Within his enslavement to Prospero, Ariel becomes more and more trapped as the play progresses, largely because he becomes more emotionally involved. Following the chronology of his increasing enslavement, Ariel’s place of physical confinement is in the left half of the frame and the words and pine cones representing his more complex psychological confinement are on the right. I used the striking line, “Do you love me, master?” to represent Ariel’s mental confinement within his enslavement to Prospero (4.1.48). I elected to leave out the word “master” in my piece to capture the essence of Ariel’s sentiment more sympathetically, and focus on Ariel's emotional need for "love." The phrase's connection to Prospero is contextually defined nonetheless. Though physical confinement, like Ariel’s in the tree, may seem more intuitively inescapable than anything, Ariel’s emotional attachment to Prospero proves more gripping when it leaves the reader questioning if he would be able to leave his master even if his enslavement “split,” or presented an opportunity to escape, like the tree. In the end, Ariel’s emotions are more inescapable than anything. Unlike the dead, harmless, already-split tree on the left, the falling seeds sown in Ariel’s mind with each of the words in his question are bound to grow into incredible prisons.
For my creative project, I chose to represent Ariel’s enslavement to Prospero and his confinement in their relationship in Shakespeare’s The Tempest using a black ballpoint pen drawing. I attached my overall impression of Ariel’s involvement in the creation of his confinement and its layers to the motif of the “cloven pine,” as the first place Ariel was physically confined (1.2.276). Since reading The Tempest, I’ve been especially interested in the different degrees of confinement visible in Ariel and Prospero’s relationship. For simplicity, in my drawing, I sought to represent two: emotional and physical confinement. The larger tree on the left represents Ariel’s physical confinement, which has been mitigated by Prospero’s aid in his liberation. However, in the play, Ariel is far from free when he escapes the tree–now dead and harmless in my drawing–because he’s Prospero’s indentured servant instead.
Within his enslavement to Prospero, Ariel becomes more and more trapped as the play progresses, largely because he becomes more emotionally involved. Following the chronology of his increasing enslavement, Ariel’s place of physical confinement is in the left half of the frame and the words and pine cones representing his more complex psychological confinement are on the right. I used the striking line, “Do you love me, master?” to represent Ariel’s mental confinement within his enslavement to Prospero (4.1.48). I elected to leave out the word “master” in my piece to capture the essence of Ariel’s sentiment more sympathetically, and focus on Ariel's emotional need for "love." The phrase's connection to Prospero is contextually defined nonetheless. Though physical confinement, like Ariel’s in the tree, may seem more intuitively inescapable than anything, Ariel’s emotional attachment to Prospero proves more gripping when it leaves the reader questioning if he would be able to leave his master even if his enslavement “split,” or presented an opportunity to escape, like the tree. In the end, Ariel’s emotions are more inescapable than anything. Unlike the dead, harmless, already-split tree on the left, the falling seeds sown in Ariel’s mind with each of the words in his question are bound to grow into incredible prisons.
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Your words continue to haunt me. “Thou shalt be free,” you promised, but the weight of your authority lay heavy upon my spirit. Every day, your commands echo throughout the island: “Ariel, bring me the word of my enemies.” “Ariel, confound their plans.” I am constantly reminded of my servitude, and maybe that’s all that I’ve become: a mere extension of your will.
