Poetry Soup – Ep. 12: “An Ox Looks at Man” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today I’ll be talking about the poem, “An Ox Looks at Man,” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, which inspired my own poem. Carlos Drummond de Andrade was born on October 31, 1902 in Itabira, Minas Gerais, Brazil. He went to a school of pharmacy, but did not enjoy it. Rather than a pharmacist, de Andrade was a civil servant. As well as writing poetry, de Andrade became director of history for the National Historical and Artistic Heritage Service of Brazil and, later, during World War II, started editing the official newspaper of the Brazilian Communist Party, Tribuna Popular, for a short while. The famous poet Mark Strand (who is one of my favorite poets!), translated a lot of de Andrade’s poetry, and his first English language translator was Elizabeth Bishop, whose villanelle, “One Art,” is featured in Poetry Soup. De Andrade wrote poems on many subjects, but every one of his poems exudes the same gracefulness and beauty. They are more delicate even than shrubs and they run and run from one side to the other, always forgetting something. Surely they lack I don’t know what basic ingredient, though they present themselves as noble or serious, at times. Oh, terribly serious, even tragic. Poor things, one would say that they hear neither the song of the air nor the secrets of hay; likewise they seem not to see what is visible and common to each of us, in space. And they are sad, and in the wake of sadness they come to cruelty. All their expression lives in their eyes–and loses itself to a simple lowering of lids, to a shadow. And since there is little of the mountain about them – nothing in the hair or in the terribly fragile limbs but coldness and secrecy — it is impossible for them to settle themselves into forms that are calm, lasting and necessary. They have, perhaps, a kind of melancholy grace (one minute) and with this they allow themselves to forget the problems and translucent inner emptiness that make them so poor and so lacking when it comes to uttering silly and painful sounds: desire, love, jealousy (what do we know?) – sounds that scatter and fall in the field like troubled stones and burn the herbs and the water, and after this it is hard to keep chewing away at our truth. Rather than writing a poem from the point of view of a human being, Carlos Drummond de Andrade instead writes his from the point of view of an ox looking at humans (referred to as “man” in the title of the poem). The ox seems to feel pity for the humans because they feel so much (“desire, love, jealousy”), and therefore suffer so much. Though the ox can somehow name these feelings, it does not truly know them – “(what do we know?)” The ox thinks humans are fragile and pathetic, that they are lacking in something because they are not strong, because they don’t always get along, because they have feelings that are depressing. But the ox does not know of bravery or friendship, other traits among humans. It only sees sadness, because it cannot really imagine happiness. It has never been happy, trapped in the same daily routine. And so it sees humans as a way of showing itself that its life is not so bad. This is the result of a life without true meaning. The ox does not only comment on itself, however, as de Andrade’s main point is to critique humans. Man to man, there are things we do not see – no matter what things we do, we still think of ourselves as the superior race. But we can counter these feelings in the way de Andrade does – through the eyes of a different animal, such as an ox. The ox says, for example, that “little of the mountain is about them,” showing that humans are somewhat abstracted from their environment. While other animals live in peace with nature, we sometimes even destroy it. This poem shows us that because humanity is so complex, looking at it almost disturbs the ox’s calm demeanor. The ox is not used to this level of intricacy. I wrote my own poem based on “An Ox Looks at Man,” from the point of view of a horse. It goes like this: What the Horse Saw They lack hooves, and they have straw falling from their heads. They have cast a spell to make it soft, like my mane, but not as elegant. I gallop gracefully, and they crouch down, panting, calling me. The beauty of my ballet is countered only by the humor of their jig, which they dance so insistently. They stand there only to make me laugh. I respond to no name. Not the name of the horse, not the name of the animal. They tried to give me a name, and they called me by it, but it was all a part of their play, where they doubled over, running off their grassy stage after me. They made my escape more pleasurable than I thought it would be. Now I have only bushes to talk to, and they make bad companions. They think my eyes are small, that because I do not recognize red, I do not recognize them. My laughs stay secret and joyous, like my leap from the stable to the world. The flies stayed inside, and I became free. They called my name. I respond to no name. Maybe if they named me for my beauty, if they named me for my laughter. If they named me for my feelings or for my color, I might yield. But they gave me someone else’s name. I know the horse they called Onyx, a blank canvas, but black,
