The Poetry Challenge was organised by Ted at bookeywookey. Participants were asked to choose four poems: one from pre-1900, one 1900-2000, one post-2000, and one from any time period that gave them difficulty. Then, during the week than included the 1st of August, all of the participants posted their poems as well as commentary on them.
I posted all four poems that I chose for the poetry challenge on time...
"Daddy" by Sylvia Plath
"Reading the Entrails" by Neil Gaiman
"Tomorrow's Wind" by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
"A Cradle Song" by William Blake
The best poem: "Tomorrow's Wind" and "Daddy"
What poem could I have done without? I like them all!
Any new poets? Blake
Poems I did not finish: none!
What did I learn from this challenge? I gained more self confidence about discussing poetry, and I realised how important it is that I take the time out to read it.
(Note: thanks to Nyssaneala for the idea to have questions!)
Showing posts with label poetry challenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry challenge. Show all posts
Friday, August 3, 2007
"Daddy" by Sylvia Plath
Tonight is dark and stormy. Too rainy to really go out, which is perfect Sylvia Plath weather. So, as my last poem for bookeywookey's challenge, here we go. Don't forget to go to his site, where you can see all the participants!
"Daddy" by 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.
I chose this poem as one that's difficult for me. But, let's be honest. It's an incredible piece of writing. The rhythm alone-the words just throb. Throb with ache, and pain, and rage. Then there's the imagery. Stunning. From the Nazi-Jew to the vampire, Plath never lets up. The images just get darker and darker, bringing the reader into a deeper hole. The last stanza gives me goosebumps. I just keep repeating it to myself over and over.
I think that I'm going to end the analysis there. Plath knew how to write. She channeled all of her emotions into words that make the reader understand what she's going through. And so I'm going to let the poem stand for itself; I don't see any room for improvement.
"Daddy" by 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.
I chose this poem as one that's difficult for me. But, let's be honest. It's an incredible piece of writing. The rhythm alone-the words just throb. Throb with ache, and pain, and rage. Then there's the imagery. Stunning. From the Nazi-Jew to the vampire, Plath never lets up. The images just get darker and darker, bringing the reader into a deeper hole. The last stanza gives me goosebumps. I just keep repeating it to myself over and over.
I think that I'm going to end the analysis there. Plath knew how to write. She channeled all of her emotions into words that make the reader understand what she's going through. And so I'm going to let the poem stand for itself; I don't see any room for improvement.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
"Reading the Entrails" by Neil Gaiman
This is my third entry into bookeywookey's poetry challenge. In the challenge, he specified that one poem be from 2000-2007; I'm concerned about the copyright violations on this one. So, I have the poem up, but if anyone thinks it's a problem, please let me know and I'll take it down.
"Reading the Entrails: a Rondel" by Neil Gaiman
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate-
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? Then wait:
I'll answer your impatient questions. Still-
They'll can it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
I'll come to you tonight, dear, when it's late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I'll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate.
I mainly chose this poem to give myself a break; I also love Neil Gaiman, so I wanted to give him some blog time!
A rondel is a poem form: it has two rhymes and goes ABbaabAB abbaA. So that explains the fixed feeling of the poem. In the beginning poetry writing class that I took (see Blake post), we had to play with forms a lot, so I've written rondels, villanelles, sestinas, and sonnets. I feel that this makes me more appreciative of reading form poetry, since I know how difficult it is to match the parameters of the poem and still make it sound natural.
As far as "Reading the Entrails" goes, it doesn't really flow naturally; it definitely sounds like a poetic form. However, I think that the slightly-stilted manner works, since the narrator is a fortune teller. You expect psychics to speak differently than normal people.
Honestly, I think that this is just the kind of poem that is best read aloud and savoured for atmosphere. Any more analysis seems kind of silly. :)
Edited to add: I loved one of the comments, so I'm tacking it on to the post. Heather from Errant Dreams basically summed up my feelings about Gaiman:
He experiments with some of the more complex poetic forms, and makes them elegant and breathtaking
Yep-that's all I have to add. Go Heather.
"Reading the Entrails: a Rondel" by Neil Gaiman
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate-
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? Then wait:
I'll answer your impatient questions. Still-
They'll can it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
I'll come to you tonight, dear, when it's late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I'll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They'll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate.
I mainly chose this poem to give myself a break; I also love Neil Gaiman, so I wanted to give him some blog time!
A rondel is a poem form: it has two rhymes and goes ABbaabAB abbaA. So that explains the fixed feeling of the poem. In the beginning poetry writing class that I took (see Blake post), we had to play with forms a lot, so I've written rondels, villanelles, sestinas, and sonnets. I feel that this makes me more appreciative of reading form poetry, since I know how difficult it is to match the parameters of the poem and still make it sound natural.
