The Woman In The Glass Poem

This was a brutal lesson that I came to appreciate. In graduate school, though, there suddenly seemed to be consequences for reading indiscriminately. I knew the boy who was a swinger of birches, and I knew the man who was acquainted with the night. I guess that's how it goes. The girl in the glass book. There's nothing funny about an eyeball when it stings or when it snaps shut. If we have reason to believe you are operating your account from a sanctioned location, such as any of the places listed above, or are otherwise in violation of any economic sanction or trade restriction, we may suspend or terminate your use of our Services. Maybe the distinction (delineation) between truth and lies is what's got poetry so misunderstood.

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I became a professional reader. Whaching somehow allows her to be at once inside and outside of herself; by whaching, Emily breaks "the bars of time" and seems to exist outside its prison. I would claim my favorite desk, with my favorite graffito ("LIBIDINAL COMMUNISM") etched in its wood frame, and lean back in my chair, staring up into the rotunda's scrolled dome. Death is true to everyone. Sanctions Policy - Our House Rules. Il punto a cui tutti li tempi son presenti, to crib Dante's mystical phrase: "the point when all the times are present. " Translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst.

Serves notice that at any time. Then, once my mind was blank and still, usually around 9:25, I'd open Carson and begin. The woman in the glass poem poet. At the beginning of every school year, I make detailed schedules for days of teaching, days of writing, days of reading, but after a week or two, everything falls apart, and the only plans I can follow are my lesson plans. But it led me to consider my own spiritual melodrama, and my ways of peering and rereading.

She writes of their "gritty music" in the salt marsh. Then I read poems that develop characters. The idea of seeing, really seeing, was more important to him than it was to anyone I'd ever known. Through Armantrout’s Looking Glass: The Poem as Wonderland. But death is not only true to the doctor or the mortician or the gravedigger. In those weeks, I did feel something uncanny was coming over me and Oxford, which was bleached unfamiliar shades of straw and gold by the drought. They are perfect for salsas and pastas and salads and sandwiches and of course as the primary ingredient in tomato soup.

The Girl In The Glass Book

When we're thrown out, it's onto the lap of our parent. The line "Mother and I are chewing lettuce carefully" brought back the diet-ruled dinners of my childhood, my parents and me silently chewing cold leaves and roots with grim concentration. Is it like Gwenyth Paltrow's daughter? The girl in the glass poem. A particular amalgamation. "We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started from and know the place for the first time. "

Not beautiful at first, or maybe ever. I did not want to let myself off the hook like that, did not want to make lame cosmic excuses for my loneliness with abstractions like fate or doom. This includes items that pre-date sanctions, since we have no way to verify when they were actually removed from the restricted location. But maybe poems are about the place where the name escapes us or is so multivalent as to become utterly meaningless. And so I sank and took "The Glass Essay" down with me, not yet understanding that it had much more to teach me than the loss of love. But now that those feelings are gone, I can look at the poem and the breakup through the transparent pane of that old reading, which both keeps me outside that old reading self and lets me see her from the inside, clearly.

And this daemon is the force that makes us choose our parents. I can't envision, the honking buoy. It is a which-one-of-these-is-not-like-the-others conundrum, but not so simple if you think everything is like everything else and/or everything is like nothing else. She whached the bars of time, which broke. A poem about the discrepancy between what we see and what we are. Is the apple a vein? Processing the breakup through this act of rereading, redoubling, and remembering revolved around the neutral cruelty of repetition. Tomato soup is perfect with grilled cheese sandwiches. We are preoccupied with the same themes. I got fired from a library job for getting caught reading a fantasy novel in a study carrel when I was supposed to be shelving books. )

The Woman In The Glass Poem Poet

I can see her, and the poem, and the loss of Luck more lucidly than before because I am not looking for anything anymore. We may disable listings or cancel transactions that present a risk of violating this policy. Finding the right books to love felt as natural and unplanned as finding the right people to love. They're just words after all. Another kind of compulsive rereading, you might say. I feel like the nail. I developed parameters of thought and rigor that shaped how I read, learning to channel even the most randomly stumbled-upon texts into my dissertation's overarching argument. Typing these lines, even now I feel my heartbeat double for a moment with syncopated desire. Each time I pass a mirror... (That's every single day.

Thinking of what it means to whach, I wonder if it is some form of the discipline I was trained in, which scholars call criticism, and which I am tempted now just to call "reading. " The best I can give him, thirty years later, is a stab at an elegy, which will also be random. Tomatoes, on the other hand, are vine-plants. The saline solution. Even if we've lived it, we don't understand our story. We are supposed to laugh. Love is freedom, Law was fond of saying. Sarah Chihaya is the author of The Ferrante Letters: An Experiment in Collective Criticism (with Merve Emre, Katherine Hill, and Jill Richards) and Bibliophobia. Trying to figure out where we came from and how we came from there. I believe in gazes and touches and atmospheres, but I cannot—and would never—forsake my belief in words. For the ocean, nothing. For Carson, the intense peering activates a powerful, frightening mode of self-reflection, wherein she seems to see right through the illusory exterior of emotion into somewhere more profound and, eventually, more generative.

Indeed, even "those nearest and dearest to her" could not "with impunity, intrude unlicensed" into the recesses of her mind. Any fence maintains the other side is "without form. Me: Luck didn't, either. ) Am I developing a Peter Pan complex? The instant that I've followed her into the madness of these barest visions of her inner self and my own, she turns back to Brontë's complex visions, which seem at once to face inward and outward, a mobile vantage from which she does not peer but rather radiates. Don't try to argue with me on this. ) "The Glass Essay" is a complex structure, holding two disparate elements together in a surprising balance: an intimate meditation on a romantic breakup, and a critical reading of the life of Emily Brontë. This explained, I thought, the way he'd pause and examine my face every time we met, a smile playing around his lips, looking for the person he was coming to know.

The Girl In The Glass Poem

Driftwood and shipwreck, last night's. The resemblance is uncanny. I don't think it was. I never got very far, but certain lines snagged in my mind. I might liken it now to the ineffable body inside the distinguishable shell of the poem. Redefinition of structures. This policy applies to anyone that uses our Services, regardless of their location.

It's the one that popped up when I began writing this essay, and the choice to use it here was random—as is death and life and love and all the double-decker words that tangle and attempt to trump each other in their riddlings and wormings-about on the page. The months in England were a mourning time, I told myself with false confidence. For someone who talked and wrote a lot to friends and strangers, he didn't put much stake in the verbal as a mode of emotional honesty. Maybe this is what happens to poets. Perhaps not reading as it is usually performed by so-called professional readers (critics, teachers, writers), but reading as it might be wholly integrated into lived experience. I like to think that maybe my old apple-poems are becoming tomato-poems. Of quartz, granite, and basalt. From now on, apple will mean arbitrary choice or "at random.

It taught me a lesson in how to slip, like Emily, outside the prison of the self-in-time to see that self from the inside and the outside simultaneously. That's how it became part of my daily schedule: run, shower, coffee, read "The Glass Essay, " work. Suddenly, these methods of reading were clearly insufficient. The poem immediately became the frame I required to shape the posture of my hours. Sharon Olds compares a slug to a naked man and titled the poem, facetiously, "The Connoisseuse of Slugs. " Someone—it may have been Charles Wright—says we write the same poems over and over. Then I read poems that tell stories. There is a name for this. I wondered, always, what I was supposed to take from this solemn pun. Certainly, both loss and longing are states of emergency, outside the law. From the first time I read them after the breakup, these lines laced me into the poem good and tight. Whacher is what she was.