This tone!
The hydrogen breather breached the city. The large underside of the great beastie pasted over all the trainees and I. I loosened the collar of my uniform and wiped the sweat from my forehead. Growing up around small hydrogen breathers, like huxleys, I thought this would be routine. This air ship is nothing like I have ever seen. Holding hundreds of crewman and other modified beasties, one spark near that ship and the whole thing would catch. I tore my eyes away from the Leviathan at the sound of rasp breathing and tumbling wheels. All the potential air man turned their heads with me.
The beast was massive, a land behemoth if I've ever seen one. The face wolf like, but the body radically modified by Darwinist science. It had no neck, it's shoulders stemmed right from the back of it's skull.It's large chest heaving and hefting as it pulled a contraption used to transport people and various items. It's paws, leaving small lakes as impressions, passed as and I could feel it's hot breath on my face, see it's veins bulging out of ever inch of skin, loose hair sticking to it's white and gray skin. I reached my hand ever closer, shaking, feeling smaller than ever. The tips touched it's fur slightly and I felt the massive amount of power in one touch. It passed completely, and looking down the line boys, I could tell they were scared shit less. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for our next test, as a Huxley appeared around the bend I knew this one would be a snap. But at that time I didn't know I would be stuck flying over London, only to be saved and recruited onto the Leviathan itself.
(Based on the series of books by Scott Westerfeld. Leviathan and Behemoth)
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Alternate ending to "Their Eyes Where Watching God"
Words are spelt incorrectly on purpose! If you have not read "Their Eyes Where Watching God" the dialogue is very much like this. I tried to copy it as best I could.
___________________________________________________________________________________
I woke up to uh empty room. I always thoughta wak'n up in Tea Cake's bed, nothin like what's happening now. The twelve o'clock whistle is when I happened upon my cloth purse being empty. I exercised the entire house, keeping me busy, keeping my mind off Tea Cake and where he might be sauntering at.Even bustling around like a horse grinding sugar cane I couldn't do it foreva. All day and night I worried time like a bone. The sun came just as it left and soon enough a week passed like a dog with it's tail between its legs.I done figured I had had enough by then and left, walked right outta that rickety door head God knows where.
Right about the time that little town was a fading behind me I heard a call.Mr's Tyler telling me how I done made the same mistakes she did. The sound of a guitar broke my mind thought and I whipped around, my hair making the same sweep.Tea Cake came strolling along the dirt road, all sweaty, looking like a man comin outta a coal mine or something. "Good lawd Janie, where you been?" "Where I been? Tea Cake. Where you been? Leavin me alone for a whole week, taken my money!" Tea Cake's long stride finally reached me and he began stroking my hair. "You doubted me about the money Janie, I don't blame you cuz it's gone. I reckon I want the rest of it too." His gaze changed, became sinister. I thought he would be different. His grip tightened around my hair and his guitar dropped in the dirt, humming like the birds around the pear tree of my childhood.
I woke up to Ed Dockery shakin me up some. "Sorry Ma'am. I just came across yeah and uh . . . Tea Cake is gone quick." I layed back down just as quick as he probably left. Then I started thinking about how to get back to that pear tree, my last thought.
___________________________________________________________________________________
I woke up to uh empty room. I always thoughta wak'n up in Tea Cake's bed, nothin like what's happening now. The twelve o'clock whistle is when I happened upon my cloth purse being empty. I exercised the entire house, keeping me busy, keeping my mind off Tea Cake and where he might be sauntering at.Even bustling around like a horse grinding sugar cane I couldn't do it foreva. All day and night I worried time like a bone. The sun came just as it left and soon enough a week passed like a dog with it's tail between its legs.I done figured I had had enough by then and left, walked right outta that rickety door head God knows where.
Right about the time that little town was a fading behind me I heard a call.Mr's Tyler telling me how I done made the same mistakes she did. The sound of a guitar broke my mind thought and I whipped around, my hair making the same sweep.Tea Cake came strolling along the dirt road, all sweaty, looking like a man comin outta a coal mine or something. "Good lawd Janie, where you been?" "Where I been? Tea Cake. Where you been? Leavin me alone for a whole week, taken my money!" Tea Cake's long stride finally reached me and he began stroking my hair. "You doubted me about the money Janie, I don't blame you cuz it's gone. I reckon I want the rest of it too." His gaze changed, became sinister. I thought he would be different. His grip tightened around my hair and his guitar dropped in the dirt, humming like the birds around the pear tree of my childhood.
I woke up to Ed Dockery shakin me up some. "Sorry Ma'am. I just came across yeah and uh . . . Tea Cake is gone quick." I layed back down just as quick as he probably left. Then I started thinking about how to get back to that pear tree, my last thought.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Thanksgiving Poem by me
Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful
thankful for family and friends
Thanksgiving is a time to fulfill
fulfill all promises and thanks
It is a time to catch up
catch up with old memories and past events
Yet during this time of family and friends
all that I find is filling my head
are dodging family hugs
shaking off grandmas kisses
and getting to the pie to receive the first slices.
thankful for family and friends
Thanksgiving is a time to fulfill
fulfill all promises and thanks
It is a time to catch up
catch up with old memories and past events
Yet during this time of family and friends
all that I find is filling my head
are dodging family hugs
shaking off grandmas kisses
and getting to the pie to receive the first slices.
Monday, November 22, 2010
The Coming of Wisdom With Time
The Coming of Wisdom With Time
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
My initial thought was of meditation. Through time spent meditating, true wisdom and understanding will be found.
The poem was first titled "Youth and Age" once again expressing the wisdom sought through time.
Line one: Evey lie, exaggeration, and truth fiddled with is based on a "root." There are millions of leaves on a tree but they are all surviving through the root, a root, an initial life source. All the rumors spread about a certain subject or matter of life have one truth.
Line two: In childhood the rumors are believed, the leaves are taken from the trees. A child has a partially clean slate and will believe whatever rumor is passed their way.
Line three: During the time of youth a child is yearning for knowledge and soaks up every bit of it. The part about the sun also made me think of how care free a child is. The truth or importance of the knowledge learned is not important, only that they have attained it. Playing in the sun is more important.
Line four: Adulthood is different. If the attained knowledge is false it is useless. The truth is what matters the most, weather it be positive or negative, weather they bask or wither in it.
The definition of knowledge changes throughout time and can only be discovered through time and adulthood.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
My initial thought was of meditation. Through time spent meditating, true wisdom and understanding will be found.
The poem was first titled "Youth and Age" once again expressing the wisdom sought through time.
Line one: Evey lie, exaggeration, and truth fiddled with is based on a "root." There are millions of leaves on a tree but they are all surviving through the root, a root, an initial life source. All the rumors spread about a certain subject or matter of life have one truth.
Line two: In childhood the rumors are believed, the leaves are taken from the trees. A child has a partially clean slate and will believe whatever rumor is passed their way.
Line three: During the time of youth a child is yearning for knowledge and soaks up every bit of it. The part about the sun also made me think of how care free a child is. The truth or importance of the knowledge learned is not important, only that they have attained it. Playing in the sun is more important.
Line four: Adulthood is different. If the attained knowledge is false it is useless. The truth is what matters the most, weather it be positive or negative, weather they bask or wither in it.
The definition of knowledge changes throughout time and can only be discovered through time and adulthood.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Secret
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
(It is human nature too look for the "true meaning of life" in practically everything. I believe that it happens subconsciously to humans when analyzing anything. Poetry is constantly assumed to have deeper meanings behind the words, which is ironic because this poem is extremely straight forward.)
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
(When I read the following two stanza's I can't help but to think of what Mrs. White said to my AP Lit. and Comp. class. "Don't beat poems with a hose to find the meaning." The author herself, Levetrov, claims she didn't know the secret the girls discovered behind the lines she wrote. Poems can be written just to be pretty, poems do not have to be metaphorical or philosophical. Try reading a poem without looking for a hidden meaning, without analyzing every word, sentence, and/or stanza, just read the poem for enjoyment!)
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,
(For me, I want every reader of my writing to find something to connect too. I know this contradicts what I said before about reading just to read but the reasoning behind my writing is to influence and change lives. I want people to beat my writing until it's withering in the corner spewing forth hidden meanings that only the one individual reader can connect too. " I love them for finding what I can't find . . ." When I receive comment about a piece of my writing that did not even occur to myself I get ecstatic.)
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.
-Denise Levertov
(This is a brilliant poem. There is no inner meanings or metaphors, it is straight forward and beautiful. A piece of writing is explicit when a reader can re-read the poetry a week later and have it renew all of the satisfaction it had given them only a few days before. It is a writers dream to have their art enjoyed a thousand times over. The last stanza hit home. Having a piece of work that readers assume to have such significance and meaning is a gift itself. For her piece of writing to be appreciated and noticed and beaten is assuring.)
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
(It is human nature too look for the "true meaning of life" in practically everything. I believe that it happens subconsciously to humans when analyzing anything. Poetry is constantly assumed to have deeper meanings behind the words, which is ironic because this poem is extremely straight forward.)