As far as "Reading the Entrails" goes, it doesn't really flow naturally; it definitely sounds like a poetic form. However, I think that the slightly-stilted manner works, since the narrator is a fortune teller. You expect psychics to speak differently than normal people.
Honestly, I think that this is just the kind of poem that is best read aloud and savoured for atmosphere. Any more analysis seems kind of silly. :)
Edited to add: I loved one of the comments, so I'm tacking it on to the post. Heather from Errant Dreams basically summed up my feelings about Gaiman:
He experiments with some of the more complex poetic forms, and makes them elegant and breathtaking
Yep-that's all I have to add. Go Heather.
Monday, July 30, 2007
"Tomorrow's Wind" by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Preface: this is the second poem for bookwookey's challenge. See the caveat from the post below re: my lack of analytical skills!
So, I'm going to be a little more freewheeling in this response!
First, when I was reading through, I thought I'd clarify a couple words for people who might not have much experience with Russia. The Decembrists were a group of Russian noble officers who all fought in the Napoleanic wars. They spent time in Paris after Napleon's defeat, and there they were exposed to Enlightenment ideas. Coming back to imperialist Russia, they formed a secret society to talk about the possibility of reforms. When Tsar Alexander I died, there was confusion over the succession. The Decembrists took advantage of the confusion to take a stand in favour of a constitutional monarchy; when gathered in Palace Square to swear allegiance to the new tsar (Nicolas), they instead demanded Nicolas make reforms. It didn't go too well; Nicolas ended up executing a few of the leaders and sent most into exile in Siberia. In Russia, they've always been a symbol of honour, sacrifice, and reform. :) The other word is shashlik. This is much easier to explain-it's the Russian version of a meat kebab.
I loved this poem, because it seems to combine the hope and despair of the Soviet era. Yevtushenko is considered one of the greatest living poets; this poem certainly shows that. The way he structured the poem, like words were being blown by gusts of wind, was pretty awesome (as is Dewey for telling me the html tag that keeps it that way!). My favourite part is the sentence that begins "Wind does not crawl before idols" and the one that follows it. In this, we see his condemnation of Soviet heros (esp. Stalin and Lenin, whose statues you could find everywhere) and Soviet bureaucracy: "all the important little papers/that press us down/into the ground." But there's also his celebration of democracy with "the Decembrist's hot punch" and "scraps/of newspapers and posters." He celebrates both kinds of democracy: the top-down reforming leaders as well as the bottom-up grassroots change.
Yevtushenko has some incredibly strong images: he makes kebabs out of "simpletons and fools" on their "TV tower," and calls for the youth to "suck in the time/with a feverous mouth." Since the former image is immediately followed by an appeal to youth, it seems like he's showing his frustration at people who fritter their lives away, refusing to step out of their living rooms. His almost sexual description of the youth rising up is matched by a description of the wind being born, "sprawling/in a burst". He portrays the whole process of revolution to be an act of creation; then he addes images of destruction, "structures/built on sand/will rightfully crumble." While this is destructive, it's not violent, the way we might usually imagine revolution.
Alongside this active call to the youth, there's a considerable amount of nostalgia. In Yevtushenko's world, phone lines "sag/from unending chatter," there are "butwhatifers" and the poet argues that "in old age/it's harder to be precocious" (I loved that line as well). There's a sense that he feels he's too old, that it's time to pass the mantle on to the next generation.
Edited to add: the more I think about it, the more I think there's a certain amount of shame tinging his discussion of his own generation. It's interesting...some of my older profs in Russia displayed this type of shame; the kind of, how could we have let this happen to our country? And perhaps the source of his exhortion to the youth-his belief that the people *could* have done something about it. In actuality, though, I'm not sure that they could have. Russia had so many autocratic institutions in place, so when the Soviets took over they could merely expand things. I mean, obviously it wasn't destiny. But right after the revolution, many of the privileged Russians fled, while others stayed. The ones who stayed always blamed those who left. Perhaps they blamed themselves as well.
The way that Yevtushenko blends all of these emotions, and creates the kind of images that stay with you, shows his artistry. He has an exquisite sense of timing and balance that makes reading his poetry a true joy.
Tomorrow's Wind" by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
Why am I without joy,
achieving everything,
but grasping
nothing at all?
I dream of the wind
that has overtaken me,
the wind
that has leaped over me.
It shreds
all the telephone lines that sag
from unending chatter,
and all that’s wasted,
all that’s turned sour
it catapults
into oblivion.