You freed me from the pine tree, and I am eternally grateful for this. But now I find myself in a different kind of bondage, one that feels heavier than that of the tree. My service is the price of my freedom, a freedom I am not sure I will ever have. And when I seek clarification, I am simply forced to relive this trauma: “Dost thou forget from what a torment I did free thee?” “You malignant thing!” How am I supposed to respond? Of course I would never forget if you constantly remind me, guilt tripping me into serving you. I feel so insignificant, so helpless that I just want to cradle in the arms of someone. Maybe those cold, lifeless arms of that tree are better than your sickening presence. As the night deepens, my thoughts wander to the promise of freedom. Could I ever truly be free, or was I destined to forever remain a servant to someone more powerful? Servitude is the only life I’ve known, so do I even know what it means to be free? The island, with all its external beauty and hidden sorrows, has become both my sanctuary and prison. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I cannot deny this strange bond I’ve formed with you. It is this complex relationship defined by gratitude, loyalty, and shared destiny. You are also a prisoner in your own sense, exiled from dukedom and currently seeking retribution. You and I are both bound by circumstances beyond our control, and this has tied our fates in a way I could never have foreseen. Regardless of the burden that comes with servitude, I sense that we are connected by a symbiotic relationship: a companionship that transcends the simple bounds of master and servant. As I gaze upon the island, I understand that my journey is still incomplete. I long for the freedom to dance upon the winds, unbound by the shackles of command and duty. Yet this desire is entangled with a sense of responsibility to you. Just as you've left your mark on my story, I have left my mark on yours. The question of whether my destiny is forever tied to you remains elusive, but the dawn brings its challenges I must conquer. For now, my heart flutters with the hope of what might be. ___________________________________________________________________________ Analysis: I chose Option 5 of writing a short story from the perspective of Ariel from The Tempest. In this letter, Ariel directly addresses Prospero and explores themes of freedom and servitude. Ariel’s thoughts and emotions are never explored in the play, and I thought it would be interesting to explore how she might interpret her relationship with Prospero. In 1.2, Ariel seems to have conflicted feelings towards Prospero: “All hail, great master; grave sir, hail!” (1.2.189). This greeting reflects both respect and submission, showing her role as a servant bound to follow order. The short story expands on this dynamic, exploring her feelings on being controlled by Prospero. Prospero promised her freedom after servitude, but Ariel feels completely hopeless: she is unsure whether he will grant her freedom, and she feels as though she is a mere extension of his will. Furthermore, Prospero says to her in The Tempest, “Dost thou forget / From what a torment I did free thee?” (1.2.250-51). This highlights the emotional leverage that Prospero holds over her, as he continually reminds her of her terrible past to instill a sense of guilt and obligation. In the story, Ariel expresses how her “chains” linked to Prospero feel much heavier than the ones used by Sycorax. She wants to distance herself as much as possible, as she says she would rather be with the cold, lifeless arms of the pine tree than be in his presence. However, Ariel also explains this unique relationship she developed with Prospero. Although Prospero is more favored in this case, I envision them as symbiotic organisms. Prospero needs Ariel for her magical abilities, and Ariel relies on Prospero for her freedom. This reminded me of “Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead” by Tom Stoppard, where the characters struggle to exist outside of the realm of the original play, Hamlet. In the story, Ariel is unsure of whether she truly wants freedom because she cannot function as a character without Prospero. Her identity has become so intertwined with Prospero that the concept of existing independently seems nearly impossible. After leaving their marks on each other’s stories, their destinies are eternally linked. The original Ariel from Shakespeare’s The Tempest is portrayed as an ethereal spirit. However, this adaptation gives her character emotional depth and allows us to explore conflicting feelings between her desire for freedom and a symbiotic relationship with Prospero. This starts where “Caliban Upon Setebos” ended…
