Ljóðahefti

*Sonnets from the Portuguese - Elizabeth Browning*

About her relationship with her husband. Robert Browning referred lovingly to Elizabeth as "my little Portuguese" because of her swarthy complexion—thus the genesis of the title

I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek:

The Duke explains to the listener why he brought up the painter, Frà Pandolf. He says that he mentioned Pandolf on purpose, or "by design" because strangers never examine the Duchess's portrait without looking like they want to ask the Duke how the painter put so much "depth and passion" into the expression on the Duchess's face, or "countenance". They don't actually ask, because they don't dare, but the Duke thinks he can tell that they want to. Addressing his still-unknown listener as "sir," the Duke goes into more detail about the expression on the Duchess's face in the painting. He describes her cheek as having a "spot / Of joy" in it, perhaps a slight blush of pleasure. It wasn't just "her husband's presence" that made her blush in this way, although the Duke seems to believe that it should have been the only thing that would. The Duke doesn't like the idea that anyone else might compliment his wife or do something sweet that would make her blush.

Section 119 Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, not as one that weeps I come once more; the city sleeps; I smell the meadow in the street; I hear a chirp of birds; I see Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn A light-blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye; And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh I take the pressure of thine hand.

The doors in the first stanza are probably the doors to the house where Arthur once lived. He's way less sad than the last time he darkened this guy's door. It's clear he's once again visiting the places where his friend once was, but this time with a new and improved outlook. Even though Arthur is now gone, the speaker feels "the pressure of [his] hand." Here, it's the imagined pressure of Arthur's hand in his, but it seems to be no less important to Tennyson than if it were the real thing.

*Field of Vision - Seamus Heaney* I remember this woman who sat for years In a wheelchair, looking straight ahead Out the window at sycamore trees unleafing And leafing at the far end of the lane. Straight out past the TV in the corner, The stunted, agitated hawthorn bush, The same small calves with their backs to wind and rain, The same acre of ragwort, the same mountain. She was steadfast as the big window itself. Her brow was clear as the chrome bits of the chair. She never lamented once and she never Carried a spare ounce of emotional weight. Face to face with her was an education Of the sort you got across a well-braced gate — One of those lean, clean, iron, roadside ones Between two whitewashed pillars, where you could see Deeper into the country than you expected And discovered that the field behind the hedge Grew more distinctly strange as you kept standing Focused and drawn in by what barred the way

The narrator remembers "this woman who sat for years in a wheelchair." In his way, he declares her remarkable, allowing the rest of the poem to speak of her as an object of wonder. She herself contemplates the dreadfully mundane and the cosmic, both at once. The sycamore trees at which she stares sit fixed for years. Their leafing and unleafing casts the whole world as a cynical clock, even as it demonstrates the cycle of birth and rebirth. In her stillness, she witnesses this natural cycle."The stunted, agitated hawthorn bush," "the same small calves," "the same acre of ragwort, the same mountain:" The list shows that Nature itself endures a variety of ways. Even if stunted or agitated or weedlike, something in Nature never fails to assert its relevance.Her steadfastness, clear brow, spare emotions, and gleaming chair mark her rule. Her lack of lamentation makes her more than human. Like a god, only mysteries attend her. She leads those with the willingness to read her face to a specific resolve, one grounded in seeing frailty as part of the natural. She can testify that endurance alone is a virtue. Facing her is facing a "well-braced gate," "lean, clean, iron," barring movement. The gate stands strong, pure. It is both her and the education she provides. The last stanza has a double quality. The speaker, face to face with the woman, tries to learn from what he perceives, finding her stranger, ever more interesting. He is trying to learn from the woman, who is also trying to see, and the image of her as a gate shows that she, as observer and knower, has changed access to everything else for him. To learn her strength means to see more, to see as she does, to find her oracular.

Sonnet 1 I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in its antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 1 Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,— "Guess now who holds thee?"—"Death," I said. But, there, The silver answer rang,—"Not Death, but Love."

"I thought once how Theocritus had sung," expresses her feelings of woe as she realizes she won't live a long and happy life. However, by the end of the sonnet, love embraces her and tells her that it will now be her constant companion, not death.

*Power - Audre Lorde* The difference between poetry and rhetoric is being ready to kill yourself instead of your children. I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds and a dead child dragging his shattered black face off the edge of my sleep blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders is the only liquid for miles and my stomach churns at the imagined taste while my mouth splits into dry lips without loyalty or reason thirsting for the wetness of his blood as it sinks into the whiteness of the desert where I am lost without imagery or magic trying to make power out of hatred and destruction trying to heal my dying son with kisses only the sun will bleach his bones quicker. A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood and a voice said "Die you little mother****er" and there are tapes to prove it. At his trial this policeman said in his own defense "I didn't notice the size nor nothing else only the color". And there are tapes to prove that, too. Today that 37 year old white man with 13 years of police forcing was set free by eleven white men who said they were satisfied justice had been done and one Black Woman who said "They convinced me" meaning they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame over the hot coals of four centuries of white male approval until she let go the first real power she ever had and lined her own womb with cement to make a graveyard for our children. I have not been able to touch the destruction within me. But unless I learn to use the difference between poetry and rhetoric my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire and one day I will take my teenaged plug and connect it to the nearest socket r*ping an 85 year old white woman who is somebody's mother and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time "Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."

"Power" is based on an actual event and Lorde's personal reaction, which she recorded in her journal. While driving, Lorde heard a radio broadcast announcing the acquittal of a white policeman who had shot and killed a black ten-year-old. She was so furious and sickened that she felt that the sky turned red, that she had to park the car before she drove it into a wall. Then and there, she inscribed her feelings of outrage over the decision of the jury of eleven white men and one black woman. the streets of New York become "a desert of raw gunshot wounds," a white desert where the only liquid for miles is the blood of a dead black child. Through this poem, Lorde tries to "make power out of hatred and destruction," to heal her "dying son with kisses." Yet she cannot help expressing her rage at the policeman's comment, offered in his own defense, that "I didn't notice the size or nothing else/ only the color."

*Stillborn - Sylvia Plath* These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads bulged with concentration. If they missed out on walking about like people It wasn't for any lack of mother-love. O I cannot explain what happened to them! They are proper in shape and number and every part. They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid! They smile and smile and smile at me. And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start. They are not pigs, they are not even fish, Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -- It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were. But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction, And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

"Stillborn" projects an image of a fetus, an unborn child, brought into the world dead. The hope's and dream's the mother had for her child are gone, stolen in an inexplicable tragedy. Plath becomes the mother to her poems in this piece. She is criticizing herself as a poet by calling her poems dead. By objectifying her "inabilities" she seems able to allow herself the disappointment she is feeling, and it lets her distance this negative emotion from herself. The imagery, as with most of Plath's works, is incredible "They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads bulged with concentration." She personifies her writing. Both her physical poems written on paper, and the words themselves.

*What My Child Learns of the Sea - Audre Lord* What my child learns of the sea of the summer thunders of the riddles that hide in the curve of spring she will learn in my twilights and childlike revise every autumn What my child learns as her winters grow into time has ripened in my own body to enter her eyes with first light This is why more than blood or the milk I have given one day a strange girl will step to the back of a mirror cutting my ropes of sea and thunder and spring. Of the way she will taste her autumnstoast-brittle or warmer than sleepand the words she will use for winter I stand already condemned

"What My Child Learns of the Sea" reflects the anxiety and upheaval in Lorde's personal life. In this poem, Lorde explores the responsibility, legacy, and limitations she felt as a mother and daughter. Avoiding specific allusions to historical events, Lorde focused her imagery on the primal cycles of nature.

*Winter: My Secret - Christina Rossetti* I tell my secret? No indeed, not I; Perhaps some day, who knows? But not today; it froze, and blows and snows, And you're too curious: fie! You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell. Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun. Today's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to everyone who taps, And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all. I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows? You would not peck? I thank you for good will, Believe, but leave the truth untested still. Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours. Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess.

A female speaker (determined by the female clothing she alludes to) is addressing an auditor who has asked her to tell her 'secret'. She refuses on the grounds that the day is too cold, that perhaps there is nothing to tell and that she does not want to reveal herself, just as she does not want to be exposed to the cold. The 'secret' to which the title refers is not specified in the poem. The teasing tone of the speaker as she threatens to reveal a secret and then decides to keep it concealed from the reader has puzzled readers and critics since the poem's first publication. Animalistic imagery used to describe external forces acting on her (society)- views society as unfeeling, harsh and fatiguing. This is also reflected in the title; she focusses specifically on 'Winter'. Imagery and tone become more positive as poem progresses- expresses true internal desire to change and accept society/ reflects eventual realisation that secrets are not needed? Portrays the nature of the outside world (society).

