Thursday, February 27, 2014

Sandpiper The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake. The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes. - Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains. The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something. Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst. Elizabeth Bishop

Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet
of interrupting water comes and goes
and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.
He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

- Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them
where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains
rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,
he stares at the dragging grains.

The world is a mist. And then the world is
minute and vast and clear. The tide
is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.
His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something.
Poor bird, he is obsessed!
The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray
mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst. 

Sandpiper : Commentary

Elizabeth Bishop’s Sandpiper is concerned with the particular. Through a controlled tightening of focus, like the turn of the lens on a telescope, Bishop draws our attention ever closer to the minutiae of existence, of which the bird is solely conscious: from the water glazing over its feet, to its toes, to the spaces between its toes, to the grains of sand, and finally to the very nature of each grain, their precise colours and the stones and minerals that constitute them.
But while it is concerned with the specific, the poem makes us very much aware of the larger stuff that is outside of this focus. The sea is referenced in a way that we, unlike the sandpiper, cannot completely ignore. Its roaring is the first thing that the poem announces, along with the fact that ‘every so often the world is bound to shake’. The roaring and the shaking are not trivial events. And it is not merely water, or even the sea, but that gigantic ocean the ‘Atlantic’ that drains between its toes.
By drawing attention to that which is ignored, the poet foregrounds the apparent oddity of a consciousness that can shut out something as vast and imposing as an ocean. It provides a kind of irony throughout the poem, that beside something all-encompassing one can focus on something so minute.

the vacant lot : Commentary

the vacant lot by Gwendolyn Brooks


The reason for the title of this versanelle, “the vacant lot,” is revealed in the first two lines, when the speaker reveals that the apartment building that contained three apartments, belonging to “Mrs. Coley” “Isn’t here any more.” She does not inform us how or why the building vanished, because her purpose is to express her relief that she is no longer forced to witness the perpetrators and the activities that occurred in that building.

the vacant lot by Gwendolyn Brooks

the vacant lot

Mrs. Coley’s three-flat brick
Isn’t here any more.
All done with seeing her fat little form
Burst out of the basement door;
And with seeing her African son-in-law
(Rightful heir to the throne)
With his great white strong cold squares of teeth
And his little eyes of stone;
And with seeing the squat fat daughter
Letting in the men
When majesty has gone for the day—
And letting them out again. 

:)

This poem was, I think, firmly rooted in the twentieth century and is more about marriage than slavery (although marriage can be a type of slavery). Should a woman have a husband and a wedding ring --Showing your leaping ruby to a friend -- or merely an occasional male visitor (an independent man)

The Independent Man By Gwendolyn Brooks

The Independent Man

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell. 

The Crazy Woman by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Crazy Woman : Commentary

The Crazy Woman by Gwendolyn Brooks is my favorite so far. I really like how Gwendolyn Brooks sets it up also, short and straight to the point.

  • The poem contains personification in the first stanza. The personification is that a song can not be gay and can't have feelings.
  • It contains enjambment in the 3rd line of all the stanza's and also in the 1st line of the second two stanza's.
  • All 3 stanza's have a A-B-C-B rhyme scheme.
  • The poem contains pause in the 2nd and 4th line of all three stanza's and pause in the 1st line of the 1st stanza.
  • It is contrasting a May song to a November song.
  • The poem contains assonance in the 1st stanza with the long A sound in gay and May.

The Crazy Woman By Gwendolyn Brooks

The Crazy Woman

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.

I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.

And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May." 

