April 30, 2014
by John Luke
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The Religion of a Game

Sestina

Every young boy has the same dream:

The grass,

The crack of hitting a round ball square,

The epic moment

Where every star-struck eye

In the crowd is focused on you.

 

But now the crowd is only

The fervent fathers of the other boys,

Future stars—in baseball or in life,

Roaming the same grass our ancestors roamed

Before—this epic shift in civilization

Seemingly summed up by each deafening crack.

 

Soon enough the crack of the bat shrunk compared

To the crack of kids’ heads hitting lockers, an eager crowd watching

As the epic dream of a life in baseball suddenly

Not so possible to this young boy, the

Sacred grass of the ball field, now a feared recess

Where the once future stars don’t shine so bright—

 

Not as bright as the white lights that scout

promised. Cracker jacks now sold at the game not bought,

Grass mowed as short as some careers—daily,

The crowds now loud enough to drown the howls of disapproving fathers.

A new family, a new father, new brothers in the form of the other boys,

Each dreaming of their own epic shot

 

At an epic career, an unforgettable moment, game, season—

Anything that might make the scouts write simply: “star.”

Only a select few of those boys

Get to feel the crack of major league wood,

Hear the crowd flirting with the organist,

Reach down and feel the same grass the greats once grasped,

 

The greenest grass—that makes the true lovers of the

Game wonder why some only play for that epic money—

Wonder why the crowd is no longer enough,

Wonder why these stars are fueled no longer

By the once deafening crack, but the cashing of

Checks—silhouettes of the boys they once were.

 

Is the grass really greener here?

He always said as a boy he’d play for

Nothing—the crowd, breathless from each

 

Crack, was enough.

The epic life he always dreamed of

On that shooting star, never eclipsing the religion of the game.

April 30, 2014
by John Luke
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The Hymn of the Unknown Soldier

Sonnet

Even in my dreams I still can’t hear,

No pills, no drink can do the trick,

The bloody beach, the salty air,

They cloud my ears, soft and thick.

 

The orders were to take the hill,

But how can you think, charge ahead,

When red, wet sand holds you still,

And the other men lie cold, and dead.

 

Losing blood and gaining ground,

That one-armed man gave me tired hope.

With tears in his eyes, he took that mound—

He calmed my soul, he helped me cope.

 

I never could find out his name,

But I see his face every god-damned day.

April 30, 2014
by John Luke
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Revenge

One Sentence Poem

Beautiful and Hateful, Cold and fulfilling,

consuming you and depleting you all at

once, clouded by feelings never

satisfied—with seemingly

nothing to lose, the journey

seems so appealing—

but is it an eye for an

eye, or an eye for a

life?

April 30, 2014
by Anna Mullen
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Shipwreck

This sonnet was inspired by the parallel lives of  an epic hero and the actor portraying him. 

 

I’m tossed in tanks for twenty takes until

I’m overboard, and suction pulls me down

they cut, let me dry off, and eat my fill

into the gyre where I begin to drown

 

and slip my wetsuit off and check my script

the fear slides off, replaced by total calm

for any lines I missed or cues I skipped

my lungs spill out a sloppy, salty psalm

 

my face is frosting-thick with layered paint

a welcome gasp of night air brings me back

whose smell with chlorine almost makes me faint

symphonic swell is collides with ocean smack

 

I dream of green screens stretching out for miles

as I’m washed ashore a dense, demonic isle. 

April 29, 2014
by Anna Mullen
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A Space Odyssey Sestina

Seventeen years of life under dirt

cicadas collect and in quiet clicks

skittering, creaking, burrowing down

they mumble about the apocalypse

seventeen years to gather thoughts

and cooking pots, and preen their wings.

 

Forty feet up a cluster bomb wings

over heads with tongues tucked in hot dirt

teeth drawing red from gum holding thoughts

of mothers and lovers in movie reel clicks

spun flammably out between gossamer lips

they supplicate up, but keep their heads down.

 

(We’re hauling water down

to the ship as she swings

in the black brackish slips

of salt that sat forty years locked in dirt

now lift our Lady for fifty-five klicks

sunburned, we sing to flatten our thoughts.)

