In these stories, the creation of the entire world and all of its creatures is explained, often in terms of divine expression.
Set apart from animals, people are said to share in this mysterious power to create. According to anthropological research, record of artistic expression first appears during the Upper Paleolithic period, approximately 40, years ago and when it does appear, it occurs in many places. As of the early s, anthropologists continued to ponder why Upper Pleistocene hunters and gatherers created beautiful objects and images for example, cave paintings, ivory carvings, and shaped stone beads. These things did not help them procure food as better tool technology would.
One theory holds that prehistoric men and women may have developed spiritual beliefs at this time. They thus perhaps believed that these art works were spiritual aids for food procurement and for their protection. Thus, creativity and spirituality are linked and together may have across the centuries been understood as capable of improving the human condition.
For the narrator of this poem, creativity is a matter of concern to him as a writer; spirituality concerns him as a human. Throughout the poem, the narrator is probing his spiritual side for answers to his fears and uncertainties about the creative process. In sections 1 and 2, the narrator observes the natural world with awe. It is not until section 3, however, that the link between the narrator's creativity and his spirituality is revealed. Here the narrator remembers his brother's advice about coping with depression.
The narrator's brother's advice was given nine years ago and, from the use of the word "another" in the title and from the ruins of section 4, it is clear the narrator either did not understand his brother or has failed to have faith in his own creativity. In section 5, the narrator continues to watch and listen to the night-darkened world, seeking inspiration.
But he confesses, "I hear nothing. The snow is symbolic of death or sleep while the seed represents new life. It is a paradox worthy of classical literature: in order to control his creativity, he must give himself up to it completely.
Another Night in the Ruins
In the following essay excerpt, Zimmerman explores the themes of isolation, struggle and unanswered questions—"revealing our inability to know truth but also our capacity to embody it"—in Kinnell's Body Rags. Zimmerman also considers Kinnell's new approach to writing which he does not arrive at by "cultivating new concerns" but by transfiguring the old. These so-called "disconnected fragments," however, won't stay apart.
Mind being shapely, they begin to arrange themselves around the images of birds, of "the instant," and especially of fire—images that combine in those "lightning-flashed moments of the Atlantic" glimpsed from a plane. From his lonely outpost, the poet, like the fragments, begins to make provisional connections. He hears "nothing," but this nothing is a presence that unites the internal world of "bones" with the external one of "the cow": "I listen.
By withholding his own endorsement of this maxim until the end, Kinnell maintains tension between the obvious isolation in the poem and whatever empathy is finally established in much the same way that the title holds together death ["Ruins"] and continuation ["Another Night"]. Despite its apparent fragmentation, the poem thus retains a sense of development; the double-edged empathy appears earned because it is clearly struggled for. Indeed, although the rhetorical elevation of the long last sentence and its repeated and elaborated formulation of the poem's "theme" convey a strong sense of resolution, the struggle is not yet over.
The poem thus remains "alive," straining forward, intimating fulfillment but remaining unfulfilled:. There is an undertone of frustration and complaint in these lines, as if they read, "How many more nights must it take? If you stand on the burning earth, you must personally catch fire. Still, as I have suggested, a great reluctance always accompanies these efforts.
And the prosody mirrors this ambivalence. Examining an earlier version of the lines quoted above one that, except for the lowercase line openings, looks more like a passage from Flower Herding than Body Rags —. But even as the lines open out, their extreme irregularity—the syntax-splitting line breaks, the unpredictable mix of long and short lines—creates a tension indicative of the concomitant difficulty.
To open, for Kinnell, is indeed to break apart.
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Thus, where Whitman easily plunges right into the world, Kinnell approaches it more gingerly, with more fits and starts, like the rooster in section 6, searching for food:. If "the lines are the river bed," they don't often allow smooth flowing. Rather, strewn with hidden obstructions, they reroute, temporarily dam, and only finally permit climactic release, the kind of outrush that we see in the famous last line of "The Bear.
The final image of "Another Night in the Ruins" is of jumping into flames. But, as in Crow , life goes on. But soon, as Andrew Taylor suggests, "the poem changes from nostalgia to an affirmation of the vitality of change. But at the same time the juxtaposition of that one-word line with the long concluding one accomplishes a release of tension that reinforces the rejoicing. The concluding line also testifies that, tumble and thrash about as it will, Body Rags at its best retains the craftsmanship if not the manners that Davie so admired in the very early work.