The Lovers of the Poor by Gwendolyn Brooks The Ending

Lovers of the Poor : Commentary

   "Lovers of the Poor" By Gwendolyn Brooks is a poem about the Ladies' Betterment League during a meeting who have been born wealthy and have an "innocence of fear". The ladies in the League feel sorrow for the poor but do not take action for what they feel, making the title of the poem "Lovers of the Poor" sarcastic. The speaker of the poem is saying what the ladies are thinking in their heads, but not speaking out loud while they are visiting the poor's houses. The ladies give money to the poor but do not get to know the people needing help and believe that they are "perhaps too swarthy"  or  "too dirty or too dim". They believe that the people living in the bad situations are "too poor" or "not passionate." The ladies failed to help the needy people because they could not stand "the stench;the urine, cabbage, and dead beans." Gwendolyn Brooks is telling the reader that just giving money does not make them people who help those who are in need. The ladies of the Betterment League also suggest that they can catch diseases from them by saying "as they walk down the hysterical hall, they allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall." The ladies are hypocrites who do not really care for the poor but give money. The poem "Lovers of the Poor" is written during the time when homeless or poor people were taken off the streets and not treated fairly for the reason of being poor. They are assumed to have diseases and to be dirty, as the ladies in the Ladies' Betterment League believe. Gwendolyn Brooks is reaching out and wants for this part of society to change and for people to be treated fairly. 

The Lovers of the Poor By Gwendolyn Brooks

The Lovers of the Poor

arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies' Betterment League
Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting
In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag
Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting
Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair,
The pink paint on the innocence of fear;
Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care,
Served by their love, so barbarously fair.
Whose mothers taught: You'd better not be cruel!
You had better not throw stones upon the wrens!
Herein they kiss and coddle and assault
Anew and dearly in the innocence
With which they baffle nature. Who are full,
Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all
Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit,
Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt
Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise.
To resurrect. To moisten with milky chill.
To be a random hitching-post or plush.
To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.
Their guild is giving money to the poor.
The worthy poor. The very very worthy
And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy?
perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim
Nor--passionate. In truth, what they could wish
Is--something less than derelict or dull.
Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!
God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold!
The noxious needy ones whose battle's bald
Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down.
But it's all so bad! and entirely too much for them.
The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans,
Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains,
The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they're told,
Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn
Darkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs.
The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
And for that matter the general oldness. Old
Wood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old.
Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.
Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic,
There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no
Unkillable infirmity of such
A tasteful turn as lately they have left,
Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars
Must presently restore them. When they're done
With dullards and distortions of this fistic
Patience of the poor and put-upon.
They've never seen such a make-do-ness as
Newspaper rugs before! In this, this 'flat,'
Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich
Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered. . . .)
Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon.
Here is a scene for you. The Ladies look,
In horror, behind a substantial citizeness
Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart.
Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door.
All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floor
And tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft-
Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.
Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost.
But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put
Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers
Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems...
They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra,
Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks,
Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin 'hangings,'
Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. They Winter
In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend,
When suitable, the nice Art Institute;
Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunter
On Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind.
Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre
With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings
Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers
So old old, what shall flatter the desolate?
Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling
And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckage
Of the middle passage, and urine and stale shames
And, again, the porridges of the underslung
And children children children. Heavens! That
Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long
And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies'
Betterment League agree it will be better
To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies,
To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring
Bells elsetime, better presently to cater
To no more Possibilities, to get
Away. Perhaps the money can be posted.
Perhaps they two may choose another Slum!
Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!--
Where loathe-love likelier may be invested.
Keeping their scented bodies in the center
Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall,
They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall,
Are off at what they manage of a canter,
And, resuming all the clues of what they were,
Try to avoid inhaling the laden air. 

Truth by Gwendolyn Brooks - Poem Recitation and Analysis

Truth : Commentary

In the poem Truth by Gwendolyn Brooks uses metaphors and personification to expand the poem’s meaning. The fear of truth is essentially the main idea of the poem. Brooks uses the sun as a metaphor for truth. She personifies truth as harsh. The truth bears a “fierce hammering/of his firm knuckles.” The truth is not pleasant and comes with “fierce hammering” on the “door” of our consciousness.

 In a “session with shade” or a time spent in ignorance, people will generally wish for the “sun” or truthThey  will "weep" for him …they will "pray" all through the night-years”

 but when the truth actually comes, they will “flee/ into the shelter, the dear thick shelter/ of the familiar/ propitious haze.” In this case, the familiarity of haze is favorable. “Sweet is it/ to sleep in the coolness/ of snug unawareness” means that not knowing the truth is more comfortable. If you make up your own truth, you can never be hurt. Brooks uses shade and shelter as a comfortable ignorance. Although people want the truth, they are afraid of it when it actually comes. Two cliches can be applied to this poem: “The truth hurts” and “Ignorance is bliss.”

Truth By Gwendolyn Brooks

truth

And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?

