"She Had Some Horses" By Joy Harjo

The strife of the Native American/American Indians seems to be the point of this poem. Yes, each "horse" is a different person. Each equine is another soul; some large, some small. But "she"? Who is "she"? I guess "she" would be the one we commonly refer to as "mother nature". However, I wish the rest of this piece focused slightly more on this aspect. After all, as the title suggests, it is "she" who had them. And "she" is a very large player is this game.
I understand (at least I think I understand) the loss and hardship these people had to endure due to dwindling tribes, and isolation, and so forth. I just wish there was more of a visible thread to follow here. Instead, the more I read on, the more I just felt a general sense of confusion and desparation. But maybe this is all I was supposed to............

The Mother by Gwendolyn Brooks

I wonder what would happen if this poem was read before the opening of any particular abortion debate. I wonder how the tone would change; perhaps a mutual respect would develop from what would otherwise be harsh arguments.
It's hard to imagine this piece as being directed at a 'reader' more than it is meant for Brooks herself. It is a strictly contemplative introspection. The only line which stands out despite this is the opener, a warning, "Abortions will not let you forget."
Regardless of where you stand on the 'issue', the facts presented here are true. While necessary for some, avoidable for others, or simply a choice which was made, this poem is a heartbreaking reminder that the choice is never simply Yes or No.

"The Thrashing Doves" By Jack Kerouac

When I searched for Kerouac + Thrashing (as indicated in the studysheet) I found this little gem. It seems to be speaking of an authentic Chinatown general store.
The imagery is intense, sights flow into each other, among ungoogleable slang, in a way that reminds me of how this world must have been seen in the moment. Especially, considering the stoned haze, a likely contributor. This was the King beatnik, the head honcho talkin'.
Jack's "On the Road" contains this same rhythmic flow throughout much of its faster-paced passages. The ability to observe, witness, and participate in your surroundings without letting mere thought and conscious judgments get in the way, is what seems to be the catalyst for this style of writing. Of course aided by copious amounts of grass and speed...of course.
The jazzy influences are apparent not only in the style and tone of the writing (it flows like skat-singing) but even in the words themselves, if you know where to look. The phrase 'round about midnight' appears right at the end of one stanza, not even seemingly connected to any other thought. But it's a Miles Davis album, from 1957, just two years before this poem was written. "Round Midnight" is also a tune by Thelonious Monk, covered by Miles as well.
It doesn't make much sense...if you think about it. But then again, were talking about near-mythical, neurotic beatnik explorers. Kerouac, Ginsberg, Neal Cassidy: these cats were doers. They wreaked havoc with their curiosity, second-guessed nothing, and this is what their minds were like in action.

"Birches" by Robert Frost

"Birches" has many similarities to Elizabeth Bishop's ode to the aquatic warrior, and even more profound differences. They both are, on the surface, themed with praises towards the nature which surrounds them. Both writers shine a light on the hidden side of their immediate surroundings. When Bishop does it, the metaphores slowly evolve into praise for the found creature. However, Frost's approach is more stream-of-conciousness than anything else. So much so, that when he finds himself getting too literal, he stops and notes it.

Just as when, in my last posting, I noted the fact that I was blogging, Frost references his less metaphorical/more literal moment as "when Truth broke in with all her matter-of-fact". Not only does he find an entertaining way to segue back to his previous thought patterns, but he does it with such grace and affection for the digression. Not only does he refer to Truth as a woman, but he capitalizes the "T" to match. This, is true poetry. Well......it IS Robert Frost!!

The Fish by Elizabeth Bishop

The imagery of this poem strikes me as a respectful combination of both human and fish-world viewpoints. At one point Bishop refers to the shallow, metallic eyes of her new companion. As seen from our perspective, fish eyes are typically of that nature. At another point she recognizes the "terrible" oxygen which is presumably causing the fish great pain to endure.

Similar descriptions throughout culminate in the realization of the age, power, and "wisdom" of this creature. He's a survivor. A war vet. A real trooper. After coming to terms with her victory, she naturally let's him go. On the surface this seems like the only right thing to do. The intent to bag a catch, in this situation, falls aside in light of such circumstances.

However, after re-reading the piece for the sake of this blog entry (uh oh, I'm breaking the third wall) I noticed the option to hear the poem read by miss Elizabeth Bishop herself. I was surprised at the matter-of-fact tone of her voice. It was less like a reading of a piece of poetic literature, more like reading a caption beneath a photo. When she got down to the final line, in which she lets the big guy go, I was surprised yet again. This time by the emphasis Bishop herself puts on the individual words. My mind, seeing the release of the aquatic veteran as the only logical choice, was surprised to hear her emphasize the word "I". As in "I did, you wouldn't."

It seems the unasked question is not "Wouldn't you?", but is rather "Would you not?"