*O Captain! My Captain!* O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

A sailor sings a song. He's singing a song that praises his captain for leading the ship and crew into the harbor after a long and dangerous voyage. Everyone's on shore celebrating the safe homecoming, when the sailor notices that the captain is lying dead on the deck of the ship. While the crowd on the shore is celebrating, unaware of the fallen leader, the sailor walks mournfully upon the deck where the captain has fallen. Repetition = You've falled cold and dead

*Funeral Blues - W.H. Auden* Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

An unnamed speaker laments the death of someone close to him. The speaker asks for quiet. He wants to stop all clocks and telephones and to silence barking dogs and pianos. He says to bring out the coffin of the dead beloved, and for the mourners to come. He continues on in a similar vein; and asks the airplanes to write "He Is Dead" across the sky. He says that doves should wear white ribbons and that policemen should wear black gloves to commemorate the death. Then things take a turn for the personal. He says that the dead man was everything to him-all points of a compass, every day of the week, every time of the day. And the worst part is that this experience has taught him that love won't last forever, as he once thought. That's when he starts to really despair. He doesn't want to see the stars, the moon, or the sun. He doesn't want to see the ocean or the forest. Now that the dead man is gone, there is no good left in the world. None at all.

Sonnet 10 Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed And worthy of acception. Fire is bright, Let temple burn, or flax; and equal light..

Browning accepts how deeply she loves her husband and how much she longs for happiness. She considers what it means to love, and how God loves everyone who also loves Him. Love flows through her, and she accepts that she's worthy of love as a child of God.

*Because I Could not Stop for Death - Emily Dickinson* Because I could not stop for Death - He kindly stopped for me - The Carriage held but just Ourselves - And Immortality. We slowly drove - He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility - We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess - in the Ring - We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain - We passed the Setting Sun - Or rather - He passed us - The Dews drew quivering and chill - For only Gossamer my Gown - My Tippet- only Tulle - We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground - The Roof was scarcely visible - The Cornice - in the Ground -

Death, in the form of a gentleman suitor, stops to pick up the speaker and take her on a ride in his horse-drawn carriage. (Death is personified) They move along at a pretty relaxed pace and the speaker seems completely at ease with the gentleman. As they pass through the town, she sees children at play, fields of grain, and the setting sun As dusk sets in our speaker gets a little chilly, as she is completely under-dressed - only wearing a thin silk shawl for a coat. She was unprepared for her impromptu date with Death when she got dressed that morning. They stop at what will be her burial ground, marked with a small headstone. In the final stanza, we find out the speaker's ride with Death took place centuries ago (so she's been dead for a long time). But it seems like just yesterday when she first got the feeling that horse heads pointed toward "Eternity"; or, in other words, signaled the passage from life to death to an afterlife.

*Punishment in Kindergarten - Kamala Das* Today the world is a little more my own. No need to remember the pain A blue-frocked woman caused, throwing Words at me like pots and pans, to drain That honey-coloured day of peace. 'Why don't you join the others, what A peculiar child you are! ' On the lawn, in clusters, sat my schoolmates sipping Sugarcane, they turned and laughed; Children are funny things, they laugh In mirth at others' tears, I buried My face in the sun-warmed hedge And smelt the flowers and the pain. The words are muffled now, the laughing Faces only a blur. The years have Sped along, stopping briefly At beloved halts and moving Sadly on. My mind has found An adult peace. No need to remember That picnic day when I lay hidden By a hedge, watching the steel-white sun Standing lonely in the sky.

In the poem Punishment in Kindergarten, Kamala Das memorizes a childhood experience that was quite painful for her. She was scolded by her teacher for being alone and her schoolmates also laughed at her that made her weep. The poem has been divided into three parts. In the first part, the poet discusses how her teacher scolded her. In the second part, she memorizes her schoolmates laughing her making her weep and in the final part she says that being an adult there is no need for her to memorize this experience. Stanza 1: The poet begins with the line "Today the world is a little more my own"that makes it clear that she is going to talk about a past event which was not pleasant for her. Next, she begins by narrating the day in her childhood (in Kindergarten) when she went to a picnic along with other students. The poet uses ample of symbols like a blue-frocked woman for her teacher, throwing words at me like pots and pans, to make us feel the intensity of teacher's words. While other students were merrymaking and playing together, Kamala Das was sitting alone that was not liked by her blue-frocked teacher and she scolded her by calling her a peculiar child. The in the first part the poet narrates the day which was quite pleasant and ultimately ruined by her teacher. Stanza 2: In the second part, the poet says when the teacher scolded her, other students who were sipping sugarcane started laughing at her. The children, according to Kamala are funny creatures. They laugh at others pains and they did the same when she was scolded without realizing how much she was hurt. Being hurt, she hid her face in the sun-warmed hedge and smelt the flowers and the pain. The poet associates flowers with pain. I think she has tried to compare her childhood with the flower which is quite delicate. Stanza 3: In the final stanza, the poet says that now that she is grown up, the memory of that event has faded away because there is nothing in her childhood to cherish and desire for. She has now found adult peace i.e. Ironically be saying again and again "No need to remember" her helplessness in forgetting it is quite visible. The memory has not faded away but quite clear in her mind

*Bye-Child - Seamus Heaney* He was discovered in the henhouse where she had confined him. He was incapable of saying anything. When the lamp glowed, A yolk of light In their back window, The child in the outhouse Put his eye to a chink- Little henhouse boy, Sharp-faced as new moons Remembered, your photo still Glimpsed like a rodent On the floor of my mind, Little moon man, Kennelled and faithful At the foot of the yard, Your frail shape, luminous, Weightless, is stirring the dust, The cobwebs, old droppings Under the roosts And dry smells from scraps She put through your trapdoor Morning and evening. After those footsteps, silence; Vigils, solitudes, fasts, Unchristened tears, A puzzled love of the light. But now you speak at last With a remote mime Of something beyond patience, Your gaping wordless proof Of lunar distances Travelled beyond love.

Is a poem about the torment that is experienced by an abandoned child. The poem illustrates the sufferings that are experienced by a boy who is imprisoned inside a henhouse. The 'henhouse boy' is the ultimate symbol of negligence and alienation. The child is deprived from light; as he is treated like a caged animal, who is given scraps to eat from a trapped door. He portrays a sense of depression and isolation as the boy is described as frail and weightless. The boy's surroundings are described as unhealthy and animal like. In the end of the poem the readers understand that the moons go beyond the boys' physical attributes. It highlights the distance between the boy and reassuring outside world of love and happiness. The surroundings of the boy make the reader sympathize with him. The boy is given the image of an animal. He is being abused. The boy is ''knelled'' and ''faithful'' like a dog, illustrating his innocence and ignorance towards the outside world. Heaney's revulsion of children who are mistreated, abandoned and neglected.

What is the poem about?

It describes the death of the great British king, Arthur, and Bedivere's depositing of Arthur's sword, Excalibur, in the lake from which Arthur first acquired it. Bedivere tends to the dying king, who hands his knight the sword and tells him to go and throw it in the lake. Bedivere goes to the lake but finds he cannot bear to throw away such a mighty sword, so he hides it and returns to his king. Arthur can tell Bedivere has disobeyed him, so off Bedivere goes again, but once again he cannot bring himself to fling Excalibur into the water. When he returns to Arthur again, the king can tell that Bedivere has disobeyed him and commands him to go back. Bedivere succeeds on the *third attempt*, and once he has thrown the sword into the lake, a hand, clothed in white samite, rises from the water and grabs the sword, brandishing it three times before disappearing with it under the water. When Bedivere returns to the dying king, Arthur can tell from Bedivere's shock that the knight has thrown the sword back, and Arthur prepares to die. A barge arrives to carry him off to his final resting-place, and Arthur is placed on board, where he is tended by three queens. The barge sails off to the isle of Avilion (Avalon).

*Musée des Beaux Arts - W.H Hauden* 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: 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. 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; 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.

It turns out that when bad things happen to people, other people are usually looking the other way. At least, that's what our speaker starts to think as he looks at Pieter Brueghel's "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," a painting that depicts a lovely spring morning by the seaside complete with a tiny pair of legs splashing around in the water. (Icarus) Seeing the beautiful landscape coupled with a drowning gets our speaker to thinking. See, as far as he can tell, this Brueghel guy has got it just about perfect. Bad things tend to be surrounded by - well, by lots of good things. Sunny skies. Beautiful trees. Pretty, pretty people. With all of that good stuff around, who's going to notice when something bad is going on a few feet away? After all, kids don't care when big events happen. At least, that's what our speaker realizes. Thinking about all the surroundings in Brueghel's painting leads him to free-think a bit about all of the ways that suffering is surrounded by the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Finally, though, our speaker pulls his attention back to the painting. You could think of this poem as a bit of a backwards logic. Usually we move from description to analysis. Here, Auden slams us with analysis before giving us context. In other words, we're forced to think about the ways that it's relevant for us before we figure out why it matters to him. Pretty nifty, huh?

*The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S Eliot* Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. .....

