Here's an alternate invention exercise, related to Folly by Norman Minnick. Choose a scene or image from one of the poems and make that the centerpiece of one of YOUR poems, with one exception: try to reverse the feeling created by the details. For example, take the adolescent scene from "The Young Girl" and try to make it seem beautiful or heroic; take the familial scene from "The Problem of the Puer Aeternus" and portray the central character as more disgruntled; take the scene of someone playing banjo with his feet (from "Toes") and portray it as less graceful, or better yet, portray the audience is less impressed; take the scene from "An Omelet" and shift/amplify the tension in some way.
For 2/26...
Here's
an invention exercise that I typically use with my Advanced Poetry
students. It's just meant to get the creative, subconscious wheels
turning but I'm curious to see what you come up with!
We’ve talked before about how a good poem
(much like a Zen koan) can seem to pull you in two different logical and
psychological directions at the same time.
That’s part of the magic and, eventually, you want to be doing it while
basically writing on auto-pilot.
Initially, though, it often takes some conscious, concerted effort to
get a feel for the rhythms and music that exist in all artistic language but
seem to be heightened in poetry.
1) So for practice, begin by listing some 1 or
2 syllable words you like, then come up with words that have the same beginning
and ending sounds in the reverse order. Examples:
cedar and repose. Rabbit and temper. Fort and tariff. Risk and killdeer. Russet and tier. Donkey
and yield. Feel and leaf. Fumble and bluff.
2) Come up
with a few words that have the same internal sounds but different connotations. Examples: gloom and boon. Glow and drone. Bastard and
happy. Jewel and coup. Rigor and
cigarette.
7) Now, try weaving these together. With your words for #1, don’t just put them side by side. Put them a few words or even a whole line apart. This creates a subconscious feeling that your lines are connected by an internal rhythm. Don’t worry about literal meaning yet; you’re just trying to clear up your creative lens and hammer out some lines that have a sense of rhythm, music, and raw imagination.
For 2/18...
The other day, I was thinking a little more on the differences between the two most common branches of Zen practiced here in the United States: Rinzai and Soto, especially as illustrated in the short documentary, Quiet Mind: meditation for real life (aka Chop Wood, Carry Water).
Both branches (obviously) emphasize zazen (literally "seated meditation"), while Rinzai also emphasizes the studying of koans (which Soto doesn't exactly discourage, but doesn't really emphasize, either). In Rinzai, students engaged in meditation often sit across from each other; in Soto, they often sit facing the wall or a curtain. So...
Rinzai = less ritual, study the koans and meditate facing each other.
Soto = more ritual, don't sweat the koans and face the wall when you meditate.
Other themes in the film: meditation in labor/daily life; pride in one's endeavors and beliefs, excluding (hopefully) arrogance; the ultimately unsatisfying nature of our daily pursuits; the revelation found in simplicity and extreme focus; the dread we Americans tend to feel in regards to labor; the independence necessary in Zazen and, by extension (at least as far as I'm concerned) artistic craft.
And now, a little more on karma. Karma is tough to define because different traditions—indeed,
different Buddhists—often place varying emphasis and can even have slightly (or
in some cases, radically) different notions of what karma actually is. Also,
there’s quite a bit of overlap between Buddhism and other “eastern” religions
that also incorporate the existence of karma, even though some religions (especially
Hinduism) often have different interpretations of karma, as well.
To begin, it might be helpful to talk about what karma isn’t.
We Westerners tend to think of karma as something like fate. We might also use the phrase bad karma.
That’s not exactly right, though.
The actual word karma is
Sanskrit for action. That means there’s a more willful,
deliberate component to it. Think of
karma as cause and effect. Also, try to shy away from the notion
that we’re all just hapless victims of karma; nor should we confuse karma for the result of karma.
For instance, we Westerners might say that it was karma that
so-and-so lost his job. Actually, in Buddhism,
losing one’s job would be more like the product
of karma.
Another way to think about this is the Biblical passage: “…for
whatever a man shall sow, that also shall he reap” (Gallatians 6:7). As we discussed in class, though, that gives
rise to certain problems.
