Thursday, April 19, 2012
April 13th: Juxtaposition
Regret Me Not
when I abandon a full-time-job
for the garden shop position,
still going for $7.25 at Country Boys,
because you used to wanted it
at this moment. Don't abandon
family, regardless of how many
times they show up late, unless its
your wedding, and they didn't bring
wine. Absolutely, with no mistake,
let your ability to have fun with
cheap moments like rolling the window
down...disappear. And most important,
don't let your kids boss you around,
because your a southern woman,
and you require respect down to the last
crumb of pie.
when I abandon a full-time-job
for the garden shop position,
still going for $7.25 at Country Boys,
because you used to wanted it
at this moment. Don't abandon
family, regardless of how many
times they show up late, unless its
your wedding, and they didn't bring
wine. Absolutely, with no mistake,
let your ability to have fun with
cheap moments like rolling the window
down...disappear. And most important,
don't let your kids boss you around,
because your a southern woman,
and you require respect down to the last
crumb of pie.
April 9th: Dramatic Monologue
Dramatic Monologue
If only she truly spent time
with me, if only she had the
chance to know me! Oh, how
those round tables would turn,
and turn, and soon enough, it'd
be much like the wheel of fortune!
Oh yes! No more long nights in
front of the microwave, waiting on
my single serve Hungry Man Meal,
I'd be cooking from the cookbooks,
were it her I called my lady, and oh, she is.
We'd be two peas in a pod,
dancing under the willows and getting
our pictures taken by the roses. How
lovely companionship will be, (yet I still
must meet her.)
If only she truly spent time
with me, if only she had the
chance to know me! Oh, how
those round tables would turn,
and turn, and soon enough, it'd
be much like the wheel of fortune!
Oh yes! No more long nights in
front of the microwave, waiting on
my single serve Hungry Man Meal,
I'd be cooking from the cookbooks,
were it her I called my lady, and oh, she is.
We'd be two peas in a pod,
dancing under the willows and getting
our pictures taken by the roses. How
lovely companionship will be, (yet I still
must meet her.)
April 11th: Metonymy and Synecdoche
A Dining Room
The chair heaved a step forward,
drawn to the center piece on the table.
Without the dust, the fruits were
still breath-takingly attractive, sighing
this way and that, playing coy as they
glinted in the kitchen lights.
"It's a match!" the owner cried out
at the furniture home store, wobbling in
excitement. When they settled in the table
and tired chairs, all that was left to do
was to stare at one another, and admire
their mannerisms. The family, much to
the table set and fruit bowl's demise
were not close, and ate in front of the TV set.
The chair heaved a step forward,
drawn to the center piece on the table.
Without the dust, the fruits were
still breath-takingly attractive, sighing
this way and that, playing coy as they
glinted in the kitchen lights.
"It's a match!" the owner cried out
at the furniture home store, wobbling in
excitement. When they settled in the table
and tired chairs, all that was left to do
was to stare at one another, and admire
their mannerisms. The family, much to
the table set and fruit bowl's demise
were not close, and ate in front of the TV set.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
April 10th: Allusion
The poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T S Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
The significance of the Michelangelo allusion is intentional with the fact that J. Alfred Prufrock doesn't understand how the woman in the gathering room could be interested in him when they are discussing such a famous man. This impacts the theme of the poem because of the theme of loneliness and alienation the main character feels and also his inadequacy with all things, not just his confidence around women.
April 8th: Extended Metaphor
The Dead Weather
Industry–cotton–blooms,
briars scratch the children.
Patches of smeared red flowers
stain the back of dusty hands.
A buttoned boy with brass handles
rides past the mill, lifts a lip
at the girl without shoes.
The snow in her greasy hair.
The ring is held behind her back.
The scum with nine fingers holds
her shoulders. He will marry her
in two weeks, under the tracks
and shrieking steel. The river gurgles.
