"The Apparition" is strange to say the least. it's also very creepy. the speaker definitely conveys a haunted yet angry tone. he tells the girl that his ghost is going to "come to [her] bed" and that her new guy won't do anything for her. the new guy is going to fake being asleep when she tries to wake him up. apparently, this girl can't get anyone better than him. the only guy she can get now is one who will pretend to be asleep while she wakes up in a cold sweat. sound a little bitter/vengeful to anyone else? reminds me of Paranormal Activity. sorta.
the creepiest part isn't even that he's going to haunt her. ohno. the true creepy part comes when he says "what I will say, I will not tell thee now". he's TEASING her. he's saying, "I'm going to make your life miserable, but I won't tell you how." he's going to let the suspense drive her crazy. maybe he won't do anything, and he just knows she won't call his bluff.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
does anyone remember
that weird "Crossing Over" show that used to be on TV? where some guy could "contact" dead people. weird. anyway... on to relevant things:
"Crossing the Bar" is about death. of course. but, it doesn't make death the bad guy or anything. in fact, the speaker doesn't even want people sad when he's gone: "and may there be no sadness of farewell/When I embark". Throughout the poem, the speaker makes it pretty clear that he's come to terms with death. he's not afraid of it. he knows it's inevitable, so he's accepting of it. he's got no resignations about life, so he's good to go whenever. the whole image of a sandbar is really interesting to me too. I see it as three very distinct phases: before the bar is where the waves are crashing and things are tumultuous. that part represents life. the sandbar is the "crossing over" point, the "one clear call" that takes him from life to the third phase: the afterlife where it's calm and tranquil. it's the place where he "hope[s] to see [his] Pilot face to face". where he aspires to see God and meet him personally.
this hope is a looking to the future sort of hope whereas in "The Oxen", the hope is more nostalgic and looking backward.
"Crossing the Bar" is about death. of course. but, it doesn't make death the bad guy or anything. in fact, the speaker doesn't even want people sad when he's gone: "and may there be no sadness of farewell/When I embark". Throughout the poem, the speaker makes it pretty clear that he's come to terms with death. he's not afraid of it. he knows it's inevitable, so he's accepting of it. he's got no resignations about life, so he's good to go whenever. the whole image of a sandbar is really interesting to me too. I see it as three very distinct phases: before the bar is where the waves are crashing and things are tumultuous. that part represents life. the sandbar is the "crossing over" point, the "one clear call" that takes him from life to the third phase: the afterlife where it's calm and tranquil. it's the place where he "hope[s] to see [his] Pilot face to face". where he aspires to see God and meet him personally.
this hope is a looking to the future sort of hope whereas in "The Oxen", the hope is more nostalgic and looking backward.
I remember when I used to really be into nostalgia...
"The Oxen" presents an interesting instance. especially for someone who is religious, namely Christian, and celebrates Christmas. in the first two stanzas, we read about a group of small children gathered around what I presume to be a manger scene of some sort. whatever the elder told them they believed. in their childish innocence, there was no reason to doubt what this older, presumably wiser man said: "nor did it occur to one of us there/to doubt". and rightly so. as children, we're taught to listen and learn. it isn't until we mature and age that we begin to question and doubt what we're told. while none of this maturing stage is shown in the any of the four stanzas, the last two reflect on the naïve nature of the speaker's (and everyone's) childhood, but with a nostalgic overtone. he says that if he were in that position again and told that at that very moment "they are all on their knees", that he hopes he could believe it might actually be so.
this hope is a nostalgic, longing-for-innocence-again sort of hope.
the whole tone of the poem sets this nostalgic tone.
this hope is a nostalgic, longing-for-innocence-again sort of hope.
the whole tone of the poem sets this nostalgic tone.
to bash or not to bash?