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
(When I read the following two stanza's I can't help but to think of what Mrs. White said to my AP Lit. and Comp. class. "Don't beat poems with a hose to find the meaning." The author herself, Levetrov, claims she didn't know the secret the girls discovered behind the lines she wrote. Poems can be written just to be pretty, poems do not have to be metaphorical or philosophical. Try reading a poem without looking for a hidden meaning, without analyzing every word, sentence, and/or stanza, just read the poem for enjoyment!)
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,
(For me, I want every reader of my writing to find something to connect too. I know this contradicts what I said before about reading just to read but the reasoning behind my writing is to influence and change lives. I want people to beat my writing until it's withering in the corner spewing forth hidden meanings that only the one individual reader can connect too. " I love them for finding what I can't find . . ." When I receive comment about a piece of my writing that did not even occur to myself I get ecstatic.)
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.
-Denise Levertov
(This is a brilliant poem. There is no inner meanings or metaphors, it is straight forward and beautiful. A piece of writing is explicit when a reader can re-read the poetry a week later and have it renew all of the satisfaction it had given them only a few days before. It is a writers dream to have their art enjoyed a thousand times over. The last stanza hit home. Having a piece of work that readers assume to have such significance and meaning is a gift itself. For her piece of writing to be appreciated and noticed and beaten is assuring.)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
"Unveiling" Poetry Response
Unveiling
In the cemetery
a mile away
from where we used to live
my aunts and mother,
my father and uncles lie
in two long rows almost the way
they used to sit around
the long planked table
at family dinners.
And walked beside
the graves today, down
one straight path
and up the next,
I don't feel sad
for them, just left out a bit
as if they kept
from me the kind
of grown-up secret
they used to share
back then, something
I'm not quite ready yet
to learn.
-Linda Pastan
The vocabulary within this poem is simple and understandable, giving the idea that the message behind it is what's important. As a child, I can remember sitting at the dinner table with all of my adult family members. Every once in a while they would lower their voices to each other, whispering things that were not for my ears. I felt left out when this happened. I wanted to desperately know what was passing between their lips that I, with all my straining, could not hear. The urge to understand was so strong.
Ironically, now that I am older and am allowed the chance to hear the once hushed sentences, I don't want too. They are often negative and cause stress, adult things.
" . . . just left out a bit as if they kept from me the kind of grown-up secret they used to share back then . . ." (Back then referring to the dining room table.) Pastan compares these feeling with her family's death. As she is walking past their graves she does not feel said but left out. " . . . I don't feel sad for them, just left out a bit . . . " Death is something that is truly and utterly unknown until it happens. The moment you die you must understand the meaning behind it and what happens after it, hopefully. Pastan expresses how she is not ready to learn it yet because of her younger age and I think I can say, how the secrets learned that where once hushed at the dinner table where not as great as I expected, death will also be.
The structure of the poem is different. The poem consists of one long stanza's with odd breaks and commas in between. The poem can be read as one long thought, one long memory. To much structure, I believe, would ruin the "memory" of the poem, if that makes any sense. The commas were places so to add to the "run-on" feeling and emphasize on the strong thought.
P.S. Let me know, Mrs. White, if my responses are getting to short! :)
In the cemetery
a mile away
from where we used to live
my aunts and mother,
my father and uncles lie
in two long rows almost the way
they used to sit around
the long planked table
at family dinners.
And walked beside
the graves today, down
one straight path
and up the next,
I don't feel sad
for them, just left out a bit
as if they kept
from me the kind
of grown-up secret
they used to share
back then, something
I'm not quite ready yet
to learn.
-Linda Pastan
The vocabulary within this poem is simple and understandable, giving the idea that the message behind it is what's important. As a child, I can remember sitting at the dinner table with all of my adult family members. Every once in a while they would lower their voices to each other, whispering things that were not for my ears. I felt left out when this happened. I wanted to desperately know what was passing between their lips that I, with all my straining, could not hear. The urge to understand was so strong.
Ironically, now that I am older and am allowed the chance to hear the once hushed sentences, I don't want too. They are often negative and cause stress, adult things.
" . . . just left out a bit as if they kept from me the kind of grown-up secret they used to share back then . . ." (Back then referring to the dining room table.) Pastan compares these feeling with her family's death. As she is walking past their graves she does not feel said but left out. " . . . I don't feel sad for them, just left out a bit . . . " Death is something that is truly and utterly unknown until it happens. The moment you die you must understand the meaning behind it and what happens after it, hopefully. Pastan expresses how she is not ready to learn it yet because of her younger age and I think I can say, how the secrets learned that where once hushed at the dinner table where not as great as I expected, death will also be.
The structure of the poem is different. The poem consists of one long stanza's with odd breaks and commas in between. The poem can be read as one long thought, one long memory. To much structure, I believe, would ruin the "memory" of the poem, if that makes any sense. The commas were places so to add to the "run-on" feeling and emphasize on the strong thought.
P.S. Let me know, Mrs. White, if my responses are getting to short! :)
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween weekend
Not doing a poetry blog this weekend Mrs. White! :) Hope everyone had a good Halloween!!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
"Acquanted With the Night" Sorry it's such a sad post!
Acquainted with the Night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
-Robert Frost
I have heard that this poem could be about love. That the speaker loved someone who didn't love them back but for some reason I cross this possibility out. The parts about the city lead me off. I also understand that it could be a metaphor for suicide, which is more likely. I also get the sense of a new opportunity.
I understand that his son committed suicide and that Frost himself attempted it. Night is dark, dreary, and unknown. The matter of not knowing what is 10 feet in front of you because of the darkness is frightening. I imagine suicide is too. Day is the opposite of night, light being the opposite of dark. When Frost talks about outwalking the furthest city light he could be referring to leaving the light that once kept the darkness away. He has walked away from that light further into depression.
The 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stanza is where it starts becoming more clear. I'm going to work backwards for a second. The fourth stanza I believe is referring to Big Ben as the luminary clock which people have committed suicide by jumping from. In the third stanza the speaker hears a cry and stops to listen, hoping it's calling for him,someone who cares. But the cry is not for him so he continues on his way. In the second stanza he passes a watchmen who he avoids eye contact with. He drops his eyes, unwilling to explain his suicidal thoughts and weaknesses.
The last stanza comes after the "luminary clock," a.k.a Big Ben. Big Ben is telling him that the time is neither wrong nor right. When committing suicide I can see how the time would not matter. Being at the depressed of a state, when your mind is made up, will the timing matter to the person? The speaker has been "acquainted with the night." Not the lack of sun night but the symbol of night; dark, dreary, unknown place.
If you don't look at it with a metaphor for suicide and you take it how it simply it is seen as a passage into something new. The speaker lived in London but the city was treating him right. He didn't want to face the watchmen for leaving the time, ashamed he was running away from it in the middle of the night. He heard the cry, thinking it might be someone wanting him to stay but its not, so he continues. He catches sight of Big Ben deciding that the time does not matter, he is leaving and starting anew. The night would be referring to the dreariness of London at the time (1874-1963).
This poem can be taken many way and relate to many people, just another reason why it is a classic!
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
-Robert Frost
I have heard that this poem could be about love. That the speaker loved someone who didn't love them back but for some reason I cross this possibility out. The parts about the city lead me off. I also understand that it could be a metaphor for suicide, which is more likely. I also get the sense of a new opportunity.
I understand that his son committed suicide and that Frost himself attempted it. Night is dark, dreary, and unknown. The matter of not knowing what is 10 feet in front of you because of the darkness is frightening. I imagine suicide is too. Day is the opposite of night, light being the opposite of dark. When Frost talks about outwalking the furthest city light he could be referring to leaving the light that once kept the darkness away. He has walked away from that light further into depression.
The 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stanza is where it starts becoming more clear. I'm going to work backwards for a second. The fourth stanza I believe is referring to Big Ben as the luminary clock which people have committed suicide by jumping from. In the third stanza the speaker hears a cry and stops to listen, hoping it's calling for him,someone who cares. But the cry is not for him so he continues on his way. In the second stanza he passes a watchmen who he avoids eye contact with. He drops his eyes, unwilling to explain his suicidal thoughts and weaknesses.
The last stanza comes after the "luminary clock," a.k.a Big Ben. Big Ben is telling him that the time is neither wrong nor right. When committing suicide I can see how the time would not matter. Being at the depressed of a state, when your mind is made up, will the timing matter to the person? The speaker has been "acquainted with the night." Not the lack of sun night but the symbol of night; dark, dreary, unknown place.
If you don't look at it with a metaphor for suicide and you take it how it simply it is seen as a passage into something new. The speaker lived in London but the city was treating him right. He didn't want to face the watchmen for leaving the time, ashamed he was running away from it in the middle of the night. He heard the cry, thinking it might be someone wanting him to stay but its not, so he continues. He catches sight of Big Ben deciding that the time does not matter, he is leaving and starting anew. The night would be referring to the dreariness of London at the time (1874-1963).