From the bridge the girl’s feet
He would braid her hair only to unbraid it.
The train moaned above the cracked
The train moaned above the cracked
sky, above the trees. The mill girl walked,
and he grabbed his brass handles.
Pearled earrings and red lips
drain hot tea and a man
with buttons turns his back to
tinkling laughter–outside
the window his property of
white globes is catching the dust.
Copyright 2010, Hannah Toke.
This poem is an extended metaphor of social differences and boundaries in the early 1900's, when status and class was everything to society, and love was not for those who didn't want to go with the flow of wealth or poverty.
April 7th: Modern Verse
BLACKBERRIES
The birthing scream uncoiled
across the grass, catching in our throats,
in our blackberry purple fingertips. We came from the fields scratched and brown
buckets of berries under our arms.
My baby sister was born covered in clotted milk, and we stood wide eyed
at the edge of the room, clenching our buckets in our fists
Through the window, the August sun turned dust motes to flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room.
Father tied the eerie blue cord with a string,
and we buried the placenta beneath the cherry tree. * * * "Blackberries." Copyright © 1999 by Gabriele Hayden So, basically I am in love with this poem because of the style it is written in. The southern gothic aspects of this piece reflect my own style of writing, and I absolutely am obsessed with the time period, which seeing as the agricultural farm of this family is the focal point, was quite some time ago. Yet, here we are, trapped within a very unsettling and bright moment in which a child is born still. The sadness of the situation is unnoticed by the loveliness of the tone, the loftiness of the lines, for instance, "flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room," is a beautiful image that glorifies the despairing moment. The ability to begin a poem with, "The birthing scream," is talent: not only does this draw you in with a sudden visual of a child uncoiling across the grass, all bloodied and purple, but it also is NOISE, and a great deal of it. The blackberry being tied in color to the baby is cleverly done, giving milk a feminine aspect and nurturing aspect to the mother, whose milk will soon dry and waste away. I also enjoy the fact that everyone witnessing the event is shocked, still clutching blackberry buckets in their stunned stupor. Such tragedy laced in such a devastatingly beautiful and colorful poem; I love it.
across the grass, catching in our throats,
in our blackberry purple fingertips. We came from the fields scratched and brown
buckets of berries under our arms.
My baby sister was born covered in clotted milk, and we stood wide eyed
at the edge of the room, clenching our buckets in our fists
Through the window, the August sun turned dust motes to flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room.
Father tied the eerie blue cord with a string,
and we buried the placenta beneath the cherry tree. * * * "Blackberries." Copyright © 1999 by Gabriele Hayden So, basically I am in love with this poem because of the style it is written in. The southern gothic aspects of this piece reflect my own style of writing, and I absolutely am obsessed with the time period, which seeing as the agricultural farm of this family is the focal point, was quite some time ago. Yet, here we are, trapped within a very unsettling and bright moment in which a child is born still. The sadness of the situation is unnoticed by the loveliness of the tone, the loftiness of the lines, for instance, "flecks of gold, and flung light through the cream walled room," is a beautiful image that glorifies the despairing moment. The ability to begin a poem with, "The birthing scream," is talent: not only does this draw you in with a sudden visual of a child uncoiling across the grass, all bloodied and purple, but it also is NOISE, and a great deal of it. The blackberry being tied in color to the baby is cleverly done, giving milk a feminine aspect and nurturing aspect to the mother, whose milk will soon dry and waste away. I also enjoy the fact that everyone witnessing the event is shocked, still clutching blackberry buckets in their stunned stupor. Such tragedy laced in such a devastatingly beautiful and colorful poem; I love it.
April 6th: Specificity
Summer of 1967: Expelled Indefinitely
Daniel came home draped in flannel,
a cigarette filter tucked behind his ear.
You watch him from the porch––
let the wind chime drown his voice.
Remember the way weight molded
your bodies into the grass fields,
only to be blown back into the current of winds.