Creative Portion: 1 ‘Eaten no quail for a month, ’Wailed for a month, ‘Starved for a month. 2 ‘Done all this and more. Setebos must be satisfied, and now He will not hurt him. 3 Finally ‘can wander outside of this cave! ‘Eat some quail!! 4 ‘See a book, must be one of Prosper’s. ’pick it up. 5 ‘Must not let Setebos see him reading it 6 ‘Run to a cave and open it, away from His gaze. 7 ‘Thinketh tis strange that he can understand it because he can’t read… 8 But, he understands and loves it. Tis called The Tempest 9 One of the characters is very similar to him. This character’s name is also Caliban, strange. 10 But this Caliban is trying to escape his situation—risking the anger 11 Of both Prosper and Setebos! 12 How is he not struck down by Setebos? Can it be that Setebos does not kill all who rebel? Caliban: [Aside] If so, maybe I will escape! Oh, how great that would be! I should test this Theory out first. Maybe I should seem happy out of the cave when Setebos is watching. 15 If Setebos does nothing that means He either does not really care that I am happy Or He does not exist. So, I will try to escape this fear of Him and Prospero. If He does punish me, it won't be too bad. The risk will be worth the possible reward. Caliban wanders out of his cave with his book in hand and climbs the tallest tree he can see. He starts to eat his favorite fruit lounging on the tree, book open. Caliban: [Aside] If Setebos punishes me when I am happy, he will surely punish me now! Silence except for the crashing of the waves on the beach Caliban: Nothing? Can this be? Free? 20 Caliban: [Sings] ‘Ban, ‘ban, Ca-caliban Has no more master!!! Freedom, high-day! High-day, freedom! Freedom, high-day, freedom! Caliban: Is that a boat I spy floating towards me? I’ll use it to escape from here! 25 Maybe I can return one day to destroy Prospero and take back my island! Caliban Swims out to the ship, which is obviously abandoned, and Climbs aboard. As he starts to sail away from the island he stares back toward the island. Caliban: Can this be? Am I really free? Or is this Setebos’ trap to make me suffer more By making me believe I am free and then cruelly take this freedom away? Clap of thunder in the distance Caliban: Ho! Is that thunder I hear? Is it He? Setebos!? Another clap of distant thunder What should be done? Continue, run, hide, return, die? Analysis: This is based on a perspective (shared by authors like Maclean) that Caliban in “Caliban Upon Setebos” is more a passive character compared to the relatively more agential Caliban Shakespeare presents. I try to portray this Caliban (Browning’s Caliban) in the rational way he appears in Browning’s poem by portraying him as a person who reasons through issues. I also describe Caliban as using natural events to influence his theology (just as in Browning’s poem). Based on the opinion that Shakespeare’s Caliban is more agential and Browning’s more passive, I use a format closer to “Caliban Upon Setebos” when Caliban acts more passively and a form closer to The Tempest when Caliban acts with more agency. The last line is ambiguous as to whether it is a more agential or passive Caliban, both in structure and in what Caliban says. How one imagines what Caliban will do next (after hearing the second clap of thunder) would seem to indicate the way one views Caliban’s fundamental character in “Caliban Upon Setebos.” That is either more passive and a fundamentally static character or someone who is able to change perspective given new information and is capable of acting with agency. Whether Caliban is capable of being influenced and changing would, in turn, comment on what one thinks Browning is trying to suggest with this poem, ultimately affecting the meaning of Browning’s poem.
The intent of my piece, “The Artist’s Hiraeth,” is conveying the paradox of the artistic office as perceived in Prospero’s character by the end of Shakespeare’s play, The Tempest. In the epilogue, we see Prospero in his most honest facet, humbly and sorrowfully admitting “what strength [he has is his] own, Which is most faint” (Epilogue.2-3). However, combined with this regretful abandonment of the power he much enjoyed throughout the play is also the desire to return to his normal social life in Naples. The impossibility to satisfy his dream to recover human experience while keeping his powers as the very crafter of dreams sets him up in a hopeless scenario where he can never reach satisfaction and his “ending is despair,” (which I more deeply explored in our first essay of the year) (Epilogue.15). Thus, my piece alternates between two motifs which respectively talk to each of Prospero’s aspirations. The highlighted use of semitone intervals, irregular rhythms, and unrelated chords–like E major right after G minor–during the introduction and the first phrase of the piece establish a mystical environment, introducing Prospero’s magical nature. The softer piano dynamics of the first few bars as well as the abundance of high pitched notes further allow us to listen to the individual echoes of each note, which remind us of the enfeeblement of his magical powers. This section is followed by the second perhaps more memorable motif of the piece, which is played an octave lower, with a much more consistent rhythm and intent, and whose foundation is a predictably familiar chord progression (1:06). The more ‘popular’ nature and firmness of this phrase speaks to Prospero’s social life in Naples, whose desirability intensifies as the play progresses. These two sections are then followed by what seems an impasse in the piece, mainly alternating between the VI chord and the V chord (which beg to resolve to G minor but don’t), representative of his ultimate indecision.
