Substitution 3: William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming"

From the first week:

§ Substitution (3): Find and replace. Systematically replace one word in a source text with another word or string of words.  Perform this operation serially with the same source text, increasing the number of words in the replace string.

For this I used William Butler Yeats' "The Second Coming," a poem that is without a doubt one of the best poems ever written. Wow, now that I just wrote that I see how it instantly devalues the poem. Regardless, it is one that I must memorize sometime soon because it's a poem that stays within you, and I would never want to be anywhere without it. Take one line and see how profound it is: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold." BAM. It knocks the wind out of you. So many times that has been with me.

I took lyrics from Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" to put in the second substitution poem. I think it pairs well because Dylan's infamous song is a perfect testament to the time that he was writing it, but at the same time is a timeless portrait of a terrifying sea change. Here, as with many of the other poems I put up here, I chopped up the phrases some and picked some to go with anothers even if they weren't together originally.

As far as the question for week 1, is this my own poem? Maybe. I would consider it a response to the original. But is it Dylan or me? I feel like I own it because it was my idea to pair these two together, and I think it makes enormous sense to consider a poem where I cut up some of the lyrics and matched ones I like my own. But there's something not right about that. I don't feel completely satisfied saying that. I have this kind of cranky lit critic in the back of my head, I guess remnants of my former stuffy self, saying that this is a disgrace to Yeats and how dare I and get off the grass! this is decorative only and don't you have somewhere to be....etc. Part of this semester has been about coming to terms with all three of us: the traditionalist critic, Charles/English 111, and Me. It would appear that there are so many "vs."s going on during this semester. But that's what this has been about...a personal journey through experiencing poetry as much as doing it.

Enough talk, more poetry (are they mutually exclusive?)

THE SECOND COMING

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)   

           

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.
    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

(1919) 

THE SECOND COMING

(with my new words in bold pink)

        

    Blowin’ and blowin’ in the widening wind
    The dove cannot hear the falconer;
    Years fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the sky,
    The blood-dimmed cry is loosed, and everywhere
    The white dove of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all answers, while the worst
    Are forever of passionate intensity.
    Surely some pretending is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at sea.
    The Second Coming! How many people cry forever     When a vast wind out of many seas     Troubles my ears: a cry of banned doves;
    A mountain with lion wind and the cry of a man,
    A sky blank and pitiless as the times,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind blowin’, Yes’n the dove call answers.
    The darkness takes again but now I see
    Too many centuries of free sleep,
    Free pretending. A nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough times, the hour come round at last,
    Wind calls Bethlehem, can you hear?

Substitution 2: Randall Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner"

Hi All,

Following up from the last post, here's the second constraint for our stubstitution poems:

§ Substitution (2): "7 up or down."  Take a poem or other, possibly well-known, text and substitute another word for every noun, adjective, adverb, and verb; determine the substitute word by looking up the index word in the dictionary and going 7 up or down, or one more, until you get a syntactically suitable replacement. 

 This was especially hard to do and very time consuming, almost exhausting. First, who uses a paper dictionary anymore? After getting next to no where using dictionary.com--and I think the online OED at one point--I had to go find one in the library of my dorm. Second, you wind up getting an awful lot of non-words and less variety with the words as some repeat (how many times can you/should you substitute something for "and"?). Do I keep it somewhat coherent? I often had to go higher than 7 up or down. I decided to just not take away "the" and "and" such to give it a root in the original. I guess that is what I found the most fascinating with these substitution poems. In class Charles asked me if this "felt like my own poem" or not. It absolutely did here, but is it? In one sense the words are kind of pre-destined to be what they are here. So what did I do other than do some rote work that Randall Jarrell could have done (but then again, would the dictionary he would use in 1945 have the same words?). It was fixed from the start, I suppose. Yet I do think this is my poem. I "found" it.
And here's what I did with Randall Jarrell's "The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner", an absolutely fantastic poem.

