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
Young Bloggers
Another Story for Mita, a Personal Narrative by Isabella Filart, 10
The sobbing was faint at first, echoing to me through shut doors. I curiously wandered into my parents’ room in no rush. My mind was still half-asleep, my eyelids drooping, my movements sluggish. At this point, the sun had not even risen. The door creaked open, revealing my parents and brothers anxiously huddled on the bed. Their shoulders shook, and their breathing was unsteady. I immediately noticed the glow of Mom’s phone, and the motion flashing across the screen. I approached my family cautiously, my presence noticed but not acknowledged. What was going on? Why was my family ignoring me? Why were they crying? The bitter taste of dread flooded my mouth, as even more thoughts raced through my head: Someone probably had COVID! It was 2020, the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, and I was positive one of my relatives was sick, causing this commotion. But who? And how?! We had all been so careful! We wore masks, we stayed home, we even wiped down our groceries. How could the virus have squeezed past all those precautions? I slipped onto the mattress, discreetly swallowing a growing lump in my throat. For a few moments I stayed like that, as silent as a mouse, my ears trying desperately to hear, my mind racing to put the pieces together. I was not used to being left in the dark, much less the shadow of pandemic that now engulfed the world. Finally, after a couple of quiet minutes, I heard a familiar voice saying something about my grandmother, Mita. Suddenly, a new ominous possibility emerged as I recalled that Mita was “high risk.” She had been living with stage 4 cancer for many years now. I remembered the colorful scarves she proudly wore on her head, her talks with Mom about healthy eating and cutting out sugar. Was her cancer acting up now of all times? Did she get COVID? Somehow, within seconds, the situation progressed from bad to worse. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, despite the fan gently buzzing nearby to combat the summer heat. I continued to sit there, paralyzed in my own worry, as I overheard more bits and pieces of the tragedy: the paramedics could not come to help her… my uncle drove her around for hours before finally finding a hospital that would not turn her away… the doctors were now on their 7th attempt to resuscitate her. And as I listened to all that, as my dread and confusion intensified, and the sobbing turned into wailing, nobody turned around and hugged me tight, promising that it would be okay. What an unforgiving, harsh way for an 8-year-old to wake up. I ran out of my parents’ room, overwhelmed by all that was happening. I launched myself under my covers, screwed my eyes shut, and prayed harder than I had ever prayed before. It was the first time in my life that I really, intensely, legitimately prayed… And I did not just pray. I begged God for Mita’s life, tears finally finding my eyes, feeling the full weight of fear and sadness and pain straining my body. Dad entered my room, his head bowed low, and his shoulders slumped. My gaze met his, my heart somberly hopeful, as he opened his mouth to speak. It was a mere whisper, soft and delicate, but it shook my room – “Mita’s gone…” No, no, no! How could this be happening? How could this be happening to me?! My flicker of hope, a dim light, faded, and all that remained was a deep cavern of black. I tried to breathe, but it seemed impossible in these depths. So, this is what drowning feels like. I choked on my tears as I became fully aware that I would never again feel the joy of my long story times with Mita. Mita Mita video-called me each week, settled on her corner couch with a cup of piping hot coffee and a fancy notebook. She sat poised, as usual, sometimes with her legs crossed, sometimes with her legs propped up on her table, but always prim and proper. She would listen intently as I read my stories, oftentimes for hours on end. She would nod, she would take notes, she would ask questions about my crazy characters and their equally crazy adventures. No matter how cringey my stories got, she appreciated them wholeheartedly. She told me over and over again that I was her favorite storyteller. She told me my stories made her heart happy. Mita was supposed to call again so I could share my most recent story with her. But that was now an impossibility. How was Mita gone… how was she no longer with us… on this earth… smiling, dancing, and brightening the atmosphere? She was so full of life, even in her sickness. She was so strong. She was so special … so special to ME. She made MY heart happy. How could I ever write again? My family and I were in shambles, confined to grieve alone, literally locked down, stuck, and still reeling from the other blows the pandemic had hit us with. Surely my sadness could not be shared with anyone; so much heartbreak already existed among us, and around us. And so, for the next few years, I held on tight to my sorrow, and carried my burden alone, wrapping it tightly around my heart, vowing to never let it loose. A few months ago on my eleventh birthday, I stumbled upon an old shoebox. Inside lay cards and letters from years past written to me. As I rummaged through the stack, a dainty, handmade card caught my eye. I recognized the beautiful penmanship instantly — the scribbly cursive that could have easily come straight out of a calligraphy manual. In my hand was the last card Mita ever wrote to me before her tragic death. I hesitated. I braced myself for what I thought would be a crushing weight of emotions that
Turning Red, Reviewed by Tonia Wu, 11
Last spring, as a fifth grader, I watched the movie Turning Red for the first time. I was excited to see this movie because it was written and directed by Domee Shi. Shi was born in Chongqing, Sichuan and later moved to Newfoundland, then to Toronto in Canada. While researching her life, I learned that she watched many Studio Ghibli and Disney films throughout her childhood, inspiring her to be the storyboard artist for films like Inside Out, The Good Dinosaur, Toy Story 4, and Incredibles 2. In 2018, she wrote and directed her first short film, Bao, and in 2022, when Turning Red was released by Disney/Pixar, she became the first female solo director (Brenda Chapman co-directed Brave) of a Pixar film! While watching the movie, I felt particularly drawn to Meilin, a thirteen year-old girl living in Toronto whose life in some ways seems reflective of Shi’s complex international heritage. Turning Red depicts Meilin as she grapples with her identity as a straight-A student desperate for her mother’s approval and her rebellious desire not to seal her wild “panda soul” according to tradition. In the film, the panda soul tradition dates back to Meilin’s ancestors who turned into pandas whenever their emotions ran free. Over time, generations learned to suppress their panda souls through participating in a ceremony for sealing their red panda souls into a pendant or another type of jewelry that could keep the soul locked away. One of my favorite parts of the movie was Meilin’s own ceremony, when the red moon appears to mark this transformational time of her life. First, Mr. Gao, who is a regular guest of these ceremonies, draws a circle into the dust, and then all of the women begin chanting from their hearts. As they chant, Meilin’s body hovers a few feet in the air, and then her soul lifts into a kind of dreamland. From there, she can walk into a mirror that allows her panda soul to separate from her human soul, all while allowing her to return to the real world after the ceremony is over. After that, her soul is supposed to be safe to live in a piece of jade jewelry, but Meilin defies this expectation by deciding not to seal her panda soul into eternity. By refusing not to seal her panda soul, Meilin has the power to unleash her inner panda whenever she isn’t feeling calm, a fact that is made more extreme through anime. The clouds, for example, turn a poofy pastel pink whenever her panda soul is aroused, like when Meilin is angry at her mother or another classmate, and also her eyes mimic oversized anime eyes whenever she sees a boy that she likes. By using anime, the film effectively shows what it is like to be a tween who is not only hyper aware of her surroundings, but who is also warring with her inner demons as she transitions from a child into a teenager searching for social acceptance. Overall, I think Turning Red should be seen as a major accomplishment for Domee Shi, because it both gives voice to her own experience growing up in Toronto as an awkward tween and represents the universal experience of transitioning out of childhood that I think a lot of teenagers can relate to.