- Is karma just cause and effect, or is there a supernatural force in the universe that actually “rewards” or “punishes” our behavior?
- Going along with that, if rebirth/reincarnation is a product of us being trapped in “Samsara,” is karma a force that (for example) would cause a murderer to be reborn as someone being victimized, in order to teach them a lesson?
- If so, is that fair?
- Going back to #1, what about the readily obvious fact that life isn’t fair and many times, it seems that “bad” behavior is actually rewarded? Is that worked out in reincarnation (i.e. reincarnation is a kind of punishment) or is simply continuing to live in Samsara, regardless of how much money you have in the bank or who you’re sleeping with, still a punishment?
- Is “punishment” even the right word? After all, that implies a “punisher” and Buddhism doesn’t necessarily suggest or require the existence of a supreme being administering divine judgment.
At this point, you could very rightly ask, “Well, what does
the text say?” After all, we have the Dhammapada
(a collection of sayings attributed to the Buddha), plus thousands of pages of
discourse between early Buddhist monks and scholars, not to mention all the
poems and koans. They have a clear
answer, right?
Well, kind of.
Just as one can cherry-pick passages of the Bible to advance
almost any interpretation, Buddhism as a whole doesn’t necessarily offer a
definitive, either/or answer, either.
For instance, take the first passage from the Dhammapada.
1) Mind precedes all mental states. Mind is their chief; they
are all mind-wrought. If with an impure mind a person speaks or acts suffering
follows him like the wheel that follows the foot of the ox. (Translated by
Acharya Buddharakkhita)
2) Phenomena
are preceded by the heart,
ruled by the
heart,
made of the
heart.
If you speak
or act
with a
corrupted heart,
then
suffering follows you —
as the wheel
of the cart,
the track of
the ox
that pulls
it. (Translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu)
Right away, you see some subtle differences in the
translation; also, you can imagine either passage being interpreted with or
without supernatural elements while still advancing the same basic idea that
what we do affects our circumstances. So, since the core concept is
what matters, is a belief in a supernatural element a deal-breaker? Is
it a form of unhealthy attachment?
For 2/14...
The 17th century French philosopher, Blaise Pascal (probably most famous for Pascal's Wager), said: “The problem with Western man is that he does not know how to be content in an empty room.” Thoughts?
As another attempt at getting our minds around the "haiku mindset," let's try something different and take a look at the Raymond Carver story, Cathedral.
For 2/12...
Let's see what we can do with Essential Haiku. First, do you notice any differences in style between Basho, Buson, and Issa? Do you notice any common themes?
Something to consider: even more so than other poetic forms, it seems like haiku either reach you, or they don't. If a given haiku doesn't quite spark something in your gut or your imagination, simply move on to the next one. If it does strike though, though, the brevity of the language makes it hard to sit back and discuss the poem, beyond simply, "This is what that Issa haiku made me think of..."
Actually, that's a perfectly fine way to begin--as is, "Here are the ones I liked, just because." This strategy can also be a gateway into taking the raw emotion or scene that the haiku sparked in your imagination and writing a haiku of your own. (I've found that haiku are especially good at serving as inspiration for our own pieces since they're easy/quick to digest.)
Another way to do this is to incorporate a strategy of revision, particularly in reference to those haiku that didn't quite resonate with us. In other words, take a haiku you didn't like and rewrite it so that you do.
Activity: first, let's pick out some haiku that we enjoyed and see if we can talk a least a little about why you enjoyed them. Then, let's find 2 or 3 that we didn't enjoy and rework them.
For 2/7...
Random quotes from Zen Confidential...