 

Selkies shed fins as they slide into thoughts

silking their mythical hips down

cools the bursting sun who tricks with clicks

of deliquesced, cracking wax Icarus wings

we weep for firm ground, for tillable dirt.

We’d trade liquor for her, and skin for cowslips!

 

Flung from the globe with a lisp on his lips

pricking the stratosphere shatters his thoughts

the rocketship sloughs her terrestrial dirt

while Commander’s breaths drip slowly down

his helmet. No sun on his wings.

Just a vascular clock ticking red and blue clicks.

 

Seventeen years of these star-spangled clicks

turning purple with unspoken fears on his lips.

Seventeen! Three to go. His wife in the wings

waiting underground, spinning slick thoughts,

her green drying wings drooping flimsily down,

heavy with battle, coated with dirt.

 

She weaves dirt with her wrists, joints clicking

cosmological threads held with windchapped lips,

humming thoughts of biplanes with aluminum wings.

April 28, 2014
by Nick Kaye
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Farming

Sonnet

In this Shakespearian Sonnet, I created a narrative of an epic hero, his humble origins, and his possible regrets at the end of his journey.

Born from lacking dirt and several gray hairs
He tilled for greener pastures and small dreams
His father had the bones of an old bear
And his mother collapsed down by the stream

Three wise men in one took hold of his hand
And showed him the darkness beyond his pasture
Mother’s soul in his sac, he left his land
Forsaken nights of pints, dance, and laughter
But like lanterns in the wind he saw them
A stream of souls and eyes for which he fought
And bear bones too, crystal glass and blue stem
And to the war, his ravenous roar he brought

Perhaps he grew old on a throne of glass
Longing for the old fields of barley grass

April 28, 2014
by Anna Mullen
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Nostos: Homecoming (one-line poem, modified sonnet)

I wrote this poem as I became annoyed by the flat roles of female characters in many epic films I watched, where female actors have few lines and a good portion of them are just ridiculous screams. I was also inspired by the idea of those who miss out on the epic adventure, particularly by Penelope, Odysseus’ wife left behind to fend off suitors.

 

Since I’ve just one line in the next two hours

I’ll say it soft from my offstage bowers:

 

I’ll say it in the time it takes

For a scream to summon a rugged male

While you measure my waist in camera shakes

And repeatedly cue my face to pale

Since: you can’t expect the fade-to-black

When your ship exhales in calmer air

You must push my darling suitors back

While I dress your wounds with gushing care

With a flourish of flashback I will see

How you swept the landscape, saved the race

But when I show my unraveled tapestry

You plummet into that other place

Where the sun is pink and the moon is black

And a score of strings can staunch a bleed

So I pack a bag and slip out the back

To my own feature film, with a mare for a steed.

 

April 27, 2014
by Nick Kaye
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The Unsung

Ghazal

This poem addresses the unsung soldier who is caught up in the grand conflicts of an epic.

I saw the evening drawn in red on the field
and your dark brother left his head on the field

Nations of dirt, sandcastles caught in the tide
this darkness was tilled, born, and bred on the field

Black pawns led along by lone children or Christs
the rice goes to those never fed on the field

Lost in two long years, no son, daughter, or wife
Like pigs, the clocks were cut and bled on the field

Perhaps I’ll return at the twenty-fifth hour
Having left Homer’s olive bed on the field

Now dry your wife’s tears before they set you down
in the old plot for the half-dead on the field

April 27, 2014
by Nick Kaye
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Singularity

One Sentence Poem

This poem addresses the way an epic hero acts as a singular figurehead for a nation or society–traveling to hell and back on their behalf. 

I am not the opiate of the people
but the scream incarnate
of two million mouths
with too many legs to do the
walking

and my soles press down
so lightly entwined
by the violin vines
of the symphony

strings and pitches
(high and low)

me several hundred miles closer to hell
for the man at the end of the street
who rolls two pennies
between his
dirty
knuckles.