that really isn't the question. not in "My Mistress' Eyes", anyway. sure, on the surface it seems that the speaker is just talking smack about how his girl can't compare to all of these other beautiful things. he says that her eyes don't shine like the sun and that her skin was a gray-ish hue at best. that all sounds pretty harsh, right? right, but that's not what he actually means. by using all of these cliché comparisons, he satirizes those who use them. he feels that all of those silly poets who shower their girls with this absurd compliments are ridiculous, and it shows in the satirical tone that the poem takes on. the sonnet form of the poem allows the reader to break up the first part into the satire and then the last four actually expressing what he really feels. what he REALLY feels is this: she's beautiful. sure, maybe she's not a goddess, but who has seen a goddess anyway? no one. he finds no value in lying to her about how beautiful he thinks she is. his love isn't any weaker than those super mushy poets just because he's realistic.
I'm with this guy.
I'm with this guy.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
iiiiit's laundry day!
I've never thought about love as laundry. or as anything at all related to laundry. but in "Sorting Laundry", that's exactly what it's compared to. the speaker "folds" her love into herself. just as one folds clothes. everything about their relationship is part of this "laundry" imagery. the pillowcases hold dreams, towels refuse to bleach colors, just like their passion. not only do they not fade, they "refus[e], even after years,/ to bleach into respectability" (lines 14,15), suggesting that it's not just waiting for things to get to a normal level, this passion and love is so intense that they can't even get it to fall to a "respectable" level. their little kinks get left if they can't be worked out, and then determined to be "in style". by the end of the poem, the speaker goes so far as to say that if she were to "fold/ only [her] own clothes", meaning to be if she were alone, that even all her folded laundry wouldn't fill the other side of the bed.
not even all her dirty laundry can fill the void. how touching.
not even all her dirty laundry can fill the void. how touching.
you mean the summer novels actually have relevance?!
reading "APO 96226" reminded me of reading The Things They Carried. it intensifies a reality that was realized in the novel. there's no way to accurately describe war until you've been there. the mother of the soldier asks how things are, and, of course, the soldier gives her basic, vague, pleasant images of the world he's surrounded by. this isn't enough for the curious mother, of course. she continues to ask for more detail, "don't hold back. How is it there?", and the son, not wanting to upset his mother, still says simply, "the sunsets here are spectacular!" the true irony of the piece comes when the son finally tells her a gruesome detail after all of her pleading and the father says, generally, don't do that anymore; you're upsetting your mother. despite what she's said all along, the mother really doesn't want to know "all about it".
the reality of all of the war is that no one knows what goes on if they're not actually there, and even those who think that they want to know what goes on really don't when they finally hear.
the reality of all of the war is that no one knows what goes on if they're not actually there, and even those who think that they want to know what goes on really don't when they finally hear.
c'mon barbie, let's go party
I really don't like that song, though the "Dutch" version is quite humorous.
anyway,
I really liked this poem. sure, it was a bit morbid, and maybe a bit dramatic on the surface, but when really analyzed, it's clear that society holds men and women to different standards. In the poem, this girl is not described as anything other than a girl with intelligence, health, strong arms, a sex drive, and ability to work with her hands well. nothing wrong with that, right? I mean, in a guy, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. in fact, all of that is EXPECTED to be present in a being of the male gender. but she's a girl. and somehow all of these are flaws.
the speaker intentionally leaves out any physical description as to whether the girl is pretty or ugly. it's SOCIETY's view of the girl that gets projected. according to society, she's just a "fat nose on thick legs" (like 11) and that's such a terrible thing that she feels the need to apologize for it. the ridicule and shame she feels for being the way she is grows to be so intense that she kills herself. only then, at the funeral, does anyone ever look at her and say "doesn't she look pretty?". for whatever reason, society couldn't accept her for who she was and what she looked like when she was alive. only in death could she find that people did find beauty in her. the tragedy in this isn't exaggerated either, and that's the most haunting part.
anyway,
I really liked this poem. sure, it was a bit morbid, and maybe a bit dramatic on the surface, but when really analyzed, it's clear that society holds men and women to different standards. In the poem, this girl is not described as anything other than a girl with intelligence, health, strong arms, a sex drive, and ability to work with her hands well. nothing wrong with that, right? I mean, in a guy, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. in fact, all of that is EXPECTED to be present in a being of the male gender. but she's a girl. and somehow all of these are flaws.