I've learned to question any Big Insight I have on the cushion if I become convinced of its wisdom only to the degree that I can convince others of it. This is the evangelical mind-set... Beware of putting things to words in your head that you haven't fully experienced yet, reflecting on conclusions you have yet to truly reach. There's a difference between an experience so deep and profound you can't talk about it and an experience so deep and profound you can't stop talking about it. (p. 24)
I try to follow my heart, which has no mouth. (p. 20)
They want to hear that Buddhism is the answer to all of their problems, not a big fat arrow pointing to the source of all of their problems: ego. (p. 20)
One of the reasons that Zen is such a subversive practice is that it's so simple. (p. 7)
You'd never walk into the forest with the radio blasting and expect wild animals to appear by your side. Yet it never occurs to you to unplug the inner jukebox and get quiet inside so that a natural, organic state of mind can reorganize you and your life from within. (p. 22)
You chant, light incense, spread statues across your altar like peanut butter on a mousetrap. (p. 24)
The middle way represented by Buddhism is not about "not choosing" one way or another. It's about embracing both sides, bringing them together within you, and letting sparks fly. (p. 58)
The searching, open-ended nature of koan work yields the kinds of answers that frustrate easy analysis, not to mention that most exquisite of all human pleasures: being "right." (p. 50)
Why are so many of the conflicts at the heart of life logically and ethically "unsolvable" one way or another? Could it be because they are the very conflicts that generate life? (p. 57)
For from being a respite from Zen practice, family visits are a crash course in patience and perseverance the likes of which you can't even fathom while safely ensconced in your hallowed monastic halls, supposedly mastering these very qualities. (p.97)
This is what a monastery is supposed to do. Force a crisis. Force you to look very deeply into your self and start asking really difficult--and ultimately liberating--questions about the source of your problems and suffering. (p.86)
Contrast this image of monk as perma-grinning eunuch with the infamous Zen priest-poet Ikkyu. A totally rambunctious, off-the-charts "spiritual" maniac, this fifteenth-century Japanese iconoclast once remarked (no doubt in the throes of sacred ecstasy): "her mouth plays with my cock like a cloud plays with the sky." Can you imagine Saint Fancis coming up with a line like that? (p. 126).
The firearm is a key metaphysical prop in his eminently Ted Nugentian belief in the individual: a life worth defending, perhaps even shooting someone dead for, is a life that means something; it's a life that has heft, solidity, weight--that is singular, precious real. It is in distinction from others that the individualist's existence gains value, but for the practicing Buddhist, it is in union with others that a human life finds true meaning. (p.100)
It was this combination of weakness and intelligence in [my sister] that so frightened and infuriated me: the same combination of factors in me that had a similar effect on my father, he confessed not long ago. (p. 101)
I was in the moment--the moment just sucked. Just because you hurt doesn't mean you're doing something wrong, that you're weak, dumb, selfish, or hopelessly screwed up. If life is suffering, then pain simply means that you're alive. (p. 115)
Had [my father] failed, I would have carried his failure into my adult life and would have been compelled to succeed at any cost. Instead, I watched him become extremely successful, and I watched success fail to fulfill him. (p. 72)
"Even a dead tree adds to the forest," my teacher once told me... Fair enough, but some "dead trees" carry Dutch elm disease, which eventually spreads to the healthy members of the forest and wipes them out. ...one truly terrible Zen student can slowly, over time, infect the harmony, sincerity, and work ethic of an entire population of healthy practitioners. (p. 81-82)
The first thing people want to know when they find out I'm a Buddhist monk is whether or not I still believe in God. If they're atheists I tell them no; Christians, yes... But the truth is more complex and personal... (p. 72)
I've seen deer shot in my lifetime. I've heard and smelled what guns do: the opened-up redness; the great, splattered shock; the gutted and blue-marbled spread of the dead, unique as a snowflake or a fingerprint. (p. 66)
For 1/29...
Random quotes from Zen Confidential...
