I'm so sorry...

Epitaph on a Tyrant
W. H. Auden

http://poetry.rapgenius.com/W-h-auden-epitaph-on-a-tyrant-annotated

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

Auden was a 20th century poet. His style was that of a modernist, but he wasn't known for his conforming to labels. His life was interrupted by WW2 and his writings were split before and after the war on either side of the Atlantic. 

This poem centralizes around the idea of how the tyrant interacts with the world around him which is a common subject of modernist poems. The process of tyranny appears to be mechanized. It isn't a series of human choices, but rather an equation that is followed.

In my analysis of this poem I feel that Auden, who survived WW2, is more than likely refer to Adolf Hitler. Hitler a very prevalent tyrant at the time. This is evident from the descriptions of the tyrant's actions. When things were good those clinging to power (senators) laughed along with him, but when Hitler's empire began to crumble the innocent felt the weight of his actions. The discussion of armed forces would also be a likely allusion to Hitler. The poetry of the Tyrant is the artful propaganda that allowed the tyrant presumably Hitler to rise to power on the backs of plebeians enjoying pretty pictures.

Dearest Whitman...

Celia http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/celia-2/



Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
Yet Celia's face is seventeen;
Thus winter in her breast must live,
While summer in her face is seen.

How cruel Celia's fate, who hence
Our heart's devotion cannot try;
Too pretty for our reverence,
Too ancient for our gallantry!

Alexander Pope

Alexander Pope was an Augustan poet and this poem follows the patterns one would expect of an Augustan poem. He was known for his work with classical translations and bore the nickname"The Wicked Wasp of Twickenham" for his literary satires that were noted to be rather "stinging".  He employs paradox in the youth and age of Celia. This is a humorous approach to the subject matter. His description of her age also seems to be an implication of her life's frailty because of her ability to be young and old all at once, implying a short existence. 

Celia is known to be elderly, but she has a young face which would imply a sense of innocence. This is contrasted with the winter in her breast which would signify a hardening of her heart. This hardening would convey an experienced life of pain and struggles, but she doesn't show that she's been hurt because summer is seen in he face. Her fate is cruel because we can't appreciate her struggles; they are unseen to the speaker. In contrast, she has still had all those experiences despite their hidden nature making her inaccessible to the youths that surround her.

The Agony of Christ

In the Catholic church, the Agony of Christ refers to his time in the Garden of Gethsemani, just before Judas came leading the priests and elders of the temple. After telling the disciples to wait behind and not to fall into temptation, Jesus began to pray and had a vision from an angel. He "experienced an agony," presumably in his soul, and sweat began to fall to the ground in the form of drops of blood. (This is considered to be a literal process, as opposed to figurative, in the Catholic church.)

And now, for the agony of Henry Clay High School!
The hallways. Of course. Everyone who has ever set foot in this school would agree that the hallways of this school are the worst part of Henry Clay. Traveling to classes, particularly in that one intersection in the downstairs orange hallway (the Mr. Pope side, not the Mrs. Cabble side), is a claustrophobic experience and should not be repeated at any other point in one's life.
The other things that have bothered me the most throughout high school have been more typical high school things and less specifically Henry Clay things. For instance, I don't like having such petty rules like being required to have a pass to go to the library--it's always seemed to silly to me, because if someone were going to skip school, they would have left school or gone to a different class, not gone to the library. Perhaps this bothers me the most now because I know that next year I will have an immense amount of freedom, but currently I still have to ask if I'm allowed to use the restroom. It feels petty and restricting, and I'm greatly looking forward to having so much more freedom next year.

Sonnet

"What tongue can her perfections tell,
In whose each part all pens may dwell?
Her hair fine threads of finest gold,
In curled knots man’s thought to hold:
But that her forehead says, “In me
A whiter beauty you may see”;
Whiter indeed, more white than snow,
Which on cold winter’s face doth grow.
That doth present those even brows
Whose equal line their angles bows,
Like to the moon when after change
Her horned head abroad doth range;
And arches be to heavenly lids,
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.
For the black stars those spheres contain,
The matchless pair, even praise doth stain."