In the Ford, octopus vines grab rust.
You still smell the tattered skin bench,
the warm tang of beer on his breath.
“You’re the one,” you recall in your ear.
He never will let you drive the truck
without wheels. You, the passenger,
were the oil and he the vinegar that rushed,
rushed through––settled low in your gut.
Rough hands brace against the fence post,
brown dirt under his finger nails.
A mocking bird sings behind his left ear,
like the girl in his car, fiddling with his radio.
She is you, three years ago––captivated.
The screen door clacks behind you,
and you welcome the scent of apple pie,
relishing in the knowledge that
soon, he will teach her how to fall.
Also, COPYRIGHT 2011
Also, COPYRIGHT 2011
April 5th: Sympathy
"Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Title: "Sympathy," is a title that implies deep sadness in an already settled situation one empathizes for.
Paraphrase: The narrator realizes the bird's desires for freedom. He uses the visual and descriptions of a warm sun, a flowing river, and blossoms to show what the bird is missing out on, and desperately wants to be a part of. The narrator then shifts to the more sad reality of the bird, describing the creatures suffering in the cage as he can only watch the world through bars and futile, attempt to escape despite the hurt and pain of it. Lastly, the realization is made that the bird's song is directed at heaven in a prayer.
Form: It is based on a traditional ABAABCC rhyme scheme and conforms to the structure of a locked in poem, much alike the locked up bird.
Diction: Painful and damaging word choice using words such as: pain, sore, throb, etc.
Imagery: The natural environment around the cage is beautiful and glorious, reflecting a life to be desired
POV: The poem is told from the POV of an observer of the caged bird. He is able to describe what the bird feels and what is happening to the bird from afar. First person omniscient.
Details: Repetition is found in the poem often to emphasize the "I" and aloneness of the bird.
Allusions: ---
Symbolism: Cage=societal and emotional barriers. Bird=oppressed life or the author, in this case.
FL: "Stirs soft" alliteration. "Like a stream of glass" simile
Attitude: Sympathetic (as title so kindly points out) yet resigned.
Shifts: occur as the speaker gets more and more in depth with the birds treatment/situation or in other words, each stanza continually.
Title: Represents the whole poem's intent of describing a sympathetic misdoing in life
theme: freedom
1) The caged bird is unhappy because it wishes to obtain freedom but is stuck in captivity.
2) The scene shows how amazing the world is outside the cage's bars, and shows us what the bird is obviously missing out on.
3) At first, the bird is viewing the outer natural world beyond the cage, and we realize it desires to be free. Then, we see that the bird is tortured as he is trapped in a cage he cannot stop from attempting to escape. It hurts himself, and reveals the pain it feels. Lastly, we understand that the bird is all the while praying to heaven for freedom, and for release. The progression is that we get closer and closer to the bird, until we are within the birds thoughts and mind.
4) The bird and the speaker share a sense of entrapment, and are behind a barrier of their "freedom." Both relate to each others feelings and situation.
Title: "Sympathy," is a title that implies deep sadness in an already settled situation one empathizes for.
Paraphrase: The narrator realizes the bird's desires for freedom. He uses the visual and descriptions of a warm sun, a flowing river, and blossoms to show what the bird is missing out on, and desperately wants to be a part of. The narrator then shifts to the more sad reality of the bird, describing the creatures suffering in the cage as he can only watch the world through bars and futile, attempt to escape despite the hurt and pain of it. Lastly, the realization is made that the bird's song is directed at heaven in a prayer.
Form: It is based on a traditional ABAABCC rhyme scheme and conforms to the structure of a locked in poem, much alike the locked up bird.
Diction: Painful and damaging word choice using words such as: pain, sore, throb, etc.
Imagery: The natural environment around the cage is beautiful and glorious, reflecting a life to be desired
POV: The poem is told from the POV of an observer of the caged bird. He is able to describe what the bird feels and what is happening to the bird from afar. First person omniscient.
