"beware : do not read this poem" by Ishmael Reed

 Ishamel Reed is an American poet, essayist, songwriter and much more who is renown for his satirical works on the topics of American political culture and cultural oppression. He was born in February of 1938 and is 76 years old.

 beware  :  do not read this poem

tonite, thriller was
about an old woman, so vain she
surrounded herself with

many mirrors it got so bad that finally she
locked herself indoors & her
whole life became the
mirrors one day the villagers broke
into her house, but she was too
swift for them. she disappeared
into a mirror
each tenant who bought the house
after that, lost a loved one to
the old woman in the mirror:
first a little girl
then a young woman
then the young woman's husband the hunger of this poem is legendary
it has taken in many victims
back off from this poem
it has drawn in your feet
back off from this poem
it has drawn in your legs
back off from thias poem
it is a greedy mirror
you are into this poem. from
the waist down
nobody can hear you can they?
this poem has had you up to here
belch
this poem aint got no manners
you cant call out from this poem
relax now & go with this poem move & roll on to this poem
do not resist this poem
this poem has your eyes
this poem has his head
this poem has his arms
this poem has his fingers
this poem has his fingertips
this poem is the reader & the
reader the poem
statistic: the US bureau of missing persons re-
  ports that in 1968 over 100,000 people
  disappeared leaving no solid clues
  nor trace     only
a space     in the lives of their friends

The structure of this poem is influenced largely by its running theme of mirrors. The mirror, as described in the poem sucks you in once you start reading and never lets you go. The reader is just one more tally in its long line of victims. However, the mirror not only serves the purpose of a mysterious object. It also works to draw its victim in and never let go. The repetition of the phrases, "this poem has," and "back off this poem," move to almost hypnotize the reader with its mirrored passages. The alignment of the lines creates a feeling of struggle, as if someone, such as another victim, is trying to break away, from its grasp. This is emphasized in the line "back off this poem," as a previous victim tries to warn the reader of what is to come. The lines, " it has drawn in your ..." indicates that the victim is still being hypnotized. Every time they try to resist, the mirror brings them back. Likewise, while the reader continues to reader, the structure of the poem changes to indicate the mirror's grip on them. The lines in the beginning are misaligned, showing that the reader still has room to move and control their actions. However as the poem advances, the lines contract, instilling a sense of control over the reader as they have less space to read. The structure of the poem heavily contributes to the overall theme of the poem taking over the reader.

"Fireflies in the Garden" by Robert Frost

Robert Frost was an American poet, born in March of 1874. He became one of the most critically acclaimed poets of the twentieth century with his works that examined complex social and philosophical themes. He received four Pulitzer prizes for his work and a Congressional Gold Medal in 1960. He died in January of 1963.

Fireflies in the Garden

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,

And here on earth come emulating flies,

That though they never equal stars in size,

(And they were never really stars at heart)

Achieve at times a very star-like start.

Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.

 

This poem employs the usage of figurative language as the foundation of the poem. It uses a metaphor to portray Fireflies as the "stars" of the poem, saying, "Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, and here on earth come emulating flies." The word emulating, by its denotation, gives us a sense that fireflies aspire to be like the stars, to shine throughout the night. While the real stars light up the sky, the flies' task is to light the Earth in a likewise manner. However, a large burning sphere millions of light years away from Earth and a tiny, light producing insect, have little in common other than their inclination to illuminate the night. The author notes, " they were never equal stars in size," meaning that it is a large role for just fireflies to fill. This seems to be a known fact among the insects as, "they were never really stars at heart," according to Frost. From this point on in the poem, there seems to be a change of tone from admiration to pity. The lightning bugs just cannot imitate stars on a grand scale. Again the author notes, "they can't sustain the part." This may be a reference to how they maybe do not shine bright enough, or that they are not glistening continuously.  Whatever the case, the author seems sympathize with the bugs in that although they may not completely fill the large shoes of stars, they make their best effort to do on Earth what the stars do across the sky.

"Pied Beauty" by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Gerard Manley Hopkins was an English poet and a Jesuit priest who converted to Roman Catholicism. He was born in July of 1844 and died in June of 1889. He was regarded as one of the leading Victorian Poets.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –

   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                Praise him.