This poem can be taken many way and relate to many people, just another reason why it is a classic!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
"A Work of Artifice" Poetry Response
A Work of Artifice
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
-Marge Piercy
a Bonsai tree
The following three lines show what it has become. A feeling of "ah" came over me when I read how small the owner had it. An eighty foot tall tree can be trained, forced to exist at only nine inches? I began to think that the rest of the poem would be about tress and how easily manipulated they are but as the poem moved on I saw a change of concentration, it moved to the manipulator.
A new favorite.
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
-Marge Piercy
a Bonsai treeDefinitions:
Artifice- clever or artful skill.
Bonsai- the art of growing trees, or woody plants shaped as trees, in containers. (Japanese)
Croon- to sing softlyTrees hold a sense of wisdom and history. I have always been drawn to them, being the reason why this poem caught my eye. The title does not give away the theme of the poem as most titles do. The definition of artifice is to have a "clever or artful skill" and can also mean skill in trickery.
The first five lines give a sense of hope. A bonsai tree is a Japanese tree meant to grow very large but are kept in small pots and containers, pruned and whittled to the owners like. What I got from the first five lines is that if something is free it can reach it's full potential. It shows the image of what could be if it wasn't controlled.
The following three lines show what it has become. A feeling of "ah" came over me when I read how small the owner had it. An eighty foot tall tree can be trained, forced to exist at only nine inches? I began to think that the rest of the poem would be about tress and how easily manipulated they are but as the poem moved on I saw a change of concentration, it moved to the manipulator.
The next eight lines concentrates on the person pruning the tree to maintain it's sad nine inches. This could be simple or I could go off a stretch. When Piercy begins to give the image of the gardener whittling and crooning to their plant, describing it as domestic and weak but small and cozy and lucky I begin to see the ignorance of humans. When in control we see things as cute and lucky to be kept under such good care when its full potential is greater! The final eight lines I begin to see a comparison between the tree and humans. "With living creatures . . ." Humans are living creatures, we are as just easily manipulated as the bonsai trees. Our feet can be bound, our brain crippled, our hair curled. The reference to hair also makes me believe that the subject has been changed to humans once again.
The last line is the only line I cannot elaborate on. I can't understand what Piercy is trying to say with "the hands you love to touch." Is it moving on to the parents pruning and whittling their children? The mother putting curlers in their child's hair and the child loving the feeling of her mothers touch? I don't know.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
"The Halo That Would Not Light" Poetry Response
The Halo That Would Not Light
When, after many years, the raptor beak
Let loose of you,
He dropped your tiny body
In the scarab-colored hollow
Of a carriage, left you like a finch
Wrapped in its nest of linens wound
With linden leaves in a child’s cardboard box.
Tonight the wind is hover-
Hunting as the leather seats of swings go back
And forth with no one in them
As certain and invisible as
Red scarves silking endlessly
From a magician’s hollow hat
And the spectacular catastrophe
Of your endless childhood
Is done.
-Lucie Brock-Broido
-Background on Lucie Brock-Broido from Wipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Lucie Brock-Broido (born 22 May 1956 in Pittsburgh, PA) is the author of three collections of poetry. She has received many honors, including the Witter-Bynner prize of Poetry from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Harvard Phi Beta Kappa Teaching Award, the Harvard-Danforth Award for Distinction in Teaching, the Jerome J. Shestack Poetry Prize from American Poetry Review, two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships, and a Guggenheim fellowship. She was described as an Elliptical Poet by critic Stephen Burt.
Brock-Broido is currently Director of Poetry in the Writing Division at Columbia University in New York City.
This is a simple poem about childhood and how everyone looses it. "The raptor beak" is a reference to the childhood fairy tale of the stork carrying a baby to its' home. "scarab-colored" is a shade of yellow. So far the poem is talking about children being dropped into their yellow colored cribs by a stork. When I was a kid I found enjoyment in empty boxes! The classic image of a baby playing with the box their toy came in. I believe this was the reason for her reference to "a child's cardboard box, the finch being only a metaphor. The ind certainly blows empty swings and scarves, just as childhood will certainly end. The magicians hat being empty was a very good touch. It shows how in childhood years, a bunny would be in that hat but an adult knows it's empty, it's only a trick. " . . . your endless childhood Is done."
When, after many years, the raptor beak
Let loose of you,
He dropped your tiny body
In the scarab-colored hollow
Of a carriage, left you like a finch
Wrapped in its nest of linens wound
With linden leaves in a child’s cardboard box.
Tonight the wind is hover-
Hunting as the leather seats of swings go back
And forth with no one in them
As certain and invisible as
Red scarves silking endlessly
From a magician’s hollow hat
And the spectacular catastrophe
Of your endless childhood
Is done.
-Lucie Brock-Broido
-Background on Lucie Brock-Broido from Wipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Lucie Brock-Broido (born 22 May 1956 in Pittsburgh, PA) is the author of three collections of poetry. She has received many honors, including the Witter-Bynner prize of Poetry from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Harvard Phi Beta Kappa Teaching Award, the Harvard-Danforth Award for Distinction in Teaching, the Jerome J. Shestack Poetry Prize from American Poetry Review, two National Endowment for the Arts fellowships, and a Guggenheim fellowship. She was described as an Elliptical Poet by critic Stephen Burt.
Brock-Broido is currently Director of Poetry in the Writing Division at Columbia University in New York City.
This is a simple poem about childhood and how everyone looses it. "The raptor beak" is a reference to the childhood fairy tale of the stork carrying a baby to its' home. "scarab-colored" is a shade of yellow. So far the poem is talking about children being dropped into their yellow colored cribs by a stork. When I was a kid I found enjoyment in empty boxes! The classic image of a baby playing with the box their toy came in. I believe this was the reason for her reference to "a child's cardboard box, the finch being only a metaphor. The ind certainly blows empty swings and scarves, just as childhood will certainly end. The magicians hat being empty was a very good touch. It shows how in childhood years, a bunny would be in that hat but an adult knows it's empty, it's only a trick. " . . . your endless childhood Is done."
Sunday, October 3, 2010
"The Hollow Men"
I would first like to say that I love this poem! I had more then one Epiphany. Beautiful.
The Hollow Men
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
(Reference to "Heart of Darkness)
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
(The hollow men have thoughts and opinions that are meaningless, stuffed with straw they gather together to converse about nothing, since what they have to say is meaningless. When wind blows through dry grass it remains unmoved, just as meaningless words can't change opinions and actions. Rats are so light weight that when the run over broken glass it does nothing to the rat or the grass.)
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
(You cannot have shape without form, shade without color, gesture without motion. Without one there can't be the other. The hollow men are incomplete.)
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
(The hollow men do not want to be remembered as something their not by the respectful dead. The were not lost or violent, just hollow, and should be seen as such.)
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
(The hollow men cannot meet the eyes of the dead because they have nothing to offer them.)
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
(Simply, the hollow men will do anything to hide from the eyes of the respectful dead. They will deliberately disguise themselves from the eyes of judgement.)
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
(This stanza is giving examples of disguises possible. When hiding in a field while the wind is blowing you must move with it. If the hollow men don't the grass around them will move and they won't, giving away their hiding.)
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
(Statement of fear. Cowering in the thought of being judged to go to heaven or hell, the final meeting.)
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
(Supplication means a prayer to God for help. They are at the land of judgment, praying, doing what they can to get to heaven.)
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
("In death's other kingdom..." is referring to hell. "At the hour..." is referring to the hour of the final judgment; heaven or hell.)
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
(The eyes, throughout the entire poem, have referred to the eyes of the respectful dead, the dead that received positive judgment and went to heaven. In hell those eyes are not present. The hollow men never had good things to say, nor do they now. So in hell they have broken jaws because speech is useless for them. Connecting to the " . . .broken stones . . ." above, the prayers coming from the broken jaws of the hollow men mean nothing therefor the stones they are praying too have no need to be sturdy, they are broken too.)
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
(In Greek mythology, when going to receive your' final judgment, you go on a boat that crosses a river. The hollow men are waiting for this boat, not speaking because they is nothing of importance to say. And they are scared.)
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
(They only hope the hollow men have is of seeing the eyes of the respectful dead, when seeing those they know they have passed judgment.)
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
(Judgment is bitter-sweet.)
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
(Everything is laid out on the table. The hollow men's lives are looked at in depth. If there ideas were bad or good and whether they were put to action or not. The shadow of judgment falls between every aspect of their lives.)
For Thine is the Kingdom (Lord prayer.)
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
(Once again, were there concepts positive or negative and were they created or not, where the hollow men's responses to certain emotion worthy of a heavenly after life?)
Life is very long (The judgment is taking a long time, the hollow men are getting anxious.)
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
(Re-stating, For thine is the Kingdom, Life is very long, and For Thine is the Kingdom.)
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
(The last stanza give such strong imagery. I imagine a bunch of cowardly spineless men, whimpering underneath a hooded judge. Their life strewn out before their eyes. They can see just as well as the eyes and the judge that their life is not worthy of heaven and with one last whimper they are sent to hell.)
The Hollow Men
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.