I've learned to question any Big Insight I have on the cushion if I become convinced of its wisdom only to the degree that I can convince others of it. This is the evangelical mind-set... Beware of putting things to words in your head that you haven't fully experienced yet, reflecting on conclusions you have yet to truly reach. There's a difference between an experience so deep and profound you can't talk about it and an experience so deep and profound you can't stop talking about it. (p. 24)
I try to follow my heart, which has no mouth. (p. 20)
They want to hear that Buddhism is the answer to all of their problems, not a big fat arrow pointing to the source of all of their problems: ego. (p. 20)
One of the reasons that Zen is such a subversive practice is that it's so simple. (p. 7)
You'd never walk into the forest with the radio blasting and expect wild animals to appear by your side. Yet it never occurs to you to unplug the inner jukebox and get quiet inside so that a natural, organic state of mind can reorganize you and your life from within. (p. 22)
You chant, light incense, spread statues across your altar like peanut butter on a mousetrap. (p. 24)
The middle way represented by Buddhism is not about "not choosing" one way or another. It's about embracing both sides, bringing them together within you, and letting sparks fly. (p. 58)
The searching, open-ended nature of koan work yields the kinds of answers that frustrate easy analysis, not to mention that most exquisite of all human pleasures: being "right." (p. 50)
Why are so many of the conflicts at the heart of life logically and ethically "unsolvable" one way or another? Could it be because they are the very conflicts that generate life? (p. 57)
For from being a respite from Zen practice, family visits are a crash course in patience and perseverance the likes of which you can't even fathom while safely ensconced in your hallowed monastic halls, supposedly mastering these very qualities. (p.97)
This is what a monastery is supposed to do. Force a crisis. Force you to look very deeply into your self and start asking really difficult--and ultimately liberating--questions about the source of your problems and suffering. (p.86)
Contrast this image of monk as perma-grinning eunuch with the infamous Zen priest-poet Ikkyu. A totally rambunctious, off-the-charts "spiritual" maniac, this fifteenth-century Japanese iconoclast once remarked (no doubt in the throes of sacred ecstasy): "her mouth plays with my cock like a cloud plays with the sky." Can you imagine Saint Fancis coming up with a line like that? (p. 126).
The firearm is a key metaphysical prop in his eminently Ted Nugentian belief in the individual: a life worth defending, perhaps even shooting someone dead for, is a life that means something; it's a life that has heft, solidity, weight--that is singular, precious real. It is in distinction from others that the individualist's existence gains value, but for the practicing Buddhist, it is in union with others that a human life finds true meaning. (p.100)
It was this combination of weakness and intelligence in [my sister] that so frightened and infuriated me: the same combination of factors in me that had a similar effect on my father, he confessed not long ago. (p. 101)
I was in the moment--the moment just sucked. Just because you hurt doesn't mean you're doing something wrong, that you're weak, dumb, selfish, or hopelessly screwed up. If life is suffering, then pain simply means that you're alive. (p. 115)
Had [my father] failed, I would have carried his failure into my adult life and would have been compelled to succeed at any cost. Instead, I watched him become extremely successful, and I watched success fail to fulfill him. (p. 72)
"Even a dead tree adds to the forest," my teacher once told me... Fair enough, but some "dead trees" carry Dutch elm disease, which eventually spreads to the healthy members of the forest and wipes them out. ...one truly terrible Zen student can slowly, over time, infect the harmony, sincerity, and work ethic of an entire population of healthy practitioners. (p. 81-82)
The first thing people want to know when they find out I'm a Buddhist monk is whether or not I still believe in God. If they're atheists I tell them no; Christians, yes... But the truth is more complex and personal... (p. 72)
I've seen deer shot in my lifetime. I've heard and smelled what guns do: the opened-up redness; the great, splattered shock; the gutted and blue-marbled spread of the dead, unique as a snowflake or a fingerprint. (p. 66)
For 1/29...
If you've ever taken a course on Shakespeare, you know that much of his work contains slang terns, puns, and references that can be tough to understand out of context. Let's take a look at this simple poem by 8th century Chinese poet, Li Po (translated by Sam Hamill):
Autumn River Song
The moon shimmers in green water.
White herons fly through the moonlight.
The young man hears a girl gathering water chestnuts:
into the night, singing, they paddle home together.
OK, a little context: in China, herons can be symbolic of purity; autumn and moon can be symbolic of femininity and fertility. White symbolizes purity and/or mourning. Now,do were lose anything by not necessarily knowing this? Is out possible to get the poem without that knowledge? To test this, look at the following "western" poem and try to imagine how or would read without the cultural connotation of Sunday.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
A Perfect Day for Bananafish class discussion questions:
Given that A Perfect Day for Bananafish is included in Nine Stories, a Salinger short story collection that begins with an epigraph (the famous koan, We know the sound of two hands clapping. But what is the sound of one hand clapping?), and given Salinger's interest in Zen at the time this story was written, it's probably reasonable to view this story itself as a kind of koan. And much like a koan, A Perfect Day for Bananafish seems to be an exercise in dualities and contrasts. For instance...