 

The diction in this poem, as written by the author, serves a two-fold purpose:

           The first is to give us a sense of the beauty of nature and that all God has created. Each interpretation is different from the next. He imparts a sense of diversity in nature, where each experience is different from the next. By saying "skies of couple-color as a brinded cow," he is admiring the many different forms that our world can take. Each encounter is "original, spare, [or] strange," yielding excitement in the hopes for new discoveries a possibilities and joy in the fact that God has taken his time to craft such beauty instead of just duplicating everything. The Earth is a place of endless possibilities, where carbon copies are non-existent, where beauty comes in more than just one variety.

          Secondly, the words he uses are all geared towards instilling a sense of these "dappled things.' The multitude of adjectives and descriptions he uses are numerous, creating new and unique perspectives to observe God's work with. Using descriptions, such as, "fickle, stipple, and freckled" to express these different takes. For one viewpoint, he appreciates the different flecks and dots upon trout, whereas another prospect admires the land as "fold, fallow, and plow." This exemplifies my first point: if everything created by God were the same, there would only be a set amount of ways to describe and ponder them. But by creating an assortment of different possibilities, the world's beauty not only lies within how it appears, but also, how diverse it can become.

"Morning" by Billy Collins

William James "Billy" Collins, an American poet given the title Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003 was born in March of 1941. He is a professor at Lehman College in New York and is 73 years old.

Morning

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,

the swale of the afternoon,

the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,

his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—

throwing off the light covers,

feet on the cold floor,

and buzzing around the house on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,

a palmful of vitamins—

but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—

trees fifty, a hundred years old

out there,

heavy clouds on the way

and the lawn steaming like a horse

in the early morning. 

 

This work's context stems from one's experience with the early hours of the day. The time when we awake at the crack of dawn to begin our day with a regular routine that readies us for the later portions of the day. Mornings, in my eyes at least, tend to be the most grueling part of the day. Forced out of the warm embrace of a bed into the noticeably cooler air with the alarm clock screaming at you all with the yearning for just five more minutes of peace on a pillow. As you slowly and groggily begin your morning routine, a million different things begin to rush through your head which is not completely up and running. Yet, with this in mind, Collins has a different, opinion on this time of day. He embraces the havoc, complete with his "feet on the cold ground" and "a splash of water on the face." Collins finds enjoyment amongst the time filled with "buzzing around the house on espresso," questioning "why do we even bother with the rest of the day?" He sees it as the opening of his day, where he finds excitement in starting a new page in the book of life. The rest of the hours seem bleak and boring, compared to the early morning rush to get out of bed and right to work. This shows his passion for writing and creating poems by being excited about beginning his daily tasks, even further referenced when he mentions the "dictionary and atlas open on the rug," presumably from the night before. By using these early morning elements, Collins' use of context deepens the meaning of the poem.

Labels: Context

"Disabled" by Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen was an English poet and soldier who fought in the first world war and used his experiences to influence his writing. He was born in March of 1893 and died in France on the 4th of November in 1918 at age 25.

Disabled

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
— In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

 This poem follows the thoughts and feeling of an onlooker to a disabled veteran. The speaker depicts him as a sort of  fallen hero to whose name people give little attention. A man saddened by the fact that "some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer goals." One who at "one time liked a blood-smear down his leg," a mark of a great game of soccer compared to the horrors of a trench.  Once an energetic youth living in a "Town [that] used to swing so gay" now confined to a wheel chair, preventing him from reliving the wonders of the past. The speaker in this way, develops this disabled veteran through indirect characterization, using multiple details and points to create a personality not explicitly introduced to the audience. Details such as, "women's eyes pass[ing] from him to strong men," and "his back will never brace" reinforce the idea of a character who was once young, strong, and independent is now aged, brittle, and dependent. The speaker emits a sense of pity for the old veteran, noting, "now he will never feel again how slim girls' waist are or how warm their subtle hands." He feels sorry for the man, how his youth that fueled his battles on the soccer field had been sapped by the grim reality of a war between nations, his days of young age stolen from him. At this point there is nothing the veteran can, only sit back and hope that someone will give him the attention he deserves.

 Labels: Speaker, Indirect Characterization

"Alzheimer's" by Kelly Cherry

 Kelly Cherry is an author, poet, and the former Poet Laureate of Virginia. She was born in December of 1940 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. She is currently 73 years old and lives on a small farm in Virginia.