Details: Repetition is found in the poem often to emphasize the "I" and aloneness of the bird.
Allusions: ---
Symbolism: Cage=societal and emotional barriers. Bird=oppressed life or the author, in this case.
FL: "Stirs soft" alliteration. "Like a stream of glass" simile
Attitude: Sympathetic (as title so kindly points out) yet resigned.
Shifts: occur as the speaker gets more and more in depth with the birds treatment/situation or in other words, each stanza continually.
Title: Represents the whole poem's intent of describing a sympathetic misdoing in life
theme: freedom
1) The caged bird is unhappy because it wishes to obtain freedom but is stuck in captivity.
2) The scene shows how amazing the world is outside the cage's bars, and shows us what the bird is obviously missing out on.
3) At first, the bird is viewing the outer natural world beyond the cage, and we realize it desires to be free. Then, we see that the bird is tortured as he is trapped in a cage he cannot stop from attempting to escape. It hurts himself, and reveals the pain it feels. Lastly, we understand that the bird is all the while praying to heaven for freedom, and for release. The progression is that we get closer and closer to the bird, until we are within the birds thoughts and mind.
4) The bird and the speaker share a sense of entrapment, and are behind a barrier of their "freedom." Both relate to each others feelings and situation.
April 4th: Ekphrastic Poem
Rachele Mussolini’s Restaurant
Mussolini’s widow Rachele returned to Predappio after the war and ran a restaurant. (Benito Mussolini and His Survivors, Josephine Cowdery)
She thrusts her hands into slick noodles,
tomato chunks sifting through fat fingers,
clinging to her wrists,
staining the white apron red.
Outside the open window, an overgrown planter
blocks the sun. She tears tips of basic from the top--
the kitchen grows bright.
The thick blade glints as she chops;
the damp thatch sinks into the bowl. She
grates parmesan cheese, and watches it melt
into the simmering red. She delivers the pasta
to her hungry paisans.
The portrait shows Rachele's appearance before the end of the war, and her husband's death. I like the fact that this is what she looked like prior to the resignation of owning a restaurant, (a small one at that) after being disowned by her own country. The colors of the poem, red, white, and green represent Italy and the aggressive nature of the actions are the suppressed emotions of her post the trauma of her dictator husband's murder and her fall in society.
April 3rd: AP Prompts: "Blackberry Picking"
“Blackberry-Picking,” by Seamus Heaney not only literally describes the act of picking berries each year, but also serves as a comparison to the realities in life, light and dark through his usage of symbolism, imagery, diction, and form.
Heaney does a wonderful job of blending in sneaky symbols in a very image and sensory driven poem by merging both the image and the symbol and diction in his lines. With the berries, we are presented with youth and the promise of an expectation being fulfilled: the ripened, harvest ready fruit. Not only are the berries such, they also represent a “glimmer of hope” (Shmoop).
Berries themselves are a pleasing thing to hear, and the reader is given the pleasure of experience and flavor with the word. Also the Spring brings with it the unripe and fresh fruit, giving the parallel metaphor of life with one’s inexperience and promise within. In the lines 7-8, though, the metaphor shifts to the desires in life, the things one lusts for and at such a young age, cannot resist. The sadness in the symbolism is that the berries also symbolize gluttony and greed because the berries youthful and desirable qualities simply cannot last forever, but is desired to be eternal and perfect, like that of a humans desire to remain young, beautiful, and ever lasting.
The diction and imagery in the poem, while closely aligned with the symbolism of the poem, stands out on its own, however. Words are easily picked up on within the first few lines, such as, “glossy purple clot” and “flesh” which illustrate a harsher view on the berry. One is unable to resist thinking of blood, bruising, and shiny skin. Damage, ultimately, and aging. This allows the parallel of life to be replaced in the berries position, showing that despite the “lust” and excitement of the fresh fruit and the anticipation of its ripeness, the change and altering of time and natures toll will be known.