Sir Philip Sidney

This sonnet is a Blazon. Another type of a Petrarchian sonnet. A Blazon is a sonnet that catalogs the features or traits of its subject, usually a woman, and describes them using hyperbole, metaphor, or simile. I chose this sonnet because I had never heard of the Blazon sonnet and this was the example from the PowerPoint. In Sir Philip Sidney's blazon he is praising a woman's beauty. By using the Blazon form he was able to catalog her body into different sections and then praise each body part separately.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Harlem Renaissance- The First Half of the 20th Century, after World War 1.

"We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
       We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
       We wear the mask!"

This is a perfect poem displaying the emotions of the African-American race of that time.
It has a repetitive structure and it rhymes and kind of has a swing to it like a jazz or blues song.

This poem is about how African-Americans must mask their real emotions because they must conform to what the World thinks of African Americans. 

What a lovely song

"You belong with me" by Steven Curtis Chapman is a love song that employs metaphor mostly. The extended metaphor of comparing his woman and himself to Tarzan and Jane and plenty of other little metaphors for good measure. Each of these metaphors like the light and dark or the land and sea metaphors emphasize the extreme differences between the two of them, but also each choice depicts two things that are both neccesry and intertwined. The waves crash upon the beach, night turns to day, and the sun shines through the rain clouds. Despite their differences they are both part of a whole. Together they provide the balance so readily prevelant in our natural world. Chapmans's assertion is that he and his lady were ment to be together. They are the real life manifestation of all the people shipping (not human trafficking) that exists between Tarzan and Jane. They are the perfect blending of opposites. This use of metaphor through the allusion to Tarzan and Jane makes the assertion easy to accept. If he is night and she's day and all these other things are true it seems perfectly natural that the two of them are meant to be together.

Percy Jackson & The Olympians: Medusa (bad hair day every day)

One of my favorite book series of all time is Perseus Jackson & The Olympians. In the First Book, the main character, Percy Jackson fights Medusa and defeats her by using his phone as a mirror and cuts her head off. Which is exactly similar to the original greek myth, in which, the greek hero Perseus uses his shield as a mirror to decapitate Medusa and when she died a horse sprang from her body. But I started the story at the end, now let me tell the beginning. Medusa and her sisters, the Gorgons, were very beautiful but Medusa was the most beautiful. She caught the eye of the Sea God, Poseidon. Poseidon courted Medusa and they went to Athena's temple to do the "shake & bake." This angered Athena alot and she chased them out of the temple putting a curse on Medusa and turning her into the ugliest woman alive, a monster. Medusa's hair was turned into snakes and if she looked into your eyes you would turn into stone.

Being a part of the African American community HAIR is a very BIG thing. Hair allows a person to be unique. There is so much you can do with hair, and not every hairstyle is for every person. Black people to hair is like white people to pets. We spend so much time, money, and effort with our hair. And you CAIN'T touch it!

Super late Anne Sexton analysis

Anne Sexton wrote during the “confessional period” of poetry during the 1950’s. This style of poetry was very personal and, as you might surmise, confessional. If you’re familiar with Sylvia Plath’s style of writing, you know the kind. It focused on topics that were at that time controversial, such as depression, mental illness, suicide and thoughts of death, sexuality, and so on.

“Her Kind” is one of Sexton’s most famous poems, published in 1960:

I have gone out, a possessed witch,

haunting the black air, braver at night;

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

over the plain houses, light by light:

lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,

filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,

closets, silks, innumerable goods;

fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:

whining, rearranging the disaligned.

A woman like that is misunderstood.

I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,

waved my nude arms at villages going by,

learning the last bright routes, survivor

where your flames still bite my thigh

and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.

A woman like that is not ashamed to die.

I have been her kind.

