Poem of the Day – Emily Dickinson
To whet the appetites of some readers accusing me of sexism, and to post one of my favorite American poets, I’m making two ‘Poem of the Day’s. This is another American classic from one of the best American poets.
It's all I have to bring today (26)
It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.
-Emily Dickinson
I’ve always been fascinated (in a sophomoric way) with Dickinson’s ability to convey a great deal with few words.
God Save the Books,
C. Harder
Poem of the Day – e.e. cummings
'Petal by petal as spring opens her first rose'
I won’t be able to post much this week. I’m flooded with work and deadlines. I have 5 poems due March 5th, and one BIG poem due March 16th. On top of that, I have midterms and other stuff that dictates my future. Same ‘ol shit.
I assume some of my more faithful readers will be annoyed at seeing another e.e. cummings poem. Sorry, it’s my blog. Also, he’s an amazing wordsmith. This one’s an American classic.
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
PtP is movin’ up.
Hi all. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to post much today. Between a few term papers, studying for mid-terms, and the thrilling Olympic gold hockey game, I haven’t had time. I did still get my writing and reading for the day done!
Anyway, in light of the popularity that this blog has recently received, I’ve decided to get this on a legitimate server. The software for wordpress.com is great, but there’s nothing like controlling the entirety of your site.
I purchased a hosting database last night and installed WordPress on it this morning. Hopefully by midweek, I’ll have transfered all my posts onto the new location, and PtP will have a new home. I’m very excited.
However, the change isn’t purely for aesthetics and space. Since I’ve seen that a blog about literature can be pertinent in today’s world, I’ve decided to also improve the content. I’ll be continuing the stuff you love, getting rid of the stuff you weren’t as fond of, and adding tons more.
Some additions:
- Interviews every few weeks.
- Nikki Giovanni
- Robert Olen Butler
- Tom Angleberger
- Ron Smith
- Roland Lazenby
- English and Literature professors and teachers
- The general public
Read more…
Poem of the Day – Frost At Midnight
I usually take weekends off, but because of all the extra traffic, I thought I could at least put up a ‘Poem of the Day’. This poem was written a long time ago, but it’s still wonderful and effective.
Take particular notice of the imagery, the effect of memory, and the significance of silence. Reading out loud brings this one home. Coleridge’s explication of the silence and his subsequent memories are particularly striking.
Since most of the poems I favor are longer, I’m going to start recording them. That will make it easier and more engrossing you readers, and more fun than copy-pasting for me.
Frost at Midnight
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud, -and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
Fiction: Orange War (Parts 1,2,3)
Once again, sorry about the formatting.
My generation does not worry about Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. When I told Jimmy about my anxiety, just five years afterward, he attributed it to my ‘pussy streak’.
God almighty, the world wouldn’t be straight if you didn’t have something to bitch about, he said.
That was the last time I mentioned it to anyone. Melissa still doesn’t know I think about the war. Like with receiving a medal for slaughtering kids, any unresolved feelings are my problem.
Years ago, drugs helped the anxiety. All kinds of pills and tobacco and coffee tingled my world. No booze. My father drank whiskey, three fingers deep, through most nights. He’d fall asleep on the porcelain in nothing but his socks. That’s enough to turn me off. But I consumed the rest zealously and never thought I was haywire.
I got into a really kicking binge the summer of ’66. Because of my inactivity, the following winter had my ass. In Deer Ridge, my mobile park, we did whatever we could for heating. Most of us made makeshift furnaces and boiled our water. That winter, I missed Dean’s furnace sale and my stove rusted through. Temperatures are below zero most of the winter in Kenton. Even inside the trailer, my lips cracked and my hands bled.
Read more…
Poetic America – Poems of the Day
While reading through Ginsberg’s America, it occurred to me how drastically different poetic portrayals of America are apt to be. Throughout the decades, poetic initiative has painted a vibrant and unique America that is not without its faults. Today, I’ll post three examples of poems (with America in the title) from different decades.
Walt Whitman (1855), Langston Hughes (1925), and Allen Ginsberg (1956) all write about an extremely different America. There’s always the presence of optimism and affection, but the two later poems are charged with national doubt. Tell me what you think.
America – (1800s)
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons, All, all alike endear'd, grown, ungrown, young or old, Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich, Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love, A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother, Chair'd in the adamant of Time. -Walt Whitman
I, Too, Sing America -(1925)
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong. Tomorrow, I'll be at the table When company comes. Nobody'll dare Say to me, "Eat in the kitchen," Then. Besides, They'll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed-- I, too, am America.
