Robert Frost mused, "writing a poem is discovering."
So by writing a poem about the UM, we can, or attempt to, better understand his complex viewpoints and opinions.
Please write a poem that addresses a central theme present within "Notes from Underground." Your poem should highlight your essential understanding of one of the main ideas Fydor is attempting to present.
"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn." But that is a daunting challenge, so I will simplify that task by offering you two thoughts from Jack Kerouac:
1.) Something you feel will find its own form
2.) No time for poetry, but exactly what is.
Simply put, don't worry about form--just worry about 'feeling' your answers and writing about the ideas that breathe, that are life like, and about the words that chill and burn you.
Good luck see you soon--well not soon enough, so see you next week.
Best,
AK
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Notes from the Underground Poem.
Two times two could be four
It can always be more
Two times two conforms
Twice two is five is the thorn
Disagree with four try five
Believe the truth before the lies
Don’t stay in the mathematical black box
Imagine your walls as funny socks
Wear them as you want
Don’t be what they taunt
Putting your foot in is a choice
It’s a silent use of your voice
Thinking is the action
From the disease- the socks are the distraction
a man runs down the darkened street
thoughts bombard him from the alleys
while whispers from behind explode all about him
eyes blinded by his own identity
he blunders onward
searching for a an open door, a lit window
only to find the last bastion of safety to be his mind
he stops, turns around
and faces it
And so he suffers but he feels.
From the toothache that pains him and the liver that makes him sick,
From the isolation of consciousness and the basement of humanity.
And so he complains but he thinks.
About the men who merely act and the constraints of mathematics,
About people who he does not want to see and those who refuse to see him.
And so he struggles but he writes.
Of introspective thoughts that translate and a palpable emptiness that consumes,
Of volition that can destroy the wall and a society that can ruin the soul.
Contradiction crawling up from the roots
Reaching, spreading, calling.
Too intrusive to ignore
Like the scratching of a desperate pen,
Or a blot of ink on a flawless page
And so he’s hidden but he’s all around us.
he sat exposed,
submitted to the torrent
hot water beat him down.
the feeling was not unfamiliar,
it was the first time that he noticed it.
each drop was a death sentence.
his breathing was heavy,
something else that he just noticed.
every ounce of air was a struggle.
the shadows of steam
were doing their best to snuff him out.
the walls only made the job easier.
the patterns looked too familiar.
they were cold,
controlling,
unbreakable.
the door was not two meters away,
but it was locked from the inside.
he stood up
the room was different,
it was clearer.
the gray light solidified the thick fog.
he flicked the switch,
"ah" the room exhaled.
this wasn't what he wanted,
the door was still locked,
the walls were still there.
he had to get this water off of him,
it was clinging,
like the walls.
he reached
toward the metal handle, *click*
fresh air came pouring in
he was standing in a tan room
the ceiling was uneven
Number 228
it was probably identical to 229
and 230 after that.
all in a row
all with tan walls.
maybe they were occupied,
but probably not.
There he sits…
Under a tree, a light, a darkness
The agony pounds away at his inner truth
A drum beating faster and harder
Each stroke sends a brief burst of light
He gains awareness, consciousness
He is alone
It is cold. It is dark. It is solitude
His thoughts are a being
The contradictions sooth him
He understands the simplicity of the lies
The validity of the truths
They are all alike
Yet, he does not know why
They are complex, but forever the same
He is travelling a path
Over and over again
Running parallel to discovery
Never converging with his destination
He continues to wander
Lost, but fully exposed
Open to the confusion
The quotes are from Chapter 2 of Part 1.
and so, while I write, I propose
that there are two kinds of men:
a man of action,
who I could not be,
though there is some beauty
in the simple honesty he exhibits.
he is propelled onward
in that way in which we all are,
for that is what we do when we accept
that twice two is four.
you have to get somewhere
doing something
to be someone.
but there is also a man of thought,
great thoughts, small thoughts,
insignificant and in-between, but
he is unmindful of his disease,
though perhaps that is, in itself, a blessing.
I wouldn’t tell him anyways,
he ought to know.
I may be sick,but, oh,
I am well aware of it
(and you are too).
for to know and to understand everything
begets nothing;
once there is all,
we are, oddly, left with none.
if we are aware of what is better,
and what is more,
then it becomes much more of a challenge
to rise above that.