the speaker intentionally leaves out any physical description as to whether the girl is pretty or ugly. it's SOCIETY's view of the girl that gets projected. according to society, she's just a "fat nose on thick legs" (like 11) and that's such a terrible thing that she feels the need to apologize for it. the ridicule and shame she feels for being the way she is grows to be so intense that she kills herself. only then, at the funeral, does anyone ever look at her and say "doesn't she look pretty?". for whatever reason, society couldn't accept her for who she was and what she looked like when she was alive. only in death could she find that people did find beauty in her. the tragedy in this isn't exaggerated either, and that's the most haunting part.
go 'head! don't conform just like all the other "nonconformists"!
as much as I'm bothered by Emily Dickinson's writing style in regards to her poetry, I must say I agree with her a fair amount. I don't mean to say that I'm on the edge of a mental breakdown or anything, but in "Much madness is divinest Sense", I can't help but cheer her on as she expresses how "mad" it is to conform. Simply put, conformity = sense = madness. by conforming, you make sense to the rest of the world, but you're actually mad. in fact, a syllogism applied here would say that conformity = madness, and I don't disagree. without thinking in terms of what is best for one as an individual, said person is doomed to end up behaving in manners that make no sense. "mob mentality" takes over and creates an unthinking livelihood that ultimately leads to madness.
conversely, she also suggests that nonconformity = madness = sense. if the same concept is applied as before, nonconformity looks crazy in the eyes of society, but creates a thinking, doing, way of life. this thinking makes that madness translate into sense in the whole scheme of things.
and to quote Dr. Seuss, "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
I couldn't have said it better.
conversely, she also suggests that nonconformity = madness = sense. if the same concept is applied as before, nonconformity looks crazy in the eyes of society, but creates a thinking, doing, way of life. this thinking makes that madness translate into sense in the whole scheme of things.
and to quote Dr. Seuss, "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind."
I couldn't have said it better.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
and, now for the favorite:
"February".
ohdear.
"Students will enjoy this poem because they can relate to it."
yes. I relate SO well to a lady obsessed with hockey and ...strange details about her cat(s). but honestly, I can relate. she hates February. so do I. for me, it's the most frustratingly ridiculous month there is. first of all, it's not even a "full" month. it's 29 days on a good year. and that only happens once every four years. that's STILL less than the shortest of all the months (in terms of daytime, I believe that would be November...) also, you've got the God-awful cold that plagues the entire state. and, last and most certainly least positive, you've got Valentine's Day. the one day a year that people find excuses/the 'nads to express their "true love" for another person and/or spend inordinate amounts of money on silly gifts that no one ever actually uses (chocolate is the ONE exception to this). and suddenly, all is right in the world! there's no more pollution, there's no more financial issues, and there's FINALLY world peace! right? ...RIGHT?
false. I'm with the speaker in this poem: when February rolls around, I want nothing more than to lay in my bed, but I get up and get out anyway. just because the whole world seems to stop doesn't mean I get to. even though everything is miserable (or everyone else has forgotten momentarily how miserable our plight is), you've still got to get some positivity going: stop complaining and go DO something. your internal conflicts don't excuse you from continuing to do the right thing.
also, your cats don't care.
ohdear.
"Students will enjoy this poem because they can relate to it."
yes. I relate SO well to a lady obsessed with hockey and ...strange details about her cat(s). but honestly, I can relate. she hates February. so do I. for me, it's the most frustratingly ridiculous month there is. first of all, it's not even a "full" month. it's 29 days on a good year. and that only happens once every four years. that's STILL less than the shortest of all the months (in terms of daytime, I believe that would be November...) also, you've got the God-awful cold that plagues the entire state. and, last and most certainly least positive, you've got Valentine's Day. the one day a year that people find excuses/the 'nads to express their "true love" for another person and/or spend inordinate amounts of money on silly gifts that no one ever actually uses (chocolate is the ONE exception to this). and suddenly, all is right in the world! there's no more pollution, there's no more financial issues, and there's FINALLY world peace! right? ...RIGHT?