Meet Prufrock. He wants you to come take a walk with him through the winding, dirty streets of a big, foggy city that looks a lot like London. Cut to a bunch of women entering and leaving a room. The women are talking about the famous Renaissance painter Michelangelo. Where did the women go? Oh, yes, they're still talking about Michelangelo. He wants to do something imporant but doesn't know if he should. He's kind of nervous. You see, he was about to tell someone something really important, but then he didn't. His clothes are sharp-looking. The rest of him is kind of not-so-sharp-looking. People say he's bald and has thin arms. He's accomplished so much already! For example, he has drank a lot of coffee, and he's lived through a lot of mornings and afternoons. Plus, he's known a lot of women. Or at least he's looked at their hairy arms. It looks like he didn't do that really important thing he meant to do. He was going to tell someone something life-altering, but he was afraid of being rejected. So he didn't. Oh well. Meanwhile, Prufrock keeps getting older. He doesn't worry about that really important thing anymore. Instead, he worries about other important things, such as whether to roll his pant-legs or eat a peach. It turns out that Prufrock really likes the ocean. He says he has heard mermaids singing - but they won't sing to him. Finally, he brings us back into the conversation. He talks about how we lived at the bottom of the sea with him. It turns out we were asleep in the ocean, but all of a sudden, we get woken up by "human voices." Unfortunately, as soon as we wake up, we drown in the salty ocean. WTF.

*Binsey Poplars - Gerard Manley Hopkins* My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank. O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew — Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.

Our speaker starts out by letting us know that all of his "aspens dear" have been cut down. These weren't just any trees to the speaker; they were beautiful, joyful, and "fresh," arranged in a line almost like a military procession. Now, though, every single one of them has been chopped down. It's not clear who's responsible for this heinous tree-i-cide, but the speaker lets us know that whoever cut these trees down had no idea what they were doing. They weren't just cutting down a few trees; they were fundamentally altering the nature. Once humanity steps in, even to "improve" things, Nature is completely changed—forever. Folks who happen on this place in the future will never know its prior beauty, when the poplars were still standing. . And it only took ten or twelve blows of an axe to transform the scene completely, which once used to be so sweet and special.

*The Looking Glass - Kamala Das* Getting a man to love you is easy Only be honest about your wants as Woman. Stand nude before the glass with him So that he sees himself the stronger one And believes it so, and you so much more Softer, younger, lovelier. Admit your Admiration. Notice the perfection Of his limbs, his eyes reddening under The shower, the shy walk across the bathroom floor, Dropping towels, and the jerky way he Urinates. All the fond details that make Him male and your only man. Gift him all, Gift him what makes you woman, the scent of Long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts, The warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your Endless female hungers. Oh yes, getting A man to love is easy, but living Without him afterwards may have to be Faced. A living without life when you move Around, meeting strangers, with your eyes that Gave up their search, with ears that hear only His last voice calling out your name and your Body which once under his touch had gleamed Like burnished brass, now drab and destitute.

Stanza 1: The poet says that it is quite easy for a woman to get the love of a man. A woman just needs to be honest about her womanly needs. She should stand naked before the mirror with her man. This will make the man feel stronger while on the other hand, the woman will be softer, younger, lovelier. The lines are quite ironical because the poet is not praising the qualities of a woman but exposing their reality. The soft, young and lovely body of the woman is what makes the man believe that he is strong. Stanza 2: The poet continues the easy ways to make a man love her. A woman needs to accept the man's admiration and praise for her body. While in the bathroom, she should look at the perfection of his limbs, his eyes reddening under the shower, his shy walk across the bathroom floor, dropping towel, and the jerky way he urinates. These are the things that a woman should look at carefully as they make him her man. However here again the dependence of woman reflects. The lines symbolise the fact that the woman needs a man in order to please her body. Stanza 3: The woman should gift her womanly traits to the man like the scent of long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts, the warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your, endless female hungers. The lines depict how superior is the woman to a man as she possesses ample qualities which are a gift for the man. But these qualities ultimately become the tools of exploitation, hence being a woman is a blessing in disguise. Stanza 4: The poet again repeats the beginning line, Oh yes, getting a man to love is easy. However, as the love is not everlasting and thus living without him afterwards may have to be faced. The dependence of woman thus leads to her misery. The woman becomes a walking corpse. Her eyes quest for her man while meeting strangers. The ears like eyes long for the voice which once called her name and praised her body. The body of the woman which used to get pleasure with man ultimately has to suffer without him.

*Phenomenal Woman - Maya Angelou* Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size But when I start to tell them, They think I'm telling lies. I say, It's in the reach of my arms, The span of my hips, The stride of my step, The curl of my lips. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees. Then they swarm around me, A hive of honey bees. I say, It's the fire in my eyes, And the flash of my teeth, The swing in my waist, And the joy in my feet. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Men themselves have wondered What they see in me. They try so much But they can't touch My inner mystery. When I try to show them, They say they still can't see. I say, It's in the arch of my back, The sun of my smile, The ride of my breasts, The grace of my style. I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me. Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed. I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud. When you see me passing, It ought to make you proud. I say, It's in the click of my heels, The bend of my hair, the palm of my hand, The need for my care. 'Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally. Phenomenal woman, That's me.

Stanza One: In a reflective tone, the speaker recalls her interactions with other women. She explains that "pretty women" often look at her and wonder what makes her so attractive and alluring. The speaker is quick to point out that, unlike these conventionally-beautiful women, she is not "cute" and does not possess a model's figure. For this reason, other women are baffled by her appeal and want to uncover the secret to her powerful presence. The speaker attempts to solve this mystery by describing her unique physical characteristics and mannerisms. However, she claims that when she tries to explain her allure to these women, they never believe her. The speaker insinuates that they may be jealous, or perhaps they are simply incapable of believing that a woman who does not fit conventional standards of beauty can be beautiful at all. The speaker concludes the stanza with a refrain about being a "phenomenal woman." She proclaims with pride that she is not merely a lovely woman, but an exceptional one. Stanza Two: The speaker proceeds to describe her effect on men. She explains how she exudes a powerful sensuality that draws their attention whenever she walks into a room. Each time she walks before them calmly and confidently, they either stand up at her arrival or melt from their desire for her. They then swarm around her, vying for her attention. As in the first stanza, the speaker details her physical attributes and mannerisms as a means of explaining her effect on others. From the power in her look to the swing of her hips, the speaker is capable of seducing the opposite sex by merely standing before them. The stanza concludes with the refrain of being a phenomenal woman, once again reaffirming the speaker's confidence and justifying other people's reactions when they notice her. In the second stanza, the tone of the speaker shifts from simply confident to both confident and seductive Stanza Three: In the third stanza, the speaker continues her reflections on men. This time, she draws a parallel between the reactions of both women and men when they notice her. She states that, like other women, men have also wondered what is so special about her. However, she takes her analysis to another level when she suggests, for the first time, that she actually possesses another kind of beauty altogether. She has a mysterious inner beauty that men cannot see or understand even when she tries to show them. They are blind to what makes a woman beautiful from within, as they only judge her—and likely other women as well—based on her physical looks. Using sensual language, the speaker describes physical attributes and mannerisms that make up her beautiful and enigmatic aura. At the end of the stanza, the speaker repeats the refrain about being a phenomenal woman. Stanza Four: The speaker addresses the listener for the first time, summarizing her qualities and explaining how her previous recollections should help the listener understand her better. The speaker explains that she does not bow her head in shame, as she is proud of who she is. She also does not draw attention to herself willingly—she is simply being herself, which naturally draws others to her. She tells the listener that he/she should be proud of her when she walks by, as she is a confident and self-respecting woman. The speaker details additional qualities about herself, describing her joyous walk, the natural beauty of her physical attributes, and the world's need for a woman like her. All of these things have happened in her life because she is a phenomenal woman and is proud of it, marching to the beat of her own drum. In the first stanza, the speaker does not appear to address anyone in particular. But in the last stanza the speaker addresses the listener. "Phenomenal" also means, in the most basic sense, something that is visible or perceptible; so the speaker's amazingness is also something that people can't help but see, no matter how unbelievable or surprising it may seem.