As you can see, this poem embodies much of the sentiment common throughout confessional poetry: gloominess, the welcoming of death, so on. The diction is strong, vivid, and dark: “haunting,” “evil,” “ribs crack[ed],” “witch,” “black air,” “twelve-fingered,” and the like. Sexton suffered from depression herself, so as we can plainly observe, the poem reflects much of the darkness built up within her own heart. Her illness spurred extreme thoughts of violence that came not quite out of herself but out of the darkness inhabiting her mind. She describes herself as a haunting, “possessed witch,” “dreaming evil;” a “lonely thing” “out of mind.” Those suffering from depression and extremely low self-esteem often have these types of thoughts about themselves; they imagine themselves as horrific, lonesome monsters, taken over by something they are unable to control, as not entirely human anymore: “a woman like that is not a woman, quite.” During this time period, women were still expected to be delicate and innocent of mind, and as Sexton reflects, her illness permitted her to be neither of these things. Truly, she did not fit in with the fold, as she reminds us several times; she has made living in “warm caves in the woods,” separate from people, “misunderstood.” She doesn't fit in with what is expected of her as a woman, as we can gleam from the line “fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves;” she didn't perform this wifely duty for a man, but rather for the worms in the forest—she is isolated, an outcast not fit to conform to her expected station as the perfect, chipper wife. She seems disassociated with herself, as though she were a ghost watching her body go through motions, not entirely attached to it, using both the first and third person to describe her actions. In the final stanza she personifies a witch on her way to be burned alive. Her being different caused life to hunt her down like a witch, persecuting her and sentencing her to death. Sexton’s illness more than likely made her unable to function normally with others and follow accepted social conventions, so she felt that life was out to condemn and torture her. But she’s not ashamed of who she is; she is not “ashamed to die.” This death by fire most likely refers to her own imagined suicide, and indeed, Sexton would later go on to end her own life. She knows she was born different, and she’s not ashamed of that, nor is she ashamed of choosing to walk to the grave. With the repeated line “I have been her kind,” she identifies herself with an archetype of woman she believes is not limited only to herself. She is the kin of these ostracized women, these women who don’t quite fit in with what their roles prescribe them to be, these persecuted women who can’t seem to adjust properly to their places in life’s mold. This deep, dark confession embodies the essence of confessional literature: an expression of one’s hidden thoughts, of the darkness that inhabits the writer, rendering them unlike most others in society and unable to fit in as society would have them do.

John Ashbery

John Ashbery is an American poet who was born during the roaring twenties into the Modernist Era.
Modernist had questions of impersonality and objectivity, which can be seen in his poem Poem of the New Year.

Poem at the New Year

Once, out on the water in the clear, early nineteenth-century twilight,
you asked time to suspend its flight. If wishes could beget more than sobs,
that would be my wish for you, my darling, my angel. But other
principles prevail in this glum haven, don't they? If that's what it is.

Then the wind fell of its own accord.
We went out and saw that it had actually happened.
The season stood motionless, alert. How still the dropp was
on the burr I know not. I come all
packaged and serene, yet I keep losing things.

I wonder about Australia. Is it anything about Canada?
Do pigeons flutter? Is there a strangeness there, to complete
the one in me? Or must I relearn my filing system?
Can we trust others to indict us
who see us only in the evening rush hour,
and never stop to think? O, I was so bright about you,
my songbird, once. Now, cattails immolated
in the frozen swamp are about all I have time for.
The days are so polarized. Yet time itself is off center.
At least that's how it feels to me.

I know it as well as the streets in the map of my imagined
industrial city. But it has its own way of slipping past.
There was never any fullness that was going to be;
you waited in line for things, and the stained light was
impenitent. 'Spiky' was one adjective that came to mind,

yet for all its raised or lower levels I approach this canal.
Its time was right in winter. There was pipe smoke
in cafés, and outside the great ashen bird
streamed from lettered display windows, and waited
a little way off. Another chance. It never became a gesture. 