false. I'm with the speaker in this poem: when February rolls around, I want nothing more than to lay in my bed, but I get up and get out anyway. just because the whole world seems to stop doesn't mean I get to. even though everything is miserable (or everyone else has forgotten momentarily how miserable our plight is), you've still got to get some positivity going: stop complaining and go DO something. your internal conflicts don't excuse you from continuing to do the right thing.
also, your cats don't care.
and yet again,
Inception comes into play in my blogs. in Dream Deferred, the dreams are of a different caliber, I think, but I hear "dream" and I think "Inception" (it's like those silly little word association games they have you do sometimes just for fun).
so what does happen to a dream when it's not allowed to come to fruition? I personally think that it does more harm than good. it's a good way to let frustration and regret and guilt build. this, of course depends on the severity of the dream being withheld though. obviously if a dream is ridiculously far-fetched and forgotten through a maturing process, it's not really a bad thing. oppositely, a dream that is created or thought of in a sensible way using logic and good judgment and then forgotten or smothered is likely to harbor some unsafe feelings. that is where the "drying up", "festering", "stinking", "crusting", "sagging" dreams come in: when they've been deferred and are of high-caliber.
another interesting aspect of this poem is the use of simile to describe/suggest all the other options save the separated, italicized, metaphor-ized (is that even a word?) last line. "Or does it explode? seems to suggest what the speaker really feels happens to these dreams that are allowed to fall to the wayside. in an indirect way, he urges the reader to avoid that. by using the image of a bomb (or other object that explodes), he provides a destructive, violent sense of the danger that comes with not chasing after a dream.
so what does happen to a dream when it's not allowed to come to fruition? I personally think that it does more harm than good. it's a good way to let frustration and regret and guilt build. this, of course depends on the severity of the dream being withheld though. obviously if a dream is ridiculously far-fetched and forgotten through a maturing process, it's not really a bad thing. oppositely, a dream that is created or thought of in a sensible way using logic and good judgment and then forgotten or smothered is likely to harbor some unsafe feelings. that is where the "drying up", "festering", "stinking", "crusting", "sagging" dreams come in: when they've been deferred and are of high-caliber.
another interesting aspect of this poem is the use of simile to describe/suggest all the other options save the separated, italicized, metaphor-ized (is that even a word?) last line. "Or does it explode? seems to suggest what the speaker really feels happens to these dreams that are allowed to fall to the wayside. in an indirect way, he urges the reader to avoid that. by using the image of a bomb (or other object that explodes), he provides a destructive, violent sense of the danger that comes with not chasing after a dream.
since I don't entirely understand
"Ranas" oh, wait, "Toads" (it might as well have been in Spanish), I figured I'd blog about it and hope that someone comments it along the line and makes me feel better about myself. or worse. whichever.
The first "toad" is obviously work. the speaker states that right off the bat. I love the diction and imagery that the author uses here too. In the first two lines alone we have "Why should I let the toad work/Squat on my life?" then it begins to get more gruesome in the ways that the speaker wants this toad gone. it's a plague to society, he seems to feel. however, it's a necessary evil. the speaker realizes that without work, life just wouldn't function the same way. he also comments though that people complain all the time about the work they do and how their kids would "starve" if they were to stop working, "and yet/[n]o one actually starves.
the other toad I think is reality. just in general. the two are always there. they go hand in hand, but there's a balance. one can't put all of his time and energy into work, or he loses touch with reality. but at the same time, work exists as a part of this reality. it's a delicate balance that must be maintained. and while these two prevent one from "getting/[t]he fame and the girl and the money/[a]ll at one sitting," (lines 30-32), the two are intertwined, but not connected. I feel the speaker sums up the relationship nicely in the last stanza, particularly the last two lines: "But I do say it's hard to lose either,/[w]hen you have both."
