She knows how to hang puppies, that Emily. I had never heard of Anne Carson before, nor the poem in question, but I will look her out now - thank you! Yay, thanks for you comment. I been really enjoying your blog. I was put on to it my friend Giant Sparrow. Anne Carson is definitely worth checking out. I stumbled upon this blog as I am researching Jay Hopler's use of the long poem. Carson's The Glass Essay is one of the finest examples of the multi-sectioned poem.
I think it is my favorite poem as well. I like the idea of it being almost epic. No one else seems to have come across it, or Anne Carson, not around here anyway. I'm not at all familiar with Jay Hopler's work. Presumably he uses long poems. I've just finished writing something about The Glass Essay for the New Zealand Poetry Society mag - kind of an expansion on what I said in the blog post - and it got me thinking about how I really like the breathing space that kind of length can give a poem.
How it can lead you, kind of slowly and quitely, to a place far from where you started. I've found that for a little while after reading The Glass Essay, other poems seem kind of stingy - pinched and ungenerous. Do you write long poems? I've been writer longer poems, but nothing as long as The Glass Essay - much longest is about 10 or 11 A4 pages.
Still too long to get easily published in literary magazines, but not long enough to be epic. I had a look at your blog, and have added it to my links list. With that picture of the Jeep coming up right at the top reminded me of my very best friend Joeli, who was very into Jeeps.
Though now that she has abandoned me to live far away in Scotland, she's gone and bought a land rover or range rover, I can't remember which. Anyway, thanks very much for your comment, and all the very best with your research. I just typed a big message, but I don't think it went through.
Thanks for the link. I will link this blog to mine as well. The Glass Essay is an absolute brilliant poem. It inspired a poem of mine that is at the center of my manuscript that I am just finishing. You can see the first two poems at Wicked Alice, an online journal.
I am hoping to publish it as a chapbook. You'll see the Carson inspiration right away. It weaves together a mother, an ex lover, a dog, and Vincent van Gogh. This has been great chatting about Carson. Jennifer, I definitely will email you soon.
I just had a look at your poems on Wicked Alice, and enjoyed them very much. Yes, Anne Carson has a way of being both erudite and accessible. I highly recommend Autobiography of Red as well. Hi Priya, thanks for your comment.
I've also enjoyed Autobiography of Red, and am, by coincidence, re-reading it at the moment. My mother lives alone and eats little but her fridge is always crammed. Once I heard girls singing a May Day song that went: Violante in the pantry. Gnawing at a mutton bone. How she gnawed it. How she clawed it. When she felt herself alone. We can see her ridding herself of it at various times. And when she was 14 and bitten by a rabid dog she strode they say.
More than thirty years in the time of the novel,. That iron man was born like me. And he was once an ardent boy: He must have felt in infancy.
The glory of a summer sky. Out the kitchen window I watch the steely April sun. Liberty means different things to different people. I have never liked lying in bed in the morning. But as soon as the morning light hits my eyes I want to be out in it—. I hear my mother in the next room turn and sigh and sink deeper. I peel the stale cage of sheets off my legs. Out on the moor all is brilliant and hard after a night of frost.
The light plunges straight up from the ice to a blue hole at the top of the sky. Goblins, devils and death stream behind me. Perhaps this is what people mean by original sin, I thought.
I was presented with a nude glimpse of my lone soul,. But the Nudes are still as clear in my mind. Big glistening brown thorns with black stains on them. Woman with a single great thorn implanted in her forehead. Covering her head and upper body is a hellish contraption.
With arms crossed as if pulling off a sweater. When you see these horrible images why do you stay with them? But by now the day is wide open and a strange young April light. A solid black pane of moor life caught in its own night attitudes.
Certain wild gold arrangements of weed are visible deep in the black. Four naked alder trunks rise straight up from it. A messenger of Hope, comes every night to me. And offers, for short life, eternal Liberty.
Her critics and commentators say she means death. They grow impatient with the extreme terms in which she figures prison life. I stopped telling my psychotherapist about the Nudes. Perhaps I can explain this to her if I wait for the right moment,. I wonder what kind of conversation these two had. Well, there are different definitions of Liberty.
I took this to be more a wish than a thought. I cannot tell what good it does—what feeling it spares—. I turn my steps and begin walking back over the moor.