*Daddy - Sylvia Plath* You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time—— Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one gray toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic Where it pours bean green over blue In the waters off beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You—— Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I'm finally through. The black telephone's off at the root, The voices just can't worm through. If I've killed one man, I've killed two—— The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There's a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

Sylvia Plath explores her complicated relationship with her father in "Daddy." The speaker's father died when she was ten, before she had time to reduce him from a larger-than-life figure to a mere human being. Consequently, the speaker has "had to kill" her father. The speaker compares herself to a Jew struggling against a Nazi. She confesses, "I thought every German was you," and describes her hatred of the German language. Her allusion to the Nazi concentration camps of Dachau, Auschwitz, and Belsen underscores how evil her father was. Nevertheless, the speaker loved her father. "Every woman adores a Fascist," she says, and describes how her father's brutality made him into an idol. Ten years after he died, she attempted suicide in attempt to get back to him. he hates him and loves him and wants to put all this pain behind her. To destroy him, she likens him to a vampire with a stack in his heart and imagines villagers stomping on him. In the last line, she declares, "Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through." He is a "black shoe" in which she has "lived like a foot" for thirty years; he is a Nazi and she a Jew; he is a devil and she his victim; he is a vampire who drinks her blood. The vampire and the victim are perhaps the most telling images, for she sees him as a dead man draining her living blood, calling from the grave She knows he comes from a Polish town that was overrun by "wars, wars, wars," but one of her Polack friends has told her that there are several towns of that name. Therefore, she cannot uncover his hometown, where he put his "foot" and "root." She started to talk like a Jew and to feel like a Jew in several different ways. She wonders in fact, whether she might actually be a Jew, because of her similarity to a gypsy. To further emphasize her fear and distance, she describes him as the Luftwaffe, with a neat mustache and a bright blue Aryan eye. She calls him a "Panzer-man," and says he is less like God then like the black swastika through which nothing can pass. In her mind, "Every woman adores a Fascist," and the "boot in the face" that comes with such a man. She tells him he can lie back now. There is a stake in his heart, and the villagers who despised him now celebrate his death by dancing on his corpse. She concludes by announcing, "Daddy, Daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

Section 2 Old Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men. O not for thee the glow, the bloom, Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom: And gazing on thee, sullen tree, Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee.

Tennyson addresses an old yew tree that grows over some headstones. Its roots are wrapping around the dead man's head and bones. The seasons will allow the tree to flower again, while the clock counts the hours of puny men. Not even the wind or the sun can do much damage to the tree, which will live for a thousand years. Tennyson is really emphasizing how puny mere mortals are in the face of not only God, but also nature

*In Memoriam A.H.H. - Alfred Lord Tennyson*

Tennyson finally convinces himself (or so the poem says; Tennyson himself privately had doubts) that Arthur Hallam (his friend) will live again in heaven, and Tennyson will be reunited with him there. But Arthur's doubts that he will live again may well match Tennyson's over whether Arthur Hallam will ever do so. Tennyson wallows in his grief over losing his dear friend Arthur, who has died of a brain hemorrhage at the tragically young age of 22.

Section 7 Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more-- Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

Tennyson seems to be hanging around the place where his friend lived, which he characterizes as a "dark house" (darkness and light contrast) He once used to wait at that house for a hand that clasped his, but now he can't sleep and is creeping around the house in the early hours of the morning. Even though the neighborhood wakes up around him, the speaker sees the breaking day as "ghastly" and "blank."

*The Cry of the Children - Elizabeth Browning* Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, — And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; The young birds are chirping in the nest; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. "True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time! Little Alice died last year her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to ....

The Cry of the Children had its roots when Elizabeth Barrett Browning heard the cries of children who were made to work in mines and factories under gruesome circumstances. The poem starts with the speaker asking the children to go and play like what is expected of a child. Surprisingly, they refuse. The theme of The Cry of the Children is also an arousing concern about child labor and hence lingers with the idea whether adults would have liked to see themselves in a similar situation. Having said that, the poem revolves around children who form the idea of The Cry of the Children. The issues receives a flare touch as Elizabeth Barrett Browning touches upon religion as well and couples the same thus running an undercurrent of emotions that is conveyed through the theme of The Cry of the Children Iambic hexameter

*My Last Duchess - Robert Browning* THAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint

The Duke of Ferrara is negotiating with a servant for the hand of a count's daughter in marriage. The Duke takes the servant upstairs into his private art gallery and shows him several of the objects in his collection. The first of these objects is a portrait of his "last" or former duchess, painted directly on one of the walls of the gallery by a friar named Pandolf. The Duke keeps this portrait behind a curtain that only he is allowed to draw. While the servant sits on a bench looking at the portrait, the Duke describes the circumstances in which it was painted and the fate of his unfortunate former wife. Apparently the Duchess was easily pleased: she smiled at everything, and seemed just as happy when someone brought her a branch of cherries as she did when the Duke decided to marry her. She also blushed easily. The Duchess's genial nature was enough to throw the Duke into a jealous, psychopathic rage, and he "gave commands" that meant "all smiles stopped together" (He had her killed?)

*When all the others were away at Mass - Seamus Heaney* When all the others were away at Mass I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one Like solder weeping off the soldering iron: Cold comforts set between us, things to share Gleaming in a bucket of clean water. And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes From each other's work would bring us to our senses. So while the parish priest at her bedside Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying And some were responding and some crying I remembered her head bent towards my head, Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives- Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

The mother and son are engaged in the routine task of peeling potatoes. Mother and son work in a silence broken only by the splashing of peeled potatoes as they fall into the bucket of water. There is no need for talk because mother and son are lost in a companionable silence which is interrupted only by the 'Little pleasant splashes' of the potatoes falling into the bucket. The word 'pleasant' expresses the sense of contentment without being overly sentimental. Heaney distances himself from those around the deathbed and remembers a time in the past when he was closest to his mother. It is as if the only two people who matter are the poetand his mother. The rest of the family are 'the others' or the 'some' who cry and pray at the bedside. At the moment of his mother's death, the poet's grief brings him to a time and a place when he and she were alonetogether and were never closer. The first 8 lines describe the memory that comes to the reader, the times they shared only in each other's company, preparing potatoes, both engrossed in this task that will benefit the whole household. This memory takes place when all the others were away at Mass, mirroring his decision to ignore the priest's prayers at her bedside. If it weren't for them both missing Mass, they never would have shared such moments of silent communion with one another.

*In My Craft or Sullen Art - Dylan Thomas* In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.

The poem begins with the speaker stating that he is only able to create at certain time periods. These fall during the "still night" when the moon is the only thing commanding the sky. It is also a time when lovers "lie abed" and speak of their griefs. The image of the lovers is important, and will return in the final lines. He goes on to state that it is not his goal through writing to make a great name for himself. Ambition is not something he is interested in. Nor, he states, is building up his own ego. He writes so that he might express the inner workings of his own heart, and that of others. In the final sets of lines he goes on to described who he does and doesn't write for. Those he is interested in speaking to are "lovers" who have true, real lives. They experience joys and upsets. He does not care to write for the dead, or for the "proud man" who might try to control him.

*The Old Playhouse - Kamala Das* You planned to tame a swallow, to hold her In the long summer of your love so that she would forget Not the raw seasons alone, and the homes left behind, but Also her nature, the urge to fly, and the endless Pathways of the sky. It was not to gather knowledge Of yet another man that I came to you but to learn What I was, and by learning, to learn to grow, but every Lesson you gave was about yourself. You were pleased With my body's response, its weather, its usual shallow Convulsions. You dribbled spittle into my mouth, you poured Yourself into every nook and cranny, you embalmed My poor lust with your bitter-sweet juices. You called me wife, I was taught to break saccharine into your tea and To offer at the right moment the vitamins. Cowering Beneath your monstrous ego I ate the magic loaf and Became a dwarf. I lost my will and reason, to all your Questions I mumbled incoherent replies. The summer Begins to pall. I remember the rudder breezes Of the fall and the smoke from the burning leaves. Your room is Always lit by artificial lights, your windows always Shut. Even the air-conditioner helps so little, All pervasive is the male scent of your breath. The cut flowers In the vases have begun to smell of human sweat. There is No more singing, no more dance, my mind is an old Playhouse with all its lights put out. The strong man's technique is Always the same, he serves his love in lethal doses, For, love is Narcissus at the water's edge, haunted By its own lonely face, and yet it must seek at last An end, a pure, total freedom, it must will the mirrors To shatter and the kind night to erase the water.

The poem begins with the word You that is a direct attack on man and patriarchy. According to the poet, her husband has planned to domesticate a bird (the poet) by holding it in the fake love so that she may forget the seasons and her home which she left behind her for him. Not only this, but he has also made her forget her nature, her desire to fly or freedom, and to explore the opportunities were also crushed. The poet says that it was not to gather knowledge of yet another man that I came to you but to learn. The lines mean that she did not marry him or gave him her body and soul to learn about him or in other words to serve him, but to know about herself. However what his husband taught her was about himself. He i.e. the male-dominance was the centre of all the education. In the next line, the poet says that you were pleased with my body's response i.e. her husband wanted to quench her lust by exploiting her body. He never tried to explore her soul and never loved her. Though he succeeds in penetrating every part of her body. He kisses her lips so hard that his saliva would fill her mouth. But he fails to satisfy her soul. According to the poet, he called her wife or the better half. However, she was not more than a slave to him. She was forced to serve him tea, take care of his medicine. In the next line, the poet says "cowering beneath your monstrous ego I ate the magic loaf and became a dwarf" meaning that after getting married to him, she was reduced to a slave to his male ego. And thus she lost her desires and thinking that made her act like a fool whenever he would ask her something. The poet says that the summer begins to pall i.e. the joy of her life is going to end because her husband has killed her desires. She can hear the rudder breezes of the fall and the smoke from the burning leaves i.e. she sees her dreams, desires, quest and her zeal dying like smoke coming from burning leaves. In the next line, she says your room is always lit by artificial lights, your windows always shut i.e. the world which her husband has provided to her is full of fake love and there is no freedom for her. Even in the AC, she can smell the male scent of your breath i.e. the dominant patriarchy. Thus the cut flowers in the vases have begun to smell of human sweat meaning that her desires which have been killed by her husband have rotten. There is no more singing, no more dance or in other words, there is no joy in her life. Her mind is an old playhouse with all its lights put out. The strong man's technique is always the same i.e. the dominance of patriarchy is always there which never goes away. Her husband serves his love in lethal doses. The poet compares the love between her and her husband to the Narcissus at the water's edge. As in it will kill the poet before actually dying.

