To Live and Let Live?

You have just found yourself in a room where just moments before, a stranger has decided to take their own life with the aid of sleeping pills. They have left a note which reads, "I have seen a world ever consumed by darkness, and my soul cannot bear another moment. I am happier in eternal rest. Do not mourn my passing, mourn a world which has driven me to this." After reading the notes, you hear a shallow breath release, without another inhale. Are you morally obligated to attempt to save this persons life? What if this is someone you know? Are emotionally attached to?

Cormac McCarthy's The Sunset Limited debates this by saving a suicidal man consumed with darkness, with a deeply spiritual man, who only desires the light. Throughout the play, there are many philosophical quandaries put forth, but the one that underlines the whole work is whether Black should have halted White's leap into the ever-after. This is a question that society has dealt with on many occasions, most famously during the practices of Dr. Jack Kavorkian, and the reason we are destined to eternally revisit this situation, is that there is so happy/sure answer.

Once Black returns with the visibly shaken and irritable White to Black's apartment, Black sets out to determine what would drive a man to jump into an oncoming train. White's initial main goal is to say what he needs to say, to race back and attempt his jump again.  Black asks general questions about White's decision. "Are you okay? Did you sleep last night?", "When did you decided that today was the day? Was they somthin special about it?". White responds very straight forward, without hesitation. "No." to whether he had slept, and "No. Well. Today is my birthday. But I certainly don't regard that as special." White's responses are very telling of a man who has not only thought out his intentions, but has come to terms with them. One could argue that the "No. Well." is a hesitation, but would it not also be the answer someone gives who truly sees no significance in their birth date? Where most of the world celebrates the passing of another year, and the importance of age, here stands a man who pays it no reverence, and thinks little of it.

After a quick foray into idle back and forth, mostly played out so Black can keep White around for a little while longer, the gentlemen begin to debate many topics. Religion is a major one, with Black being devout due to his station in life. They also discuss whether life has meaning, how  God could leave the world in such a shambled state, and what past and life the two men have had to lead them to this moment. At some points, Black's optimistic world view seems to be winning out. Maybe all it takes is a nice bowl of chili, and the words of a kind stranger to alter the path of darkness one can be set upon. 

Eventually, White's world view is revealed, "You give up the world line by line. Stoically. And then one day you realize that your courage is farcical. It doesn't mean anything. You've become an accomplice in your own annihilation and there is nothing you can do about it. Everything you do closes a door somewhere ahead of you. And finally there is only one door left." Black quickly adds, "That's a dark world, Professor." This is the crux of the argument. Nothing in the play leads the reader to believe that White sees the world any different. Black is correct, this is a dark world view, and it also provides a logic, however twisted, to attempting suicide. If one accepts the world to be such a dark place, and see death as the only eventuality, why not let them seek it if it would bring them peace?

Suicide is an uncomfortable idea that many people toy with. Somedays, it would be easier to just not have to wake up, and continue through the humdrum existence that can be life. What pushes most of us through those days, is pausing to reflect that those feelings are rarely permanent, and ultimately making it through the shit can often lead to a happier tomorrow. Yet, some must find those thoughts quite permanent. They experience a nightmarish world in which death is the only thing that can bring them peace. Drugs may or may not help, the same goes for therapy. Some people just reach a zenith of darkness which cannot be overcome. Preventing their rest almost seems a cruelty.

This is not to say that depression/suicide is not a problem. It should always be handled with care, and those who face it should have others they can seek out for assistance. For those who have sought all other alternatives; the one's who would be truly happier not seeing another tomorrow, the world should aim for acceptance. It is a harsh place sometimes. Keeping one prisoner in one's own mind is horrible. Some people want to die, and maybe, we should let them.

Works Cited:

McCarthy, Cormac. The Sunset Limited. 2010.

