Eng 10 Poem Excerpts UCSB

William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 20" (1)

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion; Awoman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;

W. H. Auden, "Musée des Beaux Arts" (1)

About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood:

William Carlos Williams, "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" (1)

According to Brueghel when [NAME] fell it was spring

William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 20" (2)

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth; A man in hue, all hues in his controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.

William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 20" (3)

And for a woman wert thou first created, Till Nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting, And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

John Donne, "Holy Sonnet 14" (1)

Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.

Frederick Seidel, "Ode to Spring" (4)

Before a little man up on a raised Runway altar where his flowers are arrayed Along the outside of the shop. I take my flames and pay inside.

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (9)

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll [WORD] with it.

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (1)

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

Kimberly Johnson, "Ode on My Episiotomy" (2)

But O! the dream of the dropped stitch! the loophole through which that unruly within might thread, catch with a small snag, pull the fray, unknit the knots unnoticed, and undoily me.

William Shakespeare, "Sonnet 20" (4)

But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (6)

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

Kimberly Johnson, "Ode on My Episiotomy" (3)

Don't lock up the parlor yet; such pleasure in unraveling, I may take up the sharps and darn myself to ladylike again.

"I will put chaos into fourteen lines"

Edna St. Vincent Millay

"In a Station of the Metro"

Ezra Pound

Kimberly Johnson, "Ode on My Episiotomy" (1)

Forget pearls, lace-edged kerchiefs, roomy pleats— this is my most matronly adornment: stitches purling up the middle of me to shut my seam, the one that jagged gaped upon my fecund, unspeakable dark, my indecorum needled together with torquemadan efficiency.

"Rime 3"

Francesco Petrarch

"Ode to Spring"

Frederick Seidel

"Spring"

Frederick Seidel

Frederick Seidel, "Ode to Spring" (1)

I can only find words for. And sometimes I can't. Here are these flowers that stand for. I stand here on the sidewalk.

Frederick Seidel, "Ode to Spring" (2)

I can't stand it, but yes of course I understand it. Everything has to have meaning. Things have to stand for something. I can't take the time. Even skin-deep is too deep.

Frederick Seidel, "Ode to Spring" (5)

I go off and have sexual intercourse. The woman is the woman I love. The room displays thirteen lilies. I stand on the surface

Frederick Seidel, "Ode to Spring" (3)

I say to the flower stand man: Beautiful flowers at your flower stand, man. I'll take a dozen of the lilies. I'm standing as it were on my knees

Marianne Moore, "Poetry" (1)

I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a

Frederick Seidel, "Spring" (1)

I want to date-rape life. I kiss the cactus spines. Running a fever in the cold keeps me alive

Frederick Seidel, "Spring" (3)

I want to drive into a drive-in bank and kiss And kill you, life. Sag Harbor, I'm your lover.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, "I will put chaos into fourteen lines" (1)

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines And keep him there; and let him thence escape If he be lucky;

Frederick Seidel, "Spring" (4)

I'm Yours, Sagaponack, too. This shark of bliss I input generates a desert slick as slime

John Donne, "Holy Sonnet 14" (2)

I, like an usurp'd town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but O, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.

John Keats, "If by dull rhymes" (1)

If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness; Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, Sandals more interwoven and complete To fit the naked foot of poesy;

W. H. Auden, "Musée des Beaux Arts" (3)

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure;

Francesco Petrarch, "Rime 3" (2)

It did not seem to me to be a time to guard myself against Love's blows: so I went on confident, unsuspecting; from that, my troubles started, amongst the public sorrows.

Francesco Petrarch, "Rime 3" (1)

It was on that day when the sun's ray was darkened in pity for its Maker, that I was captured, and did not defend myself, because your lovely eyes had bound me, Lady.

"On Keeping a Notebook"

Joan Didion

"Holy Sonnet 14"

John Donne

"The Flea"

John Donne

"If by dull rhymes"

John Keats

"Ode on a Grecian Urn"

John Keats

"Ode on My Episiotomy"

Kimberly Johnson

John Keats, "If by dull rhymes" (2)

Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd By ear industrious, and attention meet: Misers of sound and syllable, no less Than Midas of his coinage, let us be Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;

Francesco Petrarch, "Rime 3" (3)

Love discovered me all weaponless, and opened the way to the heart through the eyes, which are made the passageways and doors of tears:

"Poetry"

Marianne Moore

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (7)

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

Frederick Seidel, "Spring" (2)

My twin, the garbage truck seducing Key Food, whines And dines and crushes, just like me, and wants to drive.