The first "toad" is obviously work. the speaker states that right off the bat. I love the diction and imagery that the author uses here too. In the first two lines alone we have "Why should I let the toad work/Squat on my life?" then it begins to get more gruesome in the ways that the speaker wants this toad gone. it's a plague to society, he seems to feel. however, it's a necessary evil. the speaker realizes that without work, life just wouldn't function the same way. he also comments though that people complain all the time about the work they do and how their kids would "starve" if they were to stop working, "and yet/[n]o one actually starves.
the other toad I think is reality. just in general. the two are always there. they go hand in hand, but there's a balance. one can't put all of his time and energy into work, or he loses touch with reality. but at the same time, work exists as a part of this reality. it's a delicate balance that must be maintained. and while these two prevent one from "getting/[t]he fame and the girl and the money/[a]ll at one sitting," (lines 30-32), the two are intertwined, but not connected. I feel the speaker sums up the relationship nicely in the last stanza, particularly the last two lines: "But I do say it's hard to lose either,/[w]hen you have both."
Emily Dickinson is a strange one...
forreal though. I can't tell if I like her yet or not. I will say this much: she's not big on long, complicated sentences and stanzas. I like that. the syntax of her sentences is indeed a little strange though, as she uses unnecessary hyphens, I feel. however, that's not quite the focus of "I taste a liquor never brewed". I personally love the imagery in this. I also found it quite interesting that before reading this poem I had just finished reading a little blurb about how "Mountain Dew" got its name, and then "Dew" comes up again in line 6 of the poem. (curious about how that relates? check it: http://wiki.name.com/en/Mountain_Dew) all of the imagery either relates to wildlife or to alcohol. it's not a literal alcohol though. the metaphor that I see is that life, namely, summertime, provides a natural euphoria or "drunkenness" that is unparalleled, even by alcohol.
The speaker even goes so far as to say "[w]hen [b]utterflies -- renounce their "drams" --/I shall but drink the more!" (line 11,12) to me, this is not a "I can drink you under the table" challenge so much as it is a statement of how absolutely intoxicating the fresh air is. even butterflies, creatures who spend all day outside "drinking", will get tired of this before the speaker will. the last stanza, too, seems to imply that those who have never tried this (saints and seraphs) have no idea what it's like, so they watch intently as the "[t]ippler lean[s] against the -- [s]un". they watch the "drunkards" in awe of their behavior and their seemingly carefree personalities.
The speaker even goes so far as to say "[w]hen [b]utterflies -- renounce their "drams" --/I shall but drink the more!" (line 11,12) to me, this is not a "I can drink you under the table" challenge so much as it is a statement of how absolutely intoxicating the fresh air is. even butterflies, creatures who spend all day outside "drinking", will get tired of this before the speaker will. the last stanza, too, seems to imply that those who have never tried this (saints and seraphs) have no idea what it's like, so they watch intently as the "[t]ippler lean[s] against the -- [s]un". they watch the "drunkards" in awe of their behavior and their seemingly carefree personalities.
am I the only one that just sings
"Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" when I start reading "Bright Star"? I mean, I can't be the only one, right? or maybe I am. maybe I'm all alone in the world, just like a star up above the world so high (see how nicely that segued?). In "Bright Star", the poem obviously addresses this star. It's a poem of direct address, but it also contains apostrophe. obviously, this star isn't going to respond, yet the speaker expresses just how fond of the star's qualities he is. he doesn't so much compliment the star as he would a person, but he speaks of the qualities he wishes were his own: "eternal lids apart" (line 3), "still steadfast, still unchangeable" (line 9).
essentially, the speaker wants to be eternal (The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, anybody?). he wants to be able to watch life and the world change and not change himself. he wants to be able to stay forever in the position he's in (with his lover) and never be alone. the need for companionship is the only part keeping the speaker from wanting with all of his being to be this "Bright Star".
essentially, the speaker wants to be eternal (The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, anybody?). he wants to be able to watch life and the world change and not change himself. he wants to be able to stay forever in the position he's in (with his lover) and never be alone. the need for companionship is the only part keeping the speaker from wanting with all of his being to be this "Bright Star".
