Poetry Mondays: East Coker

I spent Saturday night lost in London. It was my fault, really: in a hurry, I jotted down an incorrect address and ended up halfway across town, fruitlessly searching for a (non-existant) bowling alley. Eventually I realized my error and popped back on the Tube to head westbound, disgruntled.

When I (finally) got back on the Tube, I was seated next to a young woman thoroughly engrossed in a book. I was curious as to what she was reading: I could make out that it was poetry, but not the text of the book. (Snooping thwarted!). But, even without being able to divine her book choice, it made me think about how I rarely read poetry.

So! Poetry Mondays!

And, to kick it off, a passage from T.S. Eliot's "East Coker". As winter approaches and the days get shorter and shorter, I'm reminded of the following passage:

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,

The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark.

(The full text can be found here.)

Of the mind, of the self

''And what is identity? The cognitive system arisin' from the aggregate memories of that individual's past experiences. The layman's word for this is the mind. No two human beings have the same mind. At the same time, human beings have almost no grasp of their own cognitive systems. I don't, you don't, nobody does. All we know -- or think we know -- is but a fraction of the whole cake. A mere tip of the icing.''

An Ode to Hermoine

Oh man. I saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows last night, which means I'm still a little hyped up from the sweet deliciousness of dropping into J.K. Rowling's alternate universe for an evening. (Even better, I came home and discovered the Harry Potter wiki, leading to an embarrassing amount of time spent reading about the various character's connections. Draco marries Daphne Greengrass's sister? Who knew?)

But the highlight of the movie for me was watching Hermoine Granger's evolution. Smart, resourceful, courageous -- she's clearly the star of this film. And, in particular, it's hard not to contrast her with another popular teenager character: Bella in Twilight.

Earlier this week, I posted this article on my Facebook, which discusses some of the differences between the women in Harry Potter and Twilight. The author's pre-teen daughter offers the following explanation of the differences between Potter and Twilight fans:

There are 'Potter' people, and there are people who like Stephenie Meyer's 'Twilight' series -- and very little overlap exists between the two groups. 'Twilight' fans imagine their teenage selves being fought over by men, she says; 'Potter' fans want to fight for good alongside the men. My daughter knows which type of young woman she wants to be.

Now, don't get me wrong: I enjoyed the Twilight series. But I thought that passage captured the key distinction between the female protagonists in the series and explains why Harry Potter captured my attention in a way that Twilight never will.

Both are teenagers transplanted into new worlds (Hogwarts, Washington). Both face issues of complicated teenage emotions: navigating feeling like ''the other'' in new environments, raging hormones, parents who just don't understand. Both face imminent dangers to their lives.

But I think the notable difference is how they react to these challenges. When Ron chooses Lavender Brown for the object of his affection, Hermoine is upset -- but she moves on with her life (even while studiously ignoring him). When Edward leaves Bella, she falls apart, sinking into depression and self-destructive behavior.

And when faced with threats to their lives, they each take different paths: Bella spends a large part of the series allowing Edward and Jacob to handle the evil vampires (until, of course, Edward can impart his own superhuman powers to Bella). Hermoine? She's not waiting around for the boys to fix things; years of diligent academic pursuits have made her a force to be reckoned with, one who can decipher ancient runes, tell off the Minister of Magic for his violation of Magical Laws, and conjure potions beyond most wizards' ordinary capabilities. Clearly, she's no wallflower waiting to be rescued.

Stephanie Meyer has defended her portrayal of Bella after critics lambasted the series for being anti-feminist, explaining that feminism is about choice and Bella needs to make the choices that are right for her. While I'm not going to argue about whether Twilight is anti-feminist or not, I do think that there's an important distinction in how each character approaches presented hardships.

And, for that, give me plucky, feisty Hermoine over sullen, woe-is-me Bella any day.

On Love

I've admittedly been a little down on romance lately: not because of any one thing in particular, but the culmination of watching relationships around me disintegrate (and, perhaps, watching Eat, Pray, Love last night with unnamed, and occasionally weepy, friends.)

That said, while I'm not generally prone to thoughts of spiritual messages from the universe, it seemed particularly fortuitous that I stumbled across the following passage from The Prophet while at the British Museum gift shop yesterday:

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you,
So shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth,
So is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Desiderata

"And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

(It's a little cheesy, but the full text can be found here.)

On Chesil Beach

There is nothing I can say about On Chesil Beach that hasn't already been said: it's heart-wrenching, elegiac, stunning. And while the novella is about the unravelling of a couple, this exchange between newlyweds Edward and Florence makes my heart melt a little:

He kissed her and told her she was the squarest person in all of Western civilization.
      "But you love me," she said.
"Therefore I love you."

Further Tales of the City

About five hundred people were cheering hysterically while a statuesque man in nurse drag - boobies, bouffant, the works - thrashed about violently on the back of a mechanical bull. In other words, thought Mary Ann, just another Memorial Day.

A battered Volvo pulled alongside the Le Car. "What the fuck is this?" asked a frizzy-haired woman with an infant child and a back seat full of No Nukes posters.

'The Great Tricycle Race," said Mary Ann. She had learned that much from Michael.

"What's that?" asked the woman.

"Uh, well... gay guys on tricycles. It's a benefit for the SPCA."

The woman beamed. "Wonderful!" she shouted, as the cars began to move again. "How goddamn wonderful!"

Curiously enough, Mary Ann knew exactly what she meant. How could anyone feel threatened by this kind of whimsy?