At first I hated this poem because of the lack of rhyme scheme thats just boring. But as I continued reading there was one line that really stuck out to me "Can we trust others to indict us who see us only in the evening rush hour, and never stop to think? O, I was so bright about you" I loved this line because everyone is guilty of a little road rage when someone cuts you off to make that turn, someone flys through  yellow, or they ride your tail. But we always assume the worst, that they are jerks and terrible drivers, but we never think of why they are in such a hurry, It could be a life and death situation if you want to go to extremes. We never think externally, all we do is care about ourselves and this line really connected to the modernist ways of writing. Also it connects to the New York School, through  it's interactions between people in the city. I also like how he quoted Gucci Mane by saying "Burr" that was pretty dope. I thought this poem was very imaginative, thunking of what other places in the world looked like, and how they compared to what his life is like. 

Oscar Wilde

The Symbolist era of literature boasted poets ranging from W.B. Yeats to T.S. Eliot to Oscar Wilde. Symbolist poetry relied heavily on aesthetics as symbols (surprise) of the state of the writer’s soul. Initially and on the surface, symbolist poetry doesn’t  appear to have any particular deep meaning, but most symbolist poetry isn’t written merely to describe pretty flowers; it is meant to have a genuine meaning obscured behind that initial layer of crypt. Dreams or dream-like states were featured prominently in symbolist poetry and art, and themes often included a comparison between sleeping and waking life. Symbolist poetry placed beauty and form over any sort of political objective; poets often attempted to make their poems sound “mellifluous” or similar to music.

“Symphony in Yellow” – Oscar Wilde

An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly,
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

Oscar Wilde’s poem “Symphony in Yellow” has plenty of that aestheticism we just talked about. As far as meaning goes, I honestly don’t know. I’m sorry for copping out. 

Barbara Guest

Barbara Guest 1920-2006

Barbara Guest was a member of a group called the New York school of poets, which was heavily influenced by modern art, like surrealism and abstract expressionism. Their works were made based on impulse, much like Jackson Pollock's impulsive art works. Because the New York School poets were influenced by surrealist art, there is a sense of the dream world in Barbara Guest's poem. There are underlying meanings to her words. Her style "often utilizes space as a way to draw attention to language."

"The Blue Stairs" 

There is no fear

in taking the first step

or the second

or the third

                                 having a position

                                 between several Popes

In fact the top

can be reached

without disaster

                                 precocious

The code

consists in noticing

the particular shade

of the staircase

                                 occasionally giving way

                                 to the emotions

It has been chosen

discriminately

To graduate

the dimensions

ease them into sight

                                 republic of space

Radiant deepness

a thumb

passed over it

                                 disarming

                                 as one who executes robbers

Waving the gnats

and the small giants

aside

                                 balancing

How to surprise

a community

by excellence

somehow it occurred

                                 living a public life

The original design

was completed

no one complained

In a few years

it was forgotten

                                 floating

It was framed

like any other work of art

not too ignobly

                                 kicking the ladder away

Now I shall tell you

why it is beautiful

Design: extraordinary

color:    cobalt blue

                                 secret platforms

Heels twist it

into shape

It has a fantastic area

made for a tread

that will ascend

Being humble

i.e. productive

Its purpose

is to take you upward

On an elevator

of human fingerprints

of the most delicate

fixity

Being practical

and knowing its denominator

To push

one foot ahead of the other

Being a composite

which sneers at marble

                                 all orthodox movements

It has discovered

in the creak of a footstep

the humility of sound

Spatially selective

using this counterfeit

of height

To substantiate

a method of progress

Reading stairs

as interpolation

in the problem of gradualness

                                 with heavy and pure logic

The master builder

acknowledges this

As do the artists

in their dormer rooms

                                 eternal banishment

Who are usually grateful

to anyone who prevents them

from taking a false step

And having reached the summit

would like to stay there

even if the stairs are withdrawn

Sorry sorry sorry I know that was long. But as mentioned previously, one of the first outstanding features of the poem is its structure. We can see the impulsivity in her work with the seemingly random arrangement of words. But the words do appear to be in a sort of stair shape, like each new stanza takes a step down, which I think we can assume to be intentional what with the title being "The Blue STAIRS" and all. The influence of abstract expressionism is also very evident in this poem with the sporadic placement of words. It seems like Barbara is just flinging words onto the page randomly just as Pollock would do with his paint. 

