"Nothing stayed the same for two seconds together."
(Woolf, pg 1225, from ...Looking Glass...)
This sentence seems to be a summary of Virginia Woolf's personality. I did like this story, but I couldn't help finding it crazy while brilliant. She is a very clever writer and uses exceptional language, imagery, style, and tone; however, the further I read into this piece, the more I found it to be delusional. The line above reminds me of a mind racing from one thought to the next with little clarity. As she watches Isabella in the mirror, I think she sees her as another part of herself. I don't mean literally a reflection, but more like a vision. She sees strength. This character is independent, wealthy, and confident. At first I wondered if she was representative of who Woolf wanted to be, but she is also alone. The narrator part of Woolf definitely doesn't like to be alone. When the room comes to life through personification, metaphor and simile, I sense some extremely erratic thoughts. It is how I imagine it would feel to be in the mind of a crazy person.
"The room that afternoon was full of such shy creatures, lights and shadows, curtains blowing, petals falling--things that never happen, so it seems, if someone is looking."
(pg 1225)
I continually get the sense that the narrator is trapped. The mirror is the only contact for the narrator. This creates an extreme case of paranoia. When the postman comes, there is a strong sense of fear.
"Suddenly these reflections were ended violently and yet without a sound. A large black form loomed into the looking-glass; blotted out everything"
(pg 1226)
I thought some scary character was entering the story, but it turned out to be just paranoia. That paranoia is not only present in the sense of fear, but it continues as the narrator feels separated or cut-off. The letters are thought to hold some secret meaning and will probably be hidden. Here I found connection to the real world of Woolf as she probably struggled with emotions and writing. She seems to have been very paranoid on many levels.
"The thought served as a challenge. Isabella did not wish to be known--but she should no longer escape."
(pg 1226)
The fact that the story ends rationally does not make me feel any more confident that any sanity exists here. Very interesting writing, but very different thought process. I like this story and the others by Woolf, but I did not enjoy trying to think like her. I am surprised that she wrote as clearly as she did in the midst of all that strangeness that she displayed in the narrator. I guess that clarity through eccentricity is what made me prefer the first story to A Room of One's Own.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Thomas Hardy
"My fellow-climber rises dim
From her chilly grave--"
(Hardy, pg 1079, from Logs on the Hearth)
I am forced to look at these lines in a dark and dim way. The poem is a display of sadness, but I also get a great sense of joy from it. Although Hardy is saddened by the loss of his sister, his words are strengthened by her memory. He paints a solid picture of age. He details the apple tree changing with time. He was able to watch that growth just as he watched the growth of his sister. It is clearly sad for him that her time passed by, but he seems to take pride in having been her brother. He points out that she stood beside him on the limb. I think this is his way of relating that she is still by his side (from the grave). He describes the tree having wounds that have healed with time just as he knows that his wounds will heal. His wife Emma had died three years before and it must have been an unwelcome, familiar feeling. I like that he ends the poem with a happy thought of her after throwing in those two dark lines.
"Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave."
(pg 1079)
I found Wessex Heights to be pretty dark throughout. It was actually a little creepy at times. When I read the lines about the ghosts, I start looking over my shoulder as I get the chills. He reminds of the kid from the Sixth Sense!
"There is one in the railway train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear."
(pg 1074)
I don't know, but I think he may have the gift. Perhaps, it's just the gift for poetry. I feel sorry for him when he talks about the woman thinking, or not thinking, about him. He is so blunt about the issue. There is very little said, but it is clearly understood how they both feel.
"I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers"
(pg 1074)
I feel sorry for him, but maybe if he wasn't so creepy with the ghost business things would be different!
I was not at all surprised to see another poem with another Epitaph. I love the first two lines of his, but I don't believe him.
"I never cared for Life; Life cared for me,
And hence I owed it some fidelity."
(pg 1079)
This is a man who obviously loved his sister. He remarried after his wife's death, which is actually a good sign to me. It means he loved his wife and marriage and doesn't want to be left alone. And of all things, he buried his heart with his first wife. A man who doesn't love life doesn't find that kind of love in it. So, I am not sure what he meant by his Epitaph, but I surely couldn't connect it to him like I could with the others (Keats, Coleridge...).
From her chilly grave--"
(Hardy, pg 1079, from Logs on the Hearth)
I am forced to look at these lines in a dark and dim way. The poem is a display of sadness, but I also get a great sense of joy from it. Although Hardy is saddened by the loss of his sister, his words are strengthened by her memory. He paints a solid picture of age. He details the apple tree changing with time. He was able to watch that growth just as he watched the growth of his sister. It is clearly sad for him that her time passed by, but he seems to take pride in having been her brother. He points out that she stood beside him on the limb. I think this is his way of relating that she is still by his side (from the grave). He describes the tree having wounds that have healed with time just as he knows that his wounds will heal. His wife Emma had died three years before and it must have been an unwelcome, familiar feeling. I like that he ends the poem with a happy thought of her after throwing in those two dark lines.
"Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,
Laughing, her young brown hand awave."
(pg 1079)
I found Wessex Heights to be pretty dark throughout. It was actually a little creepy at times. When I read the lines about the ghosts, I start looking over my shoulder as I get the chills. He reminds of the kid from the Sixth Sense!
"There is one in the railway train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear."
(pg 1074)
I don't know, but I think he may have the gift. Perhaps, it's just the gift for poetry. I feel sorry for him when he talks about the woman thinking, or not thinking, about him. He is so blunt about the issue. There is very little said, but it is clearly understood how they both feel.
"I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers"
(pg 1074)
I feel sorry for him, but maybe if he wasn't so creepy with the ghost business things would be different!
I was not at all surprised to see another poem with another Epitaph. I love the first two lines of his, but I don't believe him.
"I never cared for Life; Life cared for me,
And hence I owed it some fidelity."
(pg 1079)
This is a man who obviously loved his sister. He remarried after his wife's death, which is actually a good sign to me. It means he loved his wife and marriage and doesn't want to be left alone. And of all things, he buried his heart with his first wife. A man who doesn't love life doesn't find that kind of love in it. So, I am not sure what he meant by his Epitaph, but I surely couldn't connect it to him like I could with the others (Keats, Coleridge...).
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Oscar Wilde
"The moment Art surrenders its imaginative medium it surrenders everything."
(Wilde, pg 845, from The Decay of Lying)
First, I want to say, and I will reiterate, that I love Oscar Wilde. This simple sentence says so much to me about writing. I have always considered the greatest ability of a fiction writer is in his/her ability to lie. Lying is the basis of story-telling. When I was younger and got in trouble for telling a lie, my grandmother didn't call me a liar. She told me to stop telling stories. But making stuff up (fiction/make-believe/pretend) to me was entertaining as it is to the imagination of most children. Thankfully, some people, like Wilde, have the ability to develop those lies into more clever stories. After all, "lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art (pg 846)." I had difficulty understanding Wilde's intentions in the first few pages of Vivian's dialogue. When he says, "A great artist invents a type, and Life tries to copy it," I pictured it all with ease. Each fad and every time period has some significance that most individuals end up wanting. For the longest time, our art copied the French. Even in the beginnings of our intended independent America, we copied the Europeans. The grass is always greener on the other side. Speaking of grass, landscapes even copy each other. If xeriscaping was suddenly huge in the most popular places, everybody would rip out their grass and flowers and praise the dirt and rocks. Even Thoreau agreed with Wilde. His intention at Walden Pond was to find simplicity when everybody else was seeking to copy Europian luxuries.
"The highest art rejects the burden of the human spirit, and gains more from a new medium or a fresh material than she does from any enthusiasm for art, or from any lofty passion, or from any great awakening of human consciousness."
(pg 842)
When I first read this, I disagreed. I thought about all of the poets we have read and I wanted to believe differently. Wilde is most definitely onto something here though. Are you more likely to get your true impressions from a painting if someone is sitting next to you, judging you? Or are you more honest with your impressions on your own, when nobody has to know? I can look at a Dali and think it is eccentrically beautiful, but sometimes I see one and think that it is horrendous. Wilde is saying that it doesn't always have to be about a hidden meaning. It can be all about the aestheticism, the first reaction, or the way it makes you feel without delving into the artist's personal life. Sometimes you feel like a comedy, sometimes a tragedy, sometimes you don't want any hidden messages. I met a lady who is about 65 years young and used to teach at Mercer. (I met her in a hair salon in FL and I don't know her name.) I was ear-hustling her conversation about movies. She was really upset that her friend wanted to see Stomp the Yard. She said that she was sick of these movies with morals. I will never forget her shouting, "I wanna see god-damned Snakes on a Plane." I laughed, but now I get her point. She only wanted to be entertained. Clearly, as one of our wonderful Mercer professors, she has learned enough about morals!
"There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written."
(pg 846, Dorian Gray)
I enjoyed everything that the book had to offer from Mr. Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest is possibly the most clever thing that I have ever read. It even made me rethink Shakespeare as my first choice. I will be reading everything Oscar Wilde in the near future as this is 100% perfection along with his Aphorisms and I too declare his genius.
(Wilde, pg 845, from The Decay of Lying)
First, I want to say, and I will reiterate, that I love Oscar Wilde. This simple sentence says so much to me about writing. I have always considered the greatest ability of a fiction writer is in his/her ability to lie. Lying is the basis of story-telling. When I was younger and got in trouble for telling a lie, my grandmother didn't call me a liar. She told me to stop telling stories. But making stuff up (fiction/make-believe/pretend) to me was entertaining as it is to the imagination of most children. Thankfully, some people, like Wilde, have the ability to develop those lies into more clever stories. After all, "lying, the telling of beautiful untrue things, is the proper aim of Art (pg 846)." I had difficulty understanding Wilde's intentions in the first few pages of Vivian's dialogue. When he says, "A great artist invents a type, and Life tries to copy it," I pictured it all with ease. Each fad and every time period has some significance that most individuals end up wanting. For the longest time, our art copied the French. Even in the beginnings of our intended independent America, we copied the Europeans. The grass is always greener on the other side. Speaking of grass, landscapes even copy each other. If xeriscaping was suddenly huge in the most popular places, everybody would rip out their grass and flowers and praise the dirt and rocks. Even Thoreau agreed with Wilde. His intention at Walden Pond was to find simplicity when everybody else was seeking to copy Europian luxuries.
"The highest art rejects the burden of the human spirit, and gains more from a new medium or a fresh material than she does from any enthusiasm for art, or from any lofty passion, or from any great awakening of human consciousness."
