Child - Sylvia Plath

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.

I want to fill it with color and ducks,

The zoo of the new

Whose name you meditate --

April snowdrop, Indian pipe,

Little

Stalk without wrinkle,

Pool in which images

Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous

Wringing of hands, this dark

Ceiling without a star.

- I love the vivid imagery here, when talking of her child's eye "I want to fill it with color and ducks", "little stalk without wrinkle"...I think this is beautiful. However, she sees herself as "this dark ceiling without star" - limited in her own world. Very sad.

I'm nobody! Who are you? - Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

- Great. She highlights that it is more favourable to remain away from the spotlight where people constantly are uttering who and what they are all day long - like frogs croaking in a swamp. She recognises the luxury there is in being a nobody.

Resume - Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren't lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

- I think this is very clever. Parker is being very flippant sounding out all the reasons why sucide is 'just too much hassle' while also exposing an underlying pain within her which suggests her own several attempts at suicide.

Last Lines - Emily Bronte

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life--that in me has rest,
As I--undying Life--have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as wither'd weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thine Infinity;
So surely anchor'd on
The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou--Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

- These were the last lines ever written by Emily Bronte. I especially love "There is no room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void". When something has existed, it can never die - something cannot turn into nothing - even death is not powerful enough to do this. She highlights immortality perfectly.

First Fig - Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends---
It gives a lovely light!

- Love this. Makes me think of me writing or partying all night long.

Ignorance - Philip Larkin

Strange to know nothing, never to be sure

Of what is true or right or real,

But forced to qualify or so I feel,

Or Well, it does seem so:

Someone must know.

Strange to be ignorant of the way things work:

Their skill at finding what they need,

Their sense of shape, and punctual spread of seed,

And willingness to change;

Yes, it is strange,

Even to wear such knowledge - for our flesh

Surrounds us with its own decisions -

And yet spend all our life on imprecisions,

That when we start to die

Have no idea why.

- I always find Larkin's poetry very thought-provoking - he uses such simple language and makes such interesting observations about life. When I read this it reminds me how ignorant we are as human beings without even realising.

All the world's a stage - William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

- This poem/monologue makes me think of my grandpa and the moments before he died - the ending is so apt.

Daddy - Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

- My all-time favourite Sylvia Plath poem (along with 'Cut'!) So powerful. You get a real sense that her father played such a pivotal role in her life despite his total absence. Incredible imagery. I listened to her reading the poem aloud on You-Tube and it made the hairs on my neck stand up, very emotional.

Beatrix is Three - Adrian Mitchell

At the top of the stairs

I ask for her hand. O.K.

She gives it to me.

How her fist fits my palm,

A bunch of consolation.

We take our time

Down the steep carpetway

As I wish silently

That the stairs were endless.

- Pretty simple. This poem makes me imagine the tough job a parent must face in letting there children grow-up, make their own mistakes and venture off out into the world...

Reasons for Attendance - Philip Larkin

The trumpet's voice, loud and authoritative,
Draws me a moment to the lighted glass
To watch the dancers - all under twenty-five -
Solemnly on the beat of happiness.

-Or so I fancy, sensing the smoke and sweat,
The wonderful feel of girls. Why be out there?
But then, why be in there? Sex, yes, but what
Is sex ? Surely to think the lion's share
Of happiness is found by couples - sheer

Inaccuracy, as far as I'm concerned.
What calls me is that lifted, rough-tongued bell
(Art, if you like) whose individual sound
Insists I too am individual.
It speaks; I hear; others may hear as well,

But not for me, nor I for them; and so
With happiness. Therefor I stay outside,
Believing this, and they maul to and fro,
Believing that; and both are satisfied,
If no one has misjudged himself. Or lied.

- I feel I have been in both positions of being inside and outside (as most people probably do) I love what calls him is "that lifted, rough-tongued bell (Art, if you like)" suggesting he has a profound appreciation for the music on an almost spiritual level - something the dancers do not. The ending shows neither he or the dancers are "right or wrong" as long as everyone is true to themselves...

The World - William Brighty Rands

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water round you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast--

World, you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me,

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,

It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,

And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go,

With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,

With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,

And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,

I tremble to think of you, World, at all;

And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,

A whisper inside me seemed to say,

"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:

You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

- Although I'm in awe of the universe this reminds me the tiny speckle I am can love and feel things that the world in all its beauty, cannot. The fact that human beings can appreciate the world makes us "more than the earth"... a very beautiful poem.

The Minute I Heard My First Love Story - Rumi

The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.

- Short and sweet

The Triple Fool - John Donne

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry ;
But where's that wise man, that would not
be I,
If she would not deny ?
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked
lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should
them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so
fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain ;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis
read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow
three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

- I've known this poem for years and still get a little confused by it. He is one fool for loving her, twice a fool for saying so...thirdly for writing a poem about it. I like the irony that the fools are a little wise in the end. Maybe they are wise because they KNOW they are fools...

The Taxi - Amy Lowell

When I go away
The world beats dead,
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.

Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see you face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp
edges of the night?

- This reminds me of the utter devastation and sadness I've felt when I've had to part with someone I'd rather be with.

Two Men in a Dance Hall - A.S.J Tessimond

Tom laughs, is free and easy;
And girls obey his call,
For whether they obey it all
He hardly cares at all.

But Edward burns with longing;
And angry anxious pain
Cries from his eyes too loudly;
Too eagerly in vain.

- Marvellous! So true that so many women always go for the guy who doesn't seem as interested...the one who is happy to breeze in and out of her life rather than the one who longs to be with her.

Ending - Gavin Ewart

The love we thought would never stop
now cools like a congealing chop.
The kisses that were hot as curry
are bird-pecks taken in a hurry.
The hands that held electric charges
now lie inert as four moored barges.
The feet that ran to meet a date
are running slow and running late.
The eyes that shone and seldom shut
are victims of a power cut.
The parts that then transmitted joy
are now reserved and cold and coy.
Romance, expected once to stay,
has left a note saying Gone Away.

- I only came across this poem tonight. Straight away I could relate to the sadness of when love ends. All the things that once made love so amazing each go one by one...so very sad...

An Epilogue - John Masefield

I have seen flowers come in stony places
And kind things done by men with ugly faces,
And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,
So I trust, too.

-This to me is about faith and being open-minded...anything is possible...

Richard Cory - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

- One of my favourites...This poem really made me feel that "no-one knows what goes on behind closed doors". It shows that wealth and money don't necessarily make you happy. The ending "one calm summer night" portrays the shock that would be felt in the community.

If - Rudyard Kipling

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,'
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

- What I love about this poem is the fact that it applies to everyone and gives sound advice on how one should ideally live one's life. Kipling conveys this in such a simple yet genius way.