Larkin. But then there are the poems like “Church Going” and “Here” where he seems to let the questions surface.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Light Night
BY JAMES SCHUYLER
1
A tree, enamel needles,
owl takeoffs shake,
flapping a sound and smell
of underwing, like flags,
the clothy weight of flags.
A cone of silence stuck
with diamonds, the watch
she hunts, the frayed band
broke. It was a black night.
Dawn walked on it, the sun
set its heel. She won’t
find: a boundary of marsh,
the island in the wood.
2
Stoop, dove, horrid maid,
spread your chiffon on our
wood rot breeding the
Destroying Angel, white,
lathe-shapely, trout-lily
lovely. Taste, and have it.
3
In a rain-dusk dawn, the
clearing edge, the wood’s
fangs, the clear crystal
twist of a salival stream,
announce you hence. Tear
free of me, mountain, old
home bone, down sheer fear
tears mossed boulders
bound me, pool, deceptive,
trout-full, laugh and
chatter of finch and pecker,
gargle my liquor skin I
catch your face on. Scar
a look and leave. A rust
plush daycoach unfathers
me. A field of crosses. Let
iron clang iron.
James Schuyler’s poetry, read at face value, evokes more mood than image. Or maybe it is a bunch of quick snapshots strung together. In any case it can be at first very confusing and choppy. He has taken me by the hand is dragging me along a hall where through each door there is something different but I never have time enough to see what is there, for he just keeps pulling. But somehow I know that they are all on this hallway for a reason. The reason is just the first mystery that needs to be solved and sometimes can be with the title.
This one is Light Night. And from what I have gathered it is an image of life in a forest, which doesn’t seem to be a unique topic, but it certainly is in the way that he chooses to depict what is seen. Part 1 has a feeling of life but the possibility of desperation. Part 2, I honestly don’t know. But here is introduced a dark of image of “the Destroying Angel”. Angel of death? This feels like it begs to be closely read in a way that each thing resembles another. But if not what do these things mean? Part 3 the speaker seems to be trapped in this forest that he longs to be free of. Things that have age and wisdom now are deceptive and have chains. The angel, heaven image is brought in again at the close with, “A field of crosses.”
I like his poetry in the sense that I cannot just read once and understand. It requires time and constant re-reading, each time understanding new and different. This very well could just be the way his brain works, seemingly disjointed thoughts and images. A way to put down in words the chaos that is within to find some peace and harmony in it all. Sometimes only the author will truly understand what was intended, what was written.
BY JAMES SCHUYLER
1
A tree, enamel needles,
owl takeoffs shake,
flapping a sound and smell
of underwing, like flags,
the clothy weight of flags.
A cone of silence stuck
with diamonds, the watch
she hunts, the frayed band
broke. It was a black night.
Dawn walked on it, the sun
set its heel. She won’t
find: a boundary of marsh,
the island in the wood.
2
Stoop, dove, horrid maid,
spread your chiffon on our
wood rot breeding the
Destroying Angel, white,
lathe-shapely, trout-lily
lovely. Taste, and have it.
3
In a rain-dusk dawn, the
clearing edge, the wood’s
fangs, the clear crystal
twist of a salival stream,
announce you hence. Tear
free of me, mountain, old
home bone, down sheer fear
tears mossed boulders
bound me, pool, deceptive,
trout-full, laugh and
chatter of finch and pecker,
gargle my liquor skin I
catch your face on. Scar
a look and leave. A rust
plush daycoach unfathers
me. A field of crosses. Let
iron clang iron.
James Schuyler’s poetry, read at face value, evokes more mood than image. Or maybe it is a bunch of quick snapshots strung together. In any case it can be at first very confusing and choppy. He has taken me by the hand is dragging me along a hall where through each door there is something different but I never have time enough to see what is there, for he just keeps pulling. But somehow I know that they are all on this hallway for a reason. The reason is just the first mystery that needs to be solved and sometimes can be with the title.
This one is Light Night. And from what I have gathered it is an image of life in a forest, which doesn’t seem to be a unique topic, but it certainly is in the way that he chooses to depict what is seen. Part 1 has a feeling of life but the possibility of desperation. Part 2, I honestly don’t know. But here is introduced a dark of image of “the Destroying Angel”. Angel of death? This feels like it begs to be closely read in a way that each thing resembles another. But if not what do these things mean? Part 3 the speaker seems to be trapped in this forest that he longs to be free of. Things that have age and wisdom now are deceptive and have chains. The angel, heaven image is brought in again at the close with, “A field of crosses.”
I like his poetry in the sense that I cannot just read once and understand. It requires time and constant re-reading, each time understanding new and different. This very well could just be the way his brain works, seemingly disjointed thoughts and images. A way to put down in words the chaos that is within to find some peace and harmony in it all. Sometimes only the author will truly understand what was intended, what was written.
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