Though we have wept for him,
Though we have prayed
All through the night-years—
What if we wake one shimmering morning to
Hear the fierce hammering
Of his firm knuckles
Hard on the door?

Shall we not shudder?—
Shall we not flee
Into the shelter, the dear thick shelter
Of the familiar
Propitious haze?

Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.

The dark hangs heavily
Over the eyes. 

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop.avi

One Art

In this poem "One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop what literally occurs is that the speaker proposes that some things are essentially intended to be lost and that losing them should not be taken so seriously. She claims that we become accustomed to loss by working with little things like "door keys" or "the hour badly spent" (line 5), so that when considerable losses happen we will be prepared for it. Also, as the poem progresses it shifts to more significant losses.
The theme of the poem addresses that losing love or friendship is truly difficult to cope with.
The speaker can be characterized as old, wise, and full of experiences in life. This can be inferred because she has obviously lived in many different places and has traveled much due to the fact that she's "lost two cities" and once "owned two rivers, a continent" (lines 13-14). The speaker's tone towards the subject of loss is detached because she truly understands within her heart how awful loss feels. 
The structure of this poem comprises of nineteen lines split up into six stanzas. Three lines are in all the stanzas except the last. The last stanza contains four lines. Furthermore, the rhyme scheme is very particular. All the lines in the poem follow only two end rhymes -either "master" or "intent". The meter of the poem seems to be in a very loose form of iambic pentameter for each line contains either ten or eleven syllables in which every other syllable is stressed.
One observable device is the repetition of materialism visible through "door keys" (line 5) and a "mother's watch" (line 10) that are lost. Its presence is most notably in the first four stanzas of the poem. This device functions to develop the theme that addresses the unimportance of losing material possessions. Another observable device is irony. It becomes apparent within the last stanza when the speaker says that "it's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master" (line 18). This is ironic because it's the opposite of what Bishop feels. 
Diction is another device that is observable. It is visible throughout the entire book. Bishop chooses many words very particularly such as the phrase in lines two and three where she beautifully states--
 "many things seem filled with the intent/ to be lost that their loss is no disaster". 
Diction produces an outstanding effect by making the poem appear very conversational.

One Art By Elizabeth Bishop

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. 

"Insomnia," by Elizabeth Bishop

Insomnia : Commentary

In the poem Insomnia by Elizabeth Bishop the reader is taken to another world, much like a dream it elicits a feeling that one does not have to understand on an intellectual level to be affected by. In this world time is also suspended, mimicking the feeling of being in limbo that often occurs with a bout of insomnia. The second stanza closes with, “and drop it down the well” (line 12). Here we are taken down a rabbit hole of sorts, and in this strange place everything is “inverted.” I found it interest to learn that at the time Bishop wrote the poem it was quite common for people to refer to lesbians as “inverts.”
The moon is typically gendered as a feminine symbol and here Bishop uses feminine pronouns when referring to it throughout “Insomnia.” The first stanza speaks of the inability to sleep, hence the title. It seems as though something is keeping her awake, and the second stanza speaks of seeking refuge, which makes me think that perhaps it is something sinister preventing sleep. The refuges mentioned in lines 9 and 10 are a body of water and a mirror. The former reminded me of Bishop’s “January 1st, 1582,” which ends with women under attack seeking shelter in the Brazilian landscape. In both of these, Bishop depicts the natural world as a feminine entity and also as a place for women to be safe. A body of water, like a mirror, can also act as a reflection.
In line 15 Bishop writes, “where the shadows are really the body,” which has an interesting connection to the moon. The moon reflects the shadow of the sun’s light, so one could interpret the moon as an inversion itself. The poem up until this point talks about the moon looking at herself (in the bureau mirror in line 1 and dwelling on the mirror or water in lines 9-10). If you follow this line of thinking then the moon is a reflection of the sun, and reflections are always a distorted image of what is “real.” However, sometimes it is all we have. Reflections are often our only opportunity for self-examination and they can be an escape as the last stanza illustrates. Here it the the rose-colored glasses with which the speaker can interpret her reality. This poem ends on a vulnerable note with “and you love me” (line 18), which is the inversion of “I love you.” It is a powerful, but sole, indication that “Insomnia” is about unrequited love.