(Reference to "Heart of Darkness)
A penny for the Old Guy
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
(The hollow men have thoughts and opinions that are meaningless, stuffed with straw they gather together to converse about nothing, since what they have to say is meaningless. When wind blows through dry grass it remains unmoved, just as meaningless words can't change opinions and actions. Rats are so light weight that when the run over broken glass it does nothing to the rat or the grass.)
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
(You cannot have shape without form, shade without color, gesture without motion. Without one there can't be the other. The hollow men are incomplete.)
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
(The hollow men do not want to be remembered as something their not by the respectful dead. The were not lost or violent, just hollow, and should be seen as such.)
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
(The hollow men cannot meet the eyes of the dead because they have nothing to offer them.)
Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
(Simply, the hollow men will do anything to hide from the eyes of the respectful dead. They will deliberately disguise themselves from the eyes of judgement.)
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—
(This stanza is giving examples of disguises possible. When hiding in a field while the wind is blowing you must move with it. If the hollow men don't the grass around them will move and they won't, giving away their hiding.)
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
(Statement of fear. Cowering in the thought of being judged to go to heaven or hell, the final meeting.)
III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
(Supplication means a prayer to God for help. They are at the land of judgment, praying, doing what they can to get to heaven.)
Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.
("In death's other kingdom..." is referring to hell. "At the hour..." is referring to the hour of the final judgment; heaven or hell.)
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
(The eyes, throughout the entire poem, have referred to the eyes of the respectful dead, the dead that received positive judgment and went to heaven. In hell those eyes are not present. The hollow men never had good things to say, nor do they now. So in hell they have broken jaws because speech is useless for them. Connecting to the " . . .broken stones . . ." above, the prayers coming from the broken jaws of the hollow men mean nothing therefor the stones they are praying too have no need to be sturdy, they are broken too.)
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
(In Greek mythology, when going to receive your' final judgment, you go on a boat that crosses a river. The hollow men are waiting for this boat, not speaking because they is nothing of importance to say. And they are scared.)
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
(They only hope the hollow men have is of seeing the eyes of the respectful dead, when seeing those they know they have passed judgment.)
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.
(Judgment is bitter-sweet.)
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
(Everything is laid out on the table. The hollow men's lives are looked at in depth. If there ideas were bad or good and whether they were put to action or not. The shadow of judgment falls between every aspect of their lives.)
For Thine is the Kingdom (Lord prayer.)
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
(Once again, were there concepts positive or negative and were they created or not, where the hollow men's responses to certain emotion worthy of a heavenly after life?)
Life is very long (The judgment is taking a long time, the hollow men are getting anxious.)
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the
(Re-stating, For thine is the Kingdom, Life is very long, and For Thine is the Kingdom.)
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
(The last stanza give such strong imagery. I imagine a bunch of cowardly spineless men, whimpering underneath a hooded judge. Their life strewn out before their eyes. They can see just as well as the eyes and the judge that their life is not worthy of heaven and with one last whimper they are sent to hell.)
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Still Memory: Poetry response for 9/26
Still Memory
The dream was so deep
the bed came unroped from its moorings,
drifted upstream till it found my old notch
in the house I grew up in,
then it locked in place.
A light in the hall—
my father in the doorway, not dead,
just home from the graveyard shift
smelling of crude oil and solvent.
In the kitchen, Mother rummages through silver
while the boiled water poured
in the battered old drip pot
unleashes coffee’s smoky odor.
Outside, the mimosa fronds, closed all night,
open their narrow valleys for dew.
Around us, the town is just growing animate,
its pulleys and levers set in motion.
My house starts to throb in its old socket.
My twelve-year-old sister steps fast
because the bathroom tiles
are cold and we have no heat other
than what our bodies can carry.
My parents are not yet born each
into a small urn of ash.
My ten-year-old hand reaches
for a pen to record it all
as would become long habit.
—Mary Karr
A dream is a fluidly apparition at first, until it gets where it's going and the dream becomes clear, until the body wakes up, pulling the mind away from the dream, making it hazy once again. Karr's first stanza expresses this when he explains the bed " . . drifting upstream till it found my old notch in the house I grew up in . . ." It was flowing until it found the old house, then it became clear. " . . .then it locked in place."
Her dream takes her back to an old memory when her parents where still alive, her dad coming home from work and her mother cooking. This is a good memory for most people. In my dreams, sadly, I don't smell. My dreams are made up of sound, sight, and touch. I liked this poem because of the many scents Mary shows. From her dad smelling like crude oil to the smell of coffee her mom has made. To smell in a dream would make dreams even more elaborate, her discription makes her dream sound so.
In stanza seven, the author describes her sister running through the bathroom because the tiles are cold. This is something me and my sisters all experienced. I remember one time when I was little I yelled for my mom to carry me from the bathroom carpet to my room so I wouldn't have to step on the tile! This stanza brought back memories so I related to it well.
The last stanza is the most interesting. I believe she is describing the moment she became interested in writing. " . . . as would become long habit." This line shows that once she picked up the pen when she was ten to record what was happening, she never stopped and became a writer. I can't remember the first time I started writing my own poems and short stories. The last stanza gives reasoning for this poem and ties it all together nicely.
The dream was so deep
the bed came unroped from its moorings,
drifted upstream till it found my old notch
in the house I grew up in,
then it locked in place.
A light in the hall—
my father in the doorway, not dead,
just home from the graveyard shift
smelling of crude oil and solvent.
In the kitchen, Mother rummages through silver
while the boiled water poured
in the battered old drip pot
unleashes coffee’s smoky odor.
Outside, the mimosa fronds, closed all night,
open their narrow valleys for dew.
Around us, the town is just growing animate,
its pulleys and levers set in motion.
My house starts to throb in its old socket.
My twelve-year-old sister steps fast
because the bathroom tiles
are cold and we have no heat other
than what our bodies can carry.
My parents are not yet born each
into a small urn of ash.
My ten-year-old hand reaches
for a pen to record it all
as would become long habit.
—Mary Karr
A dream is a fluidly apparition at first, until it gets where it's going and the dream becomes clear, until the body wakes up, pulling the mind away from the dream, making it hazy once again. Karr's first stanza expresses this when he explains the bed " . . drifting upstream till it found my old notch in the house I grew up in . . ." It was flowing until it found the old house, then it became clear. " . . .then it locked in place."
Her dream takes her back to an old memory when her parents where still alive, her dad coming home from work and her mother cooking. This is a good memory for most people. In my dreams, sadly, I don't smell. My dreams are made up of sound, sight, and touch. I liked this poem because of the many scents Mary shows. From her dad smelling like crude oil to the smell of coffee her mom has made. To smell in a dream would make dreams even more elaborate, her discription makes her dream sound so.
In stanza seven, the author describes her sister running through the bathroom because the tiles are cold. This is something me and my sisters all experienced. I remember one time when I was little I yelled for my mom to carry me from the bathroom carpet to my room so I wouldn't have to step on the tile! This stanza brought back memories so I related to it well.
The last stanza is the most interesting. I believe she is describing the moment she became interested in writing. " . . . as would become long habit." This line shows that once she picked up the pen when she was ten to record what was happening, she never stopped and became a writer. I can't remember the first time I started writing my own poems and short stories. The last stanza gives reasoning for this poem and ties it all together nicely.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Blackberries for Amelia (poetry response)
Blackberries for Amelia
Fringing the woods, the stone walls, and the lanes,
Old thickets everywhere have come alive,
Their new leaves reaching out in fans of five
From tangles overarched by this year’s canes.
They have their flowers, too, it being June,
And here or there in brambled dark-and-light
Are small, five-petalled blooms of chalky white,
As random-clustered and as loosely strewn
As the far stars, of which we are now told
That ever faster do they bolt away,
And that a night may come in which, some say,
We shall have only blackness to behold.
I have no time for any change so great,
But I shall see the August weather spur
Berries to ripen where the flowers were —
Dark berries, savage-sweet and worth the wait —
And there will come the moment to be quick
And save some from the birds,and I shall need
Two pails, old clothes in which to stain and bleed,
And a grandchild to talk with while we pick.
-Richard Wilbur
My past poetry responses have been very structured, explaing poems by stanzas within paragraphs. I feel a need to change things so instead of explaing by stanza and I am going to ramble what I think.
The poem is talking about flower petals being strewn and white. Wilbur then compares this to stars which are strwen and white as well. When I look up at the sky I think of how little I am and little control I have over things. The Wilbur explains how one day the stars will shoot away and, "We shall only have blackness to behold." From natural disasters to theories such as the millenium year and "2012," the world has had it's scare of the world ending. Wilbur goes on to say how he doesn't have time to worry about such things, and I agree. If I were to live worrying about tommorow I couldn't enjoy today. I will keep lookng forward to tomorrow and next week, month, and year as if time were to go on forever. Live with no worries.
My favortie part is when he describes the Black berries in stanza three. " . . .savage-sweet and worth the wait . . ." I beleive that death will be this way too. Although we dread it now and fear it, when it comes it will be okay. avage because were dieing but sweet because were ready. Almost worth the 80 or so years of waiting.
I like this poem and it's over all message. It's sweet and ironic for the chaos brewwing about 2012, don't worry!!