1) Critics often argue over Seymour's interaction with Sybil. Is it the bittersweet interaction of a hyper-lonely guy who can only relate to children (and why does he only seem to relate with Sybil)? Or is it downright creepy? Maybe both? Do these related but diametrically opposed interpretations say something about us as an audience?
2) On a more technical note... Rather than simply say "he was sad" or "she was bored," good writers have their characters perform some kind of action that conveys this feeling. (Sometimes, they'll even have a character do something to replace the usual "he said/she said" tags, which can get a bit tedious.) The risk, of course, is that readers won't catch it; if they do, though, it's guaranteed to have a bigger impact than simple, lazy exposition. And more to the point, it's an invaluable skill to develop in our own writing. With that in mind, go through "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" and see if you can spot some FIVE dialog gestures--that is, a specific action that conveys an emotion and/or tells you something about the character, big or small.
3) Most readers are surprised the first time they read the ending of "A Perfect Day for Bananafish." What seems to separate an "earned" plot twist from a plot twist that it is only there for shock value, though, is foreshadowing. What events, scenes, or dialog in this story foreshadow Seymour's actions at the end of the story?
4) Anything to the names in this story? Don't just look at their names, but the pronouns Salinger chooses to use when referring to these characters (ex. Muriel is "the girl.").
5) What's up with feet?
6) Seriously, why bananafish? Why bananas?
7) It's difficult to ascribe a "moral to the story" when it comes to koans because Zen acknowledges the limitations of language and thought (meaning that as soon as you start to say "This just means this..." you run the risk of over-simplification). Basically, the point of a koan--like the point of a good piece of literature--is to pull your brain in two (or more) contradictory directions at the same time, and in so doing, give you a brief glimpse of the much bigger, much more complex story. So it's not necessary that we try and hammer out one single, over-arching message of the story; let's just see if we can come up with a list of some of what this story is telling us.
for 1/27...
Jane Hirshfield: "No matter what your circumstances, you will end up losing everything you love, you will end up aging, you will end up ill. And the problem is that we need to figure out a way how to make that all be all right."
“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” – Anton Chekhov (1860–1904)
Today, let's shift a little bit from the metaphysical philosophy behind the literature we're reading to the more nitty-gritty technical elements that are being employed in writing. While this is one way to foster a deeper appreciation for the reading, this will also be very helpful in gearing up to write your own pieces a little later in the semester.
Cheat sheet on poetic terminology: http://bsuenglish308.blogspot.com/2013/08/poetic-terminology.html
I've noticed from past responses to One Hundred Poems that many feel a measure of trepidation when assigned to read so many poems from another culture, translated from a completely different language, all of them very old (for instance, Tu Fu lived from 712 to 770 C.E.). However, for me, what's surprising about these poems is just how relatable and accessible they can be. We already discussed this on Friday but it's worth pondering what the risks and benefits of contemporary references are. This can also be related to the koan:
Someone asked Zhaozhou, "Why did Bodhidharma come from the west?"
Zhaozhou replied, "The cypress tree in the garden."
One of the best ways (I think) to recognize both the beauty and the aesthetic strategies of a piece is simply to ask how you would have written it. Let's put this to the test with "Song of Liang Chou" (p. 55). What if we wanted to translate the poem into our own voice, so that it reflects OUR specific experiences, using the original poem's basic ideas/shifts as a framework? The opening lines--Perfume blows from the kingfisher / green trees. Bright as targets in /their new dyed skirts...--might become something like The perfume of fresh-risen dough / wafts from Greek's Pizzeria, down / the miniature rush hour of University Ave, / cars like picnic ants...
In the next poem, "Reading the Poems of an Absent Friend," the opening lines--Tsu Mei is early dead. Chang Yu / now is somewhere in the South--might become Roxane died at twenty seven. Joan / took a job on the west coast. And now... with the rest of the poem using that pattern to establish the whereabouts of absent friends.