All sorts of butwhatifers,
shaking,
like jelly in jackets,
whirled up in a vortex,
like fallen leaves,
shout down indignantly:
"How come?"
Where there’s no wind,
there’s no faith.
Let clammy red pencils
be strewn
among the reeds,
scattered madly
by tomorrow’s wind.
Wind
does not crawl
before idols,
it swirls scraps
of newspapers and posters,
yesterday’s glories,
turning somersaults
over warped roofs.
As if it had swilled
the Decembrists’ hot punch,
tipsy,
the wind flings upward
all the important little papers
that press us down
to the ground.
The wind
showers
under constellations
the garbage
in which the world is bogged down:
automobiles,
which have ridden over people,
furniture,
which has sprawled on us.
The wind
pulls away from sticky screens
all the bewitched
simpletons and fools,
and without thinking
plants them
like shashlik
on the spike of their beloved TV tower...
Timid youth,
I am preaching to you:
Charge forward,
headlong into the epoch,
without wasting
the wind of history
either on fads
or the flimsy.
Each
new generation
must create
a special wind.
If it doesn’t shake
bits of dust,
young people
should send
an SOS.
Youth
is the age for a fresh airing.
In old age
it’s harder to be precocious,
if you put off
being young
in your youth.
Is it possible for you
all to be unfit?
Suck in the time
with a feverous mouth.
The calm will be
inhaled by you,
by the wind
exhaled
afterward.
And the wind,
making a gift of itself
to the universe,
is born,
sprawling
in a burst,
and structures
built on sand
rightfully will crumble.
And I, having reared
these structures not a little,
will look on happily,
blaming no one,
as it withdraws,
arching its mane,
the wind
that has leaped over me.
So, I'm going to be a little more freewheeling in this response!
First, when I was reading through, I thought I'd clarify a couple words for people who might not have much experience with Russia. The Decembrists were a group of Russian noble officers who all fought in the Napoleanic wars. They spent time in Paris after Napleon's defeat, and there they were exposed to Enlightenment ideas. Coming back to imperialist Russia, they formed a secret society to talk about the possibility of reforms. When Tsar Alexander I died, there was confusion over the succession. The Decembrists took advantage of the confusion to take a stand in favour of a constitutional monarchy; when gathered in Palace Square to swear allegiance to the new tsar (Nicolas), they instead demanded Nicolas make reforms. It didn't go too well; Nicolas ended up executing a few of the leaders and sent most into exile in Siberia. In Russia, they've always been a symbol of honour, sacrifice, and reform. :) The other word is shashlik. This is much easier to explain-it's the Russian version of a meat kebab.
I loved this poem, because it seems to combine the hope and despair of the Soviet era. Yevtushenko is considered one of the greatest living poets; this poem certainly shows that. The way he structured the poem, like words were being blown by gusts of wind, was pretty awesome (as is Dewey for telling me the html tag that keeps it that way!). My favourite part is the sentence that begins "Wind does not crawl before idols" and the one that follows it. In this, we see his condemnation of Soviet heros (esp. Stalin and Lenin, whose statues you could find everywhere) and Soviet bureaucracy: "all the important little papers/that press us down/into the ground." But there's also his celebration of democracy with "the Decembrist's hot punch" and "scraps/of newspapers and posters." He celebrates both kinds of democracy: the top-down reforming leaders as well as the bottom-up grassroots change.
Yevtushenko has some incredibly strong images: he makes kebabs out of "simpletons and fools" on their "TV tower," and calls for the youth to "suck in the time/with a feverous mouth." Since the former image is immediately followed by an appeal to youth, it seems like he's showing his frustration at people who fritter their lives away, refusing to step out of their living rooms. His almost sexual description of the youth rising up is matched by a description of the wind being born, "sprawling/in a burst". He portrays the whole process of revolution to be an act of creation; then he addes images of destruction, "structures/built on sand/will rightfully crumble." While this is destructive, it's not violent, the way we might usually imagine revolution.
Alongside this active call to the youth, there's a considerable amount of nostalgia. In Yevtushenko's world, phone lines "sag/from unending chatter," there are "butwhatifers" and the poet argues that "in old age/it's harder to be precocious" (I loved that line as well). There's a sense that he feels he's too old, that it's time to pass the mantle on to the next generation.
Edited to add: the more I think about it, the more I think there's a certain amount of shame tinging his discussion of his own generation. It's interesting...some of my older profs in Russia displayed this type of shame; the kind of, how could we have let this happen to our country? And perhaps the source of his exhortion to the youth-his belief that the people *could* have done something about it. In actuality, though, I'm not sure that they could have. Russia had so many autocratic institutions in place, so when the Soviets took over they could merely expand things. I mean, obviously it wasn't destiny. But right after the revolution, many of the privileged Russians fled, while others stayed. The ones who stayed always blamed those who left. Perhaps they blamed themselves as well.