*Caged Bird - Maya Angelou* A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The poem contrasts the struggles of a bird attempting to rise above the limitations of adverse surroundings with the flight of a bird that is free. She seeks to create in the reader sentiment toward the plight of the misused, captured creature—a symbol of downtrodden African Americans and their experiences. The first two stanzas contrast two birds. Lines 1 through 7 describe the actions of a bird that is free; it interacts with nature and "dares to claim the sky." The second stanzatells of a captured bird that must endure clipped wings, tied feet, and bars of rage; yet he still opens his throat and sings. (black & white people) The third and fifth stanzas are identical. Lines 2, 4, and 6 and lines 5 and 7 of these identical stanzas rhyme. This repeated verse elaborates on the song of freedom trilled by the caged bird; though his heart is fearful and his longings unmet, the bird continues to sing of liberty. The fourth stanza continues the comparison of two birds, the caged and the free. The free bird enjoys the breeze, the trees, the winds, the lawn, the sky, and the fat worms; the caged bird with his wings still clipped and his feet still tied continues, nevertheless, to open his throat and sing. Like the refrain of a hymn, the fifth and final stanza is a reiteration. Angelou's characterization of a bird that is free provides an effective contrast with the bird that is caged. How white people have more privilege than black people.

*After Death - Christina Rossetti* The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, 'Poor child, poor child': and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold.

The poem deals with tragic love and death. Throughout the poem, the speaker speaks after her death. The end of the poem strikes our heart, as she says that she is glad her beloved is still alive even though she is dead. She also feels joy to know that he finally has some 'warm' feelings for her - maybe not love, but even pity is enough. The central theme of the poem deals with tragic love and death. The tone of the poem has been melancholic.

*Telephone Conversation - Wole Soyinka* The price seemed reasonable, location Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived Off premises. Nothing remained But self-confession. 'Madam' , I warned, 'I hate a wasted journey - I am African.' Silence. Silenced transmission of pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came, Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully. 'HOW DARK?'...I had not misheard....'ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?' Button B. Button A. Stench Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak. Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed By ill-mannered silence, surrender Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification. Considerate she was, varying the emphasis- 'ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT' Revelation came 'You mean- like plain or milk chocolate?' Her accent was clinical, crushing in its light Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted I chose. 'West African sepia'_ and as afterthought. 'Down in my passport.' Silence for spectroscopic Flight of fancy, till truthfulness chaged her accent Hard on the mouthpiece 'WHAT'S THAT?' conceding 'DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.' 'Like brunette.' 'THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?' 'Not altogether. Facially, I am brunette, but madam you should see the rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet. Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused- Foolishly madam- by sitting down, has turned My bottom raven black- One moment madam! - sensing Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap About my ears- 'Madam,' I pleaded, 'wouldn't you rather See for yourself?'

The poem depicts a black man who is trying to rent an appartment with a landlady over the phone and begins after the two have discussed location and pricing. The speaker wishes to inform the landlady that he is black, and then a ridiculous conversation ensues regarding how dark his skin color is. Overall, the poem is a tongue-in-cheek statement on racism, the speaker responding with sarcasm and humor to her insulting questions. The poem also emphasizes the lack of communication between different races. The narrator of the poem describes a telephone conversation in which he reaches a deal with a landlady to rent an apartment. He feels that he must let her know that he is black: "I hate a wasted journey—I am African." The landlady's first response is silent. She next asks the ridiculous question, "'HOW DARK?...ARE YOU LIGHT/OR VERY DARK?'" The narrator is "dumbfounded." Instead of telling her, "It's none of your business," or simply, "Let's forget about the apartment," he offers a cryptic response: "'West Affrican sepia.'" When the landlady asks for clarification, the narrator only confuses matters further: Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet Are a peroxide blond. He makes matters even worse by saying that "friction" has somehow turned his buttocks "raven black."

*War Poets - Base Details* IF I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath, I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base, And speed glum heroes up the line to death. You'd see me with my puffy petulant face, Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel, Reading the Roll of Honour. 'Poor young chap,' I'd say—'I used to know his father well; Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap.' And when the war is done and youth stone dead, I'd toddle safely home and die—in bed.

The poem is about the inadequacy of British leadership during the First World War, and an indictment of the same system that allowed underqualified men into positions where they commanded great numbers of troops. higher ranks were only available to men of some means and money who could afford to buy the uniform; therefore, the British army was primarily composed of the poor at the bottom, and the rich at the top, where the rich were mostly useless at leading troops.

*War Poets - Break of Day in the Trenches* The darkness crumbles away. It is the same old druid Time as ever, Only a live thing leaps my hand, A queer sardonic rat, As I pull the parapet's poppy To stick behind my ear. Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies. Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between. It seems you inwardly grin as you pass Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes, Less chanced than you for life, Bonds to the whims of murder, Sprawled in the bowels of the earth, The torn fields of France. What do you see in our eyes At the shrieking iron and flame Hurled through still heavens? What quaver—what heart aghast? Poppies whose roots are in man's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe— Just a little white with the dust.

The poem is deeply into the desolate feelings of alienation from the "other" that impacted soldiers in Word War I. The poem begins with the speaker introducing the fact that a new day is dawning. The sunrise brings no hope to the world of the narrator, in fact, the dark is described as "crumbling". The day's of this person's life are monotonous and dreary in the extreme. In contrast to this dark subject matter, a pinpoint of life and light arrives around the narrator's person. A rat comes out of no where, and jumps at the narrator's hand. He is surprised to see such as "queer" creature at this particular moment. It is at this point in the poem that the reader comes to understand that this man is an English soldier in World War I, trapped in the trenches.. The rat represents an ability that the soldiers does not have. The rat is able, through its "cosmopolitan sympathies" to travel from one side to the other. It can visit the Germans and the English without prejudice or fear. The speaker is deeply jealous of this ability and projects his own feelings onto the rat. He speaks aloud, stating that if the Germans knew the rat had touched an English hand, or visa versa, it would surely be shot. He continues on to describe how the rat surpasses all men in its strengths. It can complete feats that no living man could ever dream of. In the final section he asks the rat if it is able, through its enhanced senses, to see that all these men, no matter how long they've been there and how much death they've seen, are not immune to it. They still "quake" at the sight of the battlefield. The poem concludes with the narrator returning to his darkest thoughts. He imagines the image of a poppy, and its melting from the arms of all the soldiers.

*Still I Rise - Maya Angelou* You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

The poem is directed towards those oppressors in society who would tie the speaker to her past and to a history that has been misrepresented and cannot be relied upon. Her ancestors were depicted unfairly and dishonestly in history, and she will rise above the cruelty and suffering they experienced. The speaker is both angry and confident throughout the poem. Initially, she is baffled by the way in which her oppressors—ostensibly, white people and specifically, white males—do not want her to succeed or become more than the sum of her history. She notes that her joy seems to make them miserable, and she questions why that is. At the same time, she taunts these oppressors, acknowledging the impact of her behaviors and personality and delighting in the fact that she bewilders them with her power and confidence. The poem as a whole is a declaration of strength and of determination. The speaker proclaims boldly that whatever her oppressors do to try to hamper her progress or take away her rights, it will not matter. Nobody will ever take her power away, and she will always rise above the racism, pain, and sexism to be the powerful woman she knows she is. She will break the negative cycle of the past. She also speaks on behalf of other black people without actually stating that this is what she is doing. By making references to her ancestors and naming slavery explicitly near the poem's conclusion, she is addressing the collective experiences of her people and stating that they as a race are more powerful than their oppressors. Whatever the oppressors do, they cannot stop her people from moving forward in their lives. The poet ends her declaration by affirming that no matter what happens, she will continue to rise above history, hate, and bigotry just like her ancestors dreamed would be possible. She will fulfill their dreams and hopes for freedom and happiness. The speaker's angry tone is evidenced at the outset with the use of words such as "bitter" and "twisted." While the speaker uses singular personal pronouns in the first person throughout the poem such as "me," and "I," her references to her ancestors imply that she is also speaking on behalf of other black people. She believes that her people have been depicted dishonestly and cruelly throughout history.