Activity:
Choosing one of the before-mentioned poems, or another from the assigned reading, start with the basic stylistic framework (however you choose to interpret that) and run with it. Let's shoot for at least twenty lines. Follow the original poem's framework as long as you can but when you feel the overwhelming urge to break off and do your own thing, do so.
for 1/10...
Bring Me the Rhinoceros Discussion
Let's start by spending a little time with the introduction so that we can lay the foundation for discussions to follow.
1. According to Tarant, "Koans encourage doubt and curiosity. [They] don't ask you to believe anything offensive to reason. You can have any religion and use koans. You can have no religion and use koans." Let's start by comparing and contrasting this with the general idea of faith in our American culture.
2. "When I tried to find out what koans are, it became clear that koan is a Japanese word that has entered the English language without bringing a clear sense of its meaning. It is usually taken to refer to some sort of riddle or odd question.... Koans originated when Chinese culture flowered about thirteen hundred years ago, at the period the Arthurian legends in England." Quick aside: that means they did NOT originate in India, where Buddhism started. In other words, koans probably weren't part of Theravada Buddhism, but started sometime later, after the monk Bodhidharma brought Buddhism to China in the 5th or 6th century, and Buddhism evolved into Zen Buddhism. That naturally begs an interesting but controversial question: if Theravada Buddhism is closer to the "original" teachings than Zen Buddhism, or the Tantric Buddhism practiced by Tibetans and the Dalai Lama, is one more valid than the other? Is there a flaw in this line of reasoning that we can parallel to other religions and denominations (Jew vs. Christian, Protestant vs. Catholic, Fundamentalist vs. Everyone Else, etc)?
3. "'Why did I love my love?' would have the same spiritual value as 'What happens when I die?' A question is an embarkation, and any question was treated as being about enlightenment, whether the student was aware of it or not."
4. "...instead of giving advice, or step-by-step instructions, the teachers responded to the students as if they were capable of coming to a complete understanding in that moment." The possibility of sudden understanding is another thing that distinguishes Zen Buddhism from Theravada Buddhism (at least, as I understand it). I've heard it said that in Theravada Buddhism, one uses the Middle Way and the Eightfold Path to slowly attain enlightenment over many reincarnations, whereas Zen koans often talk about monks achieving enlightenment via a sudden spiritual revelation.
5. "A well-known teacher forbade his students to write down what he said because he thought people were recording his comments as a substitute for the more necessary and dangerous task of letting them work on the mind." Side note: this reminds me of several religion professors I had as an undergrad who pointed out something curious: as far as we know, neither Jesus nor the Buddha actually wrote down their own teachings.
6. "Soldiers, housewives, farmers, and merchants used koans to find freedom within the often difficult conditions of their times. The method was to immerse yourself in the saying and see how it changed you. This meant letting the koan teach you by interacting with your life and your mind; the activity wasn't confined to periods of formal mediation. People farmed the land, ran bureaucracies, and raised children, all the while keeping moment-by-moment company with their koan."
7. Here's an aside (as well as an excuse for me to geek out for a while). From about 800 to 1000 A.D., Viking sword-makers made a type of sword called an Ulfberht. Today, it’s widely regarded as the most perfectly constructed type of sword in human history (including the wildly overrated katana), but the method for how they were made was lost to history. In a documentary called Secrets of the Viking Sword, archeologists teamed up with a modern sword-maker, Ric Furrer, to theorize how they were made, then Furrer used this method to try and actually make one. One thing he said in the documentary caught my attention: “It is the complicated thing I know how to make, and it’s that challenge which drives me. I don’t need a sword. But I have to make them. Not because I can’t do anything else. Because I can’t do anything else.” Going after one’s job with that kind of single-mindedness, coupling a primal stubbornness with an intellectual self-awareness, strikes me as the essence of Zen.
8. Just an open-ended discussion point that I'd like us to revisit. One thing I especially love about Zen koans and Zen poems (although you’re obviously free to disagree) is that almost by definition, they can be appreciated and reflected upon without much or any background knowledge of some of the key tenets of Buddhism (the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, etc). Without implying a value judgment, this seems to be a marked contrast with other religions and philosophies favored in “Western” thought (again, for purposes of getting us started, I’m stereotyping here). For instance, I think it would be hard to fully understand the “Sermon on the Mount” in Christianity without the context of the crucifixion and resurrection.