So for the poem itself, I think Barbara is mainly just talking about the symbolism of a staircase. Of how it symbolizes progress and ascension to better things in life. I'm sure it goes much deeper than that, but I may have been just the slightest bit thrown off by all the random words and phrases from the right-hand stanzas. 

http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/barbara-guest

Also here's a bit of a Jackson Pollock-the famous Abstract Expressionist- since I mentioned him so many times in this. (Also note the handprints on the top).

Gwendolyn Brooks

SADIE AND MAUD

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.

She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.

Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.

When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)

Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.


Gwendolyn Brooks was an African American poet and a member of the Black Arts Movement. Much of her poetry deals with civil rights issues and involves politically charged energy and intensity characteristic of this particular era. In this poem, entitled "Sadie and Maud," we see the spontaneous, life-living woman contrasted with her sister (presumably), the live-by-the-books woman who ends up "living all alone/In this old house." This could be inferred to represent the various sides of society--Sadie as the modern, independent, and possibly somewhat rebellious end of society as compared to the traditional, more easily scandalized end. Brooks clearly condoned the independence and motivation of the Sadies of society, and likely considered herself one--particularly in regard to civil rights issues.

Ferlinghetti

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/don-t-let-that-horse/

For my poet I basically just chose the person with the coolest sounding name and that happened to be Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He was an American poet born in 1919. His poetic movement was beat poetry. 

Don't let that horse

Don't let that horse
eat that violin

cried Chagall's mother

But he
kept right on
painting

And became famous

And kept on painting
The Horse With Violin In Mouth

And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin

And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across


And there were no strings
attached 

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I think that this poem was talking about how Chagall didn’t listen to what others said and how they said not to do it and he became a successful artist. The poem has not structure or even rhyme scheme. It also feels like a thought straight out of his head, unchanged, unedited. Which I feel is what he thinks people should be. 

Emily Dickinson

She does not look very hopeful.

In the sixth grade Mrs. Sims called me Emily Dickinson because I refused to read my poetry out loud. I was utterly offended but ever since then I have had a small fondness for Emily Dickinson. My sophomore year I was forced to memorize a poem in German but I rebelled and memorized one in English (too). I memorized Hope by Emily Dickinson. Although she wrote most of her poems during the Transcendentalist period, most of her poetry, including Hope, takes the form of the metaphysical period. Metaphysical poets like Andrew Marvel and others enchanted her, and she copied their style with her own “compressed wit and irony.”

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Much of her poetry was influenced by her upbringing in a Puritan New England town that encouraged Calvinist religions. Just like the Calvinist religion, her style tended to be preachy because of the influence the Bible and hymns had on her poetry. This poem also adheres to that structure. She preaches that hope is like a bird that remains at her side through the toughest times, and yet requires nothing of her. Dickinson’s wit shines through with her distinct word choice, especially with the word “abash” in the second stanza—a rather rough choice to describe the bird.

Charles Olson

I chose the poet Charles Olson (1910-1970). He was known as a part of the New American poets, among this group of poets was the Black Mountain School. Black Mountain poets were a group of poets cantered on Black Mountain College, they were also referred to as postmodern poets. The students who attended the Black Mountain College ended up being very influential later. All of the students share an interest in process over product. Olson is most famous for his collection of poems called "The Maximus Poems." There are over 300 so I chose one that I found interesting myself. This poem talks about the process of doing things, not what comes out of it. It talks more about "ingredients" of the products rather than the final product. In some stanzas, it seems as if it almost lists directions. For example, in the 2nd section, it says "the weight say, 58 carats each one of us, perforce our goldsmiths scale feather to feather added..." It is very descriptive, and so are a lot of other poems from this collection and from this time period.