Insomnia By Elizabeth Bishop

Insomnia

The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me. 
I believe that the poem "Exchanging Hats" written by Elizabeth Bishop is depicting the fluidity of gender, sexuality and personality. However, I'd like to focus on Gender and Sexuality as of right now. I feel that because of these themes, this poem will stay relevant, for a very long time, if not forever. To begin I'd like to state that Gender is what you identify as, not your biological sex. SEX, is what your genitalia depicts. It is obviously very possible to be sexually male, and female in gender. It is also extremely possible to to be somewhere in between in both sex and gender. Currently the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transsexual) community is fighting to have such facts recognized. For some reason, our society believes (for the most part) that gender is dichotomous, and we know its not. Not all girls where make up and dresses and not all men smoke, drink and swear like sailors. We need to allow for everyone to express themselves freely, it is unfair to portray that certain groups don't exist because they do not classify as gender male, or gender female.
      Also along these lines is sexuality. There is not only homosexual or heterosexual. There is pansexuality and bisexuality as well. Some wont even acknowledge homosexuality as a legitimate sexual preference. We all know the LGBT community is already alienated in our much larger society. Many homosexuals don't acknowledge bi and pan sexuals as part of their community they say it is one or the other you like men or you like women, you can't like both. It is a shame that some of  the people most discriminated against are discriminating their kindred spirits.

    The reason I mention gender is because in the poem, Bishop depicts here uncles and aunts as switching personalities as simply as removing or putting on a hat. This is an act I feel describes as previously stated the fluidity of personality and gender, perhaps explaining personal innner turmoil. Similar to that felt by those previously mentioned.

Exchanging Hats By Elizabeth Bishop

Exchanging Hats

Unfunny uncles who insist
in trying on a lady's hat,
--oh, even if the joke falls flat,
we share your slight transvestite twist

in spite of our embarrassment.
Costume and custom are complex.
The headgear of the other sex
inspires us to experiment.

Anandrous aunts, who, at the beach
with paper plates upon your laps,
keep putting on the yachtsmen's caps
with exhibitionistic screech,

the visors hanging o'er the ear
so that the golden anchors drag,
--the tides of fashion never lag.
Such caps may not be worn next year.

Or you who don the paper plate
itself, and put some grapes upon it,
or sport the Indian's feather bonnet,
--perversities may aggravate

the natural madness of the hatter.
And if the opera hats collapse
and crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps,
he thinks what might a miter matter?

Unfunny uncle, you who wore a
hat too big, or one too many,
tell us, can't you, are there any
stars inside your black fedora?

Aunt exemplary and slim,
with avernal eyes, we wonder
what slow changes they see under
their vast, shady, turned-down brim. 

▶ “Conversation” by Elizabeth Bishop (Poetry Reading) - Video Dailymotion

▶ “Conversation” by Elizabeth Bishop (Poetry Reading) - Video Dailymotion

Conversation : Commentary

The conversation By Elizabeth Bishop is about an internal dialogue, a conversation the self has with the self about the self and what the self or heart wants. The heart--the seat of emotions--is upset and tries to figure for itself what or whom it, the heart, desires. No one outside sees this turmoil. Possibly in its questing--for love?--the beleagured heart really knows what it wants but after having suffered so long in "tumult" it takes a while to admit its upset. When it does so, it accepts itself.

All along it's as though the speaker has known what it wants--"a name," the name of a person, the object of desire; and then all the feelings mentioned earlier are resolved when the name and the feelings are identified or incarnated in one individual. 

The form of the poem abets this reading: stanzas one and two rhyme uneasily, line by line: heart/start; questions/senses/ [not the third line] voice/choice/ difference/sense. The final couplet resolves this resolution, aurally and ideationally, where the beloved comes into being. The last line spills over rhythmically, as though all the emotional blocked in the first ten or eleven lines is released. 

I like the use of personification in this poem because, by using it to describe the heart or subconscious mind, Bishop makes the nature of one's subconscious easier to relate to from a conscious viewpoint. The purpose is to stimulate engagement between these sectors of human reality and create "conversation", or at least to express this interaction of the two parts of self that Bishop has felt. Eventually, two thoughts of these two parallel selves intermingle and become one, because after all they are of the same mind, but simply of a separate nature.