Fringing the woods, the stone walls, and the lanes,
Old thickets everywhere have come alive,
Their new leaves reaching out in fans of five
From tangles overarched by this year’s canes.
They have their flowers, too, it being June,
And here or there in brambled dark-and-light
Are small, five-petalled blooms of chalky white,
As random-clustered and as loosely strewn
As the far stars, of which we are now told
That ever faster do they bolt away,
And that a night may come in which, some say,
We shall have only blackness to behold.
I have no time for any change so great,
But I shall see the August weather spur
Berries to ripen where the flowers were —
Dark berries, savage-sweet and worth the wait —
And there will come the moment to be quick
And save some from the birds,and I shall need
Two pails, old clothes in which to stain and bleed,
And a grandchild to talk with while we pick.
-Richard Wilbur
My past poetry responses have been very structured, explaing poems by stanzas within paragraphs. I feel a need to change things so instead of explaing by stanza and I am going to ramble what I think.
The poem is talking about flower petals being strewn and white. Wilbur then compares this to stars which are strwen and white as well. When I look up at the sky I think of how little I am and little control I have over things. The Wilbur explains how one day the stars will shoot away and, "We shall only have blackness to behold." From natural disasters to theories such as the millenium year and "2012," the world has had it's scare of the world ending. Wilbur goes on to say how he doesn't have time to worry about such things, and I agree. If I were to live worrying about tommorow I couldn't enjoy today. I will keep lookng forward to tomorrow and next week, month, and year as if time were to go on forever. Live with no worries.
My favortie part is when he describes the Black berries in stanza three. " . . .savage-sweet and worth the wait . . ." I beleive that death will be this way too. Although we dread it now and fear it, when it comes it will be okay. avage because were dieing but sweet because were ready. Almost worth the 80 or so years of waiting.
I like this poem and it's over all message. It's sweet and ironic for the chaos brewwing about 2012, don't worry!!
Friday, September 17, 2010
Fridays...
Today is the day I think to myself, "I should get started on all my homework so I don't have to worry about it over the weekend." Then I remeber that I like the suspense of only having an hour on sunday night to complete it all! :)
Sunday, September 12, 2010
"Beginning Again"
Beginning Again
“If I could stop talking, completely
cease talking for a year, I might begin
to get well,” he muttered.
Off alone again performing
brain surgery on himself
in a small badly lit
room with no mirror. A room
whose floor ceiling and walls
are all mirrors, what a mess
oh my God -
And still
it stands,
the question
not how begin
again, but rather
Why?
So we sit there
together
the mountain
and me, Li Po
said, until only the mountain
remains.
- Franz Wright
The reason I chose this poem was because of how difficult it is too understand. The words are simple and understandable but the meaning behind them is anything. What I mean by anything is that any reader could bend the words to fit to themselves or something they understand.
The first stanza is the most bizarre. The words give me a strange image of a man doing surgery upon himself in a room full of mirrors.This is not meant to be taken literally of course. From the first sentance the reader knows that the man talking is not well, " . . . I might begin to get well . . . " When I am sick or find myself under a heap of pressure or going through a tough time I feel as if I should open up my head and pull everything negative out of it. Fix or remove what is making me feel that way so then I can live my life to it's fullest, worries aside. The mirros illudes to being able to see all the feelings you don't want to have or see what you don't want to be, which would be a mess. Mirrors can be awful. If a person looks into one and does not like what he/she see's, it can be tragic.
"If I could stop talking, completely cease talking for a year, I might begin to get well . . ." This, I took literally. If I could stop talking for a long period of time and listen to my own thoughts I feel I would reach a sense of enlightenment, possibly? Something of the like.
Once Wright made me feel like taking all of the mistakes and follies out of my mind he asks me, "Why?"
Instead of asking myseld how I can do all this, ask myself why. Would someone want to go back and change some of the choices they made, take back words not meant to be spoken, undo regreted acts, change their life and hope for a better one? Or maybe keep living with the mistakes made and instead begin to better their life now. Change the present and the future instead of the past.
Backround Information on the last stanza:
Within the last stanza Wright refers to Li Po who is a Chinese poet who, in his teenage years, retired to the mountain with a religous man by the name of Tunyen-tzu.(www.humanistictexts.org/LiPo.htm)
"So we sit there together the mountain and me, Li Po said, until only the mountain remains." In the end we will all pass on and only mountains and nature will remain. In the end we will never know what would have been if changing the past was possible but hopefully know, if we got the chance to change our past, if we would or not.
I enjoyed the poem a lot because it made me think of my own life and the choices and have made and if I would change my past. I would have to say I would.
“If I could stop talking, completely
cease talking for a year, I might begin
to get well,” he muttered.
Off alone again performing
brain surgery on himself
in a small badly lit
room with no mirror. A room
whose floor ceiling and walls
are all mirrors, what a mess
oh my God -
And still
it stands,
the question
not how begin
again, but rather
Why?
So we sit there
together
the mountain
and me, Li Po
said, until only the mountain
remains.
- Franz Wright
The reason I chose this poem was because of how difficult it is too understand. The words are simple and understandable but the meaning behind them is anything. What I mean by anything is that any reader could bend the words to fit to themselves or something they understand.
The first stanza is the most bizarre. The words give me a strange image of a man doing surgery upon himself in a room full of mirrors.This is not meant to be taken literally of course. From the first sentance the reader knows that the man talking is not well, " . . . I might begin to get well . . . " When I am sick or find myself under a heap of pressure or going through a tough time I feel as if I should open up my head and pull everything negative out of it. Fix or remove what is making me feel that way so then I can live my life to it's fullest, worries aside. The mirros illudes to being able to see all the feelings you don't want to have or see what you don't want to be, which would be a mess. Mirrors can be awful. If a person looks into one and does not like what he/she see's, it can be tragic.
"If I could stop talking, completely cease talking for a year, I might begin to get well . . ." This, I took literally. If I could stop talking for a long period of time and listen to my own thoughts I feel I would reach a sense of enlightenment, possibly? Something of the like.
Once Wright made me feel like taking all of the mistakes and follies out of my mind he asks me, "Why?"
Instead of asking myseld how I can do all this, ask myself why. Would someone want to go back and change some of the choices they made, take back words not meant to be spoken, undo regreted acts, change their life and hope for a better one? Or maybe keep living with the mistakes made and instead begin to better their life now. Change the present and the future instead of the past.
Backround Information on the last stanza:
Within the last stanza Wright refers to Li Po who is a Chinese poet who, in his teenage years, retired to the mountain with a religous man by the name of Tunyen-tzu.(www.humanistictexts.org/LiPo.htm)
"So we sit there together the mountain and me, Li Po said, until only the mountain remains." In the end we will all pass on and only mountains and nature will remain. In the end we will never know what would have been if changing the past was possible but hopefully know, if we got the chance to change our past, if we would or not.
I enjoyed the poem a lot because it made me think of my own life and the choices and have made and if I would change my past. I would have to say I would.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
"In Blackwater Woods" by Mary Olvier. Poetry Responses
In Blackwater Woods
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
What I understand from this section is a heavenly feel; pillars of light remind me of birght lights streaking through breaks in clouds. Also, the bodies of the trees turning into pilliars gives a sense of nature, which everyone can connect too. Nature is also ever lasting.
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fullfilment,
" . . are . . ." is reffering back to the trees. I beleive that fullfilment is connecting back to the heavenly feel I got before. It is beleived that once you reach heaven you have a strong feeling of fullfilment and purpose.
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what it's name is, is
nameless now.
This is where I feel the sensation of loss. "...every pond, no matter what it's name is, is nameless now." A pond is a pond and death is death and loss is loss. When you feel something as strong as death of a loved one, nothing else seems to matter. Things are what they are and nothing can change that.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
Not to damper the already gloomy mood but I have lost a neice to murder and have felt what Oliver is talking about, and I am sure many people have as well. When a person looses someone close to them they can't find themselves in ". . . the black river of loss . . ." The other side is salvation, wanting to get away from the death and destruction. " . . . whose meaning none of us will never know." I have asked myself plenty of times, "why her?" but I have yet to get an answer, and I don't think I ever will.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
-Mary Oliver
Mortal- something that does not live forever. Something you must cherish while you have i because one day it will no longer be. When that day comes to let it go, you must. If you don't, the life you have will be full of grief. Mary Oliver ends this poem strongly; giving three things of advice to live by. I believe if you to live by these three things that she learned in the river of loss, your life will reach its best.
Oliver explains loss, how things appear during loss, and how to get through loss. Although the vocabulary is easily understandable, some of the messages were hard to grasp. I had to read it multiple times and lock myself in my closet so I would have no distractions or interuptions. It is well written and speaks to everyone. I enjoyed it a lot!
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
What I understand from this section is a heavenly feel; pillars of light remind me of birght lights streaking through breaks in clouds. Also, the bodies of the trees turning into pilliars gives a sense of nature, which everyone can connect too. Nature is also ever lasting.
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fullfilment,
" . . are . . ." is reffering back to the trees. I beleive that fullfilment is connecting back to the heavenly feel I got before. It is beleived that once you reach heaven you have a strong feeling of fullfilment and purpose.
the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what it's name is, is
nameless now.