I, Maximus of Gloucester, to You

Off-shore, by islands hidden in the blood
jewels & miracles, I, Maximus
a metal hot from boiling water, tell you
what is a lance, who obeys the figures of
the present dance

1
the thing you’re after
may lie around the bend
of the nest (second, time slain, the bird! the bird!
And there! (strong) thrust, the mast! flight
(of the bird
o kylix, o
Antony of Padua
sweep low, o bless

the roofs, the old ones, the gentle steep ones
on whose ridge-poles the gulls sit, from which they depart,

And the flake-racks
of my city!

2
love is form, and cannot be without
important substance (the weight
say, 58 carats each one of us, perforce
our goldsmith’s scale

feather to feather added
(and what is mineral, what
is curling hair, the string
you carry in your nervous beak, these

make bulk, these, in the end, are
the sum

(o my lady of good voyage
in whose arm, whose left arm rests
no boy but a carefully carved wood, a painted face, a schooner!
a delicate mast, as bow-sprit for

forwarding

3
the underpart is, though stemmed, uncertain
is, as sex is, as moneys are, facts!
facts, to be dealt with, as the sea is, the demand
that they be played by, that they only can be, that they must
be played by, said he, coldly, the
ear!

By ear, he sd.
But that which matters, that which insists, that which will last,
that! o my people, where shall you find it, how, where, where shall you listen
when all is become billboards, when, all, even silence, is spray-gunned?

when even our bird, my roofs,
cannot be heard

when even you, when sound itself is neoned in?

when, on the hill, over the water
where she who used to sing,
when the water glowed,
black, gold, the tide
outward, at evening

when bells came like boats
over the oil-slicks, milkweed
hulls

And a man slumped,
attentionless,
against pink shingles

o sea city)

4
one loves only form,
and form only comes
into existence when
the thing is born

born of yourself, born
of hay and cotton struts,
of street-pickings, wharves, weeds
you carry in, my bird

of a bone of a fish
of a straw, or will
of a color, of a bell
of yourself, torn

5
love is not easy
but how shall you know,
New England, now
that pejorocracy is here, how
that street-cars, o Oregon, twitter
in the afternoon offend
a black-gold loin?

how shall you strike,
o swordsman, the blue-red black
when, last night, your aim
was mu-sick, mu-sick, mu-sick
And not the cribbage game?

(o Gloucester-man,
weave
your birds and fingers
new, your roof-tops,
clean shit upon racks
sunned on
American
braid
with others like you, such
extricable surface
as faun and oral,
satyr lesbos vase

o kill kill kill kill kill
those
who advertise you
out)

6
in! in! the bow-sprit, bird, the beak
in, the bend is, in, goes in, the form
that which you make, what holds, which is
the law of object, strut after strut, what you are, what you must be, what
the force can throw up, can, right now hereinafter erect,
the mast, the mast, the tender
mast!
The nest, I say, to you, I Maximus, say
under the hand, as I see it, over the waters
from this place where I am, where I hear,
can still hear

from where I carry you a feather
as though, sharp, I picked up
in the afternoon delivered you
a jewel,
it flashing more than a wing,
than any old romantic thing,
than memory, than place,
than anything other than that which you carry
than that which is,
call it a nest, around the head of, call it
the next second
than that which you
can do!

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176950

"Digging" by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it. 

Seamus Heaney's poems tended to combine elements from his heritage in northern Ireland and the landscape of the area in order to demonstrate what he thought it meant to be Irish or to be a writer. He reflected his identity through his use of imagery and his description of the rural areas. This can be seen in one of his most popular poems, "Digging" where the speaker talks of what his father and grandmother before him did and are doing, and how that reflects upon himself. He sees his writing as his way of continuing the hard work that his family did themselves. He uses the imagery of his father digging in the garden and the hard work that he puts into it, and then relates it to how he identifies himself, commenting of his writing that he'll "dig with it." In this way he tries to show how he is continuing in the same vein as his forebears - though what he does outwardly is different, he carries the same spirit within him to work.

