Please see the attached.

Please see the attached.
1 ENGL 102 — English Composition II / Massasoit Community College Prof. Scala / Summer II 202 2 …Some Samples for Poetry Analysis — Sources: poemhunter.org and poetryfoundation.org List (alphabetical by author’s last name): “:arlem :opscotch” by Maya Angelou “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop “The Tyger” by William Blake “Sadie and Maud” by Gwendolyn Brooks “Friendly Advice to A Lot of Young Men” by Charles Bukowski “The Best Cigarette” by Billy Collins “Tableau” by Countee Cullen “= heard a fly buzz…” by Emily Dickinson “Aunt :elen” by T.S. Eliot “Desert Places” by Robert Frost “The Weary Blues” by Langston :ughes “40 -Love” by Roger McGough “Africa” by Claude McKay “Poetry” by Marianne Moore “Ode to My Socks” by Pablo Neruda “Dulce et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen “The Emperor of =ce Cream” by Wallace Stevens “Do Not Go Gentle =nto That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas “When = :eard the Learn’d Astronomer” by Walt Whitman “This =s Hust to Say” by William Carlos Williams “The World is Too Much With Us” by William Wordsworth “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats 2 “:arlem :opscotch” by Maya Angelou One foot down, then hop! It’s hot. Good things for the ones that’s got. Another jump, now to the left. Everybody for hisself. In the air, now both feet down. Since you black, don’t stick around. Food is gone, the rent is due, Curse and cry and then jump two. All the people out of work, Hold for three, then twist and jerk. Cross the line, they count you out. That’s what hopping’s all about. Both feet flat, the game is done. They think I lost. I think I won. 3 “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop 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 p ractice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. = 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 ma ster. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. = miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. — Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture = love) = shan’t have lied. =t’s evident the art of losing’s not too har d to master though it may look like ( Write it!) like disaster. 4 “The Tyger” by William Blake Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the st ars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 5 “Sadie and Maud” by Gwendolyn Brooks Maud went to college. Sadie stayed at home. Sadie scraped life With a fine -tooth comb. She didn’t leave a tangle in. Her comb found every strand. Sadie was one of the livingest chits In all the land. Sadie bore two babies Under her maiden name. Maud and Ma and Papa Nearly died of shame. When Sadie said her last so -long Her girls struck out from home. (Sadie had left as heritage Her fine -tooth comb.) Maud, who went to college, Is a thin brown mouse. She is living all alone In this old house. 6 “Friendly Advice to A Lot of Young Men” by Charles Bukowski Go to Tibet Ride a camel. Read the bible. Dye your shoes blue. Grow a beard. Circle the world in a paper canoe. Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post . Chew on the left side of your mouth only. Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor. And carve your name in her arm. Brush your teeth with gasoline. Sleep al l day and climb trees at night. Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer. Hold your head under water and play the violin. Do a belly dance before pink candles. Kill your dog. Run for mayor. Live in a barrel. Break your head with a hatchet. Plant tulips in the rain. But don’t write poetry. 7 “The Best Cigarette” by Billy Collins There are many that I miss having sent my last one out a car window sparking along the road one night, years ago. The heralded one, of course: after sex, the two glowing tips now the lights of a single ship; at the end of a long dinner with more wine to come and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier; or on a white beach, holding one with fingers still wet from a swim. How bittersweet these punctuations of flame and gesture; but the best were on those mornings when I would have a little something going in the typewriter, the sun bright in the windows, maybe some Berlioz on in the background. I would go into the kitchen for coffee and on the w ay back to the page, curled in its roller, I would light one up and feel its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee. Then I would be my own locomotive, trailing behind me as I returned to work little puffs of smoke, indicators of progress, signs of in dustry and thought, the signal that told the nineteenth century it was moving forward. That was the best cigarette, when I would steam into the study full of vaporous hope and stand there, the big headlamp of my face pointed down at all the words in parallel lines. 8 “Tableau” by Countee Cullen Locked arm in arm they cross the way The black boy and the white, The golden splendor of the day The sable pride of night. From lowered blinds the dark folk stare And here the fair folk talk, Indignant that these two should dare In unison to walk. Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder. 9 “= heard a fly buzz…” by Emily Dickinson I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air – Between the Heaves of Storm – The Eyes around – had wrung them dry – And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset – when the King Be witnessed – in the Room – I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away What portion of me be Assignable – and then it was There interposed a Fly – With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz – Between the light – and me – And then the Windows failed – and then I could not see to see – 10 “Aunt :elen” by T.S. Eliot Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt, And lived in a small house near a fashionable square Cared for by servants to the number of four. Now when she died there was silence in heaven And silence at her end of the st reet. The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet — He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before. The dogs were handsomely provided for, But shortly afterwards the parrot died too. The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantel piece, And the footman sat upon the dining -table Holding the second housemaid on his knees — Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived. 11 “Desert Places” by Robert Frost Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast In a field I looked into going past, And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it – it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent -spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is, that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less – A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express. They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars – on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. 