Uniformity Through Sonnets

Ellen Bryant Voigt writes about the 1918 Influenza Epidemic in her book of poetry, Kyrie. In Kyrie, Voigt attempts to find meaning and or a place of intersection between the wildly different demographics of people who lived through it, or were killed during it.

I found it very interesting that Voigt employed the form of sonnets to tell the story of twenty five million dead people. Sonnet form is arguable the most well known form of poetry written, and it is interesting that Voigt employs such an ancient form, already deeply instilled with other meanings, for telling a story that Voigt is so committed to. However, Voigt uses the sonnet form well, and strays away from Shakespeare by writing all of her sonnets in blank verse, and often making unusual line breaks.

To me, the book was about acceptance. It is not trying to convey how it feels to have influenza, but rather, in the face of certain death, how one responds. In the battle of fate versus free will, influenza is a guarantor of fate. Once symptoms show up, there is nothing the doctor can do, and many people died. Obviously, not even the majority of the infected people died, however it was deadly that it appeared that way. Kyrie helps people find acceptance in such a world.

The "Prologue" communicated this the best:

After the first year, weeds and scrub;
after five, juniper and birch
alders filling in among the briars;
ten more years, maples rise and thicken;
forty years, the birches crowded out,
a new world swarms on the floor of the hardwood forest.
And who can tell us where there was an orchard,
where a swing, where the smokehouse stood?

This is a poem about the passage of time, and suggests that time heals everything. Or, if it does not heal, at least it will help forget. This is perhaps the best way to approach death: acceptance. Because birth and death are things that everybody has in common, yet people are always surprised when the end comes. I just love how this poem sounds. It is peaceful. The rhythm begins slow and short, and builds a little, like quickening of waves during a storm, until it ends with the question: who can tell us? I do no think it is rhetorical. Perhaps, questions are the only things can bring acceptance.

A Personal History Full of Images of Nature

Dan Chiasson’s Natural History proved an interesting read, especially in contrast to the historically fictional poems of Ellen Voigt’s Kyrie and David Roderick’s Blue Colonial. It’s almost ironic, then, that the word “history” would be part of the title of this collection of poems published in 2006. I find that “natural” definitely captures more of the essence of Chiasson’s poems than “history” does—unless, of course, we’re simply focusing on the author/speaker’s personal history, which seems to be the case here. I really liked the way Chiasson so heavily used imagery, often turning to the inspirational scenes of forests and rivers to express emotion in his verses, while sharing with us bits and pieces of his life, often even using his own name in poems such as “To Dan Chiasson Concerning Fortune,” “To Helena Concerning Dan Chiasson,” and “After Party,” to name a few.

I felt that “Purple Bush” was remarkably abundant in imagery and figurative language:

“The whiff of an extinguished candle

            will sometimes cause a miscarriage.

Eels must travel far upstream to where

            the river becomes a ribbon to spawn.

In that shallow water their babies risk

            exposure to the harsh midday sun.” (89)

These first three stanzas of “Purple Bush” work intensely with pictures from nature to weave a story of the unborn. The words themselves, whether heard aloud or in one’s mind flow so gently from the page, only facilitating the creation of this marvelous tapestry. Though he used a rather overused source of imagery, Chiasson was definitely right to use forests and rivers and wildlife as he did; without it his poems would have lacked the earthiness that brings his words to life.

One of Chiasson’s poems that really struck me was “The Elephant.” Though I don’t fully grasp the meaning of all of his short couplets, I could definitely relate to Chiasson’s experience of being (somewhat unfortunately) compared to Wallace Stevens and Randall Jarrell, even though in his mind he resembled more the great TS Eliot, “a man of Europe, a man of cultivation” (88). The juxtaposition of self-concept and public image here was brilliant in my opinion, especially when set in the midst of a metaphor in which Chiasson likens himself (and perhaps other writers as well) to an elephant, “an image of humility” later stripped of all pretenses with the words: “That’s not humility you see on our long final journeys: it’s procrastination. It hurts my heavy body to lie down” (88). Perhaps I was initially drawn to this specific poem because, since the cover of Chiasson’s book itself depicts an elephant, I amateurishly linked the two and gave this poem a special meaning over the ones surrounding it, but I did the metaphor very meaningful, and it made me wonder what kind of animals and what other writers I might liken myself to as a writer, or if I should also feel this strange link to elephants as my soul in animal form. 

I can safely say that I enjoyed Chiasson’s Natural History. Like him, I want to be able to successfully incorporate imagery in my poem and to find the exact words to fill the lines so that my words flow as effortlessly and gracefully as Chiasson’s did.