Conversation By Gwendolyn Brooks

Conversation

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.

Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;

until a name
and all its connotation are the same. 

Elizabeth Bishop - Argument

Argument : Commentary

First, I thought this poem was really interesting.  For me, it would be hard to write a poem about arguments without sounding cliche or ordinary. That was why I chose to read this poem.  As Elizabeth Bishop does with other poems, she is able to make topics that might seem cliche or ordinary and make them unique and beautiful.  For this particular poem, she creates the image of typical arguments.  In general, arguments are ways in which people try to come to an agreement.  However, it also shows how people argue to have the last word and the consequences of arguments.  For instance, when she states, "Days that cannot bring you near / or will not, (1-2)" I thought of how when people argue, there won't always be an agreement and that arguments will not necessarily bring two people closer together.  Another line that I like is when she says, "argue argue argue with me / endlessly / neither proving you less wanted nor less dear. (5-7)"  I like how she creates rhythm with words similar to how she does in other poems such as "Sestina."  What I mean is that when she uses repetition with "argue argue argue," it creates the sound of people arguing in that arguments seem to be continuous.  Also, I thought of this line as explaining how just because someone is saying all these things to prove a point does not make them right. Another way to think about this is that when someone is not willing to stop arguing, it causes the other person to separate themselves such as when she says, "neither proving you less wanted nor less dear."  Also, I like how she uses imagery in the second stanza to relate the idea that arguments create distance like land beneath a plane.  When I read, "stretching indistinguishably/ all the way, / all the way to where my reasons end? (12-14)" it made me picture the process of arguing.  For instance, when someone is angry at someone else, they feel like they have all these reasons for why they are angry and then at some point they can't come up with any more reasons.  In addition, I like how she uses symbolism of the "cluttered instruments" to represent voices of people who argue.  It provides great sensory imagery and allows readers to connect the ideas together.  Finally, I enjoy the line where she says, "Compliments of Never and Forever, Inc."  I like this line because it made me think of when people are in relationships and they argue, they say things such as "I'm never going to talk to you again" and/or "We were supposed to be together forever." I just thought it was really neat how she included that in the poem.

Argument By Elizabeth Bishop

Argument

Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
argue argue argue with me
endlessly
neither proving you less wanted nor less dear.

Distance: Remember all that land
beneath the plane;
that coastline
of dim beaches deep in sand
stretching indistinguishably
all the way,
all the way to where my reasons end?

Days: And think
of all those cluttered instruments,
one to a fact,
canceling each other's experience;
how they were
like some hideous calendar
"Compliments of Never & Forever, Inc."

The intimidating sound
of these voices
we must separately find
can and shall be vanquished:
Days and Distance disarrayed again
and gone... 

The Mother

The poem entitled The Mother by Gwendolyn Brooks  is about a mother who has experienced a number of abortions and now has anguish. The remorse is so strong you can feel it  going through when reading the poem. She is regretful however explains why keeping the babies wasn't an option. It is a heartfelt poem where she talks about how she will not be able to do certain things for the children that she killed. This poem is a representation of many other woman.



The first stanza starts off with--

 "Abortions will not let you forget," 

which sounds like the woman is talking in general terms. She is talking about how future experiences will never take place. Things like "You will never wind up the sucking-thumb or scuttle off the ghosts that come," are some of the many that will not be done. In a way, the women being told this are reminded of the pain they are going through. 


In the second stanza, the woman is talking about her pain and loss. In "I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed children," she is haunted by her own children's faint cries that she hears in her mind. She then makes the transition from telling the reader to explaining to her children why she did what she did. It feels as though she can't control her emotions and finally breaks down. She forgets about the reader and focuses on her children. She is asking for some understanding when she says, "Believe that in my deliberateness I was not deliberate. . . . Though why should I whine," she asks, "Whine that the crime was other than mine." 


She feels that she did what she had to do. She probably couldn't handle having kids at the time because of her situation, whatever it was, so she had an abortion. She probably didn't think it was a crime, but society has made her believe it is and she feels guilty. She tries to brush it off when she says, "Since you are dead," but then admonishes herself by euphemizing the meaning by saying, "or rather, or instead, you were never made." 