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (7)

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

Edna St. Vincent Millay, "I will put chaos into fourteen lines" (3)

Past are the hours, the years of our duress, His arrogance, our awful servitude: I have him. He is nothing more nor less Than something simple not yet understood; I shall not even force him to confess; Or answer. I will only make him good.

"Digging"

Seamus Heaney

John Keats, "If by dull rhymes" (3)

So, if we may not let the Muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of her own.

Ezra Pound, "In a Station of the Metro"

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (5)

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

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (8)

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

Joan Didion, "On Keeping a Notebook" (2)

The woman in the dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper had come down from her room for a beer, and the bartender had heard before the reason why George Sharp and she were separated today. "Sure," he said, and went on mopping the floor. "You told me." At the other end of the bar is a girl. She is talking, pointedly, not to the man beside her but to a cat lying in the triangle of sunlight cast through the open door. She is wearing a plaid silk dress from Peck & Peck, and the hem is coming down.

W. H. Auden, "Musée des Beaux Arts" (2)

They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (3)

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

Seamus Heaney, "Digging" (2)

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

"Musée des Beaux Arts"

W. H. Auden

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (8)

When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (6)

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

"Landscape With the Fall of Icarus"

William Carlos Williams

"Sonnet 20"

William Shakespeare

John Donne, "Holy Sonnet 14" (3)

Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, But am betroth'd unto your enemy ; Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

William Carlos Williams, "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" (2)

a farmer was ploughing his field the whole pageantry of the year was awake tingling with itself

Marianne Moore, "Poetry" (3)

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base- ball fan, the statistician—case after case could be cited did one wish it; nor is it valid to discriminate against "business documents and

Marianne Moore, "Poetry" (5)

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them, shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion— the raw material of poetry in all its rawness, and that which is on the other hand, genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Marianne Moore, "Poetry" (2)

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful; when they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us—that we do not admire what we cannot understand. The bat, holding on upside down or in quest of something to

Edna St. Vincent Millay, "I will put chaos into fourteen lines" (2)

let him twist, and ape Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs Will strain to nothing in the strict confines Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape, I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines.

Marianne Moore, "Poetry" (4)

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the autocrats among us can be "literalists of the imagination"—above insolence and triviality and can present

Francesco Petrarch, "Rime 3" (4)

so that it seems to me it does him little honour to wound me with his arrow, in that state, he not showing his bow at all to you who are armed.

William Carlos Williams, "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" (3)

sweating in the sun that melted the wings' wax

W. H. Auden, "Musée des Beaux Arts" (4)

the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

William Carlos Williams, "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" (4)

unsignificantly off the coast there was a splash quite unnoticed this was [NAME] drowning

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (5)

• Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed • Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; • And, happy melodist, unwearied, • For ever piping songs for ever new; • More happy love! more happy, happy love! • For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, o For ever panting, and for ever young; • All breathing human passion far above, • That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, o A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

John Donne, "The Flea" (5)

• Cruel and sudden, hast thou since • Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence? • Wherein could this [WORD] guilty be, • Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (4)

• Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave • Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; • Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, • Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; • She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, • For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (3)

• Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard • Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; • Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, • Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

John Donne, "The Flea" (1)

• Mark but this [WORD], and mark in this, • How little that which thou deniest me is; • It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, • And in this [WORD] our two bloods mingled be;

John Donne, "The Flea" (3)

• Oh stay, three lives in one [WORD] spare, • Where we almost, nay more than married are. • This [WORD] is you and I, and this • Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;

Joan Didion, "On Keeping a Notebook" (1)

• That woman Estelle,'" the note reads, "'is partly the reason why George Sharp and I are separated today.' Dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper, hotel bar, Wilmington RR, 9:45 a.m. August Monday morning." Since the note is in my notebook, it presumably has some meaning to me. I study it for a long while. At first I have only the most general notion of what I was doing on an August Monday morning in the bar of the hotel across from the Pennsylvania Railroad station in Wilmington, Delaware (waiting for a train? missing one? 1960? 1961? why Wilmington?), but I do remember being there.

John Donne, "The Flea" (2)

• Thou know'st that this cannot be said • A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, • Yet this enjoys before it woo, • And pampered swells with one blood made of two, • And this, alas, is more than we would do.

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (1)

• Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, • Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, • Sylvan historian, who canst thus express • A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

John Donne, "The Flea" (4)

• Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, • And cloistered in these living walls of jet. • Though use make you apt to kill me, • Let not to that, self-murder added be, • And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (2)

• What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape • Of deities or mortals, or of both, • In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? • What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? • What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? • What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

John Donne, "The Flea" (6)

• Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou • Find'st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; • 'Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: • Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me, • Will waste, as this [WORD]'s death took life from thee.