Alzheimer's

He stands at the door, a crazy old man
Back from the hospital, his mind rattling
like the suitcase, swinging from his hand,
That contains shaving cream, a piggy bank,
A book he sometimes pretends to read,
His clothes. On the brick wall beside him
Roses and columbine slug it out for space, claw the mortar.
The sun is shining, as it does late in the afternoon
in England, after rain.
Sun hardens the house, reifies it,
Strikes the iron grillwork like a smithy
and sparks fly off, burning in the bushes--
the rosebushes--
While the white wood trim defines solidity in space.
This is his house. He remembers it as his,
Remembers the walkway he built between the front room
and the garage, the rhododendron he planted in back,
the car he used to drive. He remembers himself,
A younger man, in a tweed hat, a man who loved
Music. There is no time for that now. No time for music,
The peculiar screeching of strings, the luxurious
Fiddling with emotion.
Other things have become more urgent.
Other matters are now of greater import, have more
Consequence, must be attended to. The first
Thing he must do, now that he is home, is decide who
This woman is, this old, white-haired woman
Standing here in the doorway,
Welcoming him in. 

This poem displays a reminiscent tone, depicted through the man's thoughts. He lacks memories pertaining to his surroundings, although they seem familiar to him. He remembers his house, his car, and even himself in his younger years, but the fact that his past experiences evade him when thinking about these subjects does not phase him, for "other things have become more urgent." This urgency comes from his meeting with the old, white-haired woman who is presumably his wife and the fact that he cannot conjure a memory of old for who she is upsets him. But still she is welcoming of this "crazy old man" whose mind rattles because of the terrible disease that plagues him. She still remembers the days that have passed, the memories that have evaded the old man. When he approaches the house, the author's vivid descriptions of what he observes, with "the sun harden[ing] the house" and its "white wood trim" give the impression that perhaps not all of his memories have departed or rather he had reclaimed some of them with the sight of his old home, but it seems to be a struggle just to come upon these recollections. The next few lines are structured in a way that seem forced, with short simple sentences such as, " this is his house," and "the car he used to drive," giving the sense that rediscovering these thoughts are much harder than before. Difficult as it may be, he still pursues his memories, one by one, starting with the person who completes him.

Labels: Tone

"Constantly Risking Absurdity" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Lawrence Ferlinghetti is a poet, painter, and activist. He was born in Bronxville, New York in 1919 and is currently 95 years old. He co-founded the business City Lights Booksellers and Publishers. 

 

"Constantly Risking Absurdity"

 

Constantly risking absurdity

                                             and death

            whenever he performs

                                        above the heads

                                                            of his audience

   the poet like an acrobat

                                 climbs on rime

                                          to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

                                     above a sea of faces

             paces his way

                               to the other side of day

    performing entrechats

                               and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

                               and all without mistaking

                     any thing

                               for what it may not be

       For he's the super realist

                                     who must perforce perceive

                   taut truth

                                 before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

                                  toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

                                     with gravity

                                                to start her death-defying leap

      And he

             a little charleychaplin man

                                           who may or may not catch

               her fair eternal form

                                     spreadeagled in the empty air

                  of existence

 

This poem shows the perspective of a poet and how society views him. The writer uses a simile to compare a poet to an acrobat in the sense that both attract the attention of an audience: the poet with his musings and the acrobat with his tricks. The poet becomes the center of attention with his "theatrics," in other words, analysis or thoughts on subjects wherein he dares to decrypt the underlying truth of the matter at hand while society looks on. His thinking must be in line with society's "all without mistaking/ anything/ for what it may not be." He "constantly risks absurdity" in his thoughts as his messages may make him seem like a fool, leaving him to be mocked, or a genius, worthy of respect, in the eyes of his onlookers, culminating in his "death-defying leap" as he attempts to drive his point across.The poem is structured to make it seem like he is swaying on the tightrope of truth, with any wrong move leaving him to tumble down into the depths of idiocy. The way the text is divided also makes it seem like he is taking each movement cautiously and carefully, so as not to disrupt his audience, giving a stuttering type of rhythm to the poem. Parallels are drawn between the poet and the acrobat as he "balance[s] on eyebeams/ above a sea of faces," and "perform[s] entrechats/ and sleight-of-foot tricks" showing how people look up to him to witness his acts. The work as a whole portrays poets as harbingers of society, in their pursuit to communicate the truth to the public.

Labels: simile, structure, rhythm