-Langston Hughes
America – (1956) *Note: Full poem is linked below*
America I've given you all and now I'm nothing. America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956. I can't stand my own mind. America when will we end the human war? Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb I don't feel good don't bother me. I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind. America when will you be angelic? When will you take off your clothes? When will you look at yourself through the grave? When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites? America why are your libraries full of tears? America when will you send your eggs to India? I'm sick of your insane demands. When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks? America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world. Your machinery is too much for me. You made me want to be a saint. There must be some other way to settle this argument. Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister. Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke? I'm trying to come to the point. I refuse to give up my obsession. America stop pushing I know what I'm doing. America the plum blossoms are falling. I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder. America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies. America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry. I smoke marijuana every chance I get. -Allen Ginsberg
Everyone knows that poetry and literature comments on social, cultural and national presences. The clear contrast presented between these poems frames that idea perfectly. There’s Whitman’s unending love, Hughes’ determination, and Ginsberg’s rebellion. Opinions change with the times.
God Save the Books,
C. Harder
4th Fastest Growing Blog on WordPress
Proof!
I just found out that out of over 10,000,000 blogs on WordPress, mine is the 4th fastest growing! Now, that’s not as impressive as it sounds; probably 9,000,000 of those blogs are forgotten. Also, the “16 Great Pictures” article has earned me great attention with Stumble Upon.
Anyway this blog’s only been online for a few months, and I’ve been completely stunned at its success. I’ve made blogs, sites, and online journals before, and they’ve all failed miserably. With Pages to Pixels, I’ve finally gained a wide readership, and had a blast blogging about my passion.
Though this ‘fame’ might be temporarily short lived, its affect is not. Knowing that a site like this can become popular in times dominated by digital medias is hugely reassuring. Thank you to all my readers, commenters, and subscribers. I’ll continue to bring you the best content I can, and have fun with you along the way.
God Save the Books and Thank you,
C. Harder
Time Machine – July 18, 1918
Ernest Hemingway, 18, is seriously wounded on the Italian front by an Austrian mortar shell that explodes just feet away. The blast knocks Hemingway out, wounds many others, and kills an Italian soldier. Accounts of what happened next are unclear.
One of Hemingway’s comrades wrote that, ignoring over 200 pieces of shrapnel lodged in his legs, Hemingway manages to carry a wounded soldier back the first aid station. The Austrian line makes their offensive, and Hemingway is shot in the legs multiple times before reaching safety.
Though this specific event is not certainty, Hemingway’s sacrifice is unquestionable. He is awarded the Italian Silver Medal for Valor with the official Italian citation reading: “Gravely wounded by numerous pieces of shrapnel from an enemy shell, with an admirable spirit of brotherhood, before taking care of himself, he rendered generous assistance to the Italian soldiers more seriously wounded by the same explosion and did not allow himself to be carried elsewhere until after they had been evacuated.”
Hemingway was denied entry into the military due to his poor eyesight. He volunteered immediately for the Red Cross’ ambulance service. While he survived his tour, Hemingway was heavily affected by the things he saw; his day-to-day jobs would often involve collecting dismembered bodies and slaughtered civilians.
The experience he gained from seeing combat and experiencing war became the foundation for some of his greatest work, especially A Farewell to Arms. Hemingway never escaped the haunting shadow of war, and had to wrestle with his memories throughout his life.
“There was one of those big noises you sometimes hear at the front. I died then. I felt my soul or something coming right out of my body, like you’d pull a silk handkerchief out of a pocket by one corner. It flew all around and then came back and went in again and I wasn’t dead any more.”
God Save the Books,
C. Harder
16 Great Pictures of 16 Great Authors (NSFW)
Poem of the Day – Charles Bukowski
To The Whore Who Took My Poems some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem, stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have my paintings too, my best ones; its stifling: are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them? why didn't you take my money? they usually do from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner. next time take my left arm or a fifty but not my poems: I'm not Shakespeare but sometime simply there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise; there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards down to the last bomb, but as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets but not so very much poetry. -Charles Bukowski
Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of time to post today. I’ve been overwhelmed with my course load, and for some reason, my teachers have seen it fit to give me midterms early. I got a lot of good writing in today, though. I’m working on a poem, which I’ll post up here as soon as possible.
Anyway, I love this poem. Charles B. poems always have the most interesting, easily accessible, subject matter. “A Programme of literature for the common man,” as Wordsworth might say. Enjoy.
God Save the Books,
C. Harder
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