THE DEATH OF THE BALL TURRET GUNNER

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
                                                                        (1945)

----------------------------------

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner 

From my moth-orchid’s sleep disorder I fell apart into the state bank,

And I, Hunchback of Notre Dame, in its Bel Paese till my Wet Blanket Freewill®.

Siwalik hills, miles-long from Eamon d. valera, loosefooted from its dread-nought of lieutenantship,

I woke to blab-bed (Robert Joseph) Flaherty and the nightscope fighterbomber.

When issued, I died, for they’ll was-sail me out of the turret-heads with a hosecock.  

                                                                            (2011)

Substitution 1: Po Chu i: "The Dragon of the Black Pool"

Hello All,

This is the first in a series of three substitution based constraints we worked on for the first week of class. Here is the first constraing:

§Substitution (1): "Mad libs."  Take a poem (or other source text) and put blanks in place of three or four words in each line, noting the part of speech under each blank.  Fill in the blanks being sure not to recall the original context. 

And what I did was to take "The Dragon of the Black Pool" by Po Chu i and cross out the words that just seemed to ground the poem in Po Chu i's message. I then took these crossed out words and substituted my own, making a completely different story. I recommend that you read the original text of "The Dragon of the Black Pool" (it's linked a couple sentences back) and then look at the crossed out version (as it's kind of hard to see what the crossed-out words actually are) and then look at my own version where the new words are in bold/sky blue.

THE DRAGON OF THE BLACK POOL

Po Chu I

(translated by Arthur Waley)
Deep the waters of the Black Pool, colored like ink;
They say a Holy Dragon lives there, whom men have never seen.
Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities
have established a ritual;
A dragon by itself remains a dragon, but men can make it a god.
Prosperity and disaster, rain and drought, plagues and pestilences—
By the village people were all regarded as the Sacred Dragon’s doing.
They all made offerings of sucking-pig and poured libations of wine;
The morning prayers and evening gifts depended on a “medium’s” advice.
When the dragon comes, ah!
The wind stirs and sighs
Paper money thrown, ah!
Silk umbrellas waved.
When the dragon goes, ah!
The wind also—still.
Incense-fire dies, ah !
The cups and vessels are cold.
Meats lie stacked on the rocks of the Pool’s shore;
Wine flows on the grass in front of the shrine.
I do not know, of all those offerings, how much the Dragon eats;
But the mice of the woods and the foxes of the hills are continually drunk and sated.
Why are the foxes so lucky?
What have the sucking-pigs done,
Thayear  by year they should be killed, merely to glut the foxes?
That the foxes are robbing the Sacred Dragon and eating His sucking-pig,
Beneath the nine-fold depths of His pool, does He know or not?

THE DRAGON OF THE BLACK POOL (Substitution 1: Mad Libs)

Deep the heart of the Fish Pool, colored like caviar; They say a royal Dragon creeps there, whom I have never seen.
Under the Pool they have stopped a fight; the authorities
have arrested a criminal;
A koi by itself remains a koi, but fish can make it a god.
Purity and disaster, fires and flames, plagues and blood—
By the moonlight’s glow were all dead, as the Sacred Dragon’s bail.
They all made offerings of sucking-leeches and regarded libations of kale;
The morning papers and evening reports depended on a “medium’s” analysis.
When the reporters interview, ah!
The air smells and stinksThe talking heads profane, ah!
Doom-laden umbrellas waved.
When the truth goes, ah!
The blogs also—legitimate.
Fact-checking dies, ah !
The witnesses and victims are cold.
Wind blows quietly on the edge of the Pool’s shore;
We repent on the stairs in front of the shrine.
I do not believe, of all those assholes, how much the Dragon succeeds;
But the citizens from the woods and the foxes of the night are continually drunk and sated.
How are the foxes so violent?
How sadly the sucking-pigs give up,
That houses by him they should be supporting, merely to subdue the foxes?
That the foxes are paying the Sacred Dragon and killing his helping pig,
Beneath the surface depths of His pool, does He care or not?