Thursday, September 9, 2010
"my mind is set on overdrive"
and to top it all off, some Brain Stew by Green Day.
senses dulled.
face is numb.
guess that's the point of delirium.
onmyownherewego.
Emily Dickinson provides a very interesting sensation while reading "I Felt A Funeral In My Brain". the use of sounds is so integral to the poem, but all the senses play a huge role. it's a very "sensing" poem. I mean, the title itself employs the sense of touch. she "heard them lift the casket" and "creak" across her soul. I can't imagine that with all of these conflicting senses and images that this funeral was a real funeral. firstly, the speaker would have to be inside the casket if it were, making them dead and senseless. so that's a no-go.
rather, I see this whole thing as a system of decision making. the "mourners, to and fro" are the two opposing sides that continue to move around and change things up on the speaker. when things had calmed down for a bit, the beating started. the over-thinking and over-analyzing started, making her go numb for a while. then, the ideas shifted just enough for note, and things became clear, allowing the speaker to see reason and know what decision to make. this process was a long one in this particular instance, but I think a lot of decision making follows a similar pattern. the other argument one could make is that this is about a mental breakdown, but I think that takes the ordinary struggle of decision making that is present a step too far.
senses dulled.
face is numb.
guess that's the point of delirium.
onmyownherewego.
Emily Dickinson provides a very interesting sensation while reading "I Felt A Funeral In My Brain". the use of sounds is so integral to the poem, but all the senses play a huge role. it's a very "sensing" poem. I mean, the title itself employs the sense of touch. she "heard them lift the casket" and "creak" across her soul. I can't imagine that with all of these conflicting senses and images that this funeral was a real funeral. firstly, the speaker would have to be inside the casket if it were, making them dead and senseless. so that's a no-go.
rather, I see this whole thing as a system of decision making. the "mourners, to and fro" are the two opposing sides that continue to move around and change things up on the speaker. when things had calmed down for a bit, the beating started. the over-thinking and over-analyzing started, making her go numb for a while. then, the ideas shifted just enough for note, and things became clear, allowing the speaker to see reason and know what decision to make. this process was a long one in this particular instance, but I think a lot of decision making follows a similar pattern. the other argument one could make is that this is about a mental breakdown, but I think that takes the ordinary struggle of decision making that is present a step too far.
"After Apple-Picking"
oh, Robert Frost, you and your allegories.
I find this poem to be full of regret. I mean, the speaker's "ladder" is still pointed toward heaven, but he's got a whole basket of "apples" still to fill. to me, this screams "I'm going to die eventually and I haven't done anything productive with my life yet". the speaker tells how he's left some apples up in the tree. these are missed opportunities that he either passed up or didn't have the initiative to go after. However, he also says "For I have had too much of apple-picking: I am overtired" which suggests that he's been doing a lot or did a lot at one point and just got burnt out. right now he doesn't have the time or effort to continue to pick apples, take risks, discover new opportunities.
I haven't determined for certain if death is imminent or not, but for whatever reason the speaker doesn't feel like there's any more he can do. something tells me from the attitude of it though that no matter how much he may regret not doing more, he isn't going to try to fix that now. he does say that eventually he'll be sleeping, but he clarifies and says that it might just be "human sleep" and he's not sure either. regardless, the speaker is overwhelmed and has begun to overthink past mistakes or shortcomings, but isn't really going to try to fix them.
I find this poem to be full of regret. I mean, the speaker's "ladder" is still pointed toward heaven, but he's got a whole basket of "apples" still to fill. to me, this screams "I'm going to die eventually and I haven't done anything productive with my life yet". the speaker tells how he's left some apples up in the tree. these are missed opportunities that he either passed up or didn't have the initiative to go after. However, he also says "For I have had too much of apple-picking: I am overtired" which suggests that he's been doing a lot or did a lot at one point and just got burnt out. right now he doesn't have the time or effort to continue to pick apples, take risks, discover new opportunities.
