What is Poetic Imagery? - (Dana Gioia)
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- čas přidán 5. 05. 2021
- This video explains how imagery operates in poetry and the unique power of images to communicate meaning. This is part 3 of my "The Art of Poetry" video series based on an introduction to poetry class I taught at USC.
Poems mentioned:
Theodore Roethke "My Papa's Waltz"
T.S. Eliot "Preludes"
H.D. "Oread"
Ezra Pound "In a Station of the Metro"
Buson "Untitled Haiku"
Lee Gurga "Visitor's Room"
Wallace Stevens "Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock"
Stevie Smith "Not Waving but Drowning"
For more videos on poetry you can subscribe to my CZcams channel here: / @danagioia6943
Twitter: @DanaGioiaPoet
I have really enjoyed listening to Mr. Gioia's You Tube videos. I am falling in love with poetry. It seems like all my senses are awakened and I'm seeing the world in a richer and fuller way.
At last: something worthwhile in my CZcams feed.
Outstanding, best ever listened on the subject
Finally i understand what contemporary poetry is about!
As someone who has always struggled to understand very much poetry, I now realise that it's because my education wasn't blessed with someone as gifted a communicator as this. Thank you Professor.
This notion of temporal vs. spatial art is so useful! As a contemporary poet I feel myself pulled in both directions. I have been thinking lately about ways to make poetry performance more experiential for the audience, because it seems to have become somewhat abstracted, an understood thing. I've been thinking about ways to introduce a somatic component to the performance, which I still think will be interesting, but this is a valuable reminder of the conjuring power of good imagery. Thank you!
Such a wonderful lecture. Stimulating and informing, just awesome! Thank you! As a poet/writer, there is much here of great value for me!
Thank you Mr Gioia, a fascinating talk.
Clarity; I love clarity. Your method of showing and not telling is my way.
I have never been into poetry, but Mr Dana I love your videos. The last poem in this video is so awesome
“Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refined..”
Your talk made me think of Keats, for some reason. Really glad that CZcams recommended this video to me.
What a GREAT vid and explanation, I am completely taken by poetry thanks to you Sir. Wow. ✨
Wonderful. Thank you very much.
Very much enjoyed your reading that kept me engaged throughout.
I, too, am a poet ( and also a fiction story writer which I’ll elaborate shortly ) but for now let me say I write mostly Japanese format poems i.e. haiku , senryu, tanka/kyoka, haibun etc. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a Tanka and a haiku dedicated to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with added insightful commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor.
Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’ insightful commentary:
Bashō’s frog
four hundred years
of ripples
At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather
daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum.
The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so
numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this
method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water
As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us
that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain.
~~
Now the tanka:
returning home from
a Jackson Pollock
exhibition
I smear paint on my face
and morph into art
~~
Finally, the fictional story that I alluded to earlier. It not only should appeal to Afro-Americans but all individual and groups that experience racial discrimination. It is based on a true incident that took place in the 1950s when racial prejudice was rampant. My story has an unexpected heartwarming ending that coincides with my own belief akin to Dr Martin Luther King’s in a non-violent approach and resolution to racial injustice Titled “ Eloise , Edna And The Chicken Coop”
ELOISE, EDNA & THE CHICKEN COOP
There was once a Black lady named Eloise who inherited from her grandmother a parcel of land in the suburbs of Compton California at a time when there was strong racial prejudice against women of color-especially those Black women who owned property in predominately white neighborhoods.
It happened there lived adjacent to Eloise’s land a white woman named Edna who did not like the fact that this Black woman owned land next to hers.
Eloise would try to be friendly because she believed Jesus when He said “Love Thy Neighbor” and to Eloise that meant even if your neighbor was unfriendly.
But whenever Eloise saw Edna, Edna would turn her back in disdain. In fact, ever since her husband died a decade ago, Edna became mean and unfriendly to everyone in the neighborhood.
But to Eloise, she was so hateful and full of animosity that one night when all the lights in Eloise home were off Edna went to her own backyard where she kept her chicken coop and gathered up all the manure and dumped it on Eloise land and upon her tomatoes and her greens and everything she was growing, in an attempt to destroy it.
And when Eloise realized the next morning that there was all this manure, instead of becoming angry, she decided to rake and mix it in with the soil and use it as fertilizer.
Every night Edna would dump the manure from her chicken coop litter box and Eloise would get up in the morning and turn it over and mix it.
This went on for almost a month until one morning Eloise noticed there was no manure in her yard.
Then one of the neighbors informed Eloise that Edna had fallen ill. But because Edna was so mean and unfriendly , no one came to see her when she was sick.
But when Eloise heard about Edna’s condition she picked the best flowers from her garden, walked to Edna’s house , knocked on her front door and when Edna opened the door, she was in complete shock that this Black Woman who she had been so cruel to, would be the only neighbor to visit
her and bring flowers.
Edna was deeply moved by Eloise kindness.
Then Eloise handed the flowers to Edna who said,
“These are the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen! Where’d you get them?”
Eloise replied,
“You helped me make them, Edna, because when you were dumping in my yard, I decided to plant some roses and use your manure as fertilizer.“
This genuine act of kindness opened the floodgate of Edna’s heart that had been closed for so long.
“When I’m feeling better, I would love to have you over for tea,” Edna told Eloise.
“Thank you, “ Edna replied, assuring her she would come. And then added, “I will pray for your speedy recovery every night.”
And with those words Eloise departed.
It’s amazing what can blossom from manure.
There are some who allow manure to fall on them and do nothing.
But then there are others-like Eloise -who “turn the other cheek” when abused or in this case “turn over the soil” to make something new like those bevy of beautiful red roses that opened a white woman’s
heart.
~~
-All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
-Al
This video made me fall in love with poetry.
Brilliant! Thank you.
I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites.
It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self.
~~
Suibhne Gheilt
1
He has haunted me now for over a year
that madman Suibhne Gheilt
who in the middle of a battle
looked up and saw something
that made him leap up and fly
over swords and trees
- a poet gifted above all others -
11
How could a proud loud mouth
who yelled KILL KILL KILL
as he plowed done the enemy
- heads rolling off of his sword -
be so lifted up
( or fly up
as those below saw it
- wings beating)
be so suddenly gifted
with poetry
and nest so high
in Ireland’s tall trees?
Is there a point
where all paths cross?
And why am I so drawn to him
that all my questions
seem shot in his direction?
“And they ran into the woods
and threw their lances
and shot their arrows
up through the branches”
What parallels could I ever hope to find -
my refusal to fight
( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)?
my leaving my country behind?
my poetry?
“and my wife wept
on the path below. . .
Oh memory is sweet
but sweeter is the sorrel
in the pool in the path below”
I fly down every night
to eat
111
Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women.
But the point of it lies hidden
in a pool of milk
in a pile of shit
for you to see
when a milkmaid smiles
Sweeney like the rest of us flies down
and when she pours the milk
into the hole her heel made in the cowdung
Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks
and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it.
So before you have anything to do with women
remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland
lying on his back
in the middle of that path
in the moonlight.
1V
And on my way home
this morning
( my wife
waiting)
my shadow
racing up the path ahead of me
I saw something
( a black stone?)
thrown
at the back of its head
ducked
and spun around
so fast
I almost fell down
- it was a bird
flying up into a tree
V
No good could come out of this war
out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined
John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame -
the villagers streaming like tears
towards the forest
cover his helicopter’s blades
blow the leaves off and
and the flame towards. . .
as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president
( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit
mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s
sitting on the bubble having
a bubble movement) and first
lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of
their own bubbles, crawls in between -
“ Mah daddy has so many
troubles
turning the world into a bubble
and sick of crossfire -
the cries of the women and
children flying over his head -
he stumbled down to the
riverbank and found,
the wreckage twisted around the tree
behind, his skull. . .
Noises, there are noises,
noises that can of themselves drive
a man mad -NOISES!
But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four
sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling
and thought until all that was left was something the size
of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone
in the middle of an infinite space. . .
-Howard Dull
~~
ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level.
All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
It's weird how you do not know what something was until you've been told what it was
That is a terrifyingly true statement. And one of the reasons we need art.
Here is an example of this. With certain frequency food or just water tends to go down the wrong way with me. I start choking. (Probably because I gulp my food too much, but add to that diabetes and some ill defined neuro-problems) I live in a community of priests and one of my fellow priests says to me "¡Pajarito!" " "A bird!" while pointing up with his finger. And then he asks me if I saw it. I said I didn´t see it but I might have seen its shadow. But then he told me that his mother used to do that. You look upwards abruptly and that abrupt movement stops you from choking. This illustrates the principle that you don´t know what something was until you have been told what it was. It is no joke. A number of years ago I was thinking about left and right. How do we know which is which? It is because someone told you. WHO KNEW.
I think this is provably wrong, even though poetically it can be fashioned to be true (just as 1 can be “proven” to equal 0 if you smooth over a detail).
We knew things before we had communication. Animals have instinct, including humans; for example, most human babies won’t walk over a large hole (even if there is someone they trust coaxing them to cross it), because they have an innate concept of depth and its consequences. No one has to tell a baby “If you are over nothing, you will fall, and it will hurt, so avoid that situation”; instead, the baby can develop these concepts for itself, perhaps through experience or perhaps innately. What is it that the baby avoids? Semantically, it’s nothing, for the baby doesn’t know that it’s “height” or “depth” that they fear. Still, even though the baby cannot name it and has never communicated about it, the baby can recognize depths and choose to avoid them. To summarize this long-winded example, a baby’s concept of the thing that is depth without ever having communicated with anyone about it proves that we can develop concepts of things without having a label for them.
How lucky to find this video..I watched this as I eat a flavourful chicken mustard sandwich for breakfast..and i felt full twice..
Oh, I never tried that. What type of mustard?
Thank you for this dear sir, as a filmmaker this was more than nescassary for me, i hope you make more videos on this topic ahead.
That's interesting and clear. Thank you!
Precioso , gracias
I wish you were my professor
I do all of this with my prose, so many others do too.
🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
thank you so much professor :-) are there any books and/or papers on this subject you'd recommend for those interested?
The best introduction to poetry is a good anthology that contains some commentary. You might look at an "Introduction to Poetry" that I co-edited with X.J. Kennedy. Used copies are easily acquired on the internet.
You have good taste. I can tell that by your attire. Aesthetic. I know that. 🧑🎨I’m the same way.
For a second, I thought it was David Attenborough speaking.
Perhaps there should be a banishment of words, when it comes to talk, about poetry. Perhaps this might explain EVERYTHING! Then again, perhaps not.
Examples from Dylan Thomas would've really topped this into superlative!