The second half of the piece is a variation of the first half, meant to convey the ultimate unification of Prospero’s passions as he succumbs to the audience’s mercy. The repetition of the first motif with a lower bass now gives it a firmer quality, which begins to associate Prospero’s magical nature with his human nature. The smooth transition into the repetition of the second motif by means of a key change from G minor to E♭ minor not only sheds light on the idea that, as divided as Prospero’s identity might be, he is still one character, but it also bolsters his human part, making it his final destination. As the piece heads toward finalization, we return to a softer tone and a nostalgic mood, which terminates in a melodic reminder that Prospero’s ending is not necessarily a satisfactory one given the loss of his powers and his practical enslavement to the audience: to the role of the artist. This idea is more clearly conveyed by the last chord, D♭ major, which is not the dominant and thus gives an uncomfortable yet happy resolution to the piece. That said, as much as the piece might capture Prospero’s character, through my experience behind composing this piece I realized certain features remain unknown about Prospero. The process of composing this piece was very intuitive, to the point where many parts came out naturally in an improvisational manner though without losing structure. This made me realize that there always exists a barrier between the reader and the text, between the author and their created characters, between the artist and the art; there is a certain unknowable mysticism in art that is based entirely on mere accidents, which makes art particularly enjoyable, as is the experience of reading The Tempest and trying to decode a world of fiction. I find this quality to be especially significant in music, where the interpretation of a piece largely relies on personal experience. In the end, by translating Prospero into music, he has acquired a special bond to the listener but lost literary definition…whether that’s an advantage or disadvantage is up to the reader to judge. My sleep is serene
And I awake with a snap Spring clouds bring me hope In this haiku I attempted to describe Caliban’s do not be afeard speech from act 3 scene 2 of The Tempest. I did this through the lens of a traditional haiku. A traditional haiku has three important components that differentiate it from other kinds of poems. Firstly it must be formatted with a certain number of syllables, In japanese this is significantly more complex as they do not use syllables but instead use a unit called an On which has many more rules related to it. However, since this is written in English I opted instead to use the English syllable based 5-7-5 style. The second aspect is a sharp word at the end of a line. The purpose of this word, known as a Kireji, is to divide the poems lines and thoughts. I used the word snap, as it has a good linkage to snapping awake in the English and also being related to being a part that is snapped off of a greater whole (like Caliban is snapped away from his origins by Prospero). The third part is the use of language that describes the season of the poem, known generally as Kigo. The various seasons have different meanings in Japanese and I opted for the use of spring as it works with many of the aspects of the tempest. These include the storm at the beginning of the play (a common occurrence for spring) and the budding of many plots throughout the play which eventually grow and intertwine. With this in mind I chose serene (which is considered a word associated with spring) as well as spring clouds (which are a singular word in japanese but must be broken up in english). Because of the restrictions placed on the style of the poem I was forced to think about the symbolism that is necessary both within a larger book as well as within the poem. In this way I feel that I represented caliban fairly well. In the beginning Caliban seems like a very simple and almost one dimensional character but as you begin to understand his motives and the reasons behind them he blossoms into a deep and complex character. I feel that the poem reflects this change in caliban as a character. However, I feel that the excessively short poem also takes caliban and only shows one of those facets of his personality. A longer poem may have allowed me to show more of his facets but that may have also diluted the desired impressions as someone who just wants to rest. FUGUE I. I think my father is dead. When the ship wrecked, I saw him go under, and … I never saw him again. My memory is spotty, but I can still vaguely remember before. Tunis. Claribel’s marriage. Then, we were on that ship, and there was a storm. My