I haven't determined for certain if death is imminent or not, but for whatever reason the speaker doesn't feel like there's any more he can do. something tells me from the attitude of it though that no matter how much he may regret not doing more, he isn't going to try to fix that now. he does say that eventually he'll be sleeping, but he clarifies and says that it might just be "human sleep" and he's not sure either. regardless, the speaker is overwhelmed and has begun to overthink past mistakes or shortcomings, but isn't really going to try to fix them.
"Dear ____, this has always been about..."
"To Autumn" by John Keats seems to be a very sensual poem. the imagery used is incredibly vivid and forces the reader to be IN this autumn setting. seemingly effortlessly the reader slinks into this autumn day, much like Keats perceives autumn to just slink in and blend. with its smooth, fluid movements, autumn arrives without much disturbance. according to Keats, one wouldn't just wake up one morning and be able to say "whoa! what happened to summer?! it's autumn already?!". the shift is much more gradual than that and this poem shows it through its imagery.
it doesn't rush to get to the end, but it doesn't drag on either. there is just a steady patience that accurately couples the way autumn arrives. the poem makes autumn to be a time to relax and tie things up. it's a wind-down time. it's the opposite of springtime where things are just getting going. spring gets things up and moving whereas autumn allows them to sloooow doooown.
it doesn't rush to get to the end, but it doesn't drag on either. there is just a steady patience that accurately couples the way autumn arrives. the poem makes autumn to be a time to relax and tie things up. it's a wind-down time. it's the opposite of springtime where things are just getting going. spring gets things up and moving whereas autumn allows them to sloooow doooown.
"Sunday, bloody Sunday"
yup, two for two. this time a Paramore quote that doesn't QUITE fit the poem, but has the word "Sunday" in it.
of course, I'm speaking of "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden. this piece to me suggested growth. when the poem opens, the speaker seems a bit bitter. He doesn't understand why his father does things the way he does. this implementation of the child as the speaker. because of the closeness that exists between the father/son, it gives the poem more validity and more emotion. this speaker tells how "no one thanked him [his father]" yet, every day the father got up and did what needed to be done.
an interesting allegory that was brought up today in class that I really was able to see was the idea that the "father" was God. that the chores that he does, though seemingly mundane and unnecessary, are all for a greater good. He sometimes (often) goes unnoticed until later in life and then His presence is realized.
it's definitely clear that by the final stanza the speaker appreciates the work and effort that the father has put in over the years, even if it hasn't always been shown. this change from following grudgingly to fully appreciating the work shows emotional growth from the speaker's perspective.
of course, I'm speaking of "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden. this piece to me suggested growth. when the poem opens, the speaker seems a bit bitter. He doesn't understand why his father does things the way he does. this implementation of the child as the speaker. because of the closeness that exists between the father/son, it gives the poem more validity and more emotion. this speaker tells how "no one thanked him [his father]" yet, every day the father got up and did what needed to be done.
an interesting allegory that was brought up today in class that I really was able to see was the idea that the "father" was God. that the chores that he does, though seemingly mundane and unnecessary, are all for a greater good. He sometimes (often) goes unnoticed until later in life and then His presence is realized.
it's definitely clear that by the final stanza the speaker appreciates the work and effort that the father has put in over the years, even if it hasn't always been shown. this change from following grudgingly to fully appreciating the work shows emotional growth from the speaker's perspective.