12 “The Weary Blues” by Langston :ughes Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway . . . He did a lazy sway . . . To the tune o’ those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming from a black man’s soul. O Blues! In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard t hat Negro sing, that old piano moan — “Ain’t got nobody in all this world, Ain’t got nobody but ma self. =’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.” Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more — “= got the Weary Blues And = can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied — = ain’t happy no mo’ And = wish that = had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. :e slept like a rock or a man that’s dead. 13 “40 -Love” by Roger McGough middle aged couple playing ten nis when the game ends and they go home the net will still be be tween them 14 “Africa” by Claude McKay The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light, The sciences were sucklings at thy breast; When all the world was young in pregnant night Thy slaves toiled at thy monumental best. Thou ancient treasure -land, thou modern prize, New peoples marvel at thy pyramids! The years roll on, thy sphinx of riddle eyes Watches the mad world with immobile lids. The Hebrews humbled them at Pharaoh’s name. Cradle of Power! Yet all things were in vain! Honor and Glory, Arrogance and Fame! They went. The darkness swallowed thee again. Thou art the harlot, now thy time is done, Of all the mighty nations of the sun. 15 “Poetry” by Marianne Moore I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high -sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base – ball fan, the statistician — nor is it valid to discriminate against “business documents and school -books”; all these phenomena are import ant. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be “literalists of the imagination” –above insolence and triviality and ca n present for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,” shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand gen uine, you are interested in poetry. 16 “Ode to My Socks” by Pablo Neruda Mara Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder’s hands, two socks as soft as rabbits. I slipped my feet into them as if they were two cases knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin, Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool, two long sharks sea blue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons, my feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks. Th ey were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of that woven fire, of those glowing socks. Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them in a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat it wit h remorse, I stretched out my feet and pulled on the magnificent socks and then my shoes. The moral of my ode is this: beauty is twice beauty and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made of wool in winter. 17 “Dulce et Decorum Est” b y Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock -kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood -shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas -shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. — Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, :is hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth -corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, — My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. 18 “The Emperor of =ce Cream” by Wallace Stevens Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice -cream. Take from the dresser of deal, Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On w hich she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her horny feet protrude, they come To show how cold she is, and dumb. Let the lamp affix its beam. The only emperor is the emperor of ice -cream. 19 “Do Not Go Gentle =nto That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in fligh t, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, t here on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 20 “When = :eard the Learn’d Astronomer” by Walt Whitman When = heard the learn’d astronomer, When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them, When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lect ured with much applause in the lecture -room, How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out = wander’d off by myself, In the mystical moist night -air, and from time to time, Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars. 21 “This =s Hust to Say” by William Carlos Williams I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold 22 “The World is Too Much With Us” by William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; — Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea t hat bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up -gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; =t moves us not. Great God! =’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd hor n. 23 “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood -dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surel y the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Please see the attached.