(I don't suppose I wrote down what type of poet he was, so I simply pointed out what he typically wrote about and how this was one of his typical poems as said by the document, since he was included under "other notable poets" on that sheet)

Also, Seamus Heaney died last year on August 30th, so he's a fairly recent poet. (also it's really sad that he died just last year like wow he did live for 74 years but still man wow death)

Denise Levertov

The poet I chose was one I'd never heard of before (which probably isn't saying much) by the name of Denise Levertov. She was born in 1923, and wrote many books of poetry. The poem I chose is from her book O Taste And See: New Poems, which was published in 1964 and featured a lot of her more feminist writing. The poem is called "The Secret"(http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178477):

The Secret

BY DENISE LEVERTOV

Two girls discover   

the secret of life   

in a sudden line of   

poetry.

I who don’t know the   

secret wrote   

the line. They   

told me

(through a third person)   

they had found it

but not what it was   

not even

what line it was. No doubt   

by now, more than a week   

later, they have forgotten   

the secret,

the line, the name of   

the poem. I love them   

for finding what   

I can’t find,

and for loving me   

for the line I wrote,   

and for forgetting it   

so that

a thousand times, till death   

finds them, they may   

discover it again, in other   

lines

in other   

happenings. And for   

wanting to know it,   

for

assuming there is   

such a secret, yes,   

for that   

most of all.

This poem was one I really liked, because it details something I actually do enjoy about poetry. Levertov uses fleeting stanzas and a motif of discovery to emphasize that the best thing about poetry is finding out an important truth over and over again. The stanzas are broken up because it relates back to her message. She enjoys the fact that as a poet, people can find messages even she didn't know were in there, and that even when they discover these truths, they are fleeting; "more than a week / later, they have forgotten / the secret" is, surprisingly, what Levertov loves about writing poetry. The repetition of the word "find" helps emphasize the message as well. The almost excessive use of "find" makes the reader believe that poetry is all about finding, about digging deeper into what subliminal messages could possibly exist. I agree with Levertov on this front, because I think it's cool to see people find things in your writing that you didn't see when you wrote it, whish is why I liked this poem so much.

Robert Creely- "America"

America

America, you ode for reality!
Give back the people you took.

Let the sun shine again
on the four corners of the world

you thought of first but do not
own, or keep like a convenience.

People are your own word, you
invented that locus and term.

Here, you said and say, is
where we are. Give back

what we are, these people you made,
us, and nowhere but you to be. 

Robert Creeley

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/america/

Picture of Robert Creely 

(http://peaceandwarpoetics.wikispaces.com/Robert+Creeley)

Robert Creely is a member of the Black Mountain movement of poetry. The only real criteria of this movement is that the poets were all taught at Black Mountain College in Black Mountain, North Carolina. Also, poems of this period have an focus of process over product. Creely's poem "America" follows along with these requirements; he criticizes the process of the United States government. Lines like "America, you ode for reality" and " People are your own word, you invented that locus and term" show the dislike of America. There are several tones throughout the poem; it is criticizing, demanding, and a little sarcastic. It especially related to the Black Mountain movement because the speaker disapproves of the process of the American government, but not necessarily the product. I believe that he still thinks America is a great country that does lots of great things, but there are fundamental errors within the government that need to be resolved.  

Howl - Allen Ginsberg

The poet I chose was Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) who was part of the Postmodern movement in poetry. His most famous poem, "Howl", I would shave included but it is far too long so you can find the link here.

Postmodernism developed in the second half of the 20th century and shared many of the same concerns and motivations of the modernists. However, they often took these principles to a much different end. Many postmodern poems often feature parody, irony, and narrative instability which inform the tone. Allusions to popular culture are just as likely to be made as allusions to classics. Traditional concepts and forms are often ignored and questioned. There is no unifying theme in the movement, ideas spread across a vast spectrum. And the surface is often more interesting to postmodern artists than any ideas of depth.

Smaller sub-movements within the same time period as the postmodern movement exist but are often in conflict with the postmodern groups. One such group was the Beatniks, of which Ginsberg was part. The Beats were a post-WWII phenomenon and their specific brand of poetry focused more son hallucinogenic, visionary, anti-establishment art. They often del a deep connection to nature and their tone could be anything from satirical to angry, as well as tender and meditative. Another aspect of such poetry was the fact that politics directly informed many of these poets, either through specific references to gov. members or to issues of importance.