(pg 842)
When I first read this, I disagreed. I thought about all of the poets we have read and I wanted to believe differently. Wilde is most definitely onto something here though. Are you more likely to get your true impressions from a painting if someone is sitting next to you, judging you? Or are you more honest with your impressions on your own, when nobody has to know? I can look at a Dali and think it is eccentrically beautiful, but sometimes I see one and think that it is horrendous. Wilde is saying that it doesn't always have to be about a hidden meaning. It can be all about the aestheticism, the first reaction, or the way it makes you feel without delving into the artist's personal life. Sometimes you feel like a comedy, sometimes a tragedy, sometimes you don't want any hidden messages. I met a lady who is about 65 years young and used to teach at Mercer. (I met her in a hair salon in FL and I don't know her name.) I was ear-hustling her conversation about movies. She was really upset that her friend wanted to see Stomp the Yard. She said that she was sick of these movies with morals. I will never forget her shouting, "I wanna see god-damned Snakes on a Plane." I laughed, but now I get her point. She only wanted to be entertained. Clearly, as one of our wonderful Mercer professors, she has learned enough about morals!
"There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.
Books are well written, or badly written."
(pg 846, Dorian Gray)
I enjoyed everything that the book had to offer from Mr. Wilde. The Importance of Being Earnest is possibly the most clever thing that I have ever read. It even made me rethink Shakespeare as my first choice. I will be reading everything Oscar Wilde in the near future as this is 100% perfection along with his Aphorisms and I too declare his genius.
Friday, June 22, 2007
T. S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
(my new favorite poem)
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
(pg 1196)
Who wouldn't you want to be a cat? They sit around all day, not daring to face rejection in any way. Oh, but poor old Mr. Prufrock. As the poem starts, Prufrock is speaking to himself in encouragement to muster the courage to speak to a lady. Or perhaps, he is anticipating the conversation. Either way, he wants no questioning, let's just go.
"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit."
(pg 1195)
The scene is clearly unreal, "like a patient etherised upon a table." It is like a daydream that Prufrock is suffering as the women around continue in conversation of Michelangelo. I can picture them spitting back and forth words on David. It is the next stanza that first grabbed my attention. The extended metaphor of the cat begins and lazily continues to be brilliantly woven into Prufrock's inadequacies. If a cat could talk, it would definitely speak, "and indeed there will be time" as it rubs itself on a window or something. I have always jealously pictured cats saying things like this. I don't even like cats! As this cat is stroking him self comfortable, Eliot is sharing in Prufrock's inadequacy.
"There will be time to murder and create"
"And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions"
(pg 1195)
This displays Prufrocks torment in his quest, but also hints at Eliot's difficulties as a writer. At first I pictured the cat killing a mouse, but then I realized that Eliot speaks of murdering or creating a poem. The most sensible explanation of the lines is in Prufrock's murdering his pursuit. He puts it off, thinking of new ways to ask. The description of him as a balding man leads the reader to a further understanding of this poor man's inadequacy. Eliot portrays this character so pitifully.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
(pg 1195)
Same crap, different day. I'm dying for this guy to take a risk already. He feels so awkward he compares himself to an insect in study.
"When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall"
(pg 1195)
I picture Eliot feeling this same way with all the critics. When the poem approaches the end, I get excited for Prufrock, but then Eliot lets me down again. Poor old Mr. Prufrock couldn't cut it. I can not decide if he is dreaming in the end or just that miserable. The way that Eliot spins his abilities into this poem is fantastic. I love the character and how in depth the reader is with him. The hints at Eliot's own truths bring in the expressive feeling that is often sought after in a poem. This is an excellent read, but like Don Juan, it must be read aloud. I found rhyme where I first thought it was missing and a rhythm that really sucked me in. Perhaps, if I hadn't first read silently though, I might have missed that cat!
I really like this Eliot and some that is not listed in the book, but some of his stuff is waste. No offense to Ezra Pound, but I think he ruined some of Eliot. I could not get into The Wasteland at all. I didn't even feel like I was reading Eliot anymore.
(my new favorite poem)
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."
(pg 1196)
Who wouldn't you want to be a cat? They sit around all day, not daring to face rejection in any way. Oh, but poor old Mr. Prufrock. As the poem starts, Prufrock is speaking to himself in encouragement to muster the courage to speak to a lady. Or perhaps, he is anticipating the conversation. Either way, he wants no questioning, let's just go.
"Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'
Let us go and make our visit."
(pg 1195)
The scene is clearly unreal, "like a patient etherised upon a table." It is like a daydream that Prufrock is suffering as the women around continue in conversation of Michelangelo. I can picture them spitting back and forth words on David. It is the next stanza that first grabbed my attention. The extended metaphor of the cat begins and lazily continues to be brilliantly woven into Prufrock's inadequacies. If a cat could talk, it would definitely speak, "and indeed there will be time" as it rubs itself on a window or something. I have always jealously pictured cats saying things like this. I don't even like cats! As this cat is stroking him self comfortable, Eliot is sharing in Prufrock's inadequacy.
"There will be time to murder and create"
"And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions"
(pg 1195)
This displays Prufrocks torment in his quest, but also hints at Eliot's difficulties as a writer. At first I pictured the cat killing a mouse, but then I realized that Eliot speaks of murdering or creating a poem. The most sensible explanation of the lines is in Prufrock's murdering his pursuit. He puts it off, thinking of new ways to ask. The description of him as a balding man leads the reader to a further understanding of this poor man's inadequacy. Eliot portrays this character so pitifully.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
(pg 1195)
Same crap, different day. I'm dying for this guy to take a risk already. He feels so awkward he compares himself to an insect in study.
"When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall"
(pg 1195)
I picture Eliot feeling this same way with all the critics. When the poem approaches the end, I get excited for Prufrock, but then Eliot lets me down again. Poor old Mr. Prufrock couldn't cut it. I can not decide if he is dreaming in the end or just that miserable. The way that Eliot spins his abilities into this poem is fantastic. I love the character and how in depth the reader is with him. The hints at Eliot's own truths bring in the expressive feeling that is often sought after in a poem. This is an excellent read, but like Don Juan, it must be read aloud. I found rhyme where I first thought it was missing and a rhythm that really sucked me in. Perhaps, if I hadn't first read silently though, I might have missed that cat!
I really like this Eliot and some that is not listed in the book, but some of his stuff is waste. No offense to Ezra Pound, but I think he ruined some of Eliot. I could not get into The Wasteland at all. I didn't even feel like I was reading Eliot anymore.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
"Glory be to God for dapples 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 all trades, their gear and tackle 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."
(Hopkins, pg 775-776, Pied Beauty
At first read, this is a simple little poem. At close inspection, it is a small masterpiece. I love the repetition in describing just how different things are in life. Hopkins portrays different colors, shapes, sizes, breeds, purposes... all in 11 lines. He makes the reader look at all the differences, consider the similarities, and then ponder how they came to be. I think by putting the question, "Who knows how?" in parentheses made this poem worth talking about. The question can be rhetorical. It can be to make the point that the reader will automatically be drawn to the answer Hopkins desires, whether believer or not. It could be just for the sake of giving it attention. Either way, it succeeded with this reader. He draws an excellent picture of nature and God's hand in it. I like that he divided the lines in the ninth line. My attention was forced to focus on the antonyms. I focused on what I was reading and realized the importance again of differences and originality. In nature, every individual thing encountered has its own mark as said in line seven. I am glad that he was included in the class for this poem, but I do not find him an equal to the others. He in my opinion is quaint. He is certainly no match in argument with Blake.
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 all trades, their gear and tackle 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."
(Hopkins, pg 775-776, Pied Beauty
At first read, this is a simple little poem. At close inspection, it is a small masterpiece. I love the repetition in describing just how different things are in life. Hopkins portrays different colors, shapes, sizes, breeds, purposes... all in 11 lines. He makes the reader look at all the differences, consider the similarities, and then ponder how they came to be. I think by putting the question, "Who knows how?" in parentheses made this poem worth talking about. The question can be rhetorical. It can be to make the point that the reader will automatically be drawn to the answer Hopkins desires, whether believer or not. It could be just for the sake of giving it attention. Either way, it succeeded with this reader. He draws an excellent picture of nature and God's hand in it. I like that he divided the lines in the ninth line. My attention was forced to focus on the antonyms. I focused on what I was reading and realized the importance again of differences and originality. In nature, every individual thing encountered has its own mark as said in line seven. I am glad that he was included in the class for this poem, but I do not find him an equal to the others. He in my opinion is quaint. He is certainly no match in argument with Blake.
Robert Browning
"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?"
(Browning, pg 686, from Andrea del Sarto)
These two lines could be an anthem for all artists. All of these writers we have studied faced critics and beliefs that they could not be great, yet here we are reading their work years later. I am glad that they endeavored to reach beyond their grasps. I find a lot of Browning's life throughout Andrea del Sarto; although, that was not his norm. His words are difficult for me, but I couldn't help thinking about his life story as I read this poem. Along with his unwillingness to conform, his eccentricity kept him from the status he desired. I think the boasting painter in this work is very similar to his own character.
"...You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
--Is the thing, Love! so such things should be--
Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep--"
(pg 685)
I realize that this could be true of any artist and their work. But I like to think that something he wrote reflected him! The painter even says of the great painters, "My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here (pg 685)." The fact that Browning was so happy that he had societies named for him and that people celebrated him so much means that he thought himself worthy. I wonder if the reason that he first published anonymously was out of the fear of bad reviews. Perhaps, he was a man who always wanted the fame. I will never know. I think Mark Twain, who shared the anonymity idea, must have had some restricted insight when he said, "I can read Browning so Browning himself can understand it." Browning is still a mystery to me. I am also curious as to what his wife thought of his work as she was so gifted herself. I have to say that I do not appreciate Browning's style very much. The syntax is nerve-racking at times and I feel like I am listening to Yoda. I do commend him in his endeavors to be unique. He brings a different approach and I wish that I was able to connect to it more, but I find myself vexed by reading the "standard" for so long.
I may be weird, but I really like Porphyria's Lover for it's eccentricity. I like the way the poem raises so many questions and the hairs on the back of your neck. I probably am alone on this, but I don't think he killed her. I know, I know... See, he says that he strangled her, but then he looks at her eyes.
"I warily opened her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain"
(pg 663)
Asphyxiation causes blood to fill the eyes. I think that was what he was looking for when he opened them. I figure that they would be stained if she was dead. I guess I am just hoping that she passed out. The end made me think it again.
"And yet God has not said a word!"
(pg 663)
It is like he is expecting to be struck by lightning, or waiting for angels to come and get her. Meanwhile, nothing happens. Maybe she really is just passed out?
Or what's a heaven for?"
(Browning, pg 686, from Andrea del Sarto)
These two lines could be an anthem for all artists. All of these writers we have studied faced critics and beliefs that they could not be great, yet here we are reading their work years later. I am glad that they endeavored to reach beyond their grasps. I find a lot of Browning's life throughout Andrea del Sarto; although, that was not his norm. His words are difficult for me, but I couldn't help thinking about his life story as I read this poem. Along with his unwillingness to conform, his eccentricity kept him from the status he desired. I think the boasting painter in this work is very similar to his own character.
"...You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
--Is the thing, Love! so such things should be--
Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep--"
(pg 685)
I realize that this could be true of any artist and their work. But I like to think that something he wrote reflected him! The painter even says of the great painters, "My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here (pg 685)." The fact that Browning was so happy that he had societies named for him and that people celebrated him so much means that he thought himself worthy. I wonder if the reason that he first published anonymously was out of the fear of bad reviews. Perhaps, he was a man who always wanted the fame. I will never know. I think Mark Twain, who shared the anonymity idea, must have had some restricted insight when he said, "I can read Browning so Browning himself can understand it." Browning is still a mystery to me. I am also curious as to what his wife thought of his work as she was so gifted herself. I have to say that I do not appreciate Browning's style very much. The syntax is nerve-racking at times and I feel like I am listening to Yoda. I do commend him in his endeavors to be unique. He brings a different approach and I wish that I was able to connect to it more, but I find myself vexed by reading the "standard" for so long.
I may be weird, but I really like Porphyria's Lover for it's eccentricity. I like the way the poem raises so many questions and the hairs on the back of your neck. I probably am alone on this, but I don't think he killed her. I know, I know... See, he says that he strangled her, but then he looks at her eyes.
"I warily opened her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain"
(pg 663)
Asphyxiation causes blood to fill the eyes. I think that was what he was looking for when he opened them. I figure that they would be stained if she was dead. I guess I am just hoping that she passed out. The end made me think it again.
"And yet God has not said a word!"
(pg 663)
It is like he is expecting to be struck by lightning, or waiting for angels to come and get her. Meanwhile, nothing happens. Maybe she really is just passed out?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
"'Guess now who holds thee?'--'Death,' I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang,--'Not Death, but Love.'"
(E.B. Browning, pg 530, from Sonnets from the Portuguese)
After reading the few sonnets posted and life history of E.B. Browning, I wonder if love spared her life some extra years. I mean the happiness from love of course. Most people, as we saw with Keats, did not recover strength after being deathly ill with tuberculosis. She was not young for those days when Robert first wrote to her and had been sick for some time. The lines above show her own surprise in the matter. I think the world is lucky to have caught a tale of real-life love in writing like this. This unexpected addition to her life makes for a fantastic story in such expressive language.
"...A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss."
(pg 532)
She holds back no emotions in these secretive sonnets. She makes herself open and more vulnerable than I would ever dare to be. But I am truly thankful for it. Sonnet 43 is probably one of the most widely known and revered poems ever. It is certainly at the top of the list in poems of love. I myself have had it quasi-memorized since elementary school when I first heard it. I am posting the whole thing because I don't think that this particular poem should ever be broken up. Each line is equally meaningful.
"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 everyday'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 with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
(pg 532)
I italicized the two lines in the middle because I feel that they really hit hard. She is saying that she loves him as much as a person loves and fights for rights and freedom. And then that she loves him as a humble equal, pure and true. The last line as she knew is what takes the cake. She doesn't just say that she will love him after death, but God-willing, she will love him BETTER! This is a powerful little sonnet that holds a whole lot of meaning in it's 14 lines.
I find Aurora Leigh to be another masterpiece worth mentioning. It says so much about women, their abilities, and other's expectations of them.
"'Not the bay! I choose no bay
(The fates deny us if we are overbold),
Nor myrtle--which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dares not touch
So early o'mornings...
...Ah--there's my choice,--that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
But thinking of a wreath...
...I like such ivy, bold to leap a height
'Twas strong to climb; as good to grow on graves
As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.'"
(pgs 541-542)
I think that by denying the bay, she is showing humility. She passes up the myrtle because that is too much what is intended of a woman and she wants more than that. She even throws in some humor here with it being to early in the morning for such nauseating things. The lines I omitted reiterate her need for more as she passes up those that are fragrant without additional offerings. Finally, we see her choice is in strength. She is ready to take on anything and prove herself. I think that the trade of the thyrsus for the comb is her way of saying that she can attain this strength and be a lady.
The silver answer rang,--'Not Death, but Love.'"
(E.B. Browning, pg 530, from Sonnets from the Portuguese)
After reading the few sonnets posted and life history of E.B. Browning, I wonder if love spared her life some extra years. I mean the happiness from love of course. Most people, as we saw with Keats, did not recover strength after being deathly ill with tuberculosis. She was not young for those days when Robert first wrote to her and had been sick for some time. The lines above show her own surprise in the matter. I think the world is lucky to have caught a tale of real-life love in writing like this. This unexpected addition to her life makes for a fantastic story in such expressive language.
"...A ring of amethyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss."
(pg 532)
She holds back no emotions in these secretive sonnets. She makes herself open and more vulnerable than I would ever dare to be. But I am truly thankful for it. Sonnet 43 is probably one of the most widely known and revered poems ever. It is certainly at the top of the list in poems of love. I myself have had it quasi-memorized since elementary school when I first heard it. I am posting the whole thing because I don't think that this particular poem should ever be broken up. Each line is equally meaningful.
"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 everyday'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 with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death."
(pg 532)
I italicized the two lines in the middle because I feel that they really hit hard. She is saying that she loves him as much as a person loves and fights for rights and freedom. And then that she loves him as a humble equal, pure and true. The last line as she knew is what takes the cake. She doesn't just say that she will love him after death, but God-willing, she will love him BETTER! This is a powerful little sonnet that holds a whole lot of meaning in it's 14 lines.
I find Aurora Leigh to be another masterpiece worth mentioning. It says so much about women, their abilities, and other's expectations of them.
"'Not the bay! I choose no bay
(The fates deny us if we are overbold),
Nor myrtle--which means chiefly love; and love
Is something awful which one dares not touch
So early o'mornings...
...Ah--there's my choice,--that ivy on the wall,
That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow
But thinking of a wreath...
...I like such ivy, bold to leap a height
'Twas strong to climb; as good to grow on graves
As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb.'"
(pgs 541-542)
I think that by denying the bay, she is showing humility. She passes up the myrtle because that is too much what is intended of a woman and she wants more than that. She even throws in some humor here with it being to early in the morning for such nauseating things. The lines I omitted reiterate her need for more as she passes up those that are fragrant without additional offerings. Finally, we see her choice is in strength. She is ready to take on anything and prove herself. I think that the trade of the thyrsus for the comb is her way of saying that she can attain this strength and be a lady.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
W. B. Yeats
"An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed."
(Yeats, pg 1124, from A Prayer for my Daughter)
Yeats makes a profound and true point with these lines. The attempt at using intelligence to assert status often fails. And when an opinion is unsoliticed it often comes across in a bad bad way. With that said, I was born independent and outspoken. As a child, my grandfather used to warn me about it. He would tell me to stop being stubborn and keep my opinions to myself. He said that every time someone tried to tell me something or answer a question I would say, "I know." He would ask me why I asked if I already knew, and I would tell him, "I didn't know, but now I do, so, I know." I frustrated the hell out of that poor man. Yeats advise to his daughter reminds me of those conversations. I don't know if it worked for her, but not for me. When my grandfather told me that the reason he wanted me to behave like this was to get a good husband, I did everything the opposite! Where Yeats and my grandfather agree, I see the other side of things.
"In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned"
(pg 1123)
I think Yeats was saying that she would have to earn a man's heart and I think the earning goes both ways. With his experience with Maud Gonne, I think him the last person to give advice on earning a heart! I do think that his words to his daughter are sweet and sincere though. I like the line, "My child sleeps on." While he is awake and restless, contemplating her life, she is sleeping peacefully through the violent storm. The descriptive language he uses is vivid and clear. I can picture the baby half-covered in her crib, the wind raging outside, and him pacing about the room. And I truly appreciate his intent to not spoil his daughter. In the third stanza, he even writes that he doesn't want her to be too beautiful.
"May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught"
He would instead prefer for her hold a "natural kindness." I have a feeling that some of this is due to his unrequited love for the egotistical Maud. I was skeptical about Yeats, but I really enjoy his vivid imagery and excellent use of language. It is simple to picture plainly everything he writes. My favorite of his is The Lake Isle of Innisfree because I am once again reminded of my home in Florida, but I am again saddened by the memory.
"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core."
(pg 1117)
Luckily, I am not stricken to standing on a roadway and remembering. I at least have Georgia stars and Pecan trees!
So let her think opinions are accursed."
(Yeats, pg 1124, from A Prayer for my Daughter)
Yeats makes a profound and true point with these lines. The attempt at using intelligence to assert status often fails. And when an opinion is unsoliticed it often comes across in a bad bad way. With that said, I was born independent and outspoken. As a child, my grandfather used to warn me about it. He would tell me to stop being stubborn and keep my opinions to myself. He said that every time someone tried to tell me something or answer a question I would say, "I know." He would ask me why I asked if I already knew, and I would tell him, "I didn't know, but now I do, so, I know." I frustrated the hell out of that poor man. Yeats advise to his daughter reminds me of those conversations. I don't know if it worked for her, but not for me. When my grandfather told me that the reason he wanted me to behave like this was to get a good husband, I did everything the opposite! Where Yeats and my grandfather agree, I see the other side of things.
"In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned"
(pg 1123)
I think Yeats was saying that she would have to earn a man's heart and I think the earning goes both ways. With his experience with Maud Gonne, I think him the last person to give advice on earning a heart! I do think that his words to his daughter are sweet and sincere though. I like the line, "My child sleeps on." While he is awake and restless, contemplating her life, she is sleeping peacefully through the violent storm. The descriptive language he uses is vivid and clear. I can picture the baby half-covered in her crib, the wind raging outside, and him pacing about the room. And I truly appreciate his intent to not spoil his daughter. In the third stanza, he even writes that he doesn't want her to be too beautiful.
"May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught"
He would instead prefer for her hold a "natural kindness." I have a feeling that some of this is due to his unrequited love for the egotistical Maud. I was skeptical about Yeats, but I really enjoy his vivid imagery and excellent use of language. It is simple to picture plainly everything he writes. My favorite of his is The Lake Isle of Innisfree because I am once again reminded of my home in Florida, but I am again saddened by the memory.
"I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core."
(pg 1117)
Luckily, I am not stricken to standing on a roadway and remembering. I at least have Georgia stars and Pecan trees!
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
"The Wye is hush'd nor moved along,
And hush'd my deepest grief of all,
When filled with tears that cannot fall,
I brim with sorrow drowning song."
(Tennyson, pg 602, from In Memoriam A. H. H.)
Have you ever been so overtaken with emotion that you have cried all your tears and still feel more waiting? Wordsworth wrote about the Wye and described places that the river disappeared into the woods. I imagine, that as a tributary, some of it is very still and quiet as Tennyson is suggesting. The water has stopped flowing as have his tears, but like any river, it must move again at some point along the way. He is anticipating this return to crying. He said once that he "always had a strange charm" for far, far away. I think it is very fitting that this is where he puts his friend with the words, "He is not here, but far away (pg 601)." He thought so highly of his closest friend that he dwelt on his death for nearly his whole life writing this poem. He seemed unsure of whether he was even expressing his true feelings.
"I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within."
(pg 601)
He reminds me a lot of Wordsworth, but the tone is much different. Wordsworth appealed to a more reverent side (romantic), while Tennyson seems more curious. I definitely sense a very romantic quality in him though. He is not far off from the last era. I am able to identify with this poem just as I did with Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey in a natural sense, but I also get his deeper explanation of human nature than Nature itself:
"I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods."
"I hold it true, what'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."
(pg 603)
---------------------------------
He is discussing human nature in relation to his friend again in Ulysses. He seems to be struggling here for the strength to go on after the death of his friend. He has been left heartbroken and searches not only for strength, but knowledge. He seems to want to understand the scientific reasoning behind death as much as the nature of it itself. The same reasoning is found in In Memoriam. He goes back and forth with science's questions and nature's answers, all with soothing tones.
"To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought."
(pg 593)
"One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
(pg 594)
----------------------------------
I think that The Princess; Tears, Idle Tears is an excellent poem and it demonstrates Tennyson's tolerance of women, separating him from Byron and most others.
"For woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse: could we make her as the man,
Sweet love were slain" his dearest bond is this,
Not like to like, but like in difference."
"And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers"
(pg 598)
I again hear an echo of Wordsworth throughout the poem as each of the first four stanzas end in "the days that are no more." This is a lot like Tintern Abbey, but again Tennyson is more caught up with the emotional side of things than the imaginative. Wordsworth was remembering days of being with his sister and being on the Wye before. His whole view was related to Nature and describing it in detail, while Tennyson is speaking of the emotions it invokes. He is constantly reminded of his friend's death. It seems to torment him throughout all of his life's works.
"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more."
(pg 597)
--------------------------------
Tennyson has also echoed Coleridge, Keats, Byron, and Hemans in writing Crossing the Bar. It is beginning to seem like requirement as a poet to write something about your death. At least his is a pretty positive look at things.
"And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far"
(pg 616)
I am really surprised that he didn't say the flood would bear him far away, but I think it is the thought that he intended to provoke from his readers. He requested no sadness as he knew how tormenting it could be to dwell on loss. He was an excellent writer who used smart words and language, less imagery than Wordsworth, but still an interesting and beautiful read.
And hush'd my deepest grief of all,
When filled with tears that cannot fall,
I brim with sorrow drowning song."
(Tennyson, pg 602, from In Memoriam A. H. H.)
Have you ever been so overtaken with emotion that you have cried all your tears and still feel more waiting? Wordsworth wrote about the Wye and described places that the river disappeared into the woods. I imagine, that as a tributary, some of it is very still and quiet as Tennyson is suggesting. The water has stopped flowing as have his tears, but like any river, it must move again at some point along the way. He is anticipating this return to crying. He said once that he "always had a strange charm" for far, far away. I think it is very fitting that this is where he puts his friend with the words, "He is not here, but far away (pg 601)." He thought so highly of his closest friend that he dwelt on his death for nearly his whole life writing this poem. He seemed unsure of whether he was even expressing his true feelings.
"I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within."
(pg 601)
He reminds me a lot of Wordsworth, but the tone is much different. Wordsworth appealed to a more reverent side (romantic), while Tennyson seems more curious. I definitely sense a very romantic quality in him though. He is not far off from the last era. I am able to identify with this poem just as I did with Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey in a natural sense, but I also get his deeper explanation of human nature than Nature itself:
"I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods."
"I hold it true, what'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all."
(pg 603)
---------------------------------
He is discussing human nature in relation to his friend again in Ulysses. He seems to be struggling here for the strength to go on after the death of his friend. He has been left heartbroken and searches not only for strength, but knowledge. He seems to want to understand the scientific reasoning behind death as much as the nature of it itself. The same reasoning is found in In Memoriam. He goes back and forth with science's questions and nature's answers, all with soothing tones.
"To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought."
(pg 593)
"One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
(pg 594)
----------------------------------
I think that The Princess; Tears, Idle Tears is an excellent poem and it demonstrates Tennyson's tolerance of women, separating him from Byron and most others.
"For woman is not undevelopt man,
But diverse: could we make her as the man,
Sweet love were slain" his dearest bond is this,
Not like to like, but like in difference."
"And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,
Sit side by side, full-summ'd in all their powers"
(pg 598)
I again hear an echo of Wordsworth throughout the poem as each of the first four stanzas end in "the days that are no more." This is a lot like Tintern Abbey, but again Tennyson is more caught up with the emotional side of things than the imaginative. Wordsworth was remembering days of being with his sister and being on the Wye before. His whole view was related to Nature and describing it in detail, while Tennyson is speaking of the emotions it invokes. He is constantly reminded of his friend's death. It seems to torment him throughout all of his life's works.
"Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more."
(pg 597)
--------------------------------
Tennyson has also echoed Coleridge, Keats, Byron, and Hemans in writing Crossing the Bar. It is beginning to seem like requirement as a poet to write something about your death. At least his is a pretty positive look at things.
"And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far"
(pg 616)
I am really surprised that he didn't say the flood would bear him far away, but I think it is the thought that he intended to provoke from his readers. He requested no sadness as he knew how tormenting it could be to dwell on loss. He was an excellent writer who used smart words and language, less imagery than Wordsworth, but still an interesting and beautiful read.
John Keats
"My spirit is too weak--mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky."
(Keats, pg 425, from On Seeing the Elgin Marbles
Keats. Keats. Keats. What do you say about someone that it is impossible to empathize or even sympathize with? This man's story is enough to make a person sad, but then put in his own words the pain he dealt with and the life he led and a person is left miserable. This was a remarkable man, but had he been a living man, we would not have the literary works we have today. He wrote as a dying man, giving his readers pure, raw, and charged emotion. He knew enough about medicine and TB to know that he was on his way out. The feelings he transmits due to this are painful, but beautifully so. He was a genius poet and he knew it and tried to do as much as he could with it before his untimely and foretold death.
"This is a mere matter of the moment. I think I
shall be among the English poets after my death."
(Keats, pg 423, to his brother, George.)
I can't even imagine the pain it must be knowing that you are going to die. He was younger than I am now, and that is just beyond my scope of thought. Instead of crying about it, he wrote... a lot. He knew that he was good and he seemed to want to accomplish great things despite time. He did not mask his fear though, that too was evident and made his work stronger and more compelling.
"When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain"
(pg 425, from Sonnet: When I have fears)
His writing is so emotional that you can't help but feel for him. By the time he gets to his odes in 1819, he seems to be wishing for death.
"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-words had sunk"
(pg 438, from Ode to a Nightingale)
"No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine"
(pg 442, from Ode on Melancholy
These lines remind me of his letter to Fanny, "I hate the world: it batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it (pg 447)." I feel horrible for finding so much pleasure in this man's pain, but he knew what he was doing when he wrote. He is echoing Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. He wants more to forget what's around him than he wants to die. He uses the word adieu repeatedly in several of the poems. It is as if he was trying to find a pretty way to say goodbye. Although it was short and not as pretty as the other poems, I liked This living hand. I think he was referring to his ability to write and the fact that he won't be doing it much longer. This is Keats saying here I am, I am doing this. I think that Bright Star is a beautiful little poem. He must have had Fanny on the brain! In his letter he referred to her as his star.
"And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite."
(pg 444)
If you knew that you were going to die, would you ever close your eyes? Not me. I would be like Keats. He saw so much beauty in the world, especially in nature. I think he was longing here to see Fanny as well, but he was able to see good in so many things, because he knew the bad side so well. I don't envy him, but I do think he was perhaps a remarkable person, not just poet. In his letter to Woodhouse he wrote, "I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if I should be spared that may be the work of maturer years--in the interval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in Poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer." He had such an imagination as well and I guess you would want that in his situation more than others. He remarked that he often found himself in character. With his fate and vision, I am not surprised by this at all. He also wrote on this to Woodhouse, "But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself; but from some character in whose soul I now live (pg 446)." He also wrote to Shelley, "My imagination is a Monastry and I am its Monk (pg 448)." I think he felt trapped by his imagination instead of freed, but also safe in it. I think he explained the meaning of all of this when he wrote to Brown, "I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence (pg 449)." He was so profound and wise for so few years. The most beautiful thing that I think he wrote was in this same final letter to Brown, "I am so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the sight of any hand writing of a friend I love so much as I do you (pg 449)." This leaves me pretty much speechless and without any more reason to imagine his situation.
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky."
(Keats, pg 425, from On Seeing the Elgin Marbles
Keats. Keats. Keats. What do you say about someone that it is impossible to empathize or even sympathize with? This man's story is enough to make a person sad, but then put in his own words the pain he dealt with and the life he led and a person is left miserable. This was a remarkable man, but had he been a living man, we would not have the literary works we have today. He wrote as a dying man, giving his readers pure, raw, and charged emotion. He knew enough about medicine and TB to know that he was on his way out. The feelings he transmits due to this are painful, but beautifully so. He was a genius poet and he knew it and tried to do as much as he could with it before his untimely and foretold death.
"This is a mere matter of the moment. I think I
shall be among the English poets after my death."
(Keats, pg 423, to his brother, George.)
I can't even imagine the pain it must be knowing that you are going to die. He was younger than I am now, and that is just beyond my scope of thought. Instead of crying about it, he wrote... a lot. He knew that he was good and he seemed to want to accomplish great things despite time. He did not mask his fear though, that too was evident and made his work stronger and more compelling.
"When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain"
(pg 425, from Sonnet: When I have fears)
His writing is so emotional that you can't help but feel for him. By the time he gets to his odes in 1819, he seems to be wishing for death.
"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-words had sunk"
(pg 438, from Ode to a Nightingale)
"No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine"
(pg 442, from Ode on Melancholy
These lines remind me of his letter to Fanny, "I hate the world: it batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it (pg 447)." I feel horrible for finding so much pleasure in this man's pain, but he knew what he was doing when he wrote. He is echoing Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. He wants more to forget what's around him than he wants to die. He uses the word adieu repeatedly in several of the poems. It is as if he was trying to find a pretty way to say goodbye. Although it was short and not as pretty as the other poems, I liked This living hand. I think he was referring to his ability to write and the fact that he won't be doing it much longer. This is Keats saying here I am, I am doing this. I think that Bright Star is a beautiful little poem. He must have had Fanny on the brain! In his letter he referred to her as his star.
"And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite."
(pg 444)
If you knew that you were going to die, would you ever close your eyes? Not me. I would be like Keats. He saw so much beauty in the world, especially in nature. I think he was longing here to see Fanny as well, but he was able to see good in so many things, because he knew the bad side so well. I don't envy him, but I do think he was perhaps a remarkable person, not just poet. In his letter to Woodhouse he wrote, "I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if I should be spared that may be the work of maturer years--in the interval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in Poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer." He had such an imagination as well and I guess you would want that in his situation more than others. He remarked that he often found himself in character. With his fate and vision, I am not surprised by this at all. He also wrote on this to Woodhouse, "But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself; but from some character in whose soul I now live (pg 446)." He also wrote to Shelley, "My imagination is a Monastry and I am its Monk (pg 448)." I think he felt trapped by his imagination instead of freed, but also safe in it. I think he explained the meaning of all of this when he wrote to Brown, "I have an habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am leading a posthumous existence (pg 449)." He was so profound and wise for so few years. The most beautiful thing that I think he wrote was in this same final letter to Brown, "I am so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the sight of any hand writing of a friend I love so much as I do you (pg 449)." This leaves me pretty much speechless and without any more reason to imagine his situation.
Felicia Hemans
"The stormy grandeur of a proud despair;
A daring spirit, in its woes elate,
Mightier than death, untameable by fate."
(Hemans, pg 407, from The Wife of Asdrubal)
This poem could very well hold the most powerful language I have read for this class. This woman is not playing around. The imagery is absolutely amazing. The whole poem leaves the reader seeing red as I am sure she was when she wrote it. It is full of anger, pain, vengeance, loyalty, and love. All emotions that Hemans was too familiar with experiencing. "Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,/Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd." Asdrubal's wife martyrs her children not out of hatred or insanity, but out of love and loyalty. Hemans shows here that this woman has more bravery and loyalty than her cowardly husband. She doesn't wish to harm her children, but does so to punish her husband and end the lineage. It is mostly done out of desperation as they are about to become slaves.
"'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.
Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave."
I think that as much as she did this to hurt her husband, she did it to protect the children from a fate far worse. This poem is extremely powerful and the storyline is riveting.
Hemans loyalty continues in her other works. Records of Woman displays this forsaken woman who remains in waiting. The epigraph at the start reminds me of Coleridge and Keats. Unlike these two, she is not technically ill, she is brokenhearted, which can invite death just as much as illness. She feels similar to them in the questions of success and remembrance as well. All three question happiness in life and death:
"...Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious."
(Hemans, pg 409, from Properzia Rossi
I think that her works are evidence of strong loyalties and show that she is capable, even as a woman. I have already compared her work to the likes of Coleridge, Tennyson, and Keats! I can't imagine how difficult it was to be as good as she was a writer in that era. With all the criticism that the men received, I am sure that few even took her seriously, but her work is great. I am upset that I have never heard of her before now. I honestly think that she believed that she was good enough to be Poet Laureate. Not unlike any of these other poets, she considered herself a genius. In my opinion, she could have considered herself more genius than the others as she conquered both with words and by being a proper woman. I am pretty sure that this is what she was trying to tell her readers.
"...Happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow;
She that makes the humblest hearth,
Lovely but to one on earth."
(pg 414, from Corinne at the Capitol & from Woman and Fame
If I have translated this correctly, she was really trying to get her point across because she said it twice! Woman and Fame carries on this idea throughout. She is as egotistical as the male poets and rightfully so.
"...In their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule--their power of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, and affectation--the force and promptitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted attachment, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require, they are, beyond all doubt, our superiors."
(pg 416, Francis Jeffrey, from A Review of Felicia Hemans's Poetry)
I couldn't have said that better! Seriously, this man was before his time as a mostly unbiased critic. His review still had remnants of the time when all were not equal, but he saw true skill and ability in Hemans's work. And he was right as she did fully grasp human feeling and exude it in her writing using "beautiful imagery."
A daring spirit, in its woes elate,
Mightier than death, untameable by fate."
(Hemans, pg 407, from The Wife of Asdrubal)
This poem could very well hold the most powerful language I have read for this class. This woman is not playing around. The imagery is absolutely amazing. The whole poem leaves the reader seeing red as I am sure she was when she wrote it. It is full of anger, pain, vengeance, loyalty, and love. All emotions that Hemans was too familiar with experiencing. "Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,/Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd." Asdrubal's wife martyrs her children not out of hatred or insanity, but out of love and loyalty. Hemans shows here that this woman has more bravery and loyalty than her cowardly husband. She doesn't wish to harm her children, but does so to punish her husband and end the lineage. It is mostly done out of desperation as they are about to become slaves.
"'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.
Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save
Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave."
I think that as much as she did this to hurt her husband, she did it to protect the children from a fate far worse. This poem is extremely powerful and the storyline is riveting.
Hemans loyalty continues in her other works. Records of Woman displays this forsaken woman who remains in waiting. The epigraph at the start reminds me of Coleridge and Keats. Unlike these two, she is not technically ill, she is brokenhearted, which can invite death just as much as illness. She feels similar to them in the questions of success and remembrance as well. All three question happiness in life and death:
"...Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious."
(Hemans, pg 409, from Properzia Rossi
I think that her works are evidence of strong loyalties and show that she is capable, even as a woman. I have already compared her work to the likes of Coleridge, Tennyson, and Keats! I can't imagine how difficult it was to be as good as she was a writer in that era. With all the criticism that the men received, I am sure that few even took her seriously, but her work is great. I am upset that I have never heard of her before now. I honestly think that she believed that she was good enough to be Poet Laureate. Not unlike any of these other poets, she considered herself a genius. In my opinion, she could have considered herself more genius than the others as she conquered both with words and by being a proper woman. I am pretty sure that this is what she was trying to tell her readers.
"...Happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow;
She that makes the humblest hearth,
Lovely but to one on earth."
(pg 414, from Corinne at the Capitol & from Woman and Fame
If I have translated this correctly, she was really trying to get her point across because she said it twice! Woman and Fame carries on this idea throughout. She is as egotistical as the male poets and rightfully so.
"...In their perceptions of grace, propriety, ridicule--their power of detecting artifice, hypocrisy, and affectation--the force and promptitude of their sympathy, and their capacity of noble and devoted attachment, and of the efforts and sacrifices it may require, they are, beyond all doubt, our superiors."
(pg 416, Francis Jeffrey, from A Review of Felicia Hemans's Poetry)
I couldn't have said that better! Seriously, this man was before his time as a mostly unbiased critic. His review still had remnants of the time when all were not equal, but he saw true skill and ability in Hemans's work. And he was right as she did fully grasp human feeling and exude it in her writing using "beautiful imagery."
Friday, June 15, 2007
John Wilson
"They are not felt, while we read, as declarations published to the world,--but almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears."
(Wilson, pg 367, from A Review of Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage)
Wilson's review gives much reason for deep thought. I am unsure whether to feel inadequate and incapable or in need of serious devotion. I want to be everything that he describes and it is almost annoying that he makes it feel impossible for some.
"...the words seem to pass by others like air, and to find their way to the hearts for whom they were intended,--kindred and sympathizing spirits, who discern and own that secret language, of which the privacy is not violated, though spoken in hearing of the uninitiated,--because it is not understood." (pg 367)
His words are arrogant, but inspiring. I understand his point from a writer's view, but I am sullen as a reader. I would like to think of myself as a member of the able group, but I certainly don't understand every poem we have read. I would like to think instead that this applies individually as opposed to the entire collective of poetry. I would find this true of my reading of Blake. I just feel like I get him. I do not feel any connection to Coleridge though. From a writer's view, it makes perfect sense. Commercially, understanding is usually a good thing, but it can be bad as well. Underlying truths could be devastating, but make poetry what it is for some, a vent. Writing is often a therapeutic necessity for a person. Things can be disguised in words that can never be spoken, but must be released.
"...rather than speak, face to face, with any one human being on earth, he would perish in his misery."
This is what Wilson said of a great poet. I think that might mean that honesty is what makes a poet great. I prefer to hear a poets deepest feelings when I read their words instead of something just simple to understand. I think that this is by definition what separates poetry from prose. I chose to do a blog on Wilson because, although short, his review actually made me think about poetry as deeply as any poem we have read.
(Wilson, pg 367, from A Review of Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage)
Wilson's review gives much reason for deep thought. I am unsure whether to feel inadequate and incapable or in need of serious devotion. I want to be everything that he describes and it is almost annoying that he makes it feel impossible for some.
"...the words seem to pass by others like air, and to find their way to the hearts for whom they were intended,--kindred and sympathizing spirits, who discern and own that secret language, of which the privacy is not violated, though spoken in hearing of the uninitiated,--because it is not understood." (pg 367)
His words are arrogant, but inspiring. I understand his point from a writer's view, but I am sullen as a reader. I would like to think of myself as a member of the able group, but I certainly don't understand every poem we have read. I would like to think instead that this applies individually as opposed to the entire collective of poetry. I would find this true of my reading of Blake. I just feel like I get him. I do not feel any connection to Coleridge though. From a writer's view, it makes perfect sense. Commercially, understanding is usually a good thing, but it can be bad as well. Underlying truths could be devastating, but make poetry what it is for some, a vent. Writing is often a therapeutic necessity for a person. Things can be disguised in words that can never be spoken, but must be released.
"...rather than speak, face to face, with any one human being on earth, he would perish in his misery."
This is what Wilson said of a great poet. I think that might mean that honesty is what makes a poet great. I prefer to hear a poets deepest feelings when I read their words instead of something just simple to understand. I think that this is by definition what separates poetry from prose. I chose to do a blog on Wilson because, although short, his review actually made me think about poetry as deeply as any poem we have read.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
"Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near."
(Shelley, pg 404, from To a Sky-Lark
The first line here is so poignant. It makes me think of Wordsworth's We Are Seven. I remember reading somewhere in this book earlier about joy being recognized by experiencing pain and vice versa. It is true that there is far better joy realized when you know pain and a much deeper pain felt when you have experienced happiness. I like the rhyme scheme that Shelley used in Sky-Lark. When I read it, I could actually picture flight because of that extra b thrown into the rhyme scheme. I think of as the bird swooping! I also like the scheme he used in West Wind. I like to call the terza-rima sonnet-stanza a better than plain sonnet. It is so detailed and flows so smoothly. The very reason I did not care for Mont Blanc. It made for a tired read. I prefer Wordsworth's take on detailing nature, but I was able to relate to Hymn to Intellectual Beauty.
"While yet a boy, I sought for ghosts, and sped
Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed.
I was not heard--I saw them not--
When musing deeply on the lot..."
(pg 398)
These lines remind me of the caves I used to visit in North Carolina and the woods there and in Florida. I also think of sitting around a campfire exchanging ghost stories as a child. I would never participate, but it makes me think about a ouija game or a seance as well. And I have to admit that I did used to call on "poisonous names," like Bloody Mary, in a mirror. "I was not heard" and "I saw them not." I am pretty thankful for that! Shelley's work is fun to read, but I prefer Byron out of this circle and William Wordsworth overall.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near."
(Shelley, pg 404, from To a Sky-Lark
The first line here is so poignant. It makes me think of Wordsworth's We Are Seven. I remember reading somewhere in this book earlier about joy being recognized by experiencing pain and vice versa. It is true that there is far better joy realized when you know pain and a much deeper pain felt when you have experienced happiness. I like the rhyme scheme that Shelley used in Sky-Lark. When I read it, I could actually picture flight because of that extra b thrown into the rhyme scheme. I think of as the bird swooping! I also like the scheme he used in West Wind. I like to call the terza-rima sonnet-stanza a better than plain sonnet. It is so detailed and flows so smoothly. The very reason I did not care for Mont Blanc. It made for a tired read. I prefer Wordsworth's take on detailing nature, but I was able to relate to Hymn to Intellectual Beauty.
"While yet a boy, I sought for ghosts, and sped
Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed.
I was not heard--I saw them not--
When musing deeply on the lot..."
(pg 398)
These lines remind me of the caves I used to visit in North Carolina and the woods there and in Florida. I also think of sitting around a campfire exchanging ghost stories as a child. I would never participate, but it makes me think about a ouija game or a seance as well. And I have to admit that I did used to call on "poisonous names," like Bloody Mary, in a mirror. "I was not heard" and "I saw them not." I am pretty thankful for that! Shelley's work is fun to read, but I prefer Byron out of this circle and William Wordsworth overall.
Lord Byron
"I stood and stand alone,--remember'd or forgot.
I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,--
Nor coin'd my cheeks to smiles,--nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thought, and still could,
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued."
(Byron, pg 361, from Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage)
It is not at all difficult to see how Byron could have felt alone with all the criticism that he received for his poetry and his personal life. I am sure that he especially suffered from Lady Byron leaving along with his daughter, despite the many women that he had in his life. The criticism was not one-sided. As the second line above suggests, Byron spat as much criticism as he received. I love the wording he used, "nor cried aloud in worship of an echo." It reminds me of a child who cries for the effect of the sound. There is nothing at all wrong, but they know that it will get attention.
The words to his daughter in the poem are sad but beautiful. He really makes you feel horrible that he was kept from her.
"Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me..."
"...I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
My blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attachment,--all would be in vain,--
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain."
(pg 362)
The way that he repeats that line, "I know thou wilt love me" shows me how much he wants to believe that. It is terrible to think that this guy actually had to fear his daughter never knowing him and never hearing anything good about him. I think that he was perhaps confident that his words would get to her at some point. Byron showed so much strength in his work. I think that the criticism that he received only makes him more intriguing. He was a bold man attacking others by name in his poems. Modern rappers are notorious for attacking each other with their rhymes or about their rhymes. They are like a less sophisticated, but modernly more marketable version of Don Juan! I also love his use of humor in that poem.
"She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;
Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,
You might be sure she was a perfect fright,
She did this even during her husband's life--
I recommend as much to every wife."
(pg 383)
Clearly he is playing on his own marital problems, but he also reminds me of that song about getting an ugly girl to marry you. (If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife...!)
"The Druids' groves are gone--so much the better:
Stone-Henge is not--but what the devil is it?--"
(pg 388)
200 years later, who knows? I definitely was able to get a different feeling when I read Don Juan aloud as opposed to silently. I think that the rhyme scheme gives it that extra punch. I got that from some of his other poems as well, but this one most of all. I think that Byron was knowledgeable about many things besides just politics and poetry. He was able to mingle different attitudes, ideas, and subjects into his works. While humor and intelligence are attractive traits, I think it was his flattery that enabled him to woo the ladies. After I read the first entry of his in the book, She Walks in Beauty, I realized that he wrote words that women would die to hear. He uses that same finesse when he describes the women in his other poems despite how he felt about Lady Byron.
Finally, On This Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year really grabbed my attention. It reminded me of Coleridge's Epitaph only less dark. Byron was able to incorporate his humor into his death-chant. They both have that sense of criticism lingering over them, but Byron is just funny to me.
"Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!"
(pg 390)
A Don Juan to the end!
I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee,--
Nor coin'd my cheeks to smiles,--nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd
They could not deem me one of such; I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thought, and still could,
Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued."
(Byron, pg 361, from Childe Harolde's Pilgrimage)
It is not at all difficult to see how Byron could have felt alone with all the criticism that he received for his poetry and his personal life. I am sure that he especially suffered from Lady Byron leaving along with his daughter, despite the many women that he had in his life. The criticism was not one-sided. As the second line above suggests, Byron spat as much criticism as he received. I love the wording he used, "nor cried aloud in worship of an echo." It reminds me of a child who cries for the effect of the sound. There is nothing at all wrong, but they know that it will get attention.
The words to his daughter in the poem are sad but beautiful. He really makes you feel horrible that he was kept from her.
"Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me..."
"...I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain
My blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attachment,--all would be in vain,--
Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain."
(pg 362)
The way that he repeats that line, "I know thou wilt love me" shows me how much he wants to believe that. It is terrible to think that this guy actually had to fear his daughter never knowing him and never hearing anything good about him. I think that he was perhaps confident that his words would get to her at some point. Byron showed so much strength in his work. I think that the criticism that he received only makes him more intriguing. He was a bold man attacking others by name in his poems. Modern rappers are notorious for attacking each other with their rhymes or about their rhymes. They are like a less sophisticated, but modernly more marketable version of Don Juan! I also love his use of humor in that poem.
"She scarcely trusted him from out her sight;
Her maids were old, and if she took a new one,
You might be sure she was a perfect fright,
She did this even during her husband's life--
I recommend as much to every wife."
(pg 383)
Clearly he is playing on his own marital problems, but he also reminds me of that song about getting an ugly girl to marry you. (If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife...!)
"The Druids' groves are gone--so much the better:
Stone-Henge is not--but what the devil is it?--"
(pg 388)
200 years later, who knows? I definitely was able to get a different feeling when I read Don Juan aloud as opposed to silently. I think that the rhyme scheme gives it that extra punch. I got that from some of his other poems as well, but this one most of all. I think that Byron was knowledgeable about many things besides just politics and poetry. He was able to mingle different attitudes, ideas, and subjects into his works. While humor and intelligence are attractive traits, I think it was his flattery that enabled him to woo the ladies. After I read the first entry of his in the book, She Walks in Beauty, I realized that he wrote words that women would die to hear. He uses that same finesse when he describes the women in his other poems despite how he felt about Lady Byron.
Finally, On This Day I Complete my Thirty-Sixth Year really grabbed my attention. It reminded me of Coleridge's Epitaph only less dark. Byron was able to incorporate his humor into his death-chant. They both have that sense of criticism lingering over them, but Byron is just funny to me.
"Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!"
(pg 390)
A Don Juan to the end!
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he--
O lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!"
-Coleridge pg 350 (from Epitaph)
There is nothing like finding the time to write your own epitaph! While this has it's sense of morbidity, I think it sums Coleridge fairly well. I think that he was a critic to himself, which that second line above shows. This is also seen in a lot of his other work and in the way he compares himself with Wordsworth. While this piece should be sad and dark, I also find it to be uplifting. He is anxious for death and hopes to find some peace there. I think that Coleridge truly desired to be happy; although, most of his work alludes to his sadness and misery. All of his writings were confusing to me and even a little annoying. I think a reader has to be ready to expand their mind in an unusual way to experience Coleridge. All at once, in one instance, he can seem sane and mad. Just when he gets your attention in one aspect, there he goes, off on another tangent. (Perhaps the cause of Dr. Glance's headaches! STOP reading Coleridge!) At first, I was leaning towards the Laudanum as the cause of these distractions, but everything seems to be connected. His mind just races all over the place and the reader must keep up. His early critics were probably incapable or didn't realize the task. I am still confused over most of it, but slowly it's coming to me. I will probably read it all again.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, I have read before, but not like this. I was probably in 10th grade, and certainly wasn't analyzing it like this. The story within a story is what held my attention. I kept forgetting about the wedding guest as the suspense at sea continued. Sailors are notorious for their superstitions and I thought he captured that notion very well. I thought it was very interesting that most of his poems hint at the sea or winds in some way as well. It is difficult to read the Water, water... stanza seriously as it so overused. I did find it very interesting that earlier in the poem, he wrote "the ice was here, the ice was there." The language of this poem is very vivid and the scenes are like those in a horror flick.
Four times fifty living men
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan),
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
(pg 331)
It is so easy to picture this, but imagine if we had never seen film. I wonder if his imagination, especially with Laudanum, was stronger than his critics. I wonder if they all pictured this as he did. As for late critics, I think this was the inspiration for those mediocre Pirates of the Caribbean movies!
I think that The Eolian Harp can be related to Epitaph in that Coleridge leaves his misery in both. He sees himself in a negative light in both poems. I think that he only really sees his need for healing and does not actually think himself bad in either of the poems. In The Eolian Harp, he is brought back to earth and feels that his wife is charged with his goodness or health. In Epitaph, he does not return, but seeks a better life after death. He wants to be forgiven and shown mercy as he feels so much guilt for his life. Coleridge lived a sad life, but had a lot to offer and at least had the kindness of his friends and (I think) of his wife.
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he--
O lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!"
-Coleridge pg 350 (from Epitaph)
There is nothing like finding the time to write your own epitaph! While this has it's sense of morbidity, I think it sums Coleridge fairly well. I think that he was a critic to himself, which that second line above shows. This is also seen in a lot of his other work and in the way he compares himself with Wordsworth. While this piece should be sad and dark, I also find it to be uplifting. He is anxious for death and hopes to find some peace there. I think that Coleridge truly desired to be happy; although, most of his work alludes to his sadness and misery. All of his writings were confusing to me and even a little annoying. I think a reader has to be ready to expand their mind in an unusual way to experience Coleridge. All at once, in one instance, he can seem sane and mad. Just when he gets your attention in one aspect, there he goes, off on another tangent. (Perhaps the cause of Dr. Glance's headaches! STOP reading Coleridge!) At first, I was leaning towards the Laudanum as the cause of these distractions, but everything seems to be connected. His mind just races all over the place and the reader must keep up. His early critics were probably incapable or didn't realize the task. I am still confused over most of it, but slowly it's coming to me. I will probably read it all again.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, I have read before, but not like this. I was probably in 10th grade, and certainly wasn't analyzing it like this. The story within a story is what held my attention. I kept forgetting about the wedding guest as the suspense at sea continued. Sailors are notorious for their superstitions and I thought he captured that notion very well. I thought it was very interesting that most of his poems hint at the sea or winds in some way as well. It is difficult to read the Water, water... stanza seriously as it so overused. I did find it very interesting that earlier in the poem, he wrote "the ice was here, the ice was there." The language of this poem is very vivid and the scenes are like those in a horror flick.
Four times fifty living men
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan),
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
(pg 331)
It is so easy to picture this, but imagine if we had never seen film. I wonder if his imagination, especially with Laudanum, was stronger than his critics. I wonder if they all pictured this as he did. As for late critics, I think this was the inspiration for those mediocre Pirates of the Caribbean movies!
I think that The Eolian Harp can be related to Epitaph in that Coleridge leaves his misery in both. He sees himself in a negative light in both poems. I think that he only really sees his need for healing and does not actually think himself bad in either of the poems. In The Eolian Harp, he is brought back to earth and feels that his wife is charged with his goodness or health. In Epitaph, he does not return, but seeks a better life after death. He wants to be forgiven and shown mercy as he feels so much guilt for his life. Coleridge lived a sad life, but had a lot to offer and at least had the kindness of his friends and (I think) of his wife.
Dorothy Wordsworth
"I thought of Nature's loveliest scenes;
And with Memory I was there."
-Wordsworth pg 294 (from Thoughts on My Sick-bed)
I find Dorothy's works to be slightly dark and rightfully so. She seems to keep a happy side to her writings, but her pain is still evident. She wrote at her brother's request and I wonder if she wrote less due to feeling inadequate in comparison. I find their words to be very similar at times. I do not think this is soley due to their experiencing similar things, but also due to them being very similar. I think that the two were probably very much alike in actions as well as words. Address to a Child is my favorite in the Lit book. This poem is very much like a nursery rhyme, but deeper and with better language. I am tempted to say that it is darker, but then I remember that a lot of nursery rhymes are very dark. The poem is very comforting and I think she loses that innocent quality in her later poems. In Thoughts on My Sick-bed, her feelings for William are echoed throughout. She pains from her illness, but longs for their early years with nature. I think she is very thankful that he is always there, like her rock. She doesn't seem to like being alone at all. In the first entry in The Grasmere Journals, she seems happy for William and John, but very scared to be alone. She also seems to fear the boredom. This causes the opening to be dark, cheerful, and sad all at once. Throughout the journal and her poems, it is clear that Dorothy is a sweet person much like her brother. Her writings in the journal are echoed in his poems. I know that in their time it was customary for a brother to care for his unwed sister, but I wonder if they remained so close due to the loss of their mother. I almost sense anxiety in Dorothy's words which may have also been caused by being separated from her brothers at such an early age. I know that if I had been separated from my brother and mother like that, I would never leave them again. I think their relationship is remarkable and I love that it shows in their writing. I enjoyed William's work more than Dorothy's, but I like that the comparison is availiable.
And with Memory I was there."
-Wordsworth pg 294 (from Thoughts on My Sick-bed)
I find Dorothy's works to be slightly dark and rightfully so. She seems to keep a happy side to her writings, but her pain is still evident. She wrote at her brother's request and I wonder if she wrote less due to feeling inadequate in comparison. I find their words to be very similar at times. I do not think this is soley due to their experiencing similar things, but also due to them being very similar. I think that the two were probably very much alike in actions as well as words. Address to a Child is my favorite in the Lit book. This poem is very much like a nursery rhyme, but deeper and with better language. I am tempted to say that it is darker, but then I remember that a lot of nursery rhymes are very dark. The poem is very comforting and I think she loses that innocent quality in her later poems. In Thoughts on My Sick-bed, her feelings for William are echoed throughout. She pains from her illness, but longs for their early years with nature. I think she is very thankful that he is always there, like her rock. She doesn't seem to like being alone at all. In the first entry in The Grasmere Journals, she seems happy for William and John, but very scared to be alone. She also seems to fear the boredom. This causes the opening to be dark, cheerful, and sad all at once. Throughout the journal and her poems, it is clear that Dorothy is a sweet person much like her brother. Her writings in the journal are echoed in his poems. I know that in their time it was customary for a brother to care for his unwed sister, but I wonder if they remained so close due to the loss of their mother. I almost sense anxiety in Dorothy's words which may have also been caused by being separated from her brothers at such an early age. I know that if I had been separated from my brother and mother like that, I would never leave them again. I think their relationship is remarkable and I love that it shows in their writing. I enjoyed William's work more than Dorothy's, but I like that the comparison is availiable.
William Wordsworth
"The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being."
-Wordsworth pg 205 (from Tintern Abbey)
For the first 17 years of my life, my grandparents lived on a lake in central Florida. The essence of my feelings toward that lake are captured near perfectly in Wordsworth's Letters Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey. For me, the lake is the guardian of my heart. It has been close to ten years since my grandparents sold that home, but I still call the lake mine. When Wordsworth opens the poem, he repeats "again" and "once again" reiterating the fact that he is revisiting this place and still holds the memories from before. I still return to my lake each time I return to Florida. I revisit old memories and clear my head of all that I want to forget. In the second stanza, he tells the reader that he never forgot the Wye.
Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
This is the same feeling that I have no matter how distant from this landscape that I lived in for so long. Just as Wordsworth wrote, it is "felt in the blood, and felt along the heart." I was so surprised by how much this poem actually mirrored my own feelings. When he writes of the Wye as a wanderer through the wood on page 203 in the third stanza, I picture the cypress swamp at the edge of my lake that winds for about a mile before reaching two ponds that are almost entirely secluded in the woods. And on page 204 in the fourth stanza, he really hit home when he talked about his first visit. He talks about how much change has occurred since his last visit, not solely due to the landscape itself, but due to his perspective. I think I understand exactly what he means by "I cannot paint what then it was." Every time I go to the lake, things change slightly due mostly to my perspective. 150 acres doesn't seem as big to an adult as it does to a child. Nature once held my complete attention, but I am unfortunately able to see more now. It bothers me to see the expanse of progress and homes being built on the other side of the swamps. I can no longer ignore it the way I did in childhood. This is absolutely my favorite reading thus far. I do like the clear and concise language that Wordsworth uses, but that is not the reason for my favoring his work. I relate most to his love for nature and his love for his sister. In the last stanza, he brings Dorothy into the poem.
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
This is the part where my newly found sensitive side brought out a few tears! These feelings for his sister are the same I share for my older brother. It is impossible for me to stand at the edge of the lake, with or without him, and not think of him. There is seldom a memory from that place that does not include him. The relationship between William and Dorothy is beautiful and evident in nearly all of his work. I lost my senses again when reading We are Seven. This is possibly the saddest, but sweetest little poem I have ever read. He captures his feelings at the loss of his mother and his feelings toward his siblings. Wordsworth was a sincere, sweet, and brilliant writer. He conveyed his feelings and opened up mine, a true poet.
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being."
-Wordsworth pg 205 (from Tintern Abbey)
For the first 17 years of my life, my grandparents lived on a lake in central Florida. The essence of my feelings toward that lake are captured near perfectly in Wordsworth's Letters Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey. For me, the lake is the guardian of my heart. It has been close to ten years since my grandparents sold that home, but I still call the lake mine. When Wordsworth opens the poem, he repeats "again" and "once again" reiterating the fact that he is revisiting this place and still holds the memories from before. I still return to my lake each time I return to Florida. I revisit old memories and clear my head of all that I want to forget. In the second stanza, he tells the reader that he never forgot the Wye.
Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
This is the same feeling that I have no matter how distant from this landscape that I lived in for so long. Just as Wordsworth wrote, it is "felt in the blood, and felt along the heart." I was so surprised by how much this poem actually mirrored my own feelings. When he writes of the Wye as a wanderer through the wood on page 203 in the third stanza, I picture the cypress swamp at the edge of my lake that winds for about a mile before reaching two ponds that are almost entirely secluded in the woods. And on page 204 in the fourth stanza, he really hit home when he talked about his first visit. He talks about how much change has occurred since his last visit, not solely due to the landscape itself, but due to his perspective. I think I understand exactly what he means by "I cannot paint what then it was." Every time I go to the lake, things change slightly due mostly to my perspective. 150 acres doesn't seem as big to an adult as it does to a child. Nature once held my complete attention, but I am unfortunately able to see more now. It bothers me to see the expanse of progress and homes being built on the other side of the swamps. I can no longer ignore it the way I did in childhood. This is absolutely my favorite reading thus far. I do like the clear and concise language that Wordsworth uses, but that is not the reason for my favoring his work. I relate most to his love for nature and his love for his sister. In the last stanza, he brings Dorothy into the poem.
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,
This is the part where my newly found sensitive side brought out a few tears! These feelings for his sister are the same I share for my older brother. It is impossible for me to stand at the edge of the lake, with or without him, and not think of him. There is seldom a memory from that place that does not include him. The relationship between William and Dorothy is beautiful and evident in nearly all of his work. I lost my senses again when reading We are Seven. This is possibly the saddest, but sweetest little poem I have ever read. He captures his feelings at the loss of his mother and his feelings toward his siblings. Wordsworth was a sincere, sweet, and brilliant writer. He conveyed his feelings and opened up mine, a true poet.
Monday, June 11, 2007
William Blake
"If the doors of perception were cleansed
every thing would appear to man as it is: In-
-finite." -Blake pg 102 (from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)
When reading Blake, I think that perception is certainly of the utmost importance. The good can seem bad and the bad, good. It is certainly difficult to determine his meanings and get a feel for his underlying senses. He seems to have been very contradictive by nature. I think he considered himself a genius at levels beyond just poetry. Genius in itself is contradictive, so this would explain a lot. His work is fascinating, but required repeated reading for me. I think this was his goal as it sometimes takes repetition to break free from perception. In the world, I often consider perception to be everything. I think that Blake wanted his readers to believe the opposite at the same time. Perception can be everything and nothing all at once. In A Poison Tree, Blake seems to be talking about perception again. I think the two men had differing perceptions about the tree, but it was obviously the same tree in the end. In Songs, he writes with differing perceptions between child and adult, but I think he intended further implications than that simplicity. He is challenging his readers to overcome their own perceptions, but I had difficulty full understanding him. I am intrigued to learn much more about Blake's work.
Blake was certainly of a very spiritual nature, but I would not sell him short by saying he believed in any religious limitations. He wrote with words that any Bible reader could relate to, but I think he was speaking from a very critical mind. The romantics were about imagination, and I think that his impressive imagination is the reasoning for slapping him with this undesired title. I personally do not believe he would have appreciated it. Although untrained, I think he found himself in a separate genre, one without definition.
I love the way that he has caused to me to twist my own mind as the reader. At first it is confusing, but you have to open your mind. That is, after all, what Blake is after. After reading Innocence and Experience, I noted some things that almost bother me. The Chimney Sweeper, I knew immediately was not to be pleasant. I can easily picture the exploitation of these little children. But the way that Blake changes your perception between the two entries is disturbing.
And the Angel told Tom if he's be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father & never want joy
-Blake pg 81 (from Innocence, The Chimney Sweeper)
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
-Blake pg 89 (from Experience, The Chimney Sweeper)
This is a less than subtle stab at the complexity of human nature. Over and over again, Blake revisits this dueling theme in his writing. I am constantly questioning myself. Is good, evil? Is evil, good? The truth is that he captured the consistent duality of nature and of religion, but it's just difficult to interpret. After reading the Proverbs of Hell and The Voice of the Devil, I found myself questioning my own beliefs briefly. Everything he wrote in these sections found a way to unsettle me, but the smallest thing in particular. On page 98, Blake writes, "Shame is Prides cloke." I have always been taught to be humble for pride was the downfall of Satan. With shame being humility, Blake has again twisted the fibers of religion and morality. Towards the end, I think I finally get his point. There is an argument between dark and light, and it is to remain. It is not something that can be settled. Blake explains the Prolific and the Devourer:
These two classes of men are always upon
earth. & they should be enemies: whoever tries
to reconcile them seeks to destroy existence.
Religion is an endeavour to reconcile the two.
-Blake pg 103 (from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)
And then at the very end it all comes together when Blake states that "One Law for the Lion & Ox is Oppression." Throughout the reading, I thought that he considered God the oppressor, but I am now leaning towards religion, which really is just another form of perception. If Blake intended to open my eyes, he has succeeded.
every thing would appear to man as it is: In-
-finite." -Blake pg 102 (from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)
When reading Blake, I think that perception is certainly of the utmost importance. The good can seem bad and the bad, good. It is certainly difficult to determine his meanings and get a feel for his underlying senses. He seems to have been very contradictive by nature. I think he considered himself a genius at levels beyond just poetry. Genius in itself is contradictive, so this would explain a lot. His work is fascinating, but required repeated reading for me. I think this was his goal as it sometimes takes repetition to break free from perception. In the world, I often consider perception to be everything. I think that Blake wanted his readers to believe the opposite at the same time. Perception can be everything and nothing all at once. In A Poison Tree, Blake seems to be talking about perception again. I think the two men had differing perceptions about the tree, but it was obviously the same tree in the end. In Songs, he writes with differing perceptions between child and adult, but I think he intended further implications than that simplicity. He is challenging his readers to overcome their own perceptions, but I had difficulty full understanding him. I am intrigued to learn much more about Blake's work.
Blake was certainly of a very spiritual nature, but I would not sell him short by saying he believed in any religious limitations. He wrote with words that any Bible reader could relate to, but I think he was speaking from a very critical mind. The romantics were about imagination, and I think that his impressive imagination is the reasoning for slapping him with this undesired title. I personally do not believe he would have appreciated it. Although untrained, I think he found himself in a separate genre, one without definition.
I love the way that he has caused to me to twist my own mind as the reader. At first it is confusing, but you have to open your mind. That is, after all, what Blake is after. After reading Innocence and Experience, I noted some things that almost bother me. The Chimney Sweeper, I knew immediately was not to be pleasant. I can easily picture the exploitation of these little children. But the way that Blake changes your perception between the two entries is disturbing.
And the Angel told Tom if he's be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father & never want joy
-Blake pg 81 (from Innocence, The Chimney Sweeper)
And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King
Who make up a heaven of our misery.
-Blake pg 89 (from Experience, The Chimney Sweeper)
This is a less than subtle stab at the complexity of human nature. Over and over again, Blake revisits this dueling theme in his writing. I am constantly questioning myself. Is good, evil? Is evil, good? The truth is that he captured the consistent duality of nature and of religion, but it's just difficult to interpret. After reading the Proverbs of Hell and The Voice of the Devil, I found myself questioning my own beliefs briefly. Everything he wrote in these sections found a way to unsettle me, but the smallest thing in particular. On page 98, Blake writes, "Shame is Prides cloke." I have always been taught to be humble for pride was the downfall of Satan. With shame being humility, Blake has again twisted the fibers of religion and morality. Towards the end, I think I finally get his point. There is an argument between dark and light, and it is to remain. It is not something that can be settled. Blake explains the Prolific and the Devourer:
These two classes of men are always upon
earth. & they should be enemies: whoever tries
to reconcile them seeks to destroy existence.
Religion is an endeavour to reconcile the two.
-Blake pg 103 (from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)
And then at the very end it all comes together when Blake states that "One Law for the Lion & Ox is Oppression." Throughout the reading, I thought that he considered God the oppressor, but I am now leaning towards religion, which really is just another form of perception. If Blake intended to open my eyes, he has succeeded.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Helen Maria Williams
"This tribute of regret, paid from the sudden impulse of feeling at such a moment,..." - Williams, pg 38
The letters from Williams capture an elegant essence of emotion with her extraordinary use of descriptive language. She makes the reader feel as if they were truly there, yet seems to say you had to be there to fully comprehend. She credits the magnificence of the scene by describing the multitudes of spectators. "The people, sure, the people were the sight!" Once I read this, I realized what little effect she would have had writing only on the event. It's the spectators, the multitudes that give a sense of awe to the reader. She starts by saying, "I promised to send you a description of the federation: but it is not to be described!" Only a true storyteller first explains they couldn't possibly convey the event, then does it any way. Her words are full of passion. When she describes the Bastille, her words are so descriptive they could easily be fiction, something conjured in the mind of J.K. Rowling! To know that they are indeed of truth, pauses me. "Some skeletons were found in these recesses, with irons still fastened on their decaying bones." In my mind I can picture these rotting leftovers, but what really pains me is picturing how the bones came to be. They starved, shackled in a damp dungeon. She finishes her description by ranting about liberty for France for evermore. The settled and harsh truth is that this occurs endlessly in all corners of the world. While it is easier to read about this history, I am reminded of Coleridge's words referring me to the nearness of our own history.
While I think she goes off on a tangent considering Madame Sillery, I am absolutely enthralled by Williams' words concerning women and their share in the Revolution. Actually, I think it can apply to women throughout all of history. "...And we often act in human affairs like those secret springs in mechanism, by which, though invisible, great movements are regulated." I am one of those all-too-curious people that often considers the secret springs in mechanism. When I read this, I couldn't stop laughing. Fortunately, I think that women are becoming less secret in their roles in recent and future history.
The letters from Williams capture an elegant essence of emotion with her extraordinary use of descriptive language. She makes the reader feel as if they were truly there, yet seems to say you had to be there to fully comprehend. She credits the magnificence of the scene by describing the multitudes of spectators. "The people, sure, the people were the sight!" Once I read this, I realized what little effect she would have had writing only on the event. It's the spectators, the multitudes that give a sense of awe to the reader. She starts by saying, "I promised to send you a description of the federation: but it is not to be described!" Only a true storyteller first explains they couldn't possibly convey the event, then does it any way. Her words are full of passion. When she describes the Bastille, her words are so descriptive they could easily be fiction, something conjured in the mind of J.K. Rowling! To know that they are indeed of truth, pauses me. "Some skeletons were found in these recesses, with irons still fastened on their decaying bones." In my mind I can picture these rotting leftovers, but what really pains me is picturing how the bones came to be. They starved, shackled in a damp dungeon. She finishes her description by ranting about liberty for France for evermore. The settled and harsh truth is that this occurs endlessly in all corners of the world. While it is easier to read about this history, I am reminded of Coleridge's words referring me to the nearness of our own history.
While I think she goes off on a tangent considering Madame Sillery, I am absolutely enthralled by Williams' words concerning women and their share in the Revolution. Actually, I think it can apply to women throughout all of history. "...And we often act in human affairs like those secret springs in mechanism, by which, though invisible, great movements are regulated." I am one of those all-too-curious people that often considers the secret springs in mechanism. When I read this, I couldn't stop laughing. Fortunately, I think that women are becoming less secret in their roles in recent and future history.
Revolution Controversy
"We are not yet aware of the consequences of that event. We are too near it." -Coleridge, pg 36
These words hit me like a ton of bricks the other day. Coleridge used them in reference to the Revolution after just a few years. A profound effect is captured in just a few words that is equally profound for any influential instance in time. After reading the entry, I admit that I had to go back to read the words leading up to that close as it was all I could remember. It caused me to consider all the periods or eras that have been influential in any way. Each revolution, war, crisis that has unfolded left a mark that is always attempted to be captured into words and more recenlty, on film. I have never before thought deeply as to how much is really captured while leaving so many details behind. When I read Coleridge's words, "we are too near it," I thought about the world today and the last 26 years that I have experienced. I have lived through two wars and several conflicts and yet feel little in consideration. I even played a semi-active role in a conflict or two. I wonder if I, along with the world, have become desensitized or if I am just too near these events to comprehend. I felt more of an impact reading about the revolution and revisiting the history of leaders under the guillotine than I do for my own surroundings. I am not someone who strays from the issues, I just can't seem to feel an affect for them the way these writers have given cause for me to think about the past. I am anxious for the writings in years to come that will reflect our own time, and I hope they do it justice. I read the section on Percy Shelley before reading this section on the Revoution Controversy. Although a brief introduction, it reminded me of the issues at hand influencing Shelley's behavior as well as words. I would quickly condemn him a swinger and much worse, but perhaps he was just rebelling against an oppressive system full of social inequalities. Well, he was a bit extreme either way! The point I am trying to make is that it is so difficult to grasp what is right in your face, but these writers have opened a portal to the past to include the reader as if we experienced the events ourselves. I will elaborate in a separate blog on Helen Maria Williams.
These words hit me like a ton of bricks the other day. Coleridge used them in reference to the Revolution after just a few years. A profound effect is captured in just a few words that is equally profound for any influential instance in time. After reading the entry, I admit that I had to go back to read the words leading up to that close as it was all I could remember. It caused me to consider all the periods or eras that have been influential in any way. Each revolution, war, crisis that has unfolded left a mark that is always attempted to be captured into words and more recenlty, on film. I have never before thought deeply as to how much is really captured while leaving so many details behind. When I read Coleridge's words, "we are too near it," I thought about the world today and the last 26 years that I have experienced. I have lived through two wars and several conflicts and yet feel little in consideration. I even played a semi-active role in a conflict or two. I wonder if I, along with the world, have become desensitized or if I am just too near these events to comprehend. I felt more of an impact reading about the revolution and revisiting the history of leaders under the guillotine than I do for my own surroundings. I am not someone who strays from the issues, I just can't seem to feel an affect for them the way these writers have given cause for me to think about the past. I am anxious for the writings in years to come that will reflect our own time, and I hope they do it justice. I read the section on Percy Shelley before reading this section on the Revoution Controversy. Although a brief introduction, it reminded me of the issues at hand influencing Shelley's behavior as well as words. I would quickly condemn him a swinger and much worse, but perhaps he was just rebelling against an oppressive system full of social inequalities. Well, he was a bit extreme either way! The point I am trying to make is that it is so difficult to grasp what is right in your face, but these writers have opened a portal to the past to include the reader as if we experienced the events ourselves. I will elaborate in a separate blog on Helen Maria Williams.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Hello
Hello class, I have been on vacation to Florida and some islands for the past couple of weeks. I am a little behind, but intent on catching up quickly. This is not my first online course, but it is the first with a chat involved. I am a little apprehensive about the chatting as I have never chatted on the internet before this class. I am a Bio major (Chem minor) with intent to pursue a graduate degree in Pharmacy. I will be traveling back and forth to my native Florida throughout the summer. I look forward to getting to know all of you as much as the internet permits! I hope you are all enjoying your summer.
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