This Land Is Your Land And I Can Hear It Singing

The Boss performing This Land Is Your Land in 1985

Here we are, election time again, and every four years it seems we become more and more polarized. Political derision in this country is nothing new, but I fear it is leading to vitriolic hate and I wonder if it won't tear us apart. I often find myself saying, "I don't care what political beliefs you hold, as long as you can back them up with facts," but facts seemed to be filled with truthiness and it gets hard to define what is actually true. So, calling a simple poem like Whitman's "I Hear America Singing" or Springsteen singing "This Land Is Your Land" to your attention is more of a plea for understanding. In both works we have a statement that pinpoints a simple truth, by being born into this country, it is yours for the taking; make of if what you will. Does this mean you will get what you want? Of course not, but you should always get what you need. That is what the American Dream is. It is a promise to every American citizen that you will be able to have the best life you are capable in this country. There will be winners and there will be losers, but they are Americans. I am a fairly liberal minded person, and often conservatives will make my blood boil, but I keep myself from forgetting that they are my brothers and sisters in this great land. They deserve to have their opinions spoken, and with reason, they deserve to have them debated. I would ask the same from them. It is time though, that we remember that we are all in this together. We each benefit from the actions of one another, and thus we become a stronger country because of it. It is why this great experiment stands out. Would I like to see this spread to the rest of the world? Of course, but that will take humanity to realize many harsh truths, and I doubt I'll see that in my lifetime. So remember that those people you hate because they are foolish, or because they don't see eye-to-eye with you, that they have families, and somewhere they struggle. Know that hate mostly comes from ignorance and should be pitied. Never turn away those who you can help, because that is who we are supposed to be. We are the Land of Hopes and Dreams. We are the land of equality. This is your land and it is my land. Let us make it as close to perfect as we have always dreamed. Lets make sure people have some form of roof, and access to healthcare that won't enslave them with bills, and to healthy food and water. Let us be the pinnacle the worlds wishes to strive to. Let us respect each other. Make the United States the country of the history we tell ourselves.

Works Cited: 
Booth, Alison, and Kelly J. Mays. The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2011. Print.

The Door of Every College

Some humor for you.

Emily Dickinson's "[The Brain-is wider than the Sky-]" is a wonderful reflective poem that epitomized the way every child is taught from the moment we enter school, until our schooling is complete. Why bring it up, then, you may ask? I feel that we often forget how phenomenal our minds truly are. We become so burdened with our majors and the worlds that we lose sight of our ability to completely vanish into a multitude of our own created worlds. Daydreams are definitely one thing, but I often envy those who escape to madness. Would't that be nice? A little tromp into insanity to play with the all too real monsters? Ay, but how to get back? That is always the questions isn't it?

Still the brain is a lovely thing and I worry that college sometimes constrains it. We are at a Liberal Arts school, and it tries to expand our learning into many different areas, but how many of you know how to build an engine? Fix a toilet? Install a ceiling fan? When I was young, those ideas used to frighten me, for I wanted to be of the learned. Now, when I find myself working on such things, I find my brain wonders to beautiful places that I cannot achieve through any amount of schooling. It is like meditation.

This causes me to pause on this poem. It is simple, and relatively straight forward. The poem only seeks to remind us that are minds are the gifts of God, and thus have the potential the see into eternity. The title of this post is a hope that schools will put simple poems up, that are reminders, more than inspierers. We were inspired to make it into college, now lets be reminded that the universe is vast, and our minds should always be thirsty for more.

Works Cited: 
Booth, Alison, and Kelly J. Mays. The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2011. Print.

The Sweet Children of War

            “Baby Villon” is a poem by Phillip Levine, lamenting the struggles of child soldiers in war torn regions. This is developed through the conversation between the speaker and his child cousin. Each stanza extrapolates deeper into the horrors the children warriors face, and what everyday life has been like since their conception. The speaker realizes that though they are related and likely look and think very similarly, being born worlds apart, into vastly different situations can make a completely different individual.

            In the first stanza, the child is speaking about how he is mistaken as white, black, Jewish, or Arab in different parts of the world, yet he feels he must always fight. This is the first glimpse at the sort of life this child must lead. His race/being is mistaken and he feels harassed the world over, thus he is always on guard. “Seven thick little fingers” (Line 5), is the first time it is hinted that the speaker is talking with a child. He uses those fingers to designate rank, but that rank carries with it no pride or disgust; it just is. This helps to form the picture of an individual who is not only young, but is hardened by his burdens in the world.

