Hayden+Carruth

Here I am writing my first villanelle At seventy-two, and feeling old and tired-- "Hey, Pops, why dontcha give us the old death knell?"--
 * __Saturday At The Border:__

And writing it what's more on the rim of hell In blazing Arizona when all I desired Was north and solitude and not a villanelle,

Working from memory and not remembering well How many stanzas and in what order, wired On Mexican coffee, seeing the death knell

Of sun's salvos upon these hills that yell Bloody murder silently to the much admired Dead-blue sky. One wonders if a villanelle

Can do the job. Granted, old men now must tell Our young world how these bigots and these retired Bankers of Arizona are ringing the death knell

For everyone, how ideologies compel Children to violence. Artifice acquired For its own sake is war. Frail villanelle,

Have you this power? And must Igo and sell Myself? "Wow," they say, and "cool"--this hired Old poetry guy with his spaced-out death knell.

Ah, far from home and God knows not much fired By thoughts of when he thought he was inspired, He writes by writing what he must. Death knell Is what he's found in his first villanelle. || __The Curtain:__ Just over the horizon a great machine of death is roaring and

rearing. One can hear it always. Earthquake, starvation, the ever-

renewing field of corpse-flesh. In this valley the snow falls silently all day and out our window We see the curtain of it shifting and folding, hiding us away in

our little house, We see earth smoothened and beautified, made like a fantasy, the

snow-clad trees So graceful in a dream of peace. In our new bed, which is big

enough to seem like the north pasture almost With our two cats, Cooker and Smudgins, lying undisturbed in

the southeastern and southwestern corners, We lie loving and warm, looking out from time to time.

"Snowbound," we say. We speak of the poet Who lived with his young housekeeper long ago in the

mountains of the western province, the kingdom Of complete cruelty, where heads fell like wilted flowers and

snow fell for many months across the mouth Of the pass and drifted deep in the vale. In our kitchen the

maple-fire murmurs In our stove. We eat cheese and new-made bread and jumbo

Spanish olives That have been steeped in our special brine of jalapeños and

garlic and dill and thyme. We have a nip or two from the small inexpensive cognac that

makes us smile and sigh. For a while we close the immense index of images

which is Our lives--for instance, the child on the Mescalero reservation

in New Mexico in 1966 Sitting naked in the dirt outside his family's hut of tin and

cardboard, Covered with sores, unable to speak. But of course the child is

here with us now, We cannot close the index. How will we survive? We don't and

cannot know. Beyond the horizon a great unceasing noise is undeniable. The

machine May break through and come lurching into our valley at any

moment, at any moment.

Cheers, baby. Here's to us. See how the curtain of snow waver and falls back. || __The Endnote:__ The great poems of our elders in many tongues we struggled

to comprehend who are now content with mystery simple

and profound you in the night your breath your body

orbit of time and the moment you Phosphorus and

Hesper a dark circle of fertility so bloodthirsty for us

you in the world the night breathing asleep and alive || what he was talkng about. It didnt really make since to me, but i thought it was very deep. || At first i thought the person speaking was alive, but then i as i read on it seemed like he was actually dead. There are many parts that make it sound like the person talkng is alive, but i dont think so. || I thought this was a deep pome. I think it was talking about how there have been many poets in history that have written poetry in many different languages and stuff like that. || __Symbolism__: While i was reading this poem i read a part where it mentioned god. This made me picture god. This is an example of symbolism. This is an example of symbolism because it makes me imagen something that represents a symbol. __Personification__: There are many parts of this poem where there are examples of personification. At one part of the poem it says,"On Mexican coffee, seeing the death knell Of sun's salvos upon these hills that yell Bloody murder silently to the much admired Dead-blue sky." This a great example of personification in the poem. || Poetic Devices: __Symbolism:__ While I was reading I came across a lot of examples of symbolism. Different parts of the poem made me think of many things. I imagened all the things it described. in the poem it says,"in our kitchen the maple fire murmurs in our stove." that made me think of a persons stove and a maple colored fire lit bright inside of it. || Poetic Devices: __Personification:__ In the poem it says,"Phosphorus and Hesper a dark circle of fertility so bloodthirsty for us." I think this is an example of personification in my poem. || ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ. || The rhyme scheme forthis poem is ABCDEFDGHIJKLMNOPQ. || context. || This poem does not have any historical context. || villanelle. || The theme is about a great machine of death coming to apparently destoy the speakers valley. || The theme is about the many diferent languages peotry has been wirtten in over history. ||
 * I thought it was very confusing. I didnt really know
 * Poetic Devices:
 * The rhyme scheme throughout the whole poem is ABA. || This rhyme was very confusing. I think the rhyme scheme is ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
 * This poem doesnt have any historical context. || This poem does not have any historical
 * The theme is about Hayden Carruth writing his first


 * Biography:

Hayden Carruth was born August 3, 1921, in Waterbury, Connecticut. He taught at many universities in his life, some big universities being, the University of North Carolina and the University of Chicago, where he got his masters degree. Some other universities were Bucknell University and Syracuse University. He is known world wide for his criticism of things. His first collections of poems were published n 1959, they were called //The Crow and the Heart//. Since his first publication he has written over thirty books of poetry. He wrote //Scrambled eggs and Whiskey//, which scored him the National Book Award for Poetry. He wrote a novel also, but I cant seem to find the name of it. He is known for writing great poems and he will be remembered for that to. He lived in Vermont for many years before he moved to Munnsville, New York. He passed away September 29, 2008. ||