Finally, the form of the poem is rigidly traditional, using rhymed lines in iambic pentameter to control the images and tone of the piece. The meter is represented through two uneven stanzas of iambic pentameter and the rhyme is unnatural, but successful none the less such as in the familiar sounds of “Sun” and Ripe-un” in the next. Heaney is a master of this form of rhyme, and uses it throughout the poem.
The poem “Blackberry-Picking” illustrates that Seamus Heaney had a very realistic, rational ability to reflect on life and its unpredictability. He used the blackberries to show that a well liked thing can be viewed both lightly and darkly in one poem to show the light and the dark in life’s situations. Doing so, he demonstrated his ability to control diction, symbolism, imagery, and form to represent life successfully through blackberries.
April 2nd: Metapoetry
Correspondence
I'm partial to this new custom
of letter exchange; by now,
his address on the front of envelopes
scrawls with the ease of a breath.
I lick the seal and find comfort in the taste.
I know the poem holds a day-and-a-half
of pleasure. Like a glass of sweetened tea,
soon the words slip away--the sugar
leaves him tired, ready to close the book.
We call this a new chapter in life.
He's moved on from the last few weeks,
started to look at the pamphlets his mother
has left by the fridge. From his last
letter, I know she uses Hershey Kisses
as paper weights for more
than just convenience.
In the next letter I send, I fold in a copy
of the songs we used to listen to.
I know he remembers the pronounced drum beats
when the words "Everlasting Last"
curled out of the radio--he knew to look
to his right, where I sat ready
to share eyes.
*COPYRIGHT 2011
I'm partial to this new custom
of letter exchange; by now,
his address on the front of envelopes
scrawls with the ease of a breath.
I lick the seal and find comfort in the taste.
I know the poem holds a day-and-a-half
of pleasure. Like a glass of sweetened tea,
soon the words slip away--the sugar
leaves him tired, ready to close the book.
We call this a new chapter in life.
He's moved on from the last few weeks,
started to look at the pamphlets his mother
has left by the fridge. From his last
letter, I know she uses Hershey Kisses
as paper weights for more
than just convenience.
In the next letter I send, I fold in a copy
of the songs we used to listen to.
I know he remembers the pronounced drum beats
when the words "Everlasting Last"
curled out of the radio--he knew to look
to his right, where I sat ready
to share eyes.
April 1st: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins
The metaphors I found in each stanza are:
-stanza one: a metaphor of a color slide demonstrating the need to scrutinize a poem
-stanza two: a metaphor of a beehive in order to show the delicacy and intricacy of the content, to show that one should be open minded and thoughtful when reading it
-stanza three: a metaphor of a mouse navigating through the piece, to show “layered” and complex levels of the poem, meaning spend time with the piece, think in different mindsets to admire it
-stanza four: a metaphor of a dark room, to show the need for light or recognition of “what makes it work and how”
-stanza five: a metaphor of waterskiing to demonstrate that there is a need of appreciation and simply, fun when reading a poem.
The metaphors I found allow the author to express his great concern for the manner in which poems are handled in both the work and school environment today. People are now “beating it with a hose” our of stress and pressures at school. The poems are not given the chance they would normally have in an open minded situation outside of a required school environment.
April 1st: Defining Poetry
Poetry is a way of telling stories, without the need for public eyes. It is a form of communication for those who cannot describe something as abstract as the emotion love, or sadness, or joy. The poem is an outlet in which people can bond and make connections, both in their passion of words, literature, and their passion of creating work. It doesn’t have to be a painting, or a sculpture, or a garden bed; a poem is what you feel needs spoken, or conveyed on a basis that others, including oneself, can better understand. My favorite manner of examining what poetry is to look at it as if it were a picture of the senses, not just one sense of sight. It is a beautiful way of making memories permanent, and secure, at least in the emotions one feels while reading the piece.
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