In the third stanza, she picks up where she left in the second stanza, but this time she tries to figure out what she did. She doesn't know what to label what she had done or is probably afraid to label it. "You were born, you had body, you died," she says blankly. She tries to make excuses for what she did, but her emotions conquer her denial. "Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you All." She knew her children because they were a part of her being that they were in her body. She emphasizes that she loved them to let them (and herself) know that she really loved them although she did what she had to do.

Jessie Mitchell's Mother

In this poem by Gwendolyn Brooks entitled Jessie Mitchell's Mother we start with the opinion of Jessie Mitchell, flabbergasted perhaps by her feelings toward her mother, especially when we have been trained to believe all the sentimental stuff about mother/daughter relationships and respecting your elders. The throwaway --
“only a habit would cry if she should die” 
seems particularly unsettling.
But we are also drawn along with Jessie while we are busy disapproving of her from our lofty moral high-horse. The mother looks like a “stretched yellow rag” and yes we do despise her a little for it. Next all of the sudden Brooks chooses to switch perspectives as the line overruns and Jessie’s significantly nameless “mother / reviewed her.”
There is a flower motif. Jessie is “thin, and so straight”. Swimming in her own cruelty, the mother internally foretelling her daughter’s wilting. The agent of destruction is Brooks’s long noun phrase, “the rent of things in life that were for poor women”, almost a magic formula, a direct translation from another, less conceptual language. This “rent of things etc.” is then personified while the poor women themselves retreat into the almost inanimate third person pronoun: “coming to them grinning and pretty with intent to bend and to kill”. These “things” are crueller than the unloving daughter or mother.
And in Brook’s sharply observed tragedy of race and class, Jessie’s mother converts her jealousy (“almost hating her daughter) into petty triumphalism. She remembers that Jessie is black and she prides herself on the slight hierarchy of yellow, rather than black, skin.  She exults in the memory of the dead flowers of her youth, vainly “forced perfume into old petals” and forgets the lesson that she herself has learned: that Jessie’s loveliness will be broken by the sufferings that poor, black women must go through.
The last line’s irony is genius. The flowers in reality have wilted in Jessie’s mother’s--
 “exquisite yellow youth”.

A Song In the front Yard : Commentary

This poem, by Gwendolyn Brooks entitled A Song In the Yard, is about a girl who wants to do her own thing and follow her own rules..--

Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.   
A girl gets sick of a rose.

The girl wants to experience the other side of life and be adventurous. It is also the voice of a "woman" remembering how her mother kept her from the back yard. Now, the woman wishes she could take a "peak" at that back yard life. There comes a time when we all wonder what we might have missed...

As always the poem does have a kind of sing songy rhythm to it. Gwendolyn Brooks has a way of capturing moments, emotion and experiences through her writing which helps to create an amazing visual.

Boy Breaking Glass : Commentary

Gwendolyn Brooks' " Boy Breaking Glass" is such a beautifully written poem although it is hard to understand. The diction and language Brooks chose to use represents the freedom she felt when she was writing the poem. Each word was carefully chosen and holds some emotional significance. 

Although the intent for each word/phrase is probably very clear for Brooks, the poem is still a bit confusing and leaves the reader with many questions.Since the poem begins with the introduction of some unknown characters (unknown from any of her other work)--

To Marc Crawford
from whom the commission


you automatically try and figure out how they fits into the story. After reading the poem a couple times, I came to the conclusion that each reader is meant to come up with their own interpretation. In my opinion t’s about a boy (Marc Crawford, perhaps) whom was tired of being mistreated, given unequal opportunities. He was surrounded by glass where his every step was determined and watched by the world around him. Until a series of events caused him to want to break the glass and fight against these injustices.