The way that Yevtushenko blends all of these emotions, and creates the kind of images that stay with you, shows his artistry. He has an exquisite sense of timing and balance that makes reading his poetry a true joy.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Blake's Songs of Innocence
Preface: This is the first poem for the challenge hosted at bookwookey. I don't pretend to be any good at poetry analysis; I took one class in college on writing poetry, because I needed an arts credit to graduate, and I can't draw. My most extensive experience with poetry is memorising famous Russian ones; that started me off, and now I enjoy memorising English ones as well. So, for me the most important thing about a poem is that I enjoy how it sounds; I tend to not worry about the meaning. Keep that in mind as you read my desperate, fumbling attempts over the next week.
"A Cradle Song" by William Blake
(note...here's the original with engravings)
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!
Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown!
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child!
Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes!
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sweet babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:
Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an infant small.
Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee!
Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an infant small;
Infant smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
I have to admit: I didn't expect to enjoy William Blake. I really don't like his paintings (number one reason-the colours), so I've always avoided his poetry. When I saw the Poetry Challenge, though, I thought that now would be as good a time as ever to tackle Songs of Innocence and Experience. After all, I feel that everyone *ought* to have read Blake, even if they don't enjoy him! So, imagine my surprise when I found his poetry to be beautiful, and evocative, and touching! For the challenge, I read the whole collection. For posting, however, I'm going to choose one from each part. Why'd I pick "A Cradle Song"? Well, I live with my baby niece, and as soon as I read through the poem, it just jumped at me.
The poem starts out soft and happy...
the first three stanzas are filled with adjectives like sweet, mild, pleasant. The mother seems to be friends with who she's addressing (dreams, sleep, smiles); the baby seems in a good place.
The fourth stanza continues with the soothing diction...
making the reader feel safe, but the addition of the word "moans" introduces something else.
Then, the fifth stanza approaches. It starts out quite positive: Blake repeats the word happy, but that's just him lulling the reader so that the jolt of the last line is all the sharper: "while o'er thee thy mother weep." After almost being rocked to sleep in perfect harmony, Blake goes back on the reader's trust. Now, it seems the mother is unhappy.
However, the closing stanzas clarify this. The mother is thinking about God, and when God became a baby. I'm fairly certain it's not a huge leap to assume that would be Jesus. ;) It closes on a feel-good, Jesus loves us kind of note.
In case you couldn't tell, I like the poem more when you chop off the last three stanzas. That way, you have the really strong (because unexpected) line ending the poem. However, I'm sure that Blake had a point to make; a quick minute at Wikipedia informed me that Blake liked Jesus, but didn't like the Church. Hmmm..apparently he developed his own religion and mythology. Quite interesting. (can you tell we never discussed Blake in my high school? I feel like my complete ignorance about him is embarrasing me) So, I suppose his Jesus references weren't ironic; they were a real sign of his beliefs. You have to admit, it's a nice belief-very rosy. Perhaps that's why this poem was from Songs of Innocence. ;)
Ok, I think I've rambled on long enough. I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing for the Poetry Challenge (I was half tempted to just post the poem and tell people to read it), so I hope I've done my duty. This is definitely a poem that I'll memorise. Perhaps after this challenge I'll be so addicted to poetry that I'll start posting a poem a week. But without the analysis.
"A Cradle Song" by William Blake
(note...here's the original with engravings)
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!
Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown!
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child!
Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother's smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes!
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep, sleep, happy child!
All creation slept and smiled.
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep.
Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace;
Sweet babe, once like thee
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me:
Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When He was an infant small.
Thou His image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee!
Smiles on thee, on me, on all,
Who became an infant small;
Infant smiles are His own smiles;
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles.
I have to admit: I didn't expect to enjoy William Blake. I really don't like his paintings (number one reason-the colours), so I've always avoided his poetry. When I saw the Poetry Challenge, though, I thought that now would be as good a time as ever to tackle Songs of Innocence and Experience. After all, I feel that everyone *ought* to have read Blake, even if they don't enjoy him! So, imagine my surprise when I found his poetry to be beautiful, and evocative, and touching! For the challenge, I read the whole collection. For posting, however, I'm going to choose one from each part. Why'd I pick "A Cradle Song"? Well, I live with my baby niece, and as soon as I read through the poem, it just jumped at me.
The poem starts out