1 ENGL 102 — English Composition II / Massasoit Community College Prof. Scala / Summer II 202 2 …Some Samples for Poetry Analysis — Sources: poemhunter.org and poetryfoundation.org List (alphabetical by author’s last name): “:arlem :opscotch” by Maya Angelou “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop “The Tyger” by William Blake “Sadie and Maud” by Gwendolyn Brooks “Friendly Advice to A Lot of Young Men” by Charles Bukowski “The Best Cigarette” by Billy Collins “Tableau” by Countee Cullen “= heard a fly buzz…” by Emily Dickinson “Aunt :elen” by T.S. Eliot “Desert Places” by Robert Frost “The Weary Blues” by Langston :ughes “40 -Love” by Roger McGough “Africa” by Claude McKay “Poetry” by Marianne Moore “Ode to My Socks” by Pablo Neruda “Dulce et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen “The Emperor of =ce Cream” by Wallace Stevens “Do Not Go Gentle =nto That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas “When = :eard the Learn’d Astronomer” by Walt Whitman “This =s Hust to Say” by William Carlos Williams “The World is Too Much With Us” by William Wordsworth “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats 2 “:arlem :opscotch” by Maya Angelou One foot down, then hop! It’s hot. Good things for the ones that’s got. Another jump, now to the left. Everybody for hisself. In the air, now both feet down. Since you black, don’t stick around. Food is gone, the rent is due, Curse and cry and then jump two. All the people out of work, Hold for three, then twist and jerk. Cross the line, they count you out. That’s what hopping’s all about. Both feet flat, the game is done. They think I lost. I think I won. 3 “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop 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 p ractice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. = 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 ma ster. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. = miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. — Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture = love) = shan’t have lied. =t’s evident the art of losing’s not too har d to master though it may look like ( Write it!) like disaster. 4 “The Tyger” by William Blake Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the st ars threw down their spears And water’d heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 5 “Sadie and Maud” by Gwendolyn Brooks Maud went to college. Sadie stayed at home. Sadie scraped life With a fine -tooth comb. She didn’t leave a tangle in. Her comb found every strand. Sadie was one of the livingest chits In all the land. Sadie bore two babies Under her maiden name. Maud and Ma and Papa Nearly died of shame. When Sadie said her last so -long Her girls struck out from home. (Sadie had left as heritage Her fine -tooth comb.) Maud, who went to college, Is a thin brown mouse. She is living all alone In this old house. 6 “Friendly Advice to A Lot of Young Men” by Charles Bukowski Go to Tibet Ride a camel. Read the bible. Dye your shoes blue. Grow a beard. Circle the world in a paper canoe. Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post . Chew on the left side of your mouth only. Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor. And carve your name in her arm. Brush your teeth with gasoline. Sleep al l day and climb trees at night. Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer. Hold your head under water and play the violin. Do a belly dance before pink candles. Kill your dog. Run for mayor. Live in a barrel. Break your head with a hatchet. Plant tulips in the rain. But don’t write poetry. 7 “The Best Cigarette” by Billy Collins There are many that I miss having sent my last one out a car window sparking along the road one night, years ago. The heralded one, of course: after sex, the two glowing tips now the lights of a single ship; at the end of a long dinner with more wine to come and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier; or on a white beach, holding one with fingers still wet from a swim. How bittersweet these punctuations of flame and gesture; but the best were on those mornings when I would have a little something going in the typewriter, the sun bright in the windows, maybe some Berlioz on in the background. I would go into the kitchen for coffee and on the w ay back to the page, curled in its roller, I would light one up and feel its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee. Then I would be my own locomotive, trailing behind me as I returned to work little puffs of smoke, indicators of progress, signs of in dustry and thought, the signal that told the nineteenth century it was moving forward. That was the best cigarette, when I would steam into the study full of vaporous hope and stand there, the big headlamp of my face pointed down at all the words in parallel lines. 8 “Tableau” by Countee Cullen Locked arm in arm they cross the way The black boy and the white, The golden splendor of the day The sable pride of night. From lowered blinds the dark folk stare And here the fair folk talk, Indignant that these two should dare In unison to walk. Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder. 9 “= heard a fly buzz…” by Emily Dickinson I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air – Between the Heaves of Storm – The Eyes around – had wrung them dry – And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset – when the King Be witnessed – in the Room – I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away What portion of me be Assignable – and then it was There interposed a Fly – With Blue – uncertain – stumbling Buzz – Between the light – and me – And then the Windows failed – and then I could not see to see – 10 “Aunt :elen” by T.S. Eliot Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt, And lived in a small house near a fashionable square Cared for by servants to the number of four. Now when she died there was silence in heaven And silence at her end of the st reet. The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet — He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before. The dogs were handsomely provided for, But shortly afterwards the parrot died too. The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantel piece, And the footman sat upon the dining -table Holding the second housemaid on his knees — Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived. 11 “Desert Places” by Robert Frost Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast In a field I looked into going past, And the ground almost covered smooth in snow, But a few weeds and stubble showing last. The woods around it have it – it is theirs. All animals are smothered in their lairs. I am too absent -spirited to count; The loneliness includes me unawares. And lonely as it is, that loneliness Will be more lonely ere it will be less – A blanker whiteness of benighted snow With no expression, nothing to express. They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars – on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places. 