"Howl" is a great example of postmodern poetry because of the very fact that the US government considered this work of poetry obscene and believed that it should be kept out of public hands. Another reason as to why this poem falls under the postmodern label (although many 'postmodern' poets fervently rejected that label) is because of the topics it covers. These topics include madness, sex, drugs, politics, war, religion, and so on (making it clear as to why the gov. wanted this poem out of public eyes.) Among those topics, a strong emphasis is placed on madness. Ginsberg describes madness in such a way that it seems to be an elevated hallucinogenic state with terrifying visions. Further, it is Ginsberg's form that also enhance that theme. Howl discomposed of three sections (each focusing on a different topic)  and 112 lines, however his actual sentences form more of prose paragraphs than actual sentences. Thus, this tendency to create run-on sentences that resembles strings of thoughts also demonstrates just how postmodern this poem is. Sporadically placed about are images of dreams and madness and the destruction of "the best minds" of [his] generation -- all of which amounts to the postmodern practice of having no real center in poetry.

John Dryden

John Dryden

1631-1700

Marriage a-la-Mode

Why should a foolish marriage vow,

         Which long ago was made,

Oblige us to each other now

         When passion is decay'd?

We lov'd, and we lov'd, as long as we could,

         Till our love was lov'd out in us both:

But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:

         'Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

If I have pleasures for a friend,

         And farther love in store,

What wrong has he whose joys did end,

         And who could give no more?

'Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me,

         Or that I should bar him of another:

For all we can gain is to give our selves pain,

         When neither can hinder the other.

 

John Dryden is considered one of the greatest poets and playwrights of the 17th century. As a poet he is most famous for his satirical poems, however his poem Marriage a-la-Mode fits under both categories of Augustan poetry, satire and politics. First, the title, "Marriage a-la-Mode," is satirical because we mostly use the phrase "a-la-mode" to mean without sides, or by itself when ordering a meal, however he uses it in reference to a marriage. The poem in it's entirety addresses a political and religious debate, that of marriage and divorce and why people stay together when they do not love each other.

Jesus and Pilate

Jesus was taken before the Roman governor Pontius Pilate to be judged. The people accused Jesus of calling himself the Son of God and called for his execution. Pilate interrogated Jesus, but Jesus did not respond to his questions. Jesus told Pilate he was the king of the Jews and that he had come to testify to the truth, to which Pilate responded “what is truth?” He sent Jesus to be judged by Herod, but Herod found no fault with him, so he sent Jesus back. Conflicted, Pilate asked the people what he should do with Jesus, as he had found he’d done nothing wrong. The people asked that Jesus be crucified. Pilate did not want to do this, and asked the people if they would not have him release Jesus instead of Barabbas, a murderer whom the people had asked to be released. Pilate intended to have Jesus flogged then released, but the people continued to shout, “crucify him.” Three times Pilate asked the people if crucifixion was truly what they wanted, and all three times they answered yes, so Pilate delivered Jesus to be flogged then crucified.

 

When I hear the word “judgment,” I think of the ways people judge each other by their exterior, often unfairly. Unfortunately, I’ve found myself that sometimes it seems that there’s no way any of us can escape from judgment. It’s no wonder the phrase “don’t judge me” is as ubiquitous as it is. It seems almost instinctive to human beings to put labels on people based on how they talk, how they dress, what they do for a living, etc. We take what we see on the surface to make quick generalizations about people to save the brainpower we might need to see people from a wider perspective. For example, we’re quick to judge people who might not seem as academically-oriented as us, but rarely do we stop to think about what a person’s life might be like at home or otherwise that they can’t always put academics first. We’re trained, in the true American spirit of capitalism, to judge people for not working jobs we consider respectable and high-paying. Fortunately I think with some reflection we can begin to see people for who they really are at their core rather than pass judgment on them based on external qualities.