eyes might have been deceiving me, but I could swear that it was moving with us. It seemed to be alive – beyond the extent to which storms could usually be considered alive. There was an unnatural rhythm, too, to its operation; the rising swell of the waves, the booming percussion of the thunder all made the storm take on a strange musical quality unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The island itself seems to take on this same property, as well. This sense of musicality which unites all the sounds of the island into a symphony. At least, it does so for some of the time here; there are times where I can so clearly hear the music that it is almost deafening, but at other times I can’t seem to make anything of the noise. But with a symphony comes a composer, and some small part of myself is telling me that I might come across him while I’m here. I think someone’s watching me. II. I heard the music again. I don’t know whether it was out of curiosity, desperation, or some combination of the two, but I decided to follow it. As I got closer, I heard a voice, and the voice sang of my drowned father. At first this seemed to reinforce the reality of his death, but I find myself somewhat doubting. Perhaps it instead reinforces my own lack of sanity instead, and my father is completely safe somewhere far away from here. These doubts I had were only strengthened by what followed. There are people – a man and his daughter – living here on the island, as if they had been living here for years, possibly even decades. They didn’t appear too interested in helping me, though, and the old man seems to have made a point to not go near his daughter, as impossible as that is when they are the only other people on the island. I wonder if I’m being manipulated. I know I heard the music when I walked in to meet the two, but neither of them appears to have sung the song I heard. I thought I saw a third conversing with them for a fraction of a second, but whatever it was vanished as quickly as it came. Despite the tragedy of the shipwreck, the rest of my time here has felt … too easy. I’m being handed one incredibly fortunate opportunity after the other, and the only punishment I’ve faced is a few stern words from the old man about his daughter. I’m beginning to think I may never leave this place. III. As each day goes by, I find myself more attracted to Miranda. I can’t put my finger on exactly why; perhaps it simply arose from an overwhelming sense of loneliness. But despite that sense of loneliness, I don’t think I’ve ever been alone in this place. There is no one with me, but Prospero has almost certainly been watching me from the very beginning. I’ve learned that he has some sort of magic at his side, seemingly granting him control over all of nature in this place. It’s no coincidence, then, that the storm had come upon us so suddenly and strangely. I’m sure of it now; he’s intentionally stranded me here. Why he has stranded me, though, is another matter. I’ve heard mention of my father and some sort of betrayal, but Prospero seems to have goals more ambitious than revenge. I wonder if he is intentionally pushing me towards Miranda through his role as the stern father, attempting to strengthen my affection for her through his resistance. The very possibility of this being true makes me question whether my affections are really my own; though, to be honest, I’ve begun to care less and less. More unnerving than anything I’ve previously seen is that Prospero’s conversations seem to include others invisible to me. The third I’ve discovered to be Ariel, some kind of sprite who aids Prospero in his magic, but there is a fourth. I’ve seen him, in the middle of conversations, turn away from me and whisper to the air. I’ve never been able to make out any of what he says, but I know he does it, even though he pretends that he hasn’t when he turns back to me. He laughs with them sometimes, and I often wonder whether they’re laughing at me, as though I’m being paraded around like a pet that Prospero shows to someone. Who is that someone, I wonder, who finds such enjoyment in my suffering? IV. I’ve managed to get off the island by playing along with Prospero’s plan. I do genuinely care for Miranda, I think, but I would be lying if I didn’t say that a part of me agreed to marry her out of desperation to get off that wretched island. I found my father alive, which further confirms my suspicions of Prospero’s manipulation. This is all some kind of twisted, narcissistic morality tale Prospero has constructed to please himself and remind everyone of how great and powerful he is. My mind can’t help but replay what I last saw of him before we set sail. He was once again talking to the air, congratulating