Works Cited

Chiasson, Dan. Natural History. Northumberland, England: Bloodaxe Books Ltd, 2006. Print.

Kyrie Response

Jack Breene

Kyrie Response

CW- Maffei

            In her poetry book Kyrie, Ellen Bryant Voigt uses three distinct sections to tell her story. The book follows a family living in a small town during 1918 and tells the tale of a flu outbreak, during which time World War I was raging over seas. In the three sections, we see a small town before, during and immediately after World War I. 

            The first section I found to be the most interesting because it focuses on the cover of something bad. In many of the entries, I found that Voigt was building towards the outbreak, a development the characters seem to be aware of as well. In one of the poems, Voigt tells of a bed that has been with the family for many years. (Pg. 19) In this bed, members of the family have experiences every stage of live, including births, marriage, divorce, eventually death. No mater how the circumstances of this family change, the bed is the same. I told this to mean that despite the fact that the bed is consistent with being associated with important life stages, it is also the inevitable final place for everyone. I thought this to mean that good things come to an end. The first section also borrows lots of imagery from the war as the tension builds leading up to the outbreak. 

In one of the poems, the narrators sister has a dream about animals fighting in a war (pg. 24). I liked this poem because it really showed how Voigt uses these poems as a connected web to both paint a picture of what life was like in this family and also tell a story of the war and flu. In this poem, the animals fighting the war represent the animals at the farm we learned about in an earlier poem. (can’t remember the page number, it was about chickens) Animals fighting a war means that strife was about to visit the farm, a place that is describes as being very far from the apparent danger of the contemporary world. The last line, “I didn’t know it was us she saw in the bloody trenches” it confirms that these children were about to face struggle of their own, the narrator just didn’t know it at the time. I also liked this poem because it reminded me of Joseph interpreting Pharaoh’s dreams in the old testament. I think relatively obscure biblical references are really powerful and especially this because it speaks to how religion played a role in the life’s of this family. Also, the both the poem and story are centered around dream interpretation which I found to be an interesting parallel. 

Voigt and Voice

Ellen Bryant Voigt’s reputable collection of poems title Kyrie is an endeavor of heartfelt experimentation in the efficacy of voice in evoking the microcosm, the personal struggles, of a larger tragedy. Her collection is a series of recollections and thoughts projected from the minds of patients caught in the Influenza Epidemic of 1917. What is fascinating in this collection is the way that Voigt handles the myopic of different people and conveys individuality in each one of their voices while simultaneously reprising specific characters. In her distinctions, each poem, albeit similar in length and structure, have different fashions of expressing themselves and the tragedies that they invoke to the reader.

               Voigt is a master of throwing voices, employing a repertoire of distinct ideas or abstractions that are fed through differing patterns and ways of speaking. It is actually almost safe to say that each different character (as opposed to not every because some do reoccur) is perfectly distinguishable from the previous. For instance, take the two poems on pages 26 and 27, the first reading like:

My brothers had it, my sister, parceled out

Among the relatives, I had it exiled

 in the attic room. Each afternoon

Granfather came to the top stair, said

“How’s my chickadee”, and left me sweet

And the poem on page 27 reads:

O God, Thous hast cast us off, Thou has scattered us

Thou hast been displeased, O turn to us again.

Thou hast made the earth to tremble; Thou hast broken it;

Heal the breaches thereof; for it shaketh

Thou hast showed Thy people hard things; Thou hast made us

To drink the wine of astonishment

The language changes dramatically even, from the halcyon reminiscence of a young person, or so at least it would seem so, to the fire and brimstone sermon of a deeply religious person. The tones and the approaches of perspective to the suffering they endure are even different, playing with the lenses in which people cope with their demise, taking comfort in either memory or in salvation or in the myriad of fashions that other people within these pages take to.

               Then there is the reprisal of characters, their thoughts not confined to a single instance of poetic thought, but rather they have more poems dedicated to the progressing emotions that press upon them as death nears. Some examples are much more clear, such as the poems that begin with “Dear Mattie”, but, nonetheless, even without that introduction, they share similar languages and themes of travel and the continuity of quotidian life, the insistence of things that will be done. Then there are others where the language and theme is key to realizing that a former speaker is present, such as the case with the reverend, when on page 52 we read:

I cried unto God with my voice….he gave ear unto me.

In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord;

My sore ran in the night, and ceased not;

My soul refused to be comforted.

I remembered God, and was troubled;

I complained, and my spirit was overwhelmed.

I am so troubled I cannot speak.

See, even though there is nothing specified about who is speaking, no indicator nor reference, one can tell from the language used that it is very well the same person speaking on pg. 27 with the same pious sermon dialogue.