I did once try,
and succeed, I would say,
in understanding that which we call
“the good and the beautiful,”
to which my only reward
was this:
“the deeper I sank in the mud.”
and as for me,
(so what am i?)
am I a man of action or of thought?
I am indeed neither.
and I am all.
the more she thinks, the sicker she feels
i am sick
i am sick
i am sick
they said i am sick,
i think.
she rises to get a glass of water
she passes a mirror
there is a skeleton smiling at her
it is dark behind its eyesockets
i smile back in envy
she is weak
she is sick
she gulps her glass of water down
i savor the action
then climb back down into my coffin.
Chelsea
Consciousness is killing action
my walls close in
thinking is all I can do,
Writing is all I can say
it is work to keep me honest
only if its to suffer,
Fear is all I can hear
because chaos is what I crave
and the process is not enough
there has to be more,
Reason is gone, and darkness is all I that I know
my desires are harmful
while my hurt is my pleasure,
Accepting is no longer understanding
and reason is cause of anger
Torture, torment and spite is what I need.
And most think I have gone mad
I have,
No, I have not.
I crave an ounce of sense to it
Or at very least congratulations
A muse or a god to penetrate my soul
Not to offer me answers, that man is dead
Inside my head are the trappings of disease
I assume you laugh when I pass on the street
I dread the day our minds will meet,
In some darkened ally where all that I am
Will be strewn out upon the floor,
Where my obsesses and recesses lie upon the floor
My fear and weakness catalogued there behind the open door
And with a disappointed sigh,
You will see that I am a man and nothing more.
The notions and motions that bleed from my eyes
You can't even see through your own disguise
I shutter when I see your lifelike mask
As I'm brimming with questions I can't begin to ask
I slip away because I can't stand obligations
(But mostly out of envy of limitless potential)
To you my oppressors seem inconsequential
Yet gentlemen, I hope you will not think it bold
That you greatness means nothing out here in the cold.
Something you shouldn't tell your english teacher...
I hate to write.
Every sentence, word, thought
A struggle, wall, rock
Glaring through stinging, dry eyes
and the haze of a headache
I type a thought, and delete it
It was stupid, simple, sounded wrong
So much that will never be read...
Am I a coward?
Is my self-conciousness my disease
Everytime I erase a thought because it sounded stupid or simple, am I conforming?
First thought, best thought.
I must be a failure
"No, you're not a failure!" you say,
"You just need to turn off your inner editor"
Well pardon my french but...(your choice of obscenity). I've tried and it doesnt work.
So I conform by revising a paper, this poem
Editors must be the murderers of true thought. Hah!
So now I sit, reaching for that "felicity of expression" which I so covet and desire.
And yearn for the struggle to be over.
For the poem to end, and my life to resume
But it wont, because I wont let myself tear down that wall.
It is the struggle I enjoy
Writing is my toothache...
The key to unlock
the doors and barred walls
To hear the click that breaks
Everlasting silence
Fresh air will seep through
the broken seal
rays of golden light
will burst through
the chinks and gaps between
slowy fading walls.
Uncertaintity of what to do
Light or Shadow?
Decisions
Momentum or Stillness?
Fear of Freedom?
Vulnerable to all
I am a coward to myself
And I have not enough moral courage
So I am a slave to myself
As long as I am aware of my pride.
But on this paper
I am no coward.
In this ink
I find the truth, my truth.
From this pen
pours my soul as I find it.
And I understand my conradictory,
sickly existence.
I'm underground, I'm in the dark
There's nothing here to see
My purpose, my reasons, my way to exist
Are all left up to me
Sadly not yet do I understand
How this can be my place
The understanding that I lack
Prevents me from seeing my mirrored face
The reflection instead is all that they've made
And I know that it's not really me
Searching through soul, body and mind
I'll learn what I'm supposed to be
With this knowledge I've newly found
I'll try with all my might
To prove the the others
That while underground you can still see light.
my interpretation
I am the underground man. I remain unknown, to you, to me, can you even see me?
I am searching, searching for....
a reason?
a why?
a something?
Daunted by my thoughts, and contradictions, I get lost. And more lost, down a
hole
I go. I am drowning in this hole. No one will see me if I continue to fall. It is pitch black in this misery.
In my fall, I catch myself on a piece of rock. With this rock, I slowly work my way back towards the
light.
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