*Mirror - Sylvia Plath* I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever you see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful--- The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

The poem lets us know from the start that we're hearing from a mirror. The first stanza describes the mirror, which seems to be like one of those people who doesn't tell white lies - it's truthful and exact, but not cruel. As the first stanza personifies the mirror, showing us some of its human characteristics, we also find out a little about the mirror's life. Most of the time, it reflects a pink speckled wall, which could be found in any bathroom, but it also sees a lot of faces, and a lot of darkness. Jump into the second stanza, and the stakes have changed. The mirror is no longer a mirror, but a lake, which also shows reflections. And we get to see a whole new character: a woman. We saw faces in the first stanza, but now we focus on one face in particular. This woman, we find out, isn't very happy with her reflection in the lake, so she tries to find a kinder reflection under the light of a candle or the moon. When the lake reflects her faithfully anyway, she cries and gets upset. In the last two lines of this poem, we see why this woman is so upset: in her watery reflection, her past is drowning, and a horrible future is rising to meet her. The woman has "drowned" a young girl in the lake - but we don't think she has actually drowned anyone. Instead, the young girl who used to look into the lake is gone, having grown into a woman. Why does the speaker say the woman "drowned" her own youth in these waters? Perhaps because the woman has spent so much time peering into the lake and fretting about her reflection, or perhaps simply because time is passing. Also in the lake, an old woman rises up - but again, we don't think this is an actual old woman in the lake. Instead, the woman's reflection is changing and aging. She sees herself growing into an old woman. This old woman is like a "terrible fish," which brings the lake metaphor full circle and gives us a ghastly image of what this young woman has turned into: something as ugly as a fish. In these final lines, we understand what's so haunting and pressing about looking into this lake for the woman in the poem. In her own reflection in this lake, beautiful youth is sinking and terrible old age is rising.

*Easter, 1916 - William Butler Yeats* I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. ....

The poem opens with Yeats remembering the rebels as he passed them on the street. Before the Rising, they were just ordinary people who worked in shops and offices. He remembers his childhood friend Constance Markievicz, who is "that woman"; the Irish language teacher Padraic Pearse, who "kept a school" called St. Enda's; the poet Thomas MacDonagh "helper and friend" to Pearse; and even Yeats's own rival in love John MacBride, "a drunken, vainglorious lout." After reflecting on the rebels' constancy of purpose, as if their hearts were "enchanted to a stone," the poet wonders whether the rebellion was worth it. The poem ends on a note of ambivalence and futility, reflecting Yeats's own reluctance to engage in political debate. The poem is divided into four stanzas, symbolizing the month of April, the fourth month. It is known for its famous refrain, "All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born."

*The Sunshine Cat - Kamala Das* They did this to her, the men who know her, the man She loved, who loved her not enough, being selfish And a coward, the husband who neither loved nor Used her, but was a ruthless watcher, and the band Of cynics she turned to, clinging to their chests where New hair sprouted like great-winged moths, burrowing her Face into their smells and their young lusts to forget To forget, oh, to forget, and, they said, each of Them, I do not love, I cannot love, it is not In my nature to love, but I can be kind to you. They let her slide from pegs of sanity into A bed made soft with tears, and she lay there weeping, For sleep had lost its use. I shall build walls with tears, She said, walls to shut me in. Her husband shut her In, every morning, locked her in a room of books With a streak of sunshine lying near the door like A yellow cat to keep her company, but soon Winter came, and one day while locking her in, he Noticed that the cat of sunshine was only a Line, a half-thin line, and in the evening when He returned to take her out, she was a cold and Half dead woman, now of no use at all to men.

The poet begins the poem with the words they did this to her. The very first line of the poem indicates that the poem is about a victim who is a female. The further says that she loved the men who knew her, like her husbands and lovers. However they never loved her enough. She says that her husband was selfish and coward. He neither loved not used her. It is either acting as the synonym of love (because for loving one needs to use his/her body physically) or it means he never considered her as his partner but rather an object for satisfying his lust. He was just a ruthless watcher. The lines suggest that he never abused her physically but rather failed to love her. He could not provide her with emotional support. Now she turns to the people with whom she had extra-marital affairs. She was never loved by her husband which made her look out for other men who may fulfil her emotional as well as sexual desire. However, all of them turned out to be "the band of cynics". Cynics are the people who believe in doing everything for their own benefits. Thus her lovers were no different from her husband. According to her, she went to other men for love. She was clinging to their chests where new hair sprouted like great-winged moths The lines mean that in pursuit to forget or ignore their lust in the guise of love, she submitted to them who used her body. The poet felt being lost in that hair and their smell and tried forgetting their real motives. (the word forget is repeated 3 times to show how much she tried to forget all this). Hair symbolises the patriarchal dominance over women. The lovers who used to have sex with her simply said that they cannot love her when she begged for it. One said I do not love, other said, I cannot love and another said It is not in my nature to love. All of them then said the same thing that they can be kind to her. The same "kindness" is shown by her husband as well. Hence their kindness is not something which Kamala needs. Moreover, their kindness reflects that they are just like her husband. All of them let her slide from pegs of sanity into a bed made soft with tears and she lay there weeping. Pegs of sanity here means that she was quite wise and thinking being. She was happy and hopeful. However, their cold behaviour towards her made her so sorrowful that her wisdom, health and all the good things withered away and she kept weeping which made even her bed wet and soft with tears and she never sleeps because sleep had lost its use. She says that she will weep enough to build walls with tears, walls in which she will shut herself in. I think the wall means an external protection against those who desire her body. She is probably trying to say that she will give up all her sexual desires and her emotions and thus alienate from the world, especially men. The poet again returns back to her husband and her life in her house. According to her, her husband shut her in, every morning. She was thus locked in a room in which there was no one to give her company but books and a streak of sunshine lying near the door like a yellow cat. There is no cat but rays which she imagines in her thoughts to be a cat. Everything has a limit. Her imprisonment in the room (by her husband) had adverse effect on Kamala. She says that finally one day winter came. Winter here not only symbolises the cold season but the winter or death of herself as well. On that day, her husband found that the rays which used to spread in that room grew thinner. There was only a line, a half-thin line. Here Kamala's life and the thickness symbolically become one. And like the rays, the life or youth or liveliness in Kamala was also shorten. When he returned back home, he finally took her out (probably because he feared that he won't be able to quench his sexual thirst). But Kamala was a cold and half dead woman, now of no use at all to men. Like the moth or the rays, she was dead now because she remained confined in the thick walls of her tears. She lost her liveliness, her hope, her desire, her sexual power and even her life.

Sonnet 6 Go from me. Yet I fell that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command...

The poet is feeling *conflict.* ''Go from me'', "yet I feel". She appears not to want her lover to go, but he must, for reasons left unexplained. The peremptory nature of the command makes his leaving seem imperative and the fact of his going final.

*In Artist´s studio - Christina Rossetti* One face looks out from all his canvases, One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans: We found her hidden just behind those screens, That mirror gave back all her loveliness. A queen in opal or in ruby dress, A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens, A saint, an angel — every canvas means The same one meaning, neither more or less. He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

The sonnet begins by the speaker scanning the room, we notice that all she sees are portraits of the same person, sitting, walking, leaning. The sonnet describes one artist's obsession over a particular woman and the way that her face has absorbs his every thought. The poem begins with the speaker describing what the inside of the studio looks like. All around the room are innumerable canvases, each baring the face of a particular female model. She is portrayed in every possible variation and shown as a "queen, "saint," and common girl. No one way that the painter paints her is any more important than another. The artist is completely obsessed with this unknown woman. The first collection of lines presents the basis of the story or problem, the final six provide a conclusion or answer. In this particular instance the first part of the poem describes the visual depiction of the artist's obsession over a woman, while the second set shows how he has been consumed mentally by her image and by a happier time in his life. The woman usually remains silent in such poems so she is no more than a mute object of the male gaze.

*Do not go gentle into that good night - Dylan Thomas* Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The speaker asserts that old men at the ends of their lives should resist death as strongly as they can. In fact, they should only leave this world kicking and screaming, furious that they have to die at all. At the end of the poem, we discover that the speaker has a personal stake in this issue: his own father is dying. Stanza 1: The speaker addresses an unknown listener, telling him not to "go gentle into that good night." At first this is a puzzling metaphor but, by the end of line 3, we realize that the speaker is using night as a metaphor for death. He thinks that old men shouldn't die peacefully or just slip easily away from this life. Instead, they should "burn and rave," struggling with a fiery intensity. Stanza 2: The speaker admits that sensible, smart people realize death - traveling into "the dark" - is inevitable and appropriate. Stanza 3: In the speaker's opinion, true goodness consists of fighting the inevitability of death with all your might. As they approach death, these men shout out how great their actions could've been if they'd been allowed to live longer. Stanza 4: The speaker describes another kind of men - those who don't allow themselves to fade quietly away into death, "Wild men". The kind who captured the world around them in their imagination and celebrated it Stanza 5: The speaker describes the way that "Grave men" fight their impending death. These serious dying guys realize that, even though they are weak and losing their faculty of sight, they can still use what strength they have to rage against death. Stanza 6: In the last lines of the poem, the speaker turns to addressing his father. His father is on the verge of death, which the speaker describes as a "sad height." The speaker begs his father to cry passionately, which will be both a blessing and a curse. After all, the father's death is heartbreaking. But if he battles against the odds, it might also be heroic. He is asking or instructing his father not to submit to death - instead, he should rant and rave and fight it every step of the way.