This is where I feel the sensation of loss. "...every pond, no matter what it's name is, is nameless now." A pond is a pond and death is death and loss is loss. When you feel something as strong as death of a loved one, nothing else seems to matter. Things are what they are and nothing can change that.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
Not to damper the already gloomy mood but I have lost a neice to murder and have felt what Oliver is talking about, and I am sure many people have as well. When a person looses someone close to them they can't find themselves in ". . . the black river of loss . . ." The other side is salvation, wanting to get away from the death and destruction. " . . . whose meaning none of us will never know." I have asked myself plenty of times, "why her?" but I have yet to get an answer, and I don't think I ever will.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
-Mary Oliver
Mortal- something that does not live forever. Something you must cherish while you have i because one day it will no longer be. When that day comes to let it go, you must. If you don't, the life you have will be full of grief. Mary Oliver ends this poem strongly; giving three things of advice to live by. I believe if you to live by these three things that she learned in the river of loss, your life will reach its best.
Oliver explains loss, how things appear during loss, and how to get through loss. Although the vocabulary is easily understandable, some of the messages were hard to grasp. I had to read it multiple times and lock myself in my closet so I would have no distractions or interuptions. It is well written and speaks to everyone. I enjoyed it a lot!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wallflowers: Poetry Response
August 29th, 2010
Wallflowers
I heard a word today I'd never heard before-
I wondered where it had been all my life.
I welcomed it, wooed it with my pen,
let it know it was loved.
They say if you use a word three times, it's yours.
What happens to ones that no one speaks?
Do they wait bitterly,
hollow-eyed orphans in Dickensian bedrooms,
longing for someone to say,
"yes, you . . . you're the one"?
Or do they wait patiently, shy shadows
at the high school dance,
knowing that, given the slightest chance,
someday they'll bloom?
I want to make room for all of them,
to be the Ellis Island of diction-
give me your tired, your poor,
your gegenshein, your zoanthropy-
all those words without a home,
come out and play - live in my poem.
-Donna Vorreyer
Wallfowers: " . . . herbs from the genus of Erysium of the mustard family . . ." www.freedictionary.com
Dickensian: "Of or like the novels of Charles Dickens (especially with regard to the poor social and economical conditions)." wordnetweb.princeton.edu
Ellis Island: Symbol of American immigrants, an island just off Manhattan that allows immigrants to stay. www.ellisisland.org
Gegenshein: " . . a faint spot of light in the night sky that appears directly opposite the position of the sun." wordnetweb.princeton.edu
Zoanthropy: " . . delusion that you have assumed the form of an animal." wordnetweb.princeton.edu
The first thing I had too do to respond to this poem was discover the definitions of some of the words. The five listed above were the words I had lack of knowledge on, if there are any others, let me know!
Doona Vorreyer lives in the Chicago area and works as a middle school teacher and a poet. Her work has been published in many journals and magazines, including New York Quarterly, Cider Press Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, Boxcar Poetry Review, Flashquake, Chantarelle's Notebook, After Hours, Ghoti, DMQ Review, Fickle Muse, and Apparatus Magazine. This is just to know the author, but I do not believe any of this information will help in understanding this poem, so moving on!
The over all message of this poem is fairly simple, Vorreyer is questioning the place in which words that are not used live. If they are "hollow-eyed orphans in Dickensian bedrooms," or "shy shadows at the high school dance." This concludes with a place for all of them to go, in her poem. What is fascinating about this poem is the vivid descriptions of unused words. Since the concept is easy to grasp, the descriptions and word choice really allows the poem to bloom. For an example, take stanza three. Dickensian, meaning, in this case, poor social condition, the reader can see long, extraordinary, unused words, hollow-eyed and longing used. And again in the last stanza, stanza five. The Ellis Island can be seen as an island that takes in immigrants for access to America. Verryer wants to be the place where all the words no one speaks can go and be put into poems. She even gives examples of these words, gegenshein and zoanthropy. Unless the reader studies astronomy and mental conditions, they are clueless as to what theses words are, really giving the sense of all the words unspoken in the world.
This poem was also encouraging, The splendid descriptions make the reader feel guilty that these words are not flowing off their tongues every once in a while. So her poem, in a sense, is a call to action. It is telling readers to hunt down and adopt the neglected words of today.
Wallflowers
I heard a word today I'd never heard before-
I wondered where it had been all my life.
I welcomed it, wooed it with my pen,
let it know it was loved.
They say if you use a word three times, it's yours.
What happens to ones that no one speaks?
Do they wait bitterly,
hollow-eyed orphans in Dickensian bedrooms,
longing for someone to say,
"yes, you . . . you're the one"?
Or do they wait patiently, shy shadows
at the high school dance,
knowing that, given the slightest chance,
someday they'll bloom?
I want to make room for all of them,
to be the Ellis Island of diction-
give me your tired, your poor,
your gegenshein, your zoanthropy-
all those words without a home,
come out and play - live in my poem.
-Donna Vorreyer
Wallfowers: " . . . herbs from the genus of Erysium of the mustard family . . ." www.freedictionary.com
Dickensian: "Of or like the novels of Charles Dickens (especially with regard to the poor social and economical conditions)." wordnetweb.princeton.edu
Ellis Island: Symbol of American immigrants, an island just off Manhattan that allows immigrants to stay. www.ellisisland.org
Gegenshein: " . . a faint spot of light in the night sky that appears directly opposite the position of the sun." wordnetweb.princeton.edu
Zoanthropy: " . . delusion that you have assumed the form of an animal." wordnetweb.princeton.edu
The first thing I had too do to respond to this poem was discover the definitions of some of the words. The five listed above were the words I had lack of knowledge on, if there are any others, let me know!
Doona Vorreyer lives in the Chicago area and works as a middle school teacher and a poet. Her work has been published in many journals and magazines, including New York Quarterly, Cider Press Review, Autumn Sky Poetry, Boxcar Poetry Review, Flashquake, Chantarelle's Notebook, After Hours, Ghoti, DMQ Review, Fickle Muse, and Apparatus Magazine. This is just to know the author, but I do not believe any of this information will help in understanding this poem, so moving on!
The over all message of this poem is fairly simple, Vorreyer is questioning the place in which words that are not used live. If they are "hollow-eyed orphans in Dickensian bedrooms," or "shy shadows at the high school dance." This concludes with a place for all of them to go, in her poem. What is fascinating about this poem is the vivid descriptions of unused words. Since the concept is easy to grasp, the descriptions and word choice really allows the poem to bloom. For an example, take stanza three. Dickensian, meaning, in this case, poor social condition, the reader can see long, extraordinary, unused words, hollow-eyed and longing used. And again in the last stanza, stanza five. The Ellis Island can be seen as an island that takes in immigrants for access to America. Verryer wants to be the place where all the words no one speaks can go and be put into poems. She even gives examples of these words, gegenshein and zoanthropy. Unless the reader studies astronomy and mental conditions, they are clueless as to what theses words are, really giving the sense of all the words unspoken in the world.
This poem was also encouraging, The splendid descriptions make the reader feel guilty that these words are not flowing off their tongues every once in a while. So her poem, in a sense, is a call to action. It is telling readers to hunt down and adopt the neglected words of today.
Monday, August 16, 2010
The Great Gatsby: Finished
I knew that this book was based in the 1920's and that it is well known, so I thought it would be interesting to concentrate on the style of Fitzgerald's writing. At first I figured this would be a struggle, to pick apart his style, but it is so rich in this book it was simple.
The first observation I want to point out is the importance of gossip. He portrays this by alowing the reader to discover large events and suprising actions within conversations. I can't say Nick is the main character because all five of them are, Gatsby, Tom, Daisy, Jordan, and Nick. The reader could discover everything through the mind of Nick.This is similar to most books I have read. His style allows you to feel as if you were standing in the room with all five, discovering everything right next to Nick instead of from him. Another way Fitzgerald does this is by sticking with common terms. Gatsby's being "old sport" and Tom's being "that's so?" It gives you a sense of familiarity.
The way Fitzgerald sticks negative adjectives with positive nouns is brilliant. On page 156 for instance, "...Myrtle Wilsons's tragic achievement was forgotten." Achievment is normally seem as a positive thing, a step forward, a goal met, but Wilson's is tragic. She escaped from the room where her husband was keeping her, in order to keep her from having an affair with Tom, but with that she was hit by two cars. Her achievment was escaping, the accident was tragic. This style adds to the overall mood, gloomy.
I would just like to add that I found a thin line between his style of writing and what he chose to happen in the story. For instance, Tom is having an affair with Myrtle and Daisy ends up running her over and killing her. Would this be considered a style of irony? I believe so. For some reason, that I now can not lay my finger on, I got confused. So his style of irony is pleasing. Another example is that Daisy is having an affair with Gatsby and Tom can be blamed for Gatsby's death. So Tom's chosen one for his affair is dead, along with Daisy's, which leaves Tom and Daisy to continue with their marriage. It's a crazy tale Fitzgerald is telling and these ironic incidents add to that craziness, as well as some dark humor, maybe?