This animal image is the second component. Although few poems employ this pattern as straightforwardly as "Lost Loves" or "The Bear," many make a more oblique use of it. In "How Many Nights," for example, the paradigm is slightly submerged. Kinnell reports that some of his friends were unsure "whether I'd thought of the crow as benign or as an unwelcome presence" WDS 4.
But if the crow is not exactly "benign," the out-rushing last line itself venturing forward, enacting the speaker's release unambiguously evinces the thrill of discovery itself—little matter of what. One good dictum deserves another: the crow makes it new for the poet. But, for Kinnell a discovery of the world is a discovery of the self; the poem's initial setting, "the frozen world," is finally renamed: "my life. An explication of the explication: "I was thinking of those diagrams … that show the brain in the shape of the tree.
At moments of full consciousness all the birds would be singing. Whether or not the crow's cry is beautiful mattered less to me than that this hitherto mute region comes into consciousness" WDS 4. Taylor's paradigm also structures "Night in the Forest," one of the "moment" poems in Body Rags that extends from those in Flower Herding. Kinnell, however, isn't bound by these two choices. Drawing on the poetics of "The Poem," these lines themselves waver like flames, rise and fall capriciously, leap high and suddenly flicker out, and in this they illustrate one way that Kinnell breaks open his poetry in Body Rags.
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Certainty twice removed, a question about a question, an interrogative cast in a conditional—trafficking in liminality, how little one knows! Yeats wrote about modern poets, "we sing amid our uncertainty": we may embody truth but we cannot know it, and where truth cannot be known questions and uncertainties will proliferate. And proliferate they do, from the first pages of Body Rags to the last—especially at the conclusion of poems, where doubts traditionally are resolved, not left hanging.
The opening and closing poems, ending with questions, frame the volume in mystery. First: "How many nights must it take …?
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Sometimes a question occurs near a poem's end, but the remaining lines don't answer it directly, relating instead a sensory experience, shifting away from "knowledge" and toward "embodiment," away from what we cannot know and toward what we can. In "Getting the Mail," for example, a question arises:. Kinnell does open the letter, but the promise of a verbal answer goes unfulfilled.
Instead a different sort of fulfillment follows—aural, not rational; we are thus, typically, both answered and not answered, given satisfaction and left unsatisfied:. At the end of "Night in the Forest" the flames are simultaneously present and absent, a paradox that crystallizes in the odd coupling of the final two words—"absently leap. This kind of double ending—withholding but asserting, revealing our inability to know truth but also our capacity to embody it—provides many of Kinnell's poems in Body Rags with what Barbara Herrnstein Smith has termed "anti-closure": their conclusions avoid "the expressive qualities of strong closure"—obviously anathema to a singer amid uncertainty—"while securing, in various ways, the reader's sense of a poem's integrity.
The end of "Another Night in the Ruins," for example, discloses even as it inquires: the lesson is defined and affirmed, even if it remains unlearned. In "The Bear" the poet is left "wondering," but at the same time we feel something climactic has been revealed the concluding question is thus sometimes quoted out of context—as an epigraph to a student literary magazine or a newspaper interview—as if it conveyed some great Truth about Poetry.
Another Night in the Ruins
One reason is that this conclusion sifts through the hallucinatory confusions of the poem to arrive at the center of things: "What was that thing? What was this all about anyway?
What am I about? The poem's true subject, hidden throughout, making its claims only implicitly, is finally, dramatically unveiled. Galway Kinnell was born in Providence, Rhode Island. He received an A. Kinnell served in the U. Navy in He was supervisor of the liberal arts program at the University of Chicago 's downtown campus from through , after which he taught at the University of Grenoble and later at the University of Iran as a Fulbright Professor.
Kinnell also served as a field worker for the Congress of Racial Equality. Kinnell's poetry has been devoted to a remarkably consistent, though by no means limited, range of concerns. The subjects and themes to which he has returned again and again are the relation of the self to violence, transience, and death; the power of wilderness and wildness; and the primitive underpinnings of existence that are disguised by the superstructure of civilization. Kinnell's approach to these topics is by way of an intense concentration on physical objects, on the constant impingement of the other-than-human on our lives.
As he indicates in one of his many interviews, for him the nonhuman is a realm charged with meanings we hardly understand:.