Seminar 5 Modern American Poetry

1. Open form vs. closed form poetry.

2. Langston Hughes as a representative of African-American Renaissance. Analysis of Harlem: A Dream Deferred.

3. The mastery of rhythm and natural imagery in Theodore Roethke’s poems. Waking.

4. Robert Lowell’s psychological lyricism. Water.

5. The poetry of Beat generation: Allen Ginsberg’s biography and works. The main ideas of The Supermarket in California.

6. Rock-poetry as a cultural phenomenon.

7. Bob Dylan’s life and lyrics. Like a Rolling Stone.

8. The life and poetry of Jim Morrison. People Are Strange.

Literature and resources:

http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/index.htm

http://www.uspoetry.ru/poets/2/poems/

http://www.mrbauld.com/roethwak.html

http://www.writingproject.org/Resources/hughes.csp en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Lowell en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theodore_Roethke

Texts

Langston Hughes

Harlem: A Dream Deferred.

What happened to a dream deferred? Does it dry up Like a Raisin in the sun? or fester like a sore-

and than run?

Does it stink like rotten meat? or crust and sugar over

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags Like a heavy load

or does it explode?

Theodore Roethke

The Waking I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go. We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, And learn by going where I have to go. Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go. This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go.

Пробуждение Проснувшись в сон, я мыслил в этом сне: Моя судьба — там, где неведом страх, Учусь в пути, и цель понятна мне. Мы чувством думаем. Но что понять извне? Моя душа — лишь звук в чужих ушах, Проснувшись в сон, я мыслил в этом сне. Из тех, кто близок, как узнать—кто ты? Пусть Бог благословит мой тихий путь, Учусь в пути, и цель понятна мне. Свет дерево укрыл. Как? Кто поймет вполне? По лестнице крутой ползет червяк, Проснувшись в сон, я мыслил в этом сне. Великая Природа с высоты Еще приветит нас. В ее лесах Учись в пути, цель встретишь в тишине. Страх душу утвердит. Понять бы мне — Ушедшее ушло, но близко так... Проснувшись в сон, я мыслил в этом сне. Учусь в пути, и цель понятна мне. Перевод Ю. Мориц

Robert Lowell

Water

It was a Maine lobster town—

each morning boatloads of hands

pushed off for granite

quarries on the islands,

and left dozens of bleak

white frame houses stuck

like oyster shells

on a hill of rock,

and below us, the sea lapped

the raw little match-stick

mazes of a weir,

where the fish for bait were trapped.

Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.

>From this distance in time

it seems the color

of iris, rotting and turning purpler,

but it was only

the usual gray rock

turning the usual green

when drenched by the sea.

The sea drenched the rock

at our feet all day,

and kept tearing away

flake after flake.

One night you dreamed

you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,

and trying to pull

off the barnacles with your hands.

We wished our two souls

might return like gulls

to the rock. In the end,

the water was too cold for us.

Allen Ginsberg

The Supermarket in California.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked

down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking

at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon

fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at

night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking

among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops?

What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you,

and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy

tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the

cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour.

Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and

feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade

to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo-

biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America

did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a

smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of

Lethe?

Bob Dylan

Like a Rolling Stone.

Once upon a time you dressed so fine You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didnt you? Peopled call, say, beware doll, youre bound to fall You thought they were all kiddin you You used to laugh about Everybody that was hangin out Now you dont talk so loud Now you dont seem so proud About having to be scrounging for your next meal. How does it feel How does it feel To be without a home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? Youve gone to the finest school all right, miss lonely But you know you only used to get juiced in it And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street And now you find out youre gonna have to get used to it You said youd never compromise With the mystery tramp, but now you realize Hes not selling any alibis As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes And ask him do you want to make a deal? How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns When they all come down and did tricks for you You never understood that it aint no good You shouldnt let other people get your kicks for you You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat Who carried on his shoulder a siamese cat Aint it hard when you discover that He really wasnt where its at After he took from you everything he could steal. How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone? Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people Theyre drinkin, thinkin that they got it made Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things But youd better lift your diamond ring, youd better pawn it babe You used to be so amused At napoleon in rags and the language that he used Go to him now, he calls you, you cant refuse When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose Youre invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal. How does it feel How does it feel To be on your own With no direction home Like a complete unknown Like a rolling stone?

Jim Morrison

People are strange

People are strange when youre a stranger Faces look ugly when youre alone Women seem wicked when youre unwanted Streets are uneven when youre down When youre strange Faces come out of the rain When youre strange No one remembers your name When youre strange x3 People are strange when youre a stranger Faces look ugly when youre alone Women seem wicked when youre unwanted Streets are uneven when youre down When youre strange Faces come out of the rain When youre strange No one remembers your name When youre strange x3 When youre strange Faces come out of the rain When youre strange No one remembers your name When youre strange x3