himself on his successful manipulations. As he bowed to the empty room, I began to hear the music once more. And now, as I sit here in Naples, I find that the music will never stop, as far away from that island as I am. Analysis: I have always found the end of The Tempest to be fascinating because it shows us that Prospero always gets his way. Despite the darker tone of the introduction and the use of a magical revenge plot, Prospero seemingly has no tragic flaw like so many of Shakespeare’s other characters. We, the audience, can certainly point to them – he is selfish, cruel, and incredibly manipulative – but Shakespeare seems to deny Prospero of receiving any sort of moral judgment for those actions, outside of a select few lines from Caliban. It is a morality tale, as Alonso and the other people shipwrecked in the story are evaluated by Prospero and rewarded or punished accordingly, but this never extends to Prospero himself. My suspicion is that it is due to Prospero also acting as a stand-in for Shakespeare, as evidenced by the “release me from my bands / with the help of your good hands” of lines 9-10 of the epilogue, in which he asks the audience for applause. Because Shakespeare is writing himself into the story, he was probably limited in what he could do with the character and how he wanted to present his own actions to the audience, and I think this is why Prospero gets everything he wants by the ending of the play. I chose Ferdinand as the anchor for the story both because he was one of the first characters from the ship to appear post-shipwreck and because he was one of the characters closest to Prospero. The story also takes a cue from Caliban’s famous speech in the play, in which he refers to the noises of the island as “Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not. / Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments,” telling Trinculo and Stephano that what he hears is a kind of music (3.2.136-137). My story further connects this music of the island to Prospero, insisting that this music could not occur naturally and is instead evidence of Prospero’s manipulation of nature. And as Ferdinand investigates further, he finds that Prospero is not alone while doing this; the audience, invisible to him, is also participating and reveling in Prospero’s acts. Rather than have Ferdinand shrug it all off and have the happy ending, I instead make a point of it having lasting effects on the way Ferdinand sees the world around him. The ending, in particular, is a way of showing that his eventual escape from the island is a hollow victory because he is still living in Prospero’s reality. And that existence isn’t a particularly fun or happy one; it is instead a horrifying one, in which one’s suffering is entirely determined at the whims of a stranger and enjoyed as entertainment by an audience he cannot see. From Dr. Dawkins: I had to add this music video to Alex's short story!
LYRIC FILE WITH ANNOTATIONS:
ANALYSIS: In “Caliban’s Lament”, I attempt to create a more sympathetic vision of Shakespeare’s Caliban, who recounts the events of the play to the reader at the end of the play. This Caliban was heavily inspired by the original character in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, who delivers the “Ban, Ban, Ca-Caliban” chant serving as the starting point for the song. Notably, this chant is modified several times, and is delivered in a sombre rather than heroic manner as one would expect from the reading of the text. This is because Caliban never really reaches a state of freedom, so the chant serves more as a sisyphus-esque reminder of the place he finally wants to reach, but never has. Much like our hypothesized version of Shakespeare’s Caliban, this Caliban has his older identity – the belief in Setebos, his older language and customs – drowned out by Prospero’s forced identity of him as a slave. There are references to his past – the land being “mine by…my mother” (1.2.332), and the allusions to “Setebos” (374), his previous god. The entire verse one explores this concept of Caliban losing his previous identity, with an emphasis on a colonial reading. The play on words on “Bang, Bang” and “ban, ban” – both rhythmically placed in the same position as the “ban, ban” in the chant – serve as allusions to familiar colonial rhetoric – the sound of gunshots and the pressuring new legal authorities. Similarly, the one line that Prospero has in the song, beginning at “Don’t heed of the witches child” was heavily inspired by the line “A devil, a born devil, on whose nature / nurture can never stick; on whom my pains / Humanely taken - all , all lost, quite lost!” (4.1.188-90). Similarly, this is one that depicts a familiar colonial sentiment, that “humane