It is a two-way traffic,. I can tell by the way my mother chews her toast. She puts her toast down on the side of her plate. You know you can pull the drapes in that room, she begins. This is a coded reference to one of our oldest arguments,. My mother always closes her bedroom drapes tight before going to bed at night. All that light on your face in the morning.
At this point the drapes argument has reached a delta. I interpose strongly, pushing back my chair. Why should women be responsible for male desire? My voice is high. My voice is very high. And whatever did you do with that little tank suit you had last year the green. The frail fact drops on me from a great height. Her tiny sharp shoulders hunched in the blue bathrobe. She eyes the kitchen clock with hostility. Leave at eleven, home again by four? She is buttering her toast with jagged strokes.
Silence is assent in our code. I go into the next room to phone the taxi. My father lives in a hospital for patients who need chronic care. Marriage is for better or for worse, she says,. As we pass them it gives a sudden sense of every object. I wish I had been nicer to him before he got crazy. It is hard to find the beginning of dementia. I heard his sentences filling up with fear. He would start a sentence—about weather, lose his way, start another.
It made me furious to hear him floundering—. There was a long pause while snow covered us both. At the hospital we pass down long pink halls. Father sits strapped in a chair which is tied to the wall. His face cracks open it could be a grin or rage. Hello love, she says. He jerks his hand away. Mother begins to unpack from her handbag the things she has brought for him,. He is addressing strenuous remarks to someone in the air between us.
Once in a while some old formula floats up through the wash—. I notice his front teeth are getting black. I wonder how you clean the teeth of mad people.
He always took good care of his teeth. My mother looks up. She and I often think two halves of one thought. They keep rolling out of his huge stiff fingers. He used to be a big man, over six feet tall and strong,. But now he turns to me with a rush of urgent syllables. I have a photograph taped to my fridge at home.
It shows his World War II air crew posing in front of the plane. Hands firmly behind backs, legs wide apart,. They squint into the brilliant winter sun of My father on the far left is the tallest airman,.
The shadowless light makes him look immortal,. His black grin flares once and goes out like a match. I wake too fast from a cellar of hanged puppies. It is generally anger dreams that occupy my nights now.
My dream was of an old woman lying awake in bed. She controls the house by a system of light bulbs strung above her on wires. One by one the switches refuse to turn the bulbs on. Then she creeps out of bed to peer through lattices.
Anger travels through me, pushes aside everything else in my heart,. I want to curse the false friend who said I love you forever.
I reach up and switch on the bedside lamp. I lie listening to the light vibrate in my ears. Falsity and bad love and the deadly pain of alteration are constant topics in. Well, thou halt paid me back my love!
But if there be a God above. Whose arm is strong, whose word is true,. This hell shall wring thy spirit too! There go, Deceiver, go! My hand is streaming wet;. Oh could that lost heart give back, back again to thine,. One tenth part of the pain that clouds my dark decline!
Vain words, vain frenzied thoughts! No ear can hear me call—. Lost in the vacant air my frantic curses fall. Unconquered in my soul the Tyrant rules me still—. Life bows to my control, but Love I cannot kill! How did Emily come to lose faith in humans? She admired their dialects, studied their genealogies,. Her introvert nature shrank from shaking hands with someone she met on the moor. But the poetry shows traces of a deeper explanation. As if anger could be a kind of vocation for some women.
The heart is dead since infancy. Unwept for let the body go.
Discussion of themes and motifs in Anne Carson's The Glass Essay. eNotes critical analyses help you gain a deeper understanding of The Glass Essay so you can excel on your essay or test.
“The Glass Essay” is an ambitious, inventive, thirty-eight-page series of interrelated poetic montages and meditations on the loss of love. This central theme is developed using three.
The Glass Ceiling Essay. The glass ceiling refers to those artificial barriers based on attitudinal or organizational biases that prevent women from reaching the . Mar 30, · In a recent comment about verse novels I mentioned The Glass Essay by Anne Carson. For the last few years, since I first read it, this has been probably my favourite poem. At least I think of it as a (long) poem. Possibly it’s verse novel, or maybe an epic poem.
but wildly expressive poem, “The Glass Essay,” in which the narrator, while visiting her mother, meditates on a relationship gone bad, on English novelist and poet Emily Brontë (whom she is reading), and on a variety of other interrelated topics. The Glass Castle Summary Research Paper The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls Jeannette Walls is an aspiring journalist who is ashamed of her past. She grew up with three siblings who were going through the same difficulties as she was, and two parents whose idea of life was different from society.