Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poems. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

New Orleans, LA: City of Jazz

Day 1: 

I arrived in New Orleans on Thursday afternoon. After picking me up from the airport, my family and I went to check out the Destrehan Plantation, one of the most well-preserved plantations in Louisiana. 


It was interesting to see how the plantations were run and what the quality of life was like (for plantation owners as well as slaves). All the employees were dressed up in historical costume, which was adorable, especially if you were our guide, an old lady who seemed half-bored by her presentation but knew an inordinate amount of information about anything and everything related to the house.

 

According to her, there will be a movie coming out called Twelve Years a Slave (also a book!) that was shot on the plantation. So that's cool.

 There were also chickens, which was unreasonably exciting. 


We may or may not have gotten beignets Thursday night at Café du Monde. Maybe it was Friday. Either way we got beignets and they were delicious and messy and delicious.



Side note: One of the great things about Louisiana for a (semi) French speaker is that everyone kind of almost speaks French. This means that in words like "café," companies and people actually understand where to put the accent and what an accent even is. Pro-tip: If you want to NOT look like an idiot, don't use an apostrophe like an accent ( cafe' or Renee' ). Better just to exclude the accent altogether. But if you want to actually do it right, here are the rules: In English (or words English stole from French), the accent is probably an accent ague, or forward slash, above an E, not beside it. If there are two Es, it goes above the first E. Renée. Café. Probably the only time you will use the accent grave, or backwards slash, in English is in Shakespearean poetry, when you pronounce the -ed at the end of words to add a syllable, as in "slashèd" (pronounced SLASH-ehd as opposed to one syllable SLASH'd). Got it? Good. Just a little lesson for you.

Sorry, I am both an English and a French major, so these things are real problems in my life. 

Moving on. Heh.


Day 2:

On Friday we woke up and hopped on the Natchez Riverboat, a windy Mississippi lunch cruise aboard an old-style steam-powered (or something?) boat (think Mark Twain).



It was quite neat (and windy). We ate soul food and learned some things about the Mississippi and its banks, such as that every one second, the river deposits one million gallons of water into the Gulf. That's a big freaking river.

After the boat, we chilled, walked around, looked at the farmer's and flea markets and all the shops, and generally explored the city. Everything there is named Jackson, for Andrew Jackson I guess, which made me chuckle.

A little later on we went on a mule-and-carriage tour led by a neat and knowledgeable local lady, who showed us everything from the French Quarter sights to the "ghetto" to Frenchman Street.



We learned that the area is called Dixieland because the original Confederate mint used to be in New Orleans, and the first note they printed was a ten dollar note. Because it was Louisiana, though, they printed the English word Ten as well as the French word Dix on the notes, but the English-speaking Americans pronounced dix phonetically instead of Frenchly, so they started calling them dixies, and Louisiana became Dixieland.

Later on we went down to Frenchman Street, a more local, musicy place (much cooler than Bourbon Street, although with just as many drunk people). We ate dinner at a cool place called Snug Harbor and then went to look at the nighttime art market next door.


And I saw this neat sign. 

  

AND I got this amazing poem, written by fellow English major David, one of several Poets for Hire on Frenchman, who would write poems on any subject for whatever price you thought they were worth. 


"The Life of an English Major" 
You will live inside the words of other, rooms without walls, a universe without boundaries, stories that pull around your neck like a scarf on a cold winter's night.
You will be one of a dozen who still appreciates a library.
Books will be your great love, and men will fall short of your romantic expectations.
Grammar mistakes on social media sites will drive you insane.
You will be sensitive to the thoughts of others. 
You will ask a lot of questions and be unsatisfied with most answers. 
Your life will be an endless source of storytelling material.


Then we went to listen to music at The Spotted Cat Music Club, where my Dad (naturally) started talking to these two British guys, a filmmaker and an aspiring chef, who are on a mission to taste food across America so that the chef can open a restaurant back in England. They were funny and interesting guys, and the filmmaker is from Falmouth of all places.Weird coincidences.

Day 3: 

On our last real day in NOLA, we went on an airboat tour of the bayou. We saw lots of marshmallow-eating alligators and even got to hold two-year-old Amy. 




We also learned that Spanish Moss can be processed by boiling it and removing the gray bark. Once removed, the plant looks like strands of horsehair and it quite strong. They used it to stuff furniture and car seats (horsehair furniture). 

I also thought it was interesting that they have managed to garner a population of over a million alligators, who were on the very first endangered species list, by stealing their eggs and hatching them at a specific temperature that allows for the correct proportion of males to females. They then notch their tails to mark when they were born and release around 15% of them back into the swamp, about 1600 gators. The rest of them go towards alligator meat and leather.

After that we took Austin to move into his hotel/home-for-the-summer, dropped off Gena at the airport, and went to see Star Trek Into Darkness, which was awesome. 

And that was it!

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Back at School

Well, the new semester has officially started. Ah well. I was getting bored of sitting at home doing nothing anyway. But to all my friends I saw (and some I didn't see) -- good luck and I MISS YOU!