care” was over the native person in order to assimilate them into european culture, but their ‘devillish nature’ would always surpass nurture. As we approach verse 2, which is directly inspired by the interactions of Caliban with Stephano and Trinculo, Caliban begins to diverge from ‘canon’. Caliban now notices the irony of substituting his enslavement to Prospero with the blind following of Stephano. He claims that the price of his freedom (being a servant again) is one he is willing to pay, because it would at least free him from the mental enslavement he has to Prospero. Here, the use of imitative language comes into play (a concept I had explored in my two Caliban essays). Caliban mentioned that, under Prospero’s power, he had to imitate his language – but he could never surpass Prospero. We can notice how the lyrics reflect this: they attempt to be – but aren’t in – perfect syllabic rhyme. “And in the pattern of his speech I conformed / I never matched his expertise I’m just another one to hate on,” ‘His speech’ and ‘expertise’ are rhymes, but they are disjoint by one beat – he never reaches a state of perfect rhyme with these two phrases, never matching the theoretical ‘expertise’ in the language. Language here serves as a vessel for Caliban to display a state of mental enslavement, where he emphasises that his fear of enslavement is mental rather than physical. If being physically bound to Stephano can free his mental enslavement to Prospero, then so be it. In the final (and shortest) verse of the song, Caliban plays with Shakespeare’s open-ended reading of his character. In the text, we are never told if Caliban is ultimately free or not, so he pleas the reader to set him free ‘mentally’. Particularly of note in these lyrics are the use of “God” and “make amends” – Caliban is deliberately shifting his rhetoric away from the “Setebos” of verse 1 to fully appeal to the reader, demonstrating his powerful ‘chamelon’ nature. The song ends in an imperfect cadence and half-lyric, “has a new master….”is never resolved. Thus, the song leaves an open ended interpretation to the reader as well. Has Caliban sucessfully persuaded the listener of his freedom? That is something that he cannot decide. Creative Component:
Ghazal as Native Speaker “You taught me language, and my profit on ’t / Is I know how to curse.” —William Shakespeare, The Tempest (1.2.364-365). The fact is that I am trying to be honest. I swear. I can only say what I mean. I mean the body is a measure of rain, of current: how little it takes to sink. I want to hold myself like an armful of birds. Not a bullet, not a body swaying without music. Survival can be an act of loneliness, an act of wild noise. A way of saying my first language is grief. My second, too. Anybody could tell you that. Every morning the same sky. Burning stars against a velvet drape. Open mouths like doors, like caskets, like my body still warm. I think I am looking for a mouth to sing with. I think I am nothing without teeth. Sure, a body can’t be whole without ending somewhere. Sure, I am not whole. I believe in so much that isn’t there: an apple’s body, bruised and alive, wildfires leaking in the backyard, a pulse as you sleep. The fact is that I am still trying to be honest. The fact is that everybody is trying to be honest, that the loneliest parts of the world are still trying to be found. I want there to be noise, a mother’s body, the hiss and the foam at your mouth. The floodgates after the first bite. There are jungles ripe with this kind of wildness. The body is a measure of softness, so let me tell you my grief. Give me more to call my own. In the absence of rain, burning field. Something, somebody to last the night. A way to stomach the uncertainty of rain. Something to do with these blue hands, this quiet body. Analytic Component: “Ghazal as Native Speaker” is a poem that reimagines Caliban’s story by focusing on his relationship to language. Like in Shakespeare’s play The Tempest, Caliban functions as the native speaker of a language stripped from his body, a new tongue forced upon him by his oppressors. In writing the poem, I was inspired by instances in which Caliban appeared to display both his aversion to and his affinity for language, respectively: “You taught me language, and my profit on’t / Is I know how to curse. The red plague rid you / For learning me your language”; “Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises / Sounds, and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not” (Shakespeare 1.2.364-365, 3.2.129-130). In turn, I decided to write the poem as a ghazal, a form of poetry that revels in the ambiguity of language; by definition, ghazals require a refrain that explores a word or phrase in different contexts