paisleypiper's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- dumb bunny of duty Well, its late on Sunday night. Another week of running from one assignment / project to the next, working towards my goal of graduation in less than two months. For flickers of time I allow myself to begin to count it in weeks, but then everything that I have to do becomes pronounced and my one-eye-twitch becomes a two-eye-twitch. Just as I typed that I heard the familiar voice of Sterling Holloway in my head saying, �Christopher Robin, could we make my one hero party into a two hero party?� I had Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day on long-playing record. And I listened to it over and over again between the ages of three and five. It is amazing how clearly I can hear that voice, more clearly, even, than the voices of my parents or grandparents. I suppose this speaks to the extent of my audiotherapy as a youngster. I don�t know whether audiotherapy actually exists, but I believe in it. Sometimes I play music to help me through some complicated set of emotions I am experiencing but not realizing. Especially as a child. When I was four my song was �Delta Dawn� and to me it had a world of meaning. Delta Dawn, what�s that flower you have on could it be a faded rose from days gone by? This appealed to my idealization of the middle ages, which I associated rather childishly, girlishly and loosely with roses, fairytales, knights, princesses and castles. And to me, Delta Dawn spoke about this hope that my circumstances could change. Not necessarily by a mysterious dark-haired man, but more by the walking downtown with the suitcase in her hand part. Sometimes I would pack up my faded floral suitcase and walk around the neighborhood until a police officer would pick me up and take me home. It is somewhat shocking to see a four-year-old walking around the neighborhood we lived in with a suitcase. Four was a bad year for me also because I would push my giant mahogany dresser from the junk shop in front of my bedroom door and then wedge my bed in behind it so that no one could get into my room. When ever I felt a need to do this, I listened to Arlo Guthrie�s �City of New Orleans.� Every once in a while I wonder what on earth I am blocking out from that year that accounts for my strange behavior. Because while the details of my individual life are sketchy, I remember great intricacies about 1973, as observed, of course, by a four-year-old. ***** This weekend we celebrated Cary�s birthday early, with a fondue, vegetarian lasagna, great big salad, cake and ice cream dinner for eight! Quinn and I pulled through the work load of dinner for eight (and the cleaning) without difficulty. Although, I must admit Quinn had to do the lion�s share of the work as I had to read a 400-page book this weekend and write a paper on it, and write a poem. All of which I accomplished, but I still need to put the tightening touches on the paper (just a bit of earned procrastination). The book � Janice Radway�s A Feeling for Books: The Book-of-the-Month Club, Literary Taste, and Middle Class Desire is immensely conceptualized, constructed, written, edifying piece of literary criticism and I felt a sense of happiness reading it. At the same time, I felt a frustration with how long and detailed it is given the pace with which I forced myself to haul through it. ***** This week I returned to thinking about Stephen Dunn�s poetry because it seems trustworthy and I am having difficulty making sense of the world. Trust � this simple word that with age and experience becomes harder to live than to comprehend � describes my response to Different Hours. Dunn�s style, tone, syntax, symbolism and messages feel trustworthy in their directness and precision. Best described as consistent, persistent and exact, his poetic technique serves the message. His poems work to build trust with the reader because they pursue depth in accessible terms: they do not get in their own way with commercialism, cheap shots, or decorative maneuvers. Dunn employs these foundation elements of poetic technique to move between perceptions of the world, not unlike the way a telescope might focus on the earth and show those who interpret its images something about the way we live our lives that can only be communicated from distance. In his poetry, Dunn takes a stance with enough distance to describe with dignity and artistry the truth which given more vibrant sound or graphic details would be more immediately unsettling. Distance also reveals the shadow of a larger force (cultural, historical, contextual) projects onto an individual life. In the context of Dunn�s poetry, there among the details of daily, middle class, life grows trust. To me, Dunn�s poems have a reliable consistency and depth as they explore the regular world with the hoped-for discovery of science and a gently earned celebration of the many different ways it feels to be alive. Different Hours is a bold book that makes no rash, unearned statements. It makes a strong contribution to all of the poetic considerations about how a life means. Dunn�s poetry takes a close look at the details of life, a distant look at the landscape of life, and somehow mediates between those two worlds. In the closing poem, �A Postmortem Guide,� Dunn writes �there�s nothing definitive to be said. / The dead once were all kinds � / boundary breakers and scalawags, / martyrs of the flesh, and so many / dumb bunnies of duty, unbearably nice. / I�ve been a little of each.� Although at times I wish his poems would move in a direction a little less calculated, a direction besides down the page, at the same time, I admire his poetry for that. And for being what it is � honest, trustworthy. And besides, I will always be thankful for �dumb bunnies of duty� � too often I hop around like a �dumb bunny of duty� and need to stop it, now. 12:21 a.m. - 2003-03-17 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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