Poetry Soup
Poetry Soup Ep. 11 – “A Painter’s Thoughts (1)” by John Yau
Poetry Soup – Ep. 11: “A Painter’s Thoughts (1)” by John Yau Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today I’ll be talking about the poem, “A Painter’s Thoughts (1),” one of many poems of the same title by the American poet John Yau. John Yau was born on June 5, 1950, in Lynn, Massachusetts. His parents emigrated from China, and Yau’s Chinese heritage is a constant theme in his poetry, especially in his O Pin Yin sonnets, featured in his book of poetry, Genghis Chan on Drums. This book was published in 2021, and includes the poem I’ll be reading today. In addition to being a poet, Yau is a critic, and writes a lot about art. He also teaches art history. He is a recipient of the Academy of American Poets Lavan Award and the Guggenheim Fellowship. He was once the arts editor of the publication The Brooklyn Rail, but now he is an editor at Hyperallergic. He also runs a publishing press called Black Square Editions. As well as speaking about “A Painter’s Thoughts (1),” I will also comment on Yau’s poem “The Philosopher (1).” Yau also has many poems by the name of “The Philosopher.” After William Bailey (1930-2020) I want to paint in a way that the “I” disappears into the sky and trees The idea of a slowed down, slowly unfolding image held my attention Variations on a theme are of no interest. A bowl and cup are not ideas. I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me The idea of a slowed down, slowly unfolding image held my attention I paint things made of clay, just as the pigments I use come from the earth I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me Brown and ochre stoneware bowls beside a white porcelain pitcher I paint things made of clay, just as the pigments I use come from the earth I place the pale eggs on a dark, unadorned tabletop and let them roll into place Brown and ochre stoneware bowls beside a white porcelain pitcher The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself I place the pale eggs on a dark, unadorned tabletop and let them roll into place I want to paint in a way that the “I” disappears into the sky and trees The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself Variations on a theme are of no interest. A bowl and cup are not ideas. “A Painter’s Thoughts (1)” is after William H. Bailey, a realist artist. Bailey’s art often features still lifes, which Yau shows in his poem by saying, “I paint things made of clay…” Yau also says that Bailey’s art is not meant to symbolize anything, it is simply meant to convey the beauty of ordinary things ( “a bowl and cup are not ideas”). In a way, his art shows that things don’t have to have meaning in order to be wondrous. This is also shown when Yau says, “The dusky red wall is not meant to symbolize anything but itself.” Bailey’s “thoughts” also show that every viewer should be able to interpret art in their own way, based on what the painting tells them, not the artist (“I want my painting to be what it contains: it should speak, not me”). Something that stands out about this poem is the form. First of all, each stanza is two lines, and there is lots of interlocking repetition. The last line of the first stanza is the first line of the third stanza, the last line of the second stanza is the first line of the fourth stanza, etc. Because each stanza is very brief, the lines are long, showing the reader how a painter thinks. I wrote my own poem based on “The Painter’s Thoughts,” My poem is called “The Lecturer,” about one of the characters in one of my favorite movies, “Karnavalnaya Noch,” or “Carnival Night.” The movie makes fun of the lecturer, as it is a Soviet movie making fun of such bureaucratic figures as himself. It goes like this: Lecture notes crisp in his pocket, he is given the choice to enjoy the party or ruin it. He becomes drunk on good intentions – this is the man we all know. He is given the choice to enjoy the party or ruin it. He calls out from backstage for signs of life. This is the man we all know, pointing to the stars. He calls out from backstage for signs of life, both in the crowd and on Mars. Pointing to the stars, he finds nothing but another glass of wine. Both in the crowd and on Mars, organisms cannot resist parties. He finds nothing but another glass of wine, lecture notes crumpled in his fist. Organisms cannot resist parties, he becomes drunk on his happiness. My poem has the same structure as John Yau’s poem. However, it describes the lecturer as an outside viewer might, which is not what Yau does. In his series of poems, every one modeled after a different painter, Yau is brave enough to enter the painter’s mind just by looking at their work. This is a very unique form of ekphrasis. Rather than describing the art, it uses it to show what the painter was thinking when making it. This, I think, can be done even with poetry. Because the narrator in John Yau’s poem is the painter, it manages to convey much more feeling, makes the reader wonder what the painter was really thinking about when creating their paintings, and almost combines the poet and the painter as one person – one artist. John Yau does something similar in his series of poems, “The Philosopher.” The point of both series of poems is to
Poetry Soup Ep. 10 — “Pheasant” by Sylvia Plath