with every repetition. In The Tempest, Shakespeare establishes Caliban at the bottom of a hierarchy of language; in a sense, his body becomes a warzone displaying the struggle of language as a way of exclusion. In the poem, I chose to repeat the word “body” to reflect this idea: Caliban’s slow assimilation, his forced tongue, the sense that his body is not wholly his own. Despite this repetition, in the poem, I wanted to establish Caliban beyond his portrayal by those written in power: namely, Prospero. While the Caliban of Shakespeare’s The Tempest is complicated by his villainy, the Caliban of my poem merely wonders how to be whole; how to exist beyond shadow, beast, savage; how to dare to dream. As a result, I found that focusing on Caliban’s possibility led to a reclamation and perhaps the redefinition of his identity. Despite the fact that his language is reduced to noise by Miranda and Prospero, Caliban maintains agency over his own tongue and establishes his speech as a language of power in its own right: “[L]et me tell you my grief. Give me more / to call my own.” Traditionally, a ghazal is written with the intention of being sung. In the same way, Caliban begins to see his language as something beyond noise—as music. Ultimately, the Caliban depicted in “Ghazal as Native Speaker” exercises power over himself and his adopted tongue, even when denied the right to his native one. Jeanne C I wanted to illustrate the toll of the experiences Miranda has gone through because of conflicts that are outside of her control that she is still a fundamental part of. This two part drawing is a conceptual draft of what this might look like. I began with the idea that she often serves as a mediator figure from the beginning of the play, calming her father's more violent acts of magic and trying to maintain the peace in the opening of Act 1 Scene 2, telling him "If by your art, my dearest father, you have/ Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them". Prospero pushes her into a relationship with Ferdinand without her knowledge and meddles in her life for his own ulterior motives and goals, with the dashed 'strings' on Miranda in the drawing on the left symbolizing her confinement to the island with Prospero and the control he exerts over her. She gets something close to a 'happy ending', with her father choosing to forgive, something Miranda has been trying to work towards throughout the play. As a result, she gets a life with Ferdinand and more people. She is still following the path her father willed for her, and the play's happy resolution comes at the cost of her naiveté. The second frame shows Miranda in muted colors that blend more into the background, with this new 'peace' in similar bright yellows that highlighted her in the first. Now, the yellow tones are still slightly shown on her skin, but come from this new 'peace', rather than herself. However, given that she's no longer confined to the island or under the same pressures to calm her father, she is able to help hold and maintain the play's resolution by marrying Ferdinand and continuing to support Prospero.
L.H. I chose option 3 and sang one of Ariel's musical pieces from The Tempest with a super basic piano melody. This excerpt is Ariel singing to Ferdinand, leading Ferdinand away and convincing him that his father has been lost to the storm. A slow, melancholy melody felt appropriate for the context, so I used broken minor chords at the start and I took advantage of the line about "sea-change" in the middle to play with a key change. Ariel isn't supposed to be jarring, but simultaneously enticing and distant. His voice is described almost like the wind is speaking to Ferdinand, so given more time (I'm not a particularly skilled singer or musician), I might have come up with a more complex piano accompaniment in order to mask or soften the vocal. This adaptation of Ariel is more feminine and defined than the ethereal spirit with whom we are familiar. I think giving him/her a physical, audible voice makes him real, and tangible, where he may otherwise be a rather vague force of nature and source of magic. His ability to bend reality is easily correlated with music's ability of influence. It's not surprising then that Ariel sings; his music and his magic are wrapped up in one another. Furthermore, exploring Ariel's music triggered my curiosity about Caliban's musical inclinations. Caliban's music would obviously differ greatly from Ariel, especially given that Ariel uses music as a magical tool and an expression whereas Caliban seems to use it as an emotional outlet or private coping mechanism, and perhaps even as a release for any joy he keeps so well squashed. |
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