9. Let’s talk a bit about Tarant’s writing style. Was there anything in particular that you found striking? Put another way, from a creative writing perspective it's often helpful to try and put together a working equation for a particular writer's aesthetic. How would you characterize Tarant's overall approach to writing and what are some of the tricks he has up his sleeve?
10. Going along with that, I think a perfectly fine way to discuss koans is to simply compare and contrast our immediate reactions to some of these passages (something we'll also do with Zen poems, later in the semester). With that in mind, let’s start drawing out some passages/stories/descriptions that produced a fairly immediate reaction when you read them—whether that reaction was confusion or excitement (or both).
11. What’s up with the title?
12. Something a little different... Some of my favorite poems (and some of the most famous poems in the English language) strike me as being a bit koan-like, even though the writer may not be particularly affiliated with Zen. One of my favorite examples is this short James Wright poem:
Jane Hirshfield: "No matter what your circumstances, you will end up losing everything you love, you will end up aging, you will end up ill. And the problem is that we need to figure out a way how to make that all be all right."
“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” – Anton Chekhov (1860–1904)
Today, let's shift a little bit from the metaphysical philosophy behind the literature we're reading to the more nitty-gritty technical elements that are being employed in writing. While this is one way to foster a deeper appreciation for the reading, this will also be very helpful in gearing up to write your own pieces a little later in the semester.
Cheat sheet on poetic terminology: http://bsuenglish308.blogspot.com/2013/08/poetic-terminology.html
I've noticed from past responses to One Hundred Poems that many feel a measure of trepidation when assigned to read so many poems from another culture, translated from a completely different language, all of them very old (for instance, Tu Fu lived from 712 to 770 C.E.). However, for me, what's surprising about these poems is just how relatable and accessible they can be. We already discussed this on Friday but it's worth pondering what the risks and benefits of contemporary references are. This can also be related to the koan:
Someone asked Zhaozhou, "Why did Bodhidharma come from the west?"
Zhaozhou replied, "The cypress tree in the garden."
One of the best ways (I think) to recognize both the beauty and the aesthetic strategies of a piece is simply to ask how you would have written it. Let's put this to the test with "Song of Liang Chou" (p. 55). What if we wanted to translate the poem into our own voice, so that it reflects OUR specific experiences, using the original poem's basic ideas/shifts as a framework? The opening lines--Perfume blows from the kingfisher / green trees. Bright as targets in /their new dyed skirts...--might become something like The perfume of fresh-risen dough / wafts from Greek's Pizzeria, down / the miniature rush hour of University Ave, / cars like picnic ants...
In the next poem, "Reading the Poems of an Absent Friend," the opening lines--Tsu Mei is early dead. Chang Yu / now is somewhere in the South--might become Roxane died at twenty seven. Joan / took a job on the west coast. And now... with the rest of the poem using that pattern to establish the whereabouts of absent friends.
Activity:
Choosing one of the before-mentioned poems, or another from the assigned reading, start with the basic stylistic framework (however you choose to interpret that) and run with it. Let's shoot for at least twenty lines. Follow the original poem's framework as long as you can but when you feel the overwhelming urge to break off and do your own thing, do so.
for 1/10...
Bring Me the Rhinoceros Discussion
Let's start by spending a little time with the introduction so that we can lay the foundation for discussions to follow.
1. According to Tarant, "Koans encourage doubt and curiosity. [They] don't ask you to believe anything offensive to reason. You can have any religion and use koans. You can have no religion and use koans." Let's start by comparing and contrasting this with the general idea of faith in our American culture.