"but there's no place like London... "
why yes, that is a Johnny Depp/Sweeney Todd quote. thanks for noticing:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xrt7-Xu2Fk
I actually feel that the song I've referenced here pairs nicely with the theme of William Blake's "London". Blake seems to have a rather dark and cynical view of London and the people in it. As a whole, London does not provide a very pleasant atmosphere. The people bear "marks of weakness, marks of woe" 4 and each voice is a "cry". In "the hapless Soldier's sigh" there is ruin. The "marriage hearse" brings "blights and plagues". In no way does the author present London in a pleasant manner. In fact, it's just the opposite. In the Sweeney Todd song, London is "filled with people who are filled with [excrement] and the vermin of the world inhabit it." This tone of cynicism is quite apparent throughout. the speaker in the poem sees the darkness that London brings out and it is so overwhelming that he can see little else. Darkness and unpleasantness are definitely tones in this particular piece.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6xrt7-Xu2Fk
I actually feel that the song I've referenced here pairs nicely with the theme of William Blake's "London". Blake seems to have a rather dark and cynical view of London and the people in it. As a whole, London does not provide a very pleasant atmosphere. The people bear "marks of weakness, marks of woe" 4 and each voice is a "cry". In "the hapless Soldier's sigh" there is ruin. The "marriage hearse" brings "blights and plagues". In no way does the author present London in a pleasant manner. In fact, it's just the opposite. In the Sweeney Todd song, London is "filled with people who are filled with [excrement] and the vermin of the world inhabit it." This tone of cynicism is quite apparent throughout. the speaker in the poem sees the darkness that London brings out and it is so overwhelming that he can see little else. Darkness and unpleasantness are definitely tones in this particular piece.
Monday, September 6, 2010
we're not arguing, we're having a heated discussion...
I've always sorta debated this topic of whether or not poetry can have one interpretation back and forth in my head. I've always felt that poetry was more of an interpretive thing, sorta like the Bible: most of the stories aren't really supposed to be taken literally. in fact, if they are taken verbatim we get a pretty screwey world out of it. usually, I'm okay with having a few different insights and interpretations of things. I don't need a set answer for everything. in fact, a small part of the reason that I do well in school is that I can write an answer that isn't exactly right, but it's close enough that it can be interpreted as the correct response.
so, even though my language-oriented brain encourages me to think that things are more interpretive and not set-in-stone answers, I see the logic in the argument that Perrine makes. while obviously there are some pieces of poetry that maybe have no significance or relevance to modern times, there are still central themes that must be interpreted. poetry isn't written for no reason. it almost always has an underlying purpose and interpretation that is waiting to be discovered. obviously some writers are more cryptic about it than others, but Perrine makes a good point:
the best interpretation is the one that can be most closely applied without stretching or leaving out any important details.
but notice, it's the best interpretation, not necessarily THE interpretation. it's like those pesky standardized test questions that say "choose the MOST CORRECT option". those are almost always the most difficult to get right because of the lack of definitive knowledge that yes, this answer is THE answer, and none of the rest could work. it's the same with interpreting poetry. I do agree with Perrine in that there is a way to correctly apply an interpretation without a lot of stretching and really having to squint to see how it works. I understand that perfectly. now, whether or not I could actually do it myself, I'm not sure. given his argument and proof, I see that there is a correct application, but I'm still not sure that there's only ONE interpretation. he hasn't gotten me convinced on that one yet.
so, even though my language-oriented brain encourages me to think that things are more interpretive and not set-in-stone answers, I see the logic in the argument that Perrine makes. while obviously there are some pieces of poetry that maybe have no significance or relevance to modern times, there are still central themes that must be interpreted. poetry isn't written for no reason. it almost always has an underlying purpose and interpretation that is waiting to be discovered. obviously some writers are more cryptic about it than others, but Perrine makes a good point:
the best interpretation is the one that can be most closely applied without stretching or leaving out any important details.
but notice, it's the best interpretation, not necessarily THE interpretation. it's like those pesky standardized test questions that say "choose the MOST CORRECT option". those are almost always the most difficult to get right because of the lack of definitive knowledge that yes, this answer is THE answer, and none of the rest could work. it's the same with interpreting poetry. I do agree with Perrine in that there is a way to correctly apply an interpretation without a lot of stretching and really having to squint to see how it works. I understand that perfectly. now, whether or not I could actually do it myself, I'm not sure. given his argument and proof, I see that there is a correct application, but I'm still not sure that there's only ONE interpretation. he hasn't gotten me convinced on that one yet.
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