12 “The Weary Blues” by Langston :ughes Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway . . . He did a lazy sway . . . To the tune o’ those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming from a black man’s soul. O Blues! In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard t hat Negro sing, that old piano moan — “Ain’t got nobody in all this world, Ain’t got nobody but ma self. =’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.” Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more — “= got the Weary Blues And = can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied — = ain’t happy no mo’ And = wish that = had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. :e slept like a rock or a man that’s dead. 13 “40 -Love” by Roger McGough middle aged couple playing ten nis when the game ends and they go home the net will still be be tween them 14 “Africa” by Claude McKay The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light, The sciences were sucklings at thy breast; When all the world was young in pregnant night Thy slaves toiled at thy monumental best. Thou ancient treasure -land, thou modern prize, New peoples marvel at thy pyramids! The years roll on, thy sphinx of riddle eyes Watches the mad world with immobile lids. The Hebrews humbled them at Pharaoh’s name. Cradle of Power! Yet all things were in vain! Honor and Glory, Arrogance and Fame! They went. The darkness swallowed thee again. Thou art the harlot, now thy time is done, Of all the mighty nations of the sun. 15 “Poetry” by Marianne Moore I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because a high -sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible, the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand: the bat holding on upside down or in quest of something to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base – ball fan, the statistician — nor is it valid to discriminate against “business documents and school -books”; all these phenomena are import ant. One must make a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be “literalists of the imagination” –above insolence and triviality and ca n present for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them,” shall we have it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand gen uine, you are interested in poetry. 16 “Ode to My Socks” by Pablo Neruda Mara Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder’s hands, two socks as soft as rabbits. I slipped my feet into them as if they were two cases knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin, Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool, two long sharks sea blue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons, my feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks. Th ey were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of that woven fire, of those glowing socks. Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them in a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat it wit h remorse, I stretched out my feet and pulled on the magnificent socks and then my shoes. The moral of my ode is this: beauty is twice beauty and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made of wool in winter. 17 “Dulce et Decorum Est” b y Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock -kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood -shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas -shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. — Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, :is hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth -corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, — My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. 18 “The Emperor of =ce Cream” by Wallace Stevens Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice -cream. Take from the dresser of deal, Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet On w hich she embroidered fantails once And spread it so as to cover her face. If her horny feet protrude, they come To show how cold she is, and dumb. Let the lamp affix its beam. The only emperor is the emperor of ice -cream. 19 “Do Not Go Gentle =nto That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in fligh t, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, t here on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 20 “When = :eard the Learn’d Astronomer” by Walt Whitman When = heard the learn’d astronomer, When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me, When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them, When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lect ured with much applause in the lecture -room, How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out = wander’d off by myself, In the mystical moist night -air, and from time to time, Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars. 21 “This =s Hust to Say” by William Carlos Williams I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold 22 “The World is Too Much With Us” by William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; — Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea t hat bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up -gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; =t moves us not. Great God! =’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd hor n. 23 “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood -dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surel y the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Please see the attached.