            The child wishes to hear of the narrator’s father, the uncle that seems to have passed on, then immediately follows up with talk of a war in North Africa. This is the Middle East, and when matched with how his ethnicity is confused, the child is likely a young tan boy, raised in a land torn by religious and territorial wars. The child speaks of the losses he has had to endure, his brother and his father, implying that he lacks a father figure, and has had to play that role in his life. The speaker’s cousin must also come from a land which does not have enough food, for he ate glass covered bread, unthinking of the consequences. The child says, “Here they live, here they live and not die” (Line 16), describing just how much carnage he witnesses daily.

            In stanza 5, the cousin tries to lighten the speaker’s heart ache, by assuring him that he should not worry. He may seem war torn and battered, but he has the hair of a fighter, and so fight he shall. This quickly turns to the boy running his hands over the speaker’s face, noticing how fair and how unscarred it is. The speaker mentions that this is the only time he will see his cousin, and he notices just how tiny he is, “No bigger than a girl, he holds my shoulders” (Line 25).

            The final three lines capture the speaker’s revelations, and the message that must be passed on. The child “Kisses my lips, his eyes still open” (Line 26), which is a deliberate action. The kiss is not peculiar, for it is the kiss of a family member, but the eyes wide open implies that he is beckoning the speaker to gaze deep into his soul, and to derive meaning from his shattered life. With the last line, the speaker realizes just how two similar people can live such different lives all on based on the virtue of where one is born. The speaker lives in a world where he is fair and smooth, where people live and do not die, yet his own family lives in a world torn apart by war, where death is as common as eating. The speaker recognizes that he too could be this broken child, for the child is “Myself made otherwise by all his pain” (Line 36).

Works Cited:
Levine, Phillip. "Baby Villon."

So much depends on us...

I always find it interesting to read the thoughts a poet has on his work. Coming from the school of thought that all art is subjective, and that meaning is personal and can be found in all things, it is still fascinating to read an artists opinion on their creations. I mentioned in class "The Red Wheelbarrow," mostly to humor myself. That poem has always made me smile, partially for its complex simplicity, but often because I am never sure if I am kidding myself when I try to defend its merit. If that can be a poem, can anything? The book talks of the preciseness of the wording, or the structure, or the differing meaning of every passing phrase, but do those matter when it comes to poetry? I don't know if I'll ever find a satisfying answer for that question. "The Red Wheelbarrow" does take me to a perfect rainy April day in the farmlands of Tennessee. I see a barn that was once red, and a wheelbarrow that no matter how much rust appears on it, will always shine brightly red in places. The grass is always piercing green after an afternoon storm, and it contrasts the red dizzyingly. This poem makes me think of an idealized home that I am not sure I ever experienced. My mind still sees it vividly, and thus it will never forget what this poem does for me.
When I spoke in class, I said my friend had a class where someone argued that this was about WWII. That is why poetry always holds a place in my heart.  Eight lines can sum up WWII to someone, and that is just perfect. Some may see this poem as a passing thought, just as if a young man was driving a long, and thus this is nothing but brain chatter. That is also wonderful. Williams "jokingly" said that this was a perfect poem, and maybe it is. It accomplishes so much, with very little. Maybe that is the testament to true poetry, what can be accomplished with the words one is given.

Here is a song that inspires a similar feeling from me, for music is poetry's loving sister.

Works Cited:
Booth, Alison, and Kelly J. Mays. The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2011. Print.

Trading the Past for Money

Just a small reminder to what one group can do to another.

Humanity loves to turn tragedy into a new tourist attraction. Rarely do we maintain a monument to what we have lost. I can hear the cheers of gleeful investors the moments after thousands die. "This will bring us millions," they cant while blood is still spilling. In Mary Jo Salter's "Welcome to Hiroshima," the hallowed land where thousands died, lays beautifully desecrated.