*A Bird Came Down the Walk - Emily Dickinson* A Bird, came down the Walk - He did not know I saw - He bit an Angleworm in halves And ate the fellow, raw, And then, he drank a Dew From a convenient Grass - And then hopped sidewise to the Wall To let a Beetle pass - He glanced with rapid eyes, That hurried all abroad - They looked like frightened Beads, I thought, He stirred his Velvet Head. - Like one in danger, Cautious, I offered him a Crumb, And he unrolled his feathers, And rowed him softer Home - Than Oars divide the Ocean, Too silver for a seam Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon, Leap, plashless as they swim

The speaker describes once seeing a bird come down the walk, unaware that it was being watched. The bird ate an angleworm, then "drank a Dew from a convenient Grass, then hopped sideways to let a beetle pass by. The bird's frightened, bead-like eyes glanced all around. The speaker offered him "a Crumb," but the bird "unrolled his feathers" and flew away—as though rowing in the water, but with a grace gentler than that with which "Oars divide the ocean" or butterflies leap "off Banks of Noon"; the bird appeared to swim without splashing. Iambic trimeter, ABCB rime

*The Wild Swans at Coole - William Butler Yeats* The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans. The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?

The speaker describes seeing fifty-nine swans swimming at twilight on a gorgeous October evening. Apparently, he's been watching these swans for quite a while—years, even. And while he's watching, they all take flight in a big flurry-hurry. As it turns out, this kind of breaks this poor young guy's heart. That's because his life has changed so much since the first time he saw these swans. The swans on the other hand, haven't changed much at all. They haven't grown old, and they still go where they please. But in his heart, the speaker knows these swans won't be around forever, and he wonders where exactly they'll be hangin' when he wakes up to find that they've finally ditched him for greener pastures A little iambic pentameter, Setting: Coole park, Ireland Swans: They are a symbol of beauty, but also of energy and permanence. Twilight: Symbol signifies the end of the day, and in the same way implies that the speaker is reaching the end of his time on Earth.

*I Felt a Funeral in My Brain - Emily Dickinson* I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading -- treading -- till it seemed That Sense was breaking through -- And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum -- Kept beating -- beating -- till I thought My Mind was going numb -- And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space -- began to toll , As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here -- And then a Plank13 in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down -- And hit a World, at every plunge ,And Finished knowing -- then -

The speaker imagines that a funeral is taking place inside her brain, and she can feel the mourners pacing back and forth. The mourners sit down, and the funeral service begins. Unfortunately, this service seems more like a performance of "Stomp" than a religious gathering. The drum-like beating of the service makes her think her mind is going numb. The mourners lift the casket and walk across her "Soul". For some reason, they are wearing heavy lead boots, which isn't very thoughtful of them. At the end of the service, she feels as though a church bell were ringing inside her head. She imagines her mind as the entire universe. She feels like she is "Wrecked" and alone except for Silence, her only companion The wooden floor of her mind - now called "Reason" - suddenly breaks, and she falls a long way down. She keeps hitting "worlds" on the way down, and we're not sure what this means. The poem ends on an ominous note.

*Digging - Seamus Heaney* Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.

The speaker in this poem is a writer, quite possibly a poet. He's the son of a potato farmer, and as we quickly find out, he's the grandson of a harvester as well. He comes from a long line of diggers. We're left only with the guesswork of his thoughts and feelings. Mostly, he talks with the utmost respect about the hard-working attitude and physical strength of his father and grandfather, which they demonstrated day in and day out in their work. He is both full of praise for them, and a little hard on himself (he doesn't quite think his work as a writer is as important as his father's/grandfather's). It would be easy, and not much of a stretch, to assume that the speaker is Heaney himself. Heaney, after all, is a writer, and the son of a farmer. But because he never names himself, we don't have the proof.

*War Poets - The Soldier* If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The speaker informs his audience what to think should he die. He tells them only to consider that a portion of some foreign field will be "forever England" as a result of his death. The soldier, who was raised and nurtured by his country, England, will be buried in the earth. After he dies, the soldier will go to a peaceful, English heaven, where he will re-experience all his English memories. Stanza 1: If he dies, the speaker wants people to only think one thing: that there is some "corner" in a foreign country that is "forever England." If the speaker gets killed in battle and is buried in the field, that spot will be English, in the sense that English bones will be buried there "forever." Even if the speaker isn't buried in the field, presumably some of his blood would get mixed in with the soil (gross), which also make the field "English," in a way. The speaker also means that if he dies on the battlefield, that piece of land will be "claimed" by England. Stanza 2: We learn more about what the soldier will experience in heaven. Sonnet, 14 lines, the first 8 lines of the poem discuss the possibility of the soldier dying and reflect on the role England has played in his development. In the ninth line, the speaker imagines what it will be like in heaven, thus shifts or "turns" the direction of the poem away from the earth and toward an afterlife in the sky.

*Harlem Hopscotch - Maya Angelou* One foot down, then hop! It's hot. Good things for the ones that's got. Another jump, now to the left. Everybody for hisself. In the air, now both feet down. Since you black, don't stick around. Food is gone, the rent is due, Curse and cry and then jump two. All the people out of work, Hold for three, then twist and jerk. Cross the line, they count you out. That's what hopping's all about. Both feet flat, the game is done. They think I lost. I think I won

The speaker introduces some complex ideas about poverty and wealth, work and leisure. In the first line we are learning the rules of this game played on a hot day. Hopping on one foot through the concept of wealth begetting wealth, we learn that even a child knows the truth about being rich and poor. By the end of the stanza it is made clear that people only think about themselves. Suspended in the air or two feet on the ground, if a person is black the only choice is to keep moving, according to the speaker of the poem. The fact there is no shelter available hardly matters at all. Still one must keep working, keep moving through the game even in anger and sorrow. When there is no work, all people can do is wait. Even the childlike speaker of the poem knows the pain of losing hope, because the twisting and jerking can also be seen as an inner feeling of worry in addition to the outward motion of the child's game. Right behaviour is not necessarily rewarded, but wrong behaviour is most definitely punished. Still, the game goes on. In the last stanza the speaker closes the game. The game can be seen as a metaphor for a lifetime. The speaker knows that there may not be nothing to show for all the work of hopping, but just the effort makes her the winner. She realizes that winning the game is all about perspective, not about what one might collect along the way. Poem is addressed to an African-American child living in the city.

Sonnet 43 How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right; I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

The speaker is musing about how much she loves her belovèd, and she asks the question, "How do I love thee?"Then the speaker proceeds to answer the question, so the reader becomes aware that the speaker is not literally addressing her belovèd, but she is addressing the thought or perhaps even an image of that belovèd. In the sestet, the speaker counts three definite ways and one possible way that she will love him throughout eternity.

*Hanging Fire - Audre Lorde* I am fourteen and my skin has betrayed me the boy I cannot live without still sucks his thumb in secret how come my knees are always so ashy what if I die before morning and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed. I have to learn how to dance in time for the next party my room is too small for me suppose I die before graduation they will sing sad melodies but finally tell the truth about me There is nothing I want to do and too much that has to be done and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed. Nobody even stops to think about my side of it I should have been on Math Team my marks were better than his why do I have to be the one wearing braces I have nothing to wear tomorrow will I live long enough to grow up and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed.

The speaker of "Hanging Fire" is a 14-year-old girl who shares her thoughts, fears, and worries with us. She bounces around from topic to topic. At one moment, she's worrying about her appearance (her braces, her ashy knees) and the next, she's worrying about much bigger issues, like death. Adding to her anxiety, throughout the poem the speaker repeatedly tells us that her mom's "in the bedroom / with the door closed." Stanza 1: First, she's 14-years-old. Second, her skin "has betrayed her." We are guessing that our speaker is complaining about pimples. There's also a possible racial context of this line. The boy she can't live without sucks his thumbs in secret, as in, he hasn't grown up and is very immature. She's asking questions to why are knees are dusty and then to a much more serious question.. what if I die??? And her mother is in the bedroom with her door closed, a literal barrier between them. Family is isolated. Stanza 2: Tells us she has to learn to dance for the next party. That her room is too small for her. The speaker imagines that she will die before she graduates. She even imagines her funeral: her mourners will sing sad songs, but they will "finally tell the truth. Back to regular teenage thoughts: She does not want to do anything, but there's to much to do = PROCRASTINATION, yet again her mother is in the bedroom, the isolation is a problem Stanza 3 he believes that she should have been on the "Math Team" instead of some guy who had worse grades than her. (discriminated against) Back to more teenage thoughts, why is she the one with braces, she has nothing to wear tomorrow, then the dark thoughts again, will she live long enough to grow up. Her mother is yet again in the bedroom with the door closed. That closed door makes the speaker feel like her mom's a million miles away.