Fitgerald will have small sections within paragraphs that switch from viewing everything from the five main charcters too him narrating. On page 136 he does this to describe Mr. Wilson's neighbor discovering Myrtle locked upstairs and her escaping and getting hit by Daisy. He does this to describe the situation and explain what happened before Tom, Nick, and Jordan pulled up to the accident. His style of going off on tangants mixes up the story telling and creates more deep thinking from the reader.
Another thing I noticed is the repetition of the number five. At first I thought it was just coincidence until I dog eared around 30 pages. All contained the number five, sometimes more then once. I've decided that it is a style of repetition and Fitzgerald's reason for it being the sense of time at a stand still. Throughout the book Gatsby is trying to hold onto the past with Daisy. He moved to East Egg in order to be closer to her. He throws the large parties in hopes that she will come. He makes friends with hundreds, including Nick, in order to get closer to Daisy and return to what they once were. I believe that the repetition of the number five, especially used as a time frame, and twlight, helps with the sence of being stuck at a certain time. He also refers to the time of twilight a lot, as well as Gatsby's repetition of "old sport."
Once or twice I noticed the repetition of one word in a sentence. On page 135 a sentence contains the word "thinning" three times to explain turning thirty. A style that gives emphasis to any sentence.
The first observation I want to point out is the importance of gossip. He portrays this by alowing the reader to discover large events and suprising actions within conversations. I can't say Nick is the main character because all five of them are, Gatsby, Tom, Daisy, Jordan, and Nick. The reader could discover everything through the mind of Nick.This is similar to most books I have read. His style allows you to feel as if you were standing in the room with all five, discovering everything right next to Nick instead of from him. Another way Fitzgerald does this is by sticking with common terms. Gatsby's being "old sport" and Tom's being "that's so?" It gives you a sense of familiarity.
The way Fitzgerald sticks negative adjectives with positive nouns is brilliant. On page 156 for instance, "...Myrtle Wilsons's tragic achievement was forgotten." Achievment is normally seem as a positive thing, a step forward, a goal met, but Wilson's is tragic. She escaped from the room where her husband was keeping her, in order to keep her from having an affair with Tom, but with that she was hit by two cars. Her achievment was escaping, the accident was tragic. This style adds to the overall mood, gloomy.
I would just like to add that I found a thin line between his style of writing and what he chose to happen in the story. For instance, Tom is having an affair with Myrtle and Daisy ends up running her over and killing her. Would this be considered a style of irony? I believe so. For some reason, that I now can not lay my finger on, I got confused. So his style of irony is pleasing. Another example is that Daisy is having an affair with Gatsby and Tom can be blamed for Gatsby's death. So Tom's chosen one for his affair is dead, along with Daisy's, which leaves Tom and Daisy to continue with their marriage. It's a crazy tale Fitzgerald is telling and these ironic incidents add to that craziness, as well as some dark humor, maybe?
Fitgerald will have small sections within paragraphs that switch from viewing everything from the five main charcters too him narrating. On page 136 he does this to describe Mr. Wilson's neighbor discovering Myrtle locked upstairs and her escaping and getting hit by Daisy. He does this to describe the situation and explain what happened before Tom, Nick, and Jordan pulled up to the accident. His style of going off on tangants mixes up the story telling and creates more deep thinking from the reader.
Another thing I noticed is the repetition of the number five. At first I thought it was just coincidence until I dog eared around 30 pages. All contained the number five, sometimes more then once. I've decided that it is a style of repetition and Fitzgerald's reason for it being the sense of time at a stand still. Throughout the book Gatsby is trying to hold onto the past with Daisy. He moved to East Egg in order to be closer to her. He throws the large parties in hopes that she will come. He makes friends with hundreds, including Nick, in order to get closer to Daisy and return to what they once were. I believe that the repetition of the number five, especially used as a time frame, and twlight, helps with the sence of being stuck at a certain time. He also refers to the time of twilight a lot, as well as Gatsby's repetition of "old sport."
Once or twice I noticed the repetition of one word in a sentence. On page 135 a sentence contains the word "thinning" three times to explain turning thirty. A style that gives emphasis to any sentence.
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Kite Runner: Part 2
I can't find a structured way to present my text-to-self annalization of "The Kite Runner. I apologize now for any confusion. This will be organized rambling.
I will start with the connection between Amir and Rahim. I believe that Rahim was the father Amir wanted when Baba was being "cruel." Rahim encouraged his writing and admitted his writing had talent. My sister bought me a writing journal when I first got interested in writing and encouraged me to stick with it. I think that Amir should have told Rahim what Assef did to Hassan. Rahim would have understood Amir's worry in telling someone because of his young age and would of helped him get it out, maybe in way of writing. Rahim reminded me of a gusrdian Angel that is there when you need him and gone when you don't. For instance, after Amir finds Hassan's son, Farid, you learn that Rahim has disappeared again because Amir has Farid and is heading back to America, he is no longer needed.
I could not make any connection to Assef, besides the everyday bully. But Assef wasn't the everyday bully. The difference between bullying someone and rapeing someone is thick. Looking at the time in which this happened; Afghanistan is being controlled by Russia, Hitler's reign is over, and classes are still strong. What I mean by classes is the servant and master. Hassan was a born servant and Assef believed him to be scum. That does not make what Assef did ok, but it does explain his actions. Rape does occur in America today, but more because of lust then class level. I am explaining the connection I didnt have?
On page 92, Amir throws pomegranates at Hassan, provoking Hassan to hit him back, get mad at him, but he doesn't. This is after Hassan is raped and Hassan doesn't know that Amir saw everything. Amir is filled with guilt at this point, he wants Hassan to know he knew, then have Hassan take his anger out on him. I have never known anyone as loyal as Hassan is to Amir, after being hit multiple times and yelled at by Amir he picks up a pomegranate and hits himself with it. Asks Amir if he is happy now, then walks away.I believe that Amir deserves that guilt, although he is young he knew what happened was a horrible thing and as the only person to see the incident (besides Assef's evil minions) he needed to tell someone.
To concentrate on the text-to-self analizing I will relate the kite running contests to my longboarding. Longboarding is what I do when I am stressed, mad, sad, happy, confused, etc. . . It is a large part of my life and the feeling I get when I am "surfing the concrete" is unexplainable. Although it is a feeling everyone gets, what they do to get it though is always different. To Amir and Hassan it is kite running.
"Better to get hurt by the truth then comforted by a lie." Page 58. I have said the like many times in my life. A lie covering up a truth only makes the truth worse, the sooner you tell it the better. To lie is to steal someones right from the truth. We also learn this from the book. Truth and lies are strewn throughout "The Kite Runner" and I see it as a major theme. Is never telling the truth the same as lieing to cover it up? Baba never told Amir that Hassan was his half brother. Is that better then if Baba had told him he wasn't? Amir never tells Hassan that he didn't see the rape. So rather it being truth and lies that are strewn throughout this book, it is truth and never telling it.
The random flash back on page 261 is amazing. It was placed perfectly and gives the strong sense of remeberance as he walks up the driveway of the house he used to inhabit. It's a meaningless yet strong flashback and it reminded me of how I think. I am horrible with names but I will remember a face for a lifetime. When I revisit a place I think of the faces that surrounded me when I was there. This is how I remember.
When Amir is an adult I relate to him incredibly! We are both awkward, care for our loved ones, and do whats best for everyone.
If there is anything I missed, or something of importance anyone thinks I should touch on let me know!
I will start with the connection between Amir and Rahim. I believe that Rahim was the father Amir wanted when Baba was being "cruel." Rahim encouraged his writing and admitted his writing had talent. My sister bought me a writing journal when I first got interested in writing and encouraged me to stick with it. I think that Amir should have told Rahim what Assef did to Hassan. Rahim would have understood Amir's worry in telling someone because of his young age and would of helped him get it out, maybe in way of writing. Rahim reminded me of a gusrdian Angel that is there when you need him and gone when you don't. For instance, after Amir finds Hassan's son, Farid, you learn that Rahim has disappeared again because Amir has Farid and is heading back to America, he is no longer needed.
I could not make any connection to Assef, besides the everyday bully. But Assef wasn't the everyday bully. The difference between bullying someone and rapeing someone is thick. Looking at the time in which this happened; Afghanistan is being controlled by Russia, Hitler's reign is over, and classes are still strong. What I mean by classes is the servant and master. Hassan was a born servant and Assef believed him to be scum. That does not make what Assef did ok, but it does explain his actions. Rape does occur in America today, but more because of lust then class level. I am explaining the connection I didnt have?
On page 92, Amir throws pomegranates at Hassan, provoking Hassan to hit him back, get mad at him, but he doesn't. This is after Hassan is raped and Hassan doesn't know that Amir saw everything. Amir is filled with guilt at this point, he wants Hassan to know he knew, then have Hassan take his anger out on him. I have never known anyone as loyal as Hassan is to Amir, after being hit multiple times and yelled at by Amir he picks up a pomegranate and hits himself with it. Asks Amir if he is happy now, then walks away.I believe that Amir deserves that guilt, although he is young he knew what happened was a horrible thing and as the only person to see the incident (besides Assef's evil minions) he needed to tell someone.