Poetry Soup Ep. 10: “Pheasant” by Sylvia Plath Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today I’ll be reading the poem, “Pheasant,” by Sylvia Plath, which is about the subtle beauty of nature. Sylvia Plath was born on October 27, 1932, in Boston, Massachusetts. She published her first poem at the age of eight, in the children’s section of “The Boston Herald.” Shortly after her eighth birthday, her father died. Her famous poem, “Daddy,” is about the experience of losing her father. This event is one of the many things that influences the melancholy feelings of most of her poetry. She kept a journal from the age of 11. Her most famous books are “The Bell Jar,” a novel inspired by her struggles with depression, and her collection of poetry, “The Colossus.” She attended Smith College in Massachusetts where she edited the Smith Review. She graduated with a Bachelor of Arts Degree after submitting her thesis, about two Dostoevsky novels. She married the poet Ted Hughes, and had two children, but the couple split up a few years later. She was awarded the Glascock Poetry Prize, and after her death by suicide on February 11, 1963, she received the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry. “Pheasant” is a poem full of beautiful descriptions, with a unique rhyme scheme that doesn’t stand out right away and is really fun to pinpoint. You said you would kill it this morning. Do not kill it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing Through the uncut grass on the elm’s hill. It is something to own a pheasant, Or just to be visited at all. I am not mystical: it isn’t As if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element. That gives it a kingliness, a right. The print of its big foot last winter, The trail-track, on the snow in our court The wonder of it, in that pallor, Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling. Is it its rareness, then? It is rare. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! It is such a good shape, so vivid. It’s a little cornucopia. It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud, Settles in the elm, and is easy. It was sunning in the narcissi. I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be. “Pheasant” consists of eight tercets (stanzas with three lines). It turns a pheasant, an ordinary animal that is sometimes seen as a pest, into something regal, both frightening and beautiful. It advises the reader to leave nature alone and not to impose human ideas on it, especially in the powerful last lines, “let, be, let be.” Plath describes the pheasant with vivid words and images. For example, the line, “it’s a little cornucopia” could refer to the tail of the pheasant, which is shaped somewhat like a cornucopia. From the beginning of the poem, Plath begs her audience not to kill the bird, saying that she’s “not mystical,” but there is simply no need to kill the pheasant — it exists, and it deserves to live. Plath also says that she does not love the bird because it is rare — “a dozen would be worth having” — she loves it because it is natural and beautiful. Through the image of the pheasant, she shows the reader that things don’t have to be rare to be marveled at. Referring back to the theme of leaving nature alone, Plath conveys guilt for trespassing on the pheasant while it is “sunning in the narcissi,” which are also known as daffodils. In a way, she admits that to even see the pheasant is to trespass upon it — it doesn’t deserve to be killed or watched in wonder, it should simply be allowed to live its own life. However, it is impossible for Plath to tear her eyes from this regal bird. The rhyme in “Pheasant” is very interesting — there is lots of off-rhyme and an unclear rhyme scheme. There is an interlocking rhyme scheme of tercets, in which the second rhyme of each stanza becomes the first line of the next – “still” and “hill,” “pheasant” and “isn’t.” This is a form called terza rima, which translates from Italian to the “third rhyme.” The rhyme is subtle — I didn’t notice it my first few times reading the poem — and it is natural, performed in a way that doesn’t make it the most important part of the poem, but that makes the poem flow, which is what makes the rhyme so powerful. There are internal rhymes, too, such as “stupidly” and “be,” two words that are in the same line. As well as rhyme, there is plenty of assonance and consonance in “Pheasant.” The end almost has an AAA rhyme scheme — “easy,” “narcissi,” and “be” all rhyme. There are other rhymes in this stanza, too — six rhymes in three lines. Though this rhyme scheme is common, it stands out for different reasons when it’s used. Like the pheasant, the rhyme is both plain and beautiful. You need to look closely to find it, but when you do, it’s really rewarding. Another aspect of this poem is that most of the lines have nine syllables. There are only two exceptions to this: the line, “Is it its rareness, then? It is rare,” has eight syllables, but here the question mark almost serves as a ninth syllable. There is also the last line which has ten syllables, ending the poem in a special way. “Pheasant” does what many people cannot; it acknowledges the normality of something while describing its beauty. I hope you enjoyed this episode of Poetry Soup, and I’ll see you soon with the next one!