April 27, 2014
by Nick Kaye
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The Last Temptation of Christ: Perspectives

Assignment #9

In this post, I will review Martin Scorsese’s The Last Temptation of the Christ from two perspectives. In the first review, I will critique the film in the context of Martin Scorsese’s filmography–an auteur approach–and in the second, I will examine the film in the context of the epic genre as a whole.

Auteur Approach

Although it was the subject of great religious controversy, there is little doubt about the cinematic quality of Martin Scorsese’s 1988 epic drama The Last Temptation of Christ. The film follows the life of Jesus Christ from carpentry to crucifixion, departing from the tradition Gospel narrative in several respects. It resembles much of the Scorsese canon in its focus on sin, redemption, and inner struggle. It is unique, however, in its deeply personal nature.

Raised in a devoutly Catholic household, Scorsese had been interested in creating a film about Jesus Christ since childhood. One can find references to Christianity scattered throughout his filmography, but this was his first full-blown exploration of faith. In the film, Scorsese creates a story–inspired by Nikos Kazantzakis’s 1953 novel of the same name–that shows Christ in an unorthodox light. Scorsese envisions Christ as a fallible and human figure who overcame temptation, including–most controversially–sexual temptation. In the final scene, Christ is attached to the cross, and he screams, “It is accomplished!” The words hold great weight because they represent a a success over inner demons as well as exterior obstacles.

In some ways, it seems that the film might be an expression of Scorsese’s own struggles with doubt and guilt. As a devout Catholic, he reportedly struggled with various sins including his divorce of three different wives and a serious cocaine addiction that almost prevented him from creating Raging Bull. Scorsese was also constantly doubtful about whether his films would have longstanding significance in cinema.

In The Last Temptation of Christ, Scorsese employs his characteristically gritty and realistic style. Although the film is classified as an epic, it dodges the noxious excess that plagues much of the genre. Instead, it provides a visceral  narrative that feels strangely personal and small in scope. In my humble opinion, religious institutions have done themselves a disservice by opposing this film so vehemently. Scorsese treats his subject matter with such solemnity and respect, and he succeeds in creating a serious investigation of Christian faith that was inspiring even to a non-religious person like myself.

9/10

Genre Approach

In his 1988 epic drama The Last Temptation of Christ, Martin Scorsese tells the story of the life of Jesus Christ from carpenter to crucified savior. The film, based on a controversial 1953 novel of the same name by Nikos Kazantzakis, strays from the original Gospel narrative. It envisions Christ as a fallible, human character who must overcome temptations–including, most contentiously, sexual temptations–in order to carry out the word of his Father. The film is interesting in its understated approach to the typically grandiose epic film genre. Although The Last Temptation of Christ falls squarely within the genre, it does so in a atypically minimal manner that is both surprising and refreshing.

The Last Temptation of Christ is an oddball in the canon of religious epics. Other major biblical films, including Quo Vadis, The Ten Commandments, and Ben Hur, are known for their blockbuster budgets and star-powered casts. Ben Hur, for example, had a budget of $15 million as compared to The Last Temptation’s budget of $7 million–and that doesn’t take into account inflation in the thirty year period between the two films. What more, its production included 200 camels, 2,500 horses, and 10,000 extras. With The Last Temptation of Christ, Scorsese manages to create an equivalently epic film within a smaller, more personal scope.

One might look at the Sermon on the Mount scene as evidence. Christ is not speaking to a massive crowd but a small group of villagers. The scene itself is not overly extravagant, either, consisting of a small mound of sand surrounded by open and arid terrain. The costumes are simple as well–Jesus wears a rough desert tunic, not the bright red robe seen in other depictions. Despite the extreme understatement, there is a tangible feeling of movement in the scene–like the larger gears have began to turn–driven largely by Peter Gabriel’s score. Although only a handful of people are listening, Christ’s words feel as if they have epic significance.

Ultimately, it is the simplicity of the film that give it such weight. Had Scorsese attempted to examine this variation on Christian lore within a more typical commercialized blockbuster, his message would have felt cheap and offensive. Instead, he provides a gritty and realistic take on Christ’s life, carried by the sparse yet powerful performance of Willem Dafoe. This is a film to be watched and thought about seriously. Unlike many epics, it provides more than spectacle.

9/10