To concentrate on the text-to-self analizing I will relate the kite running contests to my longboarding. Longboarding is what I do when I am stressed, mad, sad, happy, confused, etc. . . It is a large part of my life and the feeling I get when I am "surfing the concrete" is unexplainable. Although it is a feeling everyone gets, what they do to get it though is always different. To Amir and Hassan it is kite running.
"Better to get hurt by the truth then comforted by a lie." Page 58. I have said the like many times in my life. A lie covering up a truth only makes the truth worse, the sooner you tell it the better. To lie is to steal someones right from the truth. We also learn this from the book. Truth and lies are strewn throughout "The Kite Runner" and I see it as a major theme. Is never telling the truth the same as lieing to cover it up? Baba never told Amir that Hassan was his half brother. Is that better then if Baba had told him he wasn't? Amir never tells Hassan that he didn't see the rape. So rather it being truth and lies that are strewn throughout this book, it is truth and never telling it.
The random flash back on page 261 is amazing. It was placed perfectly and gives the strong sense of remeberance as he walks up the driveway of the house he used to inhabit. It's a meaningless yet strong flashback and it reminded me of how I think. I am horrible with names but I will remember a face for a lifetime. When I revisit a place I think of the faces that surrounded me when I was there. This is how I remember.
When Amir is an adult I relate to him incredibly! We are both awkward, care for our loved ones, and do whats best for everyone.
If there is anything I missed, or something of importance anyone thinks I should touch on let me know!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The Kite Runner
Khaled Hosseini is an incredible author who really knows how to tell a story. Throughout the book his straight forward and blunt descriptions of every detail never refrain from shocking you. I also have to say that this book is extremely depressing, to me anyway. It was a page turner and I don't regret reading it. It has a great moral to the story and leaves a lasting impression on the reader.
I assumed from what I've heard about the book that it was rich in style, so I chose to take notes on the authors style and try to feed off of it. However, after the first chapter I changed my direction. Although the book is rich in style, I believe that the author has two or three main styling tools in his writing. Blunt descrptions, importance of past events, and strong connections between people. When I figured these out from the first ten chapters or so, I switched to relating the story to my own life (text to self) because of how descriptive and family/friend oriented it is.
The first large connection I made was Baba to my dad. Page twelve, the begining of chapter three is when I first made the connection. When Amir is describing him as someone who is never doubted, and his booming snores on page 13. This connection helped me vision Baba in my head and understand him more as a character.
The next relation came when Amir is describing Baba's belief that stealing is the worst sin, and that every other sin is of a different variation of theft. The worst variation of theft being murder. I had never made the theft connection to all sins and once I read and understood Baba's belief I couldn't agree more. In my past I have dealt with murder and loss and theft, so making that connection definatly tied me into the book.
To end (since my mom needs the computer) the first part of my "Kite Runner" blog on a happy note, I will pay notice to my connection with the main character, Amir. He is a writer, a story teller. I consider myself a free lance writer but I do enjoy the occasional fairytale and fictional story every now and then. His continuos effort to show his father his writing and make Baba proud of him is a mirror image of my effort to please my parents with my writing. The difference is that my parents do appreciate my writing, and did right away, but I still try to impress them more and more.
I will continue another day, hope everyone likes my thoughts so far! :)
I assumed from what I've heard about the book that it was rich in style, so I chose to take notes on the authors style and try to feed off of it. However, after the first chapter I changed my direction. Although the book is rich in style, I believe that the author has two or three main styling tools in his writing. Blunt descrptions, importance of past events, and strong connections between people. When I figured these out from the first ten chapters or so, I switched to relating the story to my own life (text to self) because of how descriptive and family/friend oriented it is.
The first large connection I made was Baba to my dad. Page twelve, the begining of chapter three is when I first made the connection. When Amir is describing him as someone who is never doubted, and his booming snores on page 13. This connection helped me vision Baba in my head and understand him more as a character.
The next relation came when Amir is describing Baba's belief that stealing is the worst sin, and that every other sin is of a different variation of theft. The worst variation of theft being murder. I had never made the theft connection to all sins and once I read and understood Baba's belief I couldn't agree more. In my past I have dealt with murder and loss and theft, so making that connection definatly tied me into the book.
To end (since my mom needs the computer) the first part of my "Kite Runner" blog on a happy note, I will pay notice to my connection with the main character, Amir. He is a writer, a story teller. I consider myself a free lance writer but I do enjoy the occasional fairytale and fictional story every now and then. His continuos effort to show his father his writing and make Baba proud of him is a mirror image of my effort to please my parents with my writing. The difference is that my parents do appreciate my writing, and did right away, but I still try to impress them more and more.
I will continue another day, hope everyone likes my thoughts so far! :)
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Heart of Darkness; finished.
I finished the book about thirty minutes ago and the first thing I would like to point out is how difficult this book was for me. I got through it, broke it down, and understood key points but what was difficult was the vocabulary and the sentence styling. Re-reading, summarizing pages, and marking the text definately pulled me through on this one.
For this book I chose the "text-to-word" connection. I decided on this way of outlining because it's an older book, published in 1898, and I knew I would have trouble remembering all the events and understanding certain words. Every single page in my book has a summary at the end, at the top, a header. This "leaving a trail" method helped me in understanding the overall story when coming to the end of the book. I make many references throughout the book on where to find things of the like I have just read, making conections throughout, that also helped.
Now onto the fun stuff! The actual story itself! It was great. Conrad does not leave any stone unturned when describing the surroundings of the steamer. He paints a full picture in your head before getting to the important stuff. The synonyms he uses for darkness throughout his book are incredible. He sets such a dreary scene, you can't help but feel like you are in the heart of darkness yourself. The same applies for the description of the villiages and companies Marlow passes. You can tell what kind of tale it is going to be from the begining.
Mr. Kurtz still gives me the feeling of the unknown, you know what I mean? Marlow's description of him is long, and seems fulfilling enough, but at the end it feels like he is still that secret man in the forest. To touch upon the subject of the humanity of man, since we will be working on that, Mr. Kurtz portrays the symbol of humanity for man gone bad. He let the dark heart of wilderness take him in, nurture him, protect him, and turn him into a wonderful animal! He begins to lie and kill and steal, but still can hold onto that great sense of knowledge and speech he is known for.
Marlow, to me, seems like the quiet guy who is often misunderstood. In a way he reminded me of my father. Not so much for those reasons, but for his relaxed personality. Not even a shriveled head on a stick gave Marlow much of a start. His personality was a good thing for the story. He doesn't beat around the bush. As he is telling the story you know it's coming from pure memory and heart.
I envied the young Russian man just as much as Marlow. He longed for adventure like I have never heard. It inspired me.
The ending happened quick, but I like the last few pages when Marlow is meeting with Mr. Kurts' girlfriend. The sorrow she held, not only inside of her, but in her speech and her apartment itself, gave a strong feeling of loss. True and utter loss that the entire world will feel. It gave a good strong ending to the horrible heart of darkness.
For this book I chose the "text-to-word" connection. I decided on this way of outlining because it's an older book, published in 1898, and I knew I would have trouble remembering all the events and understanding certain words. Every single page in my book has a summary at the end, at the top, a header. This "leaving a trail" method helped me in understanding the overall story when coming to the end of the book. I make many references throughout the book on where to find things of the like I have just read, making conections throughout, that also helped.
Now onto the fun stuff! The actual story itself! It was great. Conrad does not leave any stone unturned when describing the surroundings of the steamer. He paints a full picture in your head before getting to the important stuff. The synonyms he uses for darkness throughout his book are incredible. He sets such a dreary scene, you can't help but feel like you are in the heart of darkness yourself. The same applies for the description of the villiages and companies Marlow passes. You can tell what kind of tale it is going to be from the begining.
Mr. Kurtz still gives me the feeling of the unknown, you know what I mean? Marlow's description of him is long, and seems fulfilling enough, but at the end it feels like he is still that secret man in the forest. To touch upon the subject of the humanity of man, since we will be working on that, Mr. Kurtz portrays the symbol of humanity for man gone bad. He let the dark heart of wilderness take him in, nurture him, protect him, and turn him into a wonderful animal! He begins to lie and kill and steal, but still can hold onto that great sense of knowledge and speech he is known for.
Marlow, to me, seems like the quiet guy who is often misunderstood. In a way he reminded me of my father. Not so much for those reasons, but for his relaxed personality. Not even a shriveled head on a stick gave Marlow much of a start. His personality was a good thing for the story. He doesn't beat around the bush. As he is telling the story you know it's coming from pure memory and heart.
I envied the young Russian man just as much as Marlow. He longed for adventure like I have never heard. It inspired me.
The ending happened quick, but I like the last few pages when Marlow is meeting with Mr. Kurts' girlfriend. The sorrow she held, not only inside of her, but in her speech and her apartment itself, gave a strong feeling of loss. True and utter loss that the entire world will feel. It gave a good strong ending to the horrible heart of darkness.
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