"Welcome to Hiroshima...brought to you in living English by Toshiba Electric" (Lines 1-4), are the opening lines to the multitudes of tourists who visit annually. These lines are speaking to a specific tourist, though; those who one to two generations prior, caused the catastrophe that made this town infamous. Vivid remembrances, of the devastation, such as "plastic dioramas advertise mutations" (Line 15-16), litter this poem. Yet, they find themselves accentuated with enjoyments for the visiting tourist, "a pancake sandwich  a pizza someone tops with a marrachino cherry" (Line 17-18), "they pour your cup of tea in one of the countless sunny coffee shops" (Line 13-14). The town has transformed into a stop for someone to say "I've been there. The museums are wonderful, and the restaurants are lovely."

Does this honor the dead? Does it remind us of the destruction one group brought upon another? These sorts of locations are designed to keep consciences clear. "They can see what happened in a museum," is what those who benefit will say, yet will any one emotionally connect to the lives lost while Starbucks is warming their heart? The dead find themselves second to the monetary benefits of a tourist trap. This is not to say that nothing should be done with such places. Memorials are wonderful if designed to actually memorialize. It keeps what we have lost in our hearts and minds, while begging us to reconsider such actions in the future. These places, these hallowed grounds, must be kept sacred, because it is all we have left to remember of what we are truly capable. Let the spirits speak while we gather to mourn them. Let them tell us of lives not lived. Let them speak of their pain.

This is always going to remain an issue. As an American, I find myself with little desire to visit a tourist trap Hiroshima, why should I care? I can get my Starbucks down the street. I see the way we have chosen to memorialize 9/11. We build on and then charge families of the deceased to pay their respects. Another tourist trap to make a little bit more money. I visited New York a few years after 2001. Ground Zero was nothing but a hole in the ground. New York is an incredibly loud city, yet standing next to that hole, all was silent; all but a lone flautist playing somber songs of patriotism. I felt the dead speaking then, I doubt they are anything by silent now.

Works Cited:

Salter, Mary Jo. "Welcome to Hiroshima."

"Mid-Term Break" will soon be upon us

Neil Gaiman on his poetry, before reading "Instructions."

Don't you just hate when a text given you a perfectly adequate description of a piece? Out of the poems selected, I truly enjoyed "The Vacuum," but most of what I would say, the text said. "Mid-Term Break" is the poem I would choose after "The Vacuum." The intrigue in every stanza, slowly presents a family's sorrow. This poem is spoken like a short story. It releases details sparingly hitting the reader with the experiences of the speaker. "Counting the bells knelling classes to a close" (Line 2), screams of anticipation. He begins in the sick bay, and with the term coming to a break, he should find himself relieved. The first hint of peculiarity is his neighbors picking him up.

I have seen my father cry. It was rare, and it was always death. Before "He had always taken funerals in his stride" (Line 5) was spoken, I knew that this poem was about death. That line, matched with the neighbors picking up the speaker, narrows down that the deceased is in the narrator's immediate family. Finding the baby oblivious as he walks in, counters the father on the porch. There is an adult crying, and a child laughing, while the speaker has revealed little emotion, as if he is numbed by the experience. Three types of grief are paralleling three stages of life. The narrator is as unsure of how to deal with this death, as most college students are unsure on how to deal with any major happening. We are often numb.

The next few lines talk of the family/friends of the family. I have been to the funeral of an immediate family member, and it is embarrassing to have people speak of you and find yourself emptily consoled. Taking the narrators hand, the mother of the family sighs angrily, but without tears. Why is she not as openly distraught as the father? She is angry, which says that maybe this death could have been prevented. The corpse is brought to the house and the evening comes to an end.

As the poem concludes, the narrator visits the deceased. Upon entering the room the speaker sees that "snowdrops and candles soothed the bedside" (Lines 16-17). Snowdrops are white, which is often a symbol of purity, and candles of peace. Noting the paleness of the deceased also denotes purity. The only mark is a small bruise on his head. The narrator compares the small coffin that he is lying in to the bed he slept in, as if death is just a long sleep. The answer to the how is "the bumper knocked him clear," (Line 21)) saying a car had hit the little boy. The ultimate heartbreak is using the dimensions of the box, to define the young age of the child.

Works Cited:
Booth, Alison, and Kelly J. Mays. The Norton Introduction to Literature. New York: W.W. Norton &, 2011. Print.