Happy Halloween!

I officially declare this to be my week off! haha. Hope you're having a great Halloween weekend!

Poetry Response #8

Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
this is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
now whispered and revealed
to wood and field.

[Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

Last week for our timed essay, one of the poems was by Longfellow and I really liked it after a while of studying it. Then in choir we were singing an art song (a song where a composer takes a poem and puts it to music) and this particular art song happened to be by Longfellow. It excited me so I decided to analyze my choir music this week! For some reason, this poem made me think of how humans hold their grief in. We are really privet people, we Americans. Especially back in the day dear old Henry was writing this! The earth isn't like that though, not really. When the grief surfaces, then comes the clouds. When the tears start rolling, then comes the rain. And when the heart starts weeping, then comes the snow. "Slowly in the silent syllables recorded/this is the secret of despair." I think the silent tears we cry are the most sincere, the most selfless. Now I have absolutely no idea if this is Longfellow meant, but I think sometimes the poet doesn't necessarily want a poem to be read the same way. Poetry is a little bit like a symphony; whether it's major or minor makes it feel different, but the audience chooses to create the depth.

Poetry Response #8- For the Sleepwalkers by Edward Hirsch

As I was looking through the new poetry packet to fine one that would interest me, I originally neglected my attentions towards the first poem of the page. I wanted to find one that associated with this quote I had been stewing over this five day weekend, "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" -Vincent van Gogh. I couldn't help but ask my sister what a day would be like without fear. We can act like we are fearless, but no one is. Everyone is paranoid to fart while using a public bathroom, it's just how it is! Everyone fears having a super bad break-out the week of prom. Most people fear what they say, how they look, how they talk, walk, eat, breathe. People live in fear; not necessarily are we afraid to walk, talk, or eat, but rather we are afraid every move we make is being analyzed by skeptics. "For the Sleepwalkers" caught my attention as I noticed the line, "We have to learn the desperate faith of sleepwalkers who rise of their calm beds and walk through the skin of another life." Sleepwalkers do not fear the dark, as we do. Somehow they subconsciously trust themselves enough to wander through the night. I suppose it is really strange how when we consciously wake up in the middle of the night, we hesitate stepping out of our bed and slowing mew through what seems like a dark labyrinth known as our bedrooms. Really, we see our room so often in the light, do we not know what is there? Why do we doubt ourselves? Our hands flair against the wall where the light switch remains comatose. Have we not switched the light on a thousand times in the comforts of the day without hesitation, yet we can cannot trust ourselves in the dark? What if we could "have so much faith in the invisible," as Hirsch suggests, what if we could experience a day without fear?

Poetry Response #7

This is an excerpt from An Essay on Man written by Alexander Pope I found in the old Literature book.

I. Know then thyself, presume no God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is Man
Placed on isthmus of a middle state,
A darkly wise, and rudely great;
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest,
In doubt to deem himself a god, or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer,
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks too little, or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion , all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise, and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

I really liked this poem partially because it has an old fashioned sense to it, but the theme question is timeless. Pope is asking what every man wonders, "What is the purpose of life?" He addressed the question differently throughout the verse, for instance addressing who's duty it is to answer it, that is indeed man's duty to understand mankind. It is man's duty, not God's. He then wonders if maybe we think about it too much? Are we born only to die? Is our lives defined only between what happens between birth and death? Life is full of success and failure, and Pope puts it, "Created half to rise, and half to fall," so then is the purpose only to keep going? I really enjoy poems that question things. Pope questions religious beliefs here too, I think. He wonders if we really should leave our lives in the hands of a mystery. I think Pope believes in God, but doesn't necessarily like Him. Pope thinks of God and a figure who sends men to live blindly; we wonder confused while He sits with the answers. Personally, I don't necessarily agree with Pope, but I do find it interesting.

Poetry Response 6- Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost

I remember reading this poem in 9th grade. I was in an advanced English course at another school and struggling with a acrid and rigid teacher. She handed out this poem expecting me not to understand it, yet it was so simple to me. In fact, I think it was the first poem that ever made any sense to me. Looking at it now, I really have no idea what I used to think about it. All I know now is this poem speaks of mankind's greatest weaknesses: passion and hatred.I love how Frost so accurately compares passion to fire and hatred to ice. Hatred has destroyed lives, countries, and homes. Hatred blossoms from a bud of jealousy or angst. It then morphs into a consuming stiffness. Passion on the other hand isn't gradual or progressive. Passion sparks unexpectedly, yet still manages to destroy homes and happiness. Passion thrives in the moment. It starts as a spark then it becomes impossible to control and the effects are immutable and imperishable.