(And I hope you feel like this dinosaur when you go to all your new classes.) 

Anyway. Besides re-organizing my dorm room and putting up these excellent Christmas presents/posters


(Thanks, Brother!)

I have been getting up at the ungodly hour of 8am to attend class. But this morning, there was a surprise! 



That's right! Snow! And barely half an inch of it! But still, freezing cold, slippery white stuff that for a surprising few of my friends was their first-ever real snow. Everyone was a little too optimistic about the university shutting down, but alas, it did not, and I got to go to two new classes. 

The first was Advanced Readings in French Literature, which seems very interesting and potentially fun if I'm not intimidated into muteness by the handful of native-speakers and ridiculously fluent non-native speakers that like to dominate discussion with their weird Quebecois and Senegalese accents that I cannot for the life of me understand. I also accidentally lied and said I was a sophomore instead of a freshman, so I probably set myself up for criticism when I don't actually have that extra year of studying the language under my belt. 

But we will see. 

I want to share this poem that we read in class, for those of you who might kind of sort of speak French, because I think it is charming. 

Le Bonbon 
Robert Desnos
Je je suis suis le le roi roi
des montagnes
j’ai de de beaux beaux bobos beaux beaux yeux yeux
il fait une chaleur chaleur
j’ai nez
j’ai doigt doigt doigt doigt doigt à à
chaque main main
j’ai dent dent dent dent dent dent dent
dent dent dent dent dent dent dent
dent dent dent dent dent dent dent
dent dent dent dent dent dent dent
dent dent dent dent
Tu tu me me fais fais souffrir
mais peu m’importe m’importe
la la porte porte


TRANSLATION: 

"The Candy" (Le Bonbon)

I I am am the the king king
of the mountains
I have beautiful beautiful scratches beautiful beautiful eyes eyes
It is hot hot

I have nose
I have finger finger finger finger finger on on
each hand hand

I have tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth 
tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth
tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth 
tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth tooth 
tooth tooth tooth tooth 

You you make make me me suffer
but I do do not not care care
the the door door

The other class I had today was Honors Advanced Technical Writing, which was surprisingly fun. I know a lot of people in that class, and even though I am one of two English majors in a room full of chemists and engineers, I look forward to the rest of it. I have a feeling that I am going to be very, very good at technical writing, because it focuses so much on form, grammar, and that sneaky magic thing that gives sentences and paragraphs the smooth, stark sound associated with professionalism and academia, something that comes naturally to me most of the time.

My classes yesterday were much less interesting--Modern American Literature, for one, intimidates me. The professor's expectations are understandably high, but it is his cold scholarly manner for such a young dude that makes me wonder if he will be the one to see through my act as a good essay-writer and interpreter of literature--the act I have been playing since middle school--and see me for what I really am in English classes: someone who has absolutely no idea what she's doing.

On the other end of the spectrum, Astronomy of the Solar System is going to be a typical large-scale lecture course--but I predict it will be infinitely more interesting and easier than my waste of an archaeology class last semester. And there is a reassuringly small amount of math, according to my professor. I look forward to hopefully finally taking a science class I actually care about!

My last new class is Organizational Behavior, a management class for my minor. I have it for three hours every Monday afternoon, and oh god, I think it's going to kill me. The subject is dry and unchallenging, the professor is quiet and rambly, and the students are all Business majors, who are a special class of polished faux-rich kids who have their own language of well-rehearsed business quips and are somehow already middle-aged. I felt like I had walked into some sort of baby-CEO church when I entered that weirdly professional building, like they could tell just by looking at me that I was decidedly not a future stockbroker or business owner or financial adviser and were wondering what the crap I was doing in their center of worship and when, exactly, I was going to leave, as the Dow-something-whatever flashed across the little screen in front of them.

So. That was my first two days back at college. What have you been up to? :)

Friday, September 14, 2012

It's All About the Blackbird.


Here is possibly the coolest poem ever, by Wallace Stevens, America's mid-century Insurance Executive/poet. I could spend hours discussing this piece, and did today, in my English class.

I promise the poems will stop soon--we're moving on to our drama unit next week. But really, what did you expect?

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

                    I 

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.


                   II 

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.


                  III 

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.


                  IV

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.


                    V 

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.


                    VI

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.


                    VII 

O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?


                    VIII 

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.


                    IX 

When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.


                    X 

At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.


                    XI 

He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.


                    XII 

The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.


                    XIII 

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.


Wallace Stevens

Monday, September 10, 2012

Because I just wrote my first college essay...

A poem! Which I wrote my essay on! Just for you! (No, you don't want to hear what I had to say about it.)

Tell all the truth but tell it slant -
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind - 
                                               Emily Dickinson

And here's another one that I really liked. Just because. (ShutupI'manEnglishmajor) 

                Echo
Come to me in the silence of the night;
  Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
  As sunlight on a stream;
    Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
  Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimful of love abide and meet;
  Where thirsting longing eyes
     Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more. 

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
  My very life again tho' cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
  Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
     Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago. 
Christina Rossetti