2. "When I tried to find out what koans are, it became clear that koan is a Japanese word that has entered the English language without bringing a clear sense of its meaning. It is usually taken to refer to some sort of riddle or odd question.... Koans originated when Chinese culture flowered about thirteen hundred years ago, at the period the Arthurian legends in England." Quick aside: that means they did NOT originate in India, where Buddhism started. In other words, koans probably weren't part of Theravada Buddhism, but started sometime later, after the monk Bodhidharma brought Buddhism to China in the 5th or 6th century, and Buddhism evolved into Zen Buddhism. That naturally begs an interesting but controversial question: if Theravada Buddhism is closer to the "original" teachings than Zen Buddhism, or the Tantric Buddhism practiced by Tibetans and the Dalai Lama, is one more valid than the other? Is there a flaw in this line of reasoning that we can parallel to other religions and denominations (Jew vs. Christian, Protestant vs. Catholic, Fundamentalist vs. Everyone Else, etc)?
3. "'Why did I love my love?' would have the same spiritual value as 'What happens when I die?' A question is an embarkation, and any question was treated as being about enlightenment, whether the student was aware of it or not."
4. "...instead of giving advice, or step-by-step instructions, the teachers responded to the students as if they were capable of coming to a complete understanding in that moment." The possibility of sudden understanding is another thing that distinguishes Zen Buddhism from Theravada Buddhism (at least, as I understand it). I've heard it said that in Theravada Buddhism, one uses the Middle Way and the Eightfold Path to slowly attain enlightenment over many reincarnations, whereas Zen koans often talk about monks achieving enlightenment via a sudden spiritual revelation.
5. "A well-known teacher forbade his students to write down what he said because he thought people were recording his comments as a substitute for the more necessary and dangerous task of letting them work on the mind." Side note: this reminds me of several religion professors I had as an undergrad who pointed out something curious: as far as we know, neither Jesus nor the Buddha actually wrote down their own teachings.
6. "Soldiers, housewives, farmers, and merchants used koans to find freedom within the often difficult conditions of their times. The method was to immerse yourself in the saying and see how it changed you. This meant letting the koan teach you by interacting with your life and your mind; the activity wasn't confined to periods of formal mediation. People farmed the land, ran bureaucracies, and raised children, all the while keeping moment-by-moment company with their koan."
7. Here's an aside (as well as an excuse for me to geek out for a while). From about 800 to 1000 A.D., Viking sword-makers made a type of sword called an Ulfberht. Today, it’s widely regarded as the most perfectly constructed type of sword in human history (including the wildly overrated katana), but the method for how they were made was lost to history. In a documentary called Secrets of the Viking Sword, archeologists teamed up with a modern sword-maker, Ric Furrer, to theorize how they were made, then Furrer used this method to try and actually make one. One thing he said in the documentary caught my attention: “It is the complicated thing I know how to make, and it’s that challenge which drives me. I don’t need a sword. But I have to make them. Not because I can’t do anything else. Because I can’t do anything else.” Going after one’s job with that kind of single-mindedness, coupling a primal stubbornness with an intellectual self-awareness, strikes me as the essence of Zen.
8. Just an open-ended discussion point that I'd like us to revisit. One thing I especially love about Zen koans and Zen poems (although you’re obviously free to disagree) is that almost by definition, they can be appreciated and reflected upon without much or any background knowledge of some of the key tenets of Buddhism (the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path, etc). Without implying a value judgment, this seems to be a marked contrast with other religions and philosophies favored in “Western” thought (again, for purposes of getting us started, I’m stereotyping here). For instance, I think it would be hard to fully understand the “Sermon on the Mount” in Christianity without the context of the crucifixion and resurrection.
9. Let’s talk a bit about Tarant’s writing style. Was there anything in particular that you found striking? Put another way, from a creative writing perspective it's often helpful to try and put together a working equation for a particular writer's aesthetic. How would you characterize Tarant's overall approach to writing and what are some of the tricks he has up his sleeve?
10. Going along with that, I think a perfectly fine way to discuss koans is to simply compare and contrast our immediate reactions to some of these passages (something we'll also do with Zen poems, later in the semester). With that in mind, let’s start drawing out some passages/stories/descriptions that produced a fairly immediate reaction when you read them—whether that reaction was confusion or excitement (or both).
11. What’s up with the title?
12. Something a little different... Some of my favorite poems (and some of the most famous poems in the English language) strike me as being a bit koan-like, even though the writer may not be particularly affiliated with Zen. One of my favorite examples is this short James Wright poem:
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
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