1 ENGL 102 / Massasoit Community College Prof. Scala / Summer I I 202 2 Major Paper #2 — Poetry Analysis Above: Image of poet / author Charles Bukowski Subject — choose a poem from the “Sample Poems” PDF Each student will examine their chosen poem (see “Sample Poems” PDF). Note: you may choose to examine a poem that is not included in this document, but don’t over -complicate this assignment — you have many to choose from without doing any additional researc h. Background “Formalism” asks us to think about writing as writing; about a poem as a poem; about words as words. To that end — What is the most important word in the poem, and why? Then, show how your chosen word is the “key” to understanding the rest of the poem. Perform a close -reading of the piece; take the reader through the work line -by -line and discuss overall meaning. Remember to make comments about FORM and CONTENT. You mu st choose only one (1) word. Approach Perhaps, you may wish to make reference to background material. While this paper does not require outside research, per se, you may consult reputable and credible sources as you see fit provided that you cite accord ingly ; however, I am much more interested in your own close reading of the poem; not critical interpretations. Remember: =’ve read “gradesaver,” “Wikipedia,” “wikinut,” and “123helpme.com”; don’t cheat. 2 Some Organization Suggestions Because this is a “the sis -driven” paper, you are expected to outline / make your claim(s) in the first paragraph of the essay and use the rest of the paper to defend your position(s). You may even use a version of this sentence: “The most important word in [Name of Author]’s po em [Title of Poem] is ________.” Feel free to summarize the poem in your first body paragraph, and then use your key word to unlock the rest of the poem’s overall meaning . As always, c ompose a non -summarizing conclusion (don’t just cut -and -paste a version of the introduction). Use the last paragraph to tell your reader / answer the questions, “What’s at stake?” or “Why is this an important subject to consider?” See Chapter 7 of They Sa y / I Say (on Canvas) for models. Using the Text — “Show and Tell” In order to adequately support your claims, be sure to make direct use of the text through quotation and paraphrase. MLA Formatting (helpful links — also on Canvas) MLA Formatting and Style Guide https://owl.purdue.edu/owl/research_and_citation/mla_style/mla_format ting_ and_style_guide/mla_formatting_and_style_guide.html Quoting, Paraphrasing, and Summarizing https://owl.purdue.edu/owl/research_and_citation/using_research/quoting_par aphrasing_and_summarizing/index.html “Reports,” “Some Things,” and “I Think…” The objective is to write a paper with an arguable and defendable thesis; you are trying to prove or support some set of ideas. You should not be writing an overly -general “report” wherein you merely tell your reader “some things” or what “you think” about yo ur topic…. Plagiarism and Academic Honesty The =nternet is a terrible place. =f you must go there, don’t steal from it. Feel free to use any other credible sources, provided that you cite and reference properly and adequately — even if you are just using them for background. A friendly reminder: if y ou plagiarize, in any way — 3 especially by way of “copying and pasting” stuff — you will receive a zero on this assignment and face serious academic consequences. N.B. Please submit this paper in PDF format. If you have taken other courses with Prof. Scala, please do not attempt to re -use portions of previous papers (even if they feel particularly relevant) . All papers will be reviewed by Copyleaks Plagiarism Checker . Proper citation in essential. Students must cite both direct quotes and paraphrase d ideas. Even casual browsing of the Internet without proper referencing can result in plagiarism. Papers that are submitted prior to the deadline will be eligible to earn up to full credit, will receive feedback from Prof. Scala (via scored rubric categ ories and individual end -notes), and are eligible for revision. Papers that are submitted after the deadline will be eligible to earn partial credit, will not receive feedback, and are ineligible for revision. Specifics Style: Thesis -Driven / Analytical (avoid “=” and first -person references) Format: MLA Font: Calibri Size: 12 pt. 1” Margins All Around Double -Spaced Throughout Last Name and Page Number in Upper -Right -Hand Corner of Each Page Heading in Upper -Left -Hand Corner — first page only (double -space this, too): Your Name Prof. Scala ENGL 102 26 July 2022 Length: ~ 750 -900 words 4 Due Date: Before TU 26 July 2022 at 11:59pm ET Submission: On Canvas in the appropriate location (no email attachments accepted)… File Types: PDF (preferred) Grading: This paper is worth 2 0% of your final grade, per our course syllabus. Good Luck, and Happy Writing ☺