               Hence, Voigt is able to project multiple characters through her mastery over detailing their lives and the throwing of voice in a manner that is difficult to achieve

Lack of Emotional Transcendence in Kyrie

What I found most interesting about Ellen Bryan Voigt’s Kyrie is the way each poem feels as if it were written by someone different. If I had been told that this book were a compilation of poems written by different people about the same subject (Influenza outbreak of 1918), I absolutely would have believed it. In considering voice, I think that Voigt’s poetry and general language powerfully tells a different story with each turn of the page, and allows us as readers to focus strictly upon the poem we’re reading rather than mulling over what we’ve already been exposed to. It was a quick read, and I’m still trying to figure out whether that fact is a good thing or a bad thing. After careful contemplation of the pros and cons of Voigt’s book—stylistically, thematically, visually, etc—I’ve decided that this is probably the book I’ve enjoyed least out of all the ones we’ve read through this semester. 

Additionally, I think it can be said that these poems can stand just as solidly by themselves as they do together as one cohesive collection. I could have just read one or two of them and been satisfied with my exposure to the topic and to Voigt’s writing. 

What I had the biggest problem with was the subject matter. This is my least favorite book of poetry, and I’m not sure if that’s because of Voigt’s personal style (probably not) or the lack of interest I have in the subject matter. I’m compassionate toward the deaths that occurred as a result of the pandemic, but it’s not something I can personally relate to so that removed a lot of emotion for me that I think would have made the poems stronger in my mind. None of them resonated with me; I couldn’t possibly choose a favorite. It is possible that I’m comparing Voigt’s collection to the other books of poetry we’ve read—Rookery, Nox, etc—in which case I definitely prefer the latter two to the former. However, I really believe that I wouldn’t have liked this book of poetry either way.

Voigt’s conversation of the pandemic of 1918 isn’t conveyed in an interesting way. The nature imagery that she utilizes frequently doesn’t seem to possess much depth, and that I believe was severely disappointing as I was reading this book. I sensed very little metaphor, few uniquely-worded images, and because of this, I felt like the emotion concerning the sickness and death addressed failed to transcend the words on the page and into my head.

P.S. Yes, I liked this less than Nox!

Kyrie

            Kyrie, by Ellen Bryant Voigt, is a book of sonnets about the 1918 Influenza Epidemic from the perspectives of a soldier, a doctor, mothers, and siblings. She points out the irony in that we were fighting a war on two fronts: the Influenza Epidemic at home, and World War I overseas. No one was safe, whether they were fighting overseas or were in the “safety” of their own homes, everyone was at risk. Voigt aims to give voice to those who were suffering at home, worrying about their sons who were away at war, and about their sons, daughters, wives, brothers, sisters, neighbors, and fathers who could, at any moment, basically drop dead.

I can usually enjoy reading direct, powerful poems, but in the case of Kyrie, I thought that these poems were relatively boring and far too direct. They left nothing to the imagination and scarcely left me with any kind of thought-provoking message. To me, it seemed as though they were relatively purposeless except for simply exemplifying what it was that people felt and the situations that many times they were in during the Influenza. It felt more as though I was reading personal accounts from a textbook than sonnets attempting to convey the personal experiences of those who lived during that time.

That said, there were certain aspects of her poetry that I noticed and enjoyed. Voigt’s use of repetition was very well placed and introduced a more powerful feel to the sonnets she used it in. Similarly, I found her use of pattern in and throughout her sonnets to be very impactful and effective, in comparison to the rest of her rather boring work. I liked the way in which she spaced out her various poems which followed the lives of specific people (ie the doctor and soldier). My personal favorite was the story of the soldier writing home to his loved one, Mattie. I thought that his messages to her left a greater impact on me than all of her other poems combined.

The poem in Kyrie which resonated with me the most, was on page 56, where Voigt wrote:

Nothing fluttered, or sighed against her spine

Or coiled, recoiled in a fitful sleep

Fist in a sack, but her breasts knew

What her body made, and in her mind

She saw two legs, two arms, two plates of bone

Where the damp tulle wings had been. Whatever it was,

She bled it out.

More snow fell,

Into the deep ravine, the lesser gullies

The doctor patted her arm: she was young, strong,

Soon there would be another. But there wasn’t:

Just the one dream, the one scar.

In this poem, Voigt insinuated what had happened to readers, but she did not directly tell her readers, or leave them with something they already knew. She left readers with a sad feeling, and almost a new understanding of what it is like to miscarry a child and be unable to have another. Because this poem was crushed between many poems about loss of family in war and from the Influenza, this one stood out as a natural, unstoppable loss, which could not be helped or saved.