We Real Cool : Commentary

My first poem "We real Cool" by Gwendolyn Brooks seems to sum up the reality that many youths faced during the time in which this poem was written. Brooks wrote this poem in 1959 which coincided with the Civil Rights movement. After the case Brown v. Board of education ruled that it was unconstitutional to segregate schools a lot of African Americans became frustrated. A large number of youth started to question their role in society. The opening of the poem (which I didn't post however it is said in the video post) is very significant.  It points out seven young men at pool hall named the Golden Shovel. Just from the opening we can detect that seven young men probably represent a gang of some kind, and the name "Golden Shovel" may represent the young males and their short life expectancy. After reading the rest of the poem my first observation was her Brooks use of first person point of view.
 We real cool. We
Left school. We

She also uses a bit of irony in the first stanza; the boys claim to be cool because they left school although it isn't cool at all. Her diction reiterates the fact that the boys are uneducated. Each of the couplets in the poem rhyme: "cool and "school", "late" and "straight", "June" and "soon", which creates a melodic tone. The whole poem sounds like a song which makes it memorable. In addition to the musical style of the poem, Brooks also starts each new line with the second word of the sentence--

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Which is also memorable. The simplicity of the poem leaves the reader searching for deeper meaning.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Facebook Video of Adrianna Mitchell The Mother by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Mother

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?--
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All. 

Brooks College Prep School Wide Harlem Shake: This is a Harlem Shake video created at Gwendolyn Brooks College Prep during a Team World Vision/Brooks marathon team pep rally. Students voluntarily signed up to run the Chicago Marathon to raise money for clean drinking water in Africa. Brooks is the first high school to join World Vision at the Chicago Marathon, and we are extremely proud of each and every student that has committed to being a part of the team. This is our way of celebrating and having fun with our young heroes.

Jessie Mitchell’s Mother

Into her mother’s bedroom to wash the ballooning body.
“My mother is jelly-hearted and she has a brain of jelly:
Sweet, quiver-soft, irrelevant. Not essential.
Only a habit would cry if she should die.
A pleasant sort of fool without the least iron. . . .
Are you better, mother, do you think it will come today?”
The stretched yellow rag that was Jessie Mitchell’s mother
Reviewed her. Young, and so thin, and so straight.
So straight! as if nothing could ever bend her.
But poor men would bend her, and doing things with poor men,
Being much in bed, and babies would bend her over,
And the rest of things in life that were for poor women,
Coming to them grinning and pretty with intent to bend and to kill.
Comparisons shattered her heart, ate at her bulwarks:
The shabby and the bright: she, almost hating her daughter,
Crept into an old sly refuge: “Jessie’s black
And her way will be black, and jerkier even than mine.
Mine, in fact, because I was lovely, had flowers
Tucked in the jerks, flowers were here and there. . . .”
She revived for the moment settled and dried-up triumphs,
Forced perfume into old petals, pulled up the droop,
Refueled
Triumphant long-exhaled breaths.
Her exquisite yellow youth . . . 

An interview with Gwendolyn Brooks

a song in the front yard

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS
I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.
I want a peek at the back
Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows.   
A girl gets sick of a rose.

I want to go in the back yard now   
And maybe down the alley,
To where the charity children play.   
I want a good time today.

They do some wonderful things.
They have some wonderful fun.
My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine
How they don’t have to go in at quarter to nine.   
My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae   
Will grow up to be a bad woman.
That George’ll be taken to Jail soon or late
(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.
And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,
And wear the brave stockings of night-black lace   
And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Boy Breaking Glass

BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS
To Marc Crawford
from whom the commission

Whose broken window is a cry of art   
(success, that winks aware
as elegance, as a treasonable faith)
is raw: is sonic: is old-eyed première.
Our beautiful flaw and terrible ornament.   
Our barbarous and metal little man.

“I shall create! If not a note, a hole.   
If not an overture, a desecration.”

Full of pepper and light
and Salt and night and cargoes.

“Don’t go down the plank
if you see there’s no extension.   
Each to his grief, each to
his loneliness and fidgety revenge.
Nobody knew where I was and now I am no longer there.”

The only sanity is a cup of tea.   
The music is in minors.

Each one other
is having different weather.

“It was you, it was you who threw away my name!   
And this is everything I have for me.”

Who has not Congress, lobster, love, luau,   
the Regency Room, the Statue of Liberty,   
runs. A sloppy amalgamation.
A mistake.
A cliff.
A hymn, a snare, and an exceeding sun.

Saturday, February 8, 2014