Huginn and Muninn

Louise Gluck was my poet of the day, brought to me by Simic's commentary. Simic is quite extreme with her writing, saying it's either brilliant or falling horribly flat: lacking in wisdom, wit, or even significant artistic merit. These are powerful words regarding a Pulitzer prize winning poet, and in the poems Simic describes as cliche and banal, I still see poetry far exceeding the quality of my own. I have no long-term desire to be a poet, but it provides a ready comparison that humbles my learning journey.

Yet it is heartening to hear that even the great poets of the last twenty years can falter and fall, writing poetry that lacks depth and direction. No one writes perfectly every time, and it leaves me wondering how many failed attempts great poets leave behind their successful endeavors. 

But Gluck writes some very interesting poetry, evoking powerful imagery in only a few concise phrases, such as this one:

It is coming back to me.

Pear tree. Apple tree. 

I used to sit there

pulling arrows out of my heart

(Louise Gluck)

It's a short poem, but it's beautiful, dreadful. 

Tomorrow (the 8th) is the day my little brother died. It's a day of Huginn and Muninn, those ravens that follow our wheel around us on our journeys through life. It is also Saturday, the Shabbat, and I hope to, if not finish, draw close to finishing the Renegade, by Simic. I'm glad it is the weekend, I'm glad the world is wrought anew in white, and I'm glad of friends.

The name of my little brother was Jonathan, which means the Lord has given. We often follow that phrase up with 'the Lord taketh away', and so God has. My parents could not conceive for years following that, and when they finally did, my little brother Samuel (God has listened) was born- appropriate in view of the story of Hannah. Good night - happy weekend. Enjoy the snow (if you have it)

Study

One of my friends that I most admired was quite adept at most anything he believed in, however shortly. He didn't believe in partially committing - when he ran, he trained with an impressive regimen; when he studied, he input his all; when learning music, he said he might practice or invest in the theory and contemplation of music for twenty hours a day, leaving only a couple for sleep or sustenance.
I admire his dedication. I asked him the last time we got together whether he still runs, and he replied that he couldn't understand the purpose of running unless it were for the olympics. Sometimes I wish I could dedicate as much of myself to studies and betterment. I started late, and my natural proclivity towards knowledge is lesser than some of the intellectual juggernauts in my life. But one of the pieces of D's training that I adopted was an immersive journey. While I cannot (currently) bodily travel to the locations of all my favorite writer's living locations and writing niches, I've started reading biographies of their lives (or autobiographies if available), as a means of grasping some of the driving force behind the motifs littering each author's famous works.
I picked up a rather fun book today by Simic (one of my favorite recent poets) with a number of essays detailing the histories of some of his inspirational poets, and how their lives meshed with their poetry. I'm not a poet yet, not the least bit, but I'm beginning to see, to hear, and to notice when all my other faculties of sense have fallen short.
Why did that poet use that particular phrasing, and how has this particular cadence evolved, or the prosody of poetry affected my interaction with the piece? That's just it, isn't it? Everything is an interaction, whether it is the expected experience designed by the author, or not. My college roommate (lifetime roommates A) had an art show consisting of psychological and dreamscape drawings encased behind shutters. In order to reveal the iconographic renderings within, you must first open the window unto heaven. On the doors, a simple labyrinth was drawn, allowing the recipient to trace their fingers along a predetermined route, receiving a visceral interaction and readying preparation for the pieces within.