2 posts tagged “poets”
I began the summer by reading Judith Kitchen's examination of William Stafford's poetic works, Writing the World: Understanding William Stafford. There is simply not enough critical writing on Stafford's voluminous body of work. Here it becomes clear that his crisp, yet complicated, approach to writing grew from a lifetime of peaceful engagement with ambivalence. Ambivalence? Maybe that is the wrong word. It is more like Stafford was resolute in his commitment to not pushing himself or others around. He was a pacifist inside and out, and that included not being pushy about pacifism.
Like so many literary critics, Kitchen has the ability to crack open a poem. Her comments on internal sound relationships between words in "Traveling Through the Dark" is worth the price of the book (by the way it is on remainder at Powell's Books).
In the end, it fits with my summer theme because it is a story about beliefs. Stafford believed that language matters and it is important to teach language to incline toward peace. He brought about peace by reminding all of us of our own humanity, fragility, and open-ended mystery. He was not an Oregon poet, Kansas poet, or U.S. poet. Stafford was a poet-philosopher who helped the world understand what it means to be a human being.
In an apparant contrast to Kitchen's book, I finally read Sam Harris' The End of Faith, one of my new favorite books. Like Letters to a Christian Nation, Harris is rough on liberal theists for their blind tolerance of irrational thinking from their more radical bretheren. To that end, he actually defends more extreme theologies as a more adequate representation of the texts that they celebrate.
Some people my criticize Harris as being anti-spiritiual or angry. These people have not read the entire book. Harris, like Stafford, is a passionate advocate for love, compassion, humility, mystery, and spirituatlity. What he really wants to see is a world in which people use their heads and openly invite civilization forward. Also, he makes a compelling argument supporting the dangers in not helping the world abandon theism. For anybody concerned about the rold of religion in current affairs, this book is a must read.
For me, the most challenging section of the book was Harris' critique of pacifism. I will write about pacifism in a seperate blog post. It is an issue worthy of its very own mini-essay.
Last night I finished Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Dreams. I am reading it as part of a book club at work. Like the Kitchen and Harris books, it dealt with how people fold belief into their experience of suffering. Kingsolver seems to take a more mythopoeic approach to faith than Harris, Stafford, or Kitchen; though, she does seem a bit like Stafford.
A chapter toward the end of the book called "Ground Orientation" dragged as a muddled through the history of one of the main character, but the rest of the book chugged along like a fast train in the barren desert. I liked it, but I did not love it. I'll tell the truth, it made me cry. It had the quality of a really well made Hollywodd film, but it did not bring me toward seeing the world in any kind of new way. It did remind me of the power of love, death, and family. Three things that we cannot forget when we want to find love in a world that offers up question marks and suffering alongside sunrises and open sky.
Like so many literary critics, Kitchen has the ability to crack open a poem. Her comments on internal sound relationships between words in "Traveling Through the Dark" is worth the price of the book (by the way it is on remainder at Powell's Books).
In the end, it fits with my summer theme because it is a story about beliefs. Stafford believed that language matters and it is important to teach language to incline toward peace. He brought about peace by reminding all of us of our own humanity, fragility, and open-ended mystery. He was not an Oregon poet, Kansas poet, or U.S. poet. Stafford was a poet-philosopher who helped the world understand what it means to be a human being.
In an apparant contrast to Kitchen's book, I finally read Sam Harris' The End of Faith, one of my new favorite books. Like Letters to a Christian Nation, Harris is rough on liberal theists for their blind tolerance of irrational thinking from their more radical bretheren. To that end, he actually defends more extreme theologies as a more adequate representation of the texts that they celebrate.
Some people my criticize Harris as being anti-spiritiual or angry. These people have not read the entire book. Harris, like Stafford, is a passionate advocate for love, compassion, humility, mystery, and spirituatlity. What he really wants to see is a world in which people use their heads and openly invite civilization forward. Also, he makes a compelling argument supporting the dangers in not helping the world abandon theism. For anybody concerned about the rold of religion in current affairs, this book is a must read.
For me, the most challenging section of the book was Harris' critique of pacifism. I will write about pacifism in a seperate blog post. It is an issue worthy of its very own mini-essay.
Last night I finished Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Dreams. I am reading it as part of a book club at work. Like the Kitchen and Harris books, it dealt with how people fold belief into their experience of suffering. Kingsolver seems to take a more mythopoeic approach to faith than Harris, Stafford, or Kitchen; though, she does seem a bit like Stafford.
A chapter toward the end of the book called "Ground Orientation" dragged as a muddled through the history of one of the main character, but the rest of the book chugged along like a fast train in the barren desert. I liked it, but I did not love it. I'll tell the truth, it made me cry. It had the quality of a really well made Hollywodd film, but it did not bring me toward seeing the world in any kind of new way. It did remind me of the power of love, death, and family. Three things that we cannot forget when we want to find love in a world that offers up question marks and suffering alongside sunrises and open sky.
Horror vacui, also known as cenophobia, is a fear of empty spaces. Thomas Heise's poetic treatment of Horror Vacui covers grief with an imagination that fills in every empty space without leaving the reader cramped by poetic density. For a young poet, Heise might be studied nicely next to Dickinson just to consider his nearly baffling approach to death. For him, all loss is personal. The seeing subject is the object in a state of decomposition and obliteration.
In the acknowledgments, Heise says, "My father: these poems are you"; consequently, the collection invites a hunch that readers are being dipped into a family funeral. A good portion of the book confirms suspicions and, with a chilling touch of familiar terror, takes us along on a tour of grief in general.
Heise accomplishes something that most poets should start envying today. He writes poems that stand alone and together with equal unity; like a symphony. While listening to the ghost music in Horror Vacui, a common whisper echoes words, phrases, rhymes, themes, and titles between poems. Themes build upon one another until we are actually, finally, buried with Heise and all of the other dead found in the ground.
At one point, Heise even takes on the 9/11 grief. I work in a public building and I have been noticing that our nation's flag is at half mast more often than not. Heise sees this coming. He doesn't flinch. Death stops most kindly for Mr. Heise.
In the acknowledgments, Heise says, "My father: these poems are you"; consequently, the collection invites a hunch that readers are being dipped into a family funeral. A good portion of the book confirms suspicions and, with a chilling touch of familiar terror, takes us along on a tour of grief in general.
Heise accomplishes something that most poets should start envying today. He writes poems that stand alone and together with equal unity; like a symphony. While listening to the ghost music in Horror Vacui, a common whisper echoes words, phrases, rhymes, themes, and titles between poems. Themes build upon one another until we are actually, finally, buried with Heise and all of the other dead found in the ground.
At one point, Heise even takes on the 9/11 grief. I work in a public building and I have been noticing that our nation's flag is at half mast more often than not. Heise sees this coming. He doesn't flinch. Death stops most kindly for Mr. Heise.