*The Windhover - Gerard Manley Hopkins* I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing, As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, - the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

The speaker of the poem looks up and sees a windhover. Windhovers have the ability to hover in place in the air while they scan the ground for prey. The speaker watches the windhover ride the wind like it's a horse, and then wheel around in an arc like a skater, then hover some more. The beauty and power of the bird totally blow his mind. Hopkins has mixed his romantic fascination with the nature with his religious favor of gratitude towards God for giving us a beautiful nature. Because of the sacrifice of Christ that we have such a life, and we can enjoy the majestic beauty of the nature: so we should thank him.

*Refugee Blues - W.H. Auden* Say this city has ten million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us. Once we had a country and we thought it fair, Look in the atlas and you'll find it there: We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now. In the village churchyard there grows an old yew, Every spring it blossoms anew: Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that. The consul banged the table and said, "If you've got no passport you're officially dead": But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive. Went to a committee; they offered me a chair; Asked me politely to return next year: But where shall we go to-day, my dear, but where shall we go to-day? Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said; "If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread": He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me. Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky; It was Hitler over Europe, saying, "They must die": O we were in his mind, my dear, O we were in his mind. Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin, Saw a door opened and a cat let in: But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews. Went down the harbour and stood upon the quay, Saw the fish swimming as if they were free: Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away. Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees; They had no politicians and sang at their ease: They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race. Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors, A thousand windows and a thousand doors: Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours. Stood on a great plain in the falling snow; Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro: Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

The speaker of the poem says that the current city he is in has ten million souls. Some live in great mansions while some live in poor holes. In neither dwelling, there is a place for him and his companion. He once had a country which he thought was good and just. And it was still there but he cannot go back to it now. His and his companion's passports expired and they do not renew themselves like the yew which blossoms anew in every spring. When the council asked for their passports, he replied that they had expired. The consul then shouted that if they had no passports, they were officially dead.But they were still alive. They went in front of a committee to get their passports renewed. But they told them to come back next year. The speaker went to a public meeting and there he heard the open protestation against letting them into the country. The speaker imagined thunder rumbling. It was Hitler saying that all Jews must be put to death. All of the people, they were all having better lives than he and his companion, a couple of Jews. The speaker dreams of a huge building with thousands of rooms and yet none had their name over it. He stood on a great plain and saw tens of thousands of soldiers marching. The speaker ends the poem by saying that they (the soldiers) were looking for them (the Jews). the speaker is saying that there is nowhere in this world, which has thousands of doors, which takes good care of pets and which is a home to free birds and fish, a heart or a place for Jews. Setting of the poem: The poem is set in some foreign country wherein the speaker and his companion took refuge. This is seen from the indifference of people and also from the sentence verse 'If we let them in, they take will steal our daily bread.' Metaphor: The thunder rumbling in the distance is a metaphor for the orders of Hitler which read 'Kill all Jews.'

*A Supermarket in California - Allen Ginsburg* What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

The speaker of the poem thinks of the 19th-century American poet Walt Whitman as he walks down dark streets. Speaking directly to an imagined Whitman, the speaker enters a supermarket, and notices all of the families shopping. He imagines he sees Federico Garcia Lorca, a Spanish poet and playwright, shopping for watermelons. The speaker addresses Whitman again, and imagines that he sees him shopping for meat and asking questions of the grocery clerks. He wanders around the stacks of cans, and imagines that he's being followed by a detective. He then imagines that he and Whitman sample the food in the supermarket without paying for it. The speaker feels lost, and asks Whitman where they are headed. He thinks of Whitman's book and feels silly. He then asks Whitman a number of big life questions. Will they walk all night? What has happened to "the lost America of love"? The poem ends when the speaker asks Whitman about his (19th-century) America, and imagines him as a mythological figure, standing on the shore of the river Lethe, the river of forgetting. Free verse, the apostrophe (or the direct address) to Walt Whitman, very long lines, the questions that begin many of the lines. While the poem may be called "A Supermarket in California," only about half of the action in the poem takes place in the "neon" food store, where there are families, old ghostly poets, and lots of fruit and vegetables filling the scene. The poem actually begins and ends outside on the street. It's nighttime, and its dark, and the speaker wanders aimlessly, staring at the full moon and posing deep questions about the meaning of life that he'll never get answers to. There is an extreme contrast, then, between the fluorescent lights of the supermarket and the deep darkness of the night

*Remember - Christina Rossetti* Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

The speaker of the poem, apparently Rossetti herself, imagines the time after her own death and addresses her loved one and tries to convince to remember her after her death which is going to separate them. She urges him to remember her in any situations. The frequent use of the word 'remember' throughout the poem reinforces the fear of the speaker that she might be easily forgotten. She puts one condition: the loved one should remain free from the darkness and corruption of the society But her clever twist on the last part of the poem provides permission to the lover to forget her and remain happy instead of remembering and being gloomy on her death. The speaker sacrifices her personal happiness for the sake of the loved one. *PARADOX*

*When I Heard the Learned Astronomer - Walt Whitman* When I heard the learn'd astronomer, When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them, When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room, How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

The speaker remembers sitting at a lecture. He is politely listening with his hands folded in his lap. He watches as the lecturer, a famous and renowned astronomer, goes on and on about the stars. Except he isn't talking about the stars. He's talking about equations and numbers and funny-looking pictures that seem to have nothing to do with the stars. The speaker is disappointed. Where are the stars?! Suddenly he doesn't feel so good. His eyes droop. He feels nauseous, even. If he doesn't get out of that room, he's gonna hurl... He gets up and heads for the exit. He walks outside and, what a difference! He is alone, and the night air feels fresh and dewy. He wanders away from the lecture hall. Every so often, he looks up at the sky, and there they are: the stars. Beautiful. No words of explanation could possibly capture them. Free verse

*Pied Beauty - Gerard Manley Hopkins* 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 speaker says we should glorify God because he has given us dappled, spotted, freckled, checkered, speckled, things. The speaker goes on to give examples. We should praise God because of the skies with two colors, like a two-colored cow. And the way fallen chestnuts look like red coals in a fire. And landscapes divided up by humans into plots for farming. And for all the different jobs that humans do. In short, the speaker thinks we should praise God for everything that looks a bit odd or unique, everything that looks like it doesn't quite fit in with the rest. All these beautiful, mixed-up, ever-changing things were created or "fathered" by a God who never changes. The speaker sums up what he believes should be our attitude in a brief, final line: "Praise Him." Pied beauty itself is the theme

Sonnet 28 My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white ! — And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, ... he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, Yet I wept for it! — this, ... the paper's light ... Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed As if God's future thundered on my past. This said, I am thine — and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this ... O Love, thy words have ill availed, If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!

dramatizes the speaker's simple act of taking a bundle of love letters, loosening the string that holds them, and then reporting hints from each letter. Each one on which the speaker chooses to report reveals a step in the growing closeness of the two lovers from friendship to soul-mates.The speaker is looking at the love letters from her beloved and reacting to each stage in the development of their relationship.

*War Poets - Dulce et Decorum Est* Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

t's just another day on the battlefields of World War I. They're all mentally and physically ravaged by the exertions of battle. Just as the men are heading home for the night, gas shells drop beside them. The soldiers scramble for their gas masks in a frantic attempt to save their own lives. Unfortunately, they don't all get to their masks in time. Our speaker watches as a member of his crew chokes and staggers in the toxic fumes, unable to save him from an excruciating certain death. It's some time after the battle, but our speaker just can't get the sight of his dying comrade out of his head. The soldier's image is everywhere: in the speaker's thoughts, in his dreams, in his poetry. Worst of all, our speaker can't do anything to help the dying soldier. Bitterly, the speaker finally addresses the people at home who rally around the youth of England, and urge them to fight for personal glory and national honor. He wonders how they can continue to call for war. If they could only witness the physical agony war creates - or even experience the emotional trauma that the speaker's going through now - the speaker thinks they might change their views. In the speaker's mind, there's noting glorious or honorable about death. Or, for that matter, war itself. Meaning of title: It is sweet and proper (Horoces)

Sonnet 32 The first time that the sun rose on thine oath To love me, I looked forward to the moon To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon And quickly tied to make a lasting troth. Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe; And, looking on myself, I seemed not one For such man's love;—more like an out-of-tune Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste, Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note. I did not wrong myself so, but I placed A wrong on thee. For perfect strains may float 'Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,— And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat.

the speaker once more struggles with her persistent lack of self-worth. However, the speaker finally decides that by choosing to devalue her own self-worth, at the same time she is also assigning less value to her belovEd, an intolerable idea that she then attempts mightily to immediately correct.The speaker finds her confidence first enlarging and then shrinking again on her journey through the adventure of love.

*Morte d'Arthur - Alfred Lord Tennyson* And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard; ''My end draws nigh; t' is time that I were gone. Made broad thy shoulders to recieve my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hat taken cold, and I shall die...

themes: betrayal, loyalty, vengence setting: chivalry is not dead (losely related to the feudal system, chivalry demanded absolute loyalty from its knights, with the added rule that they should be kind to, defend, and honor ladies, and not just their own.) Three attempts, hand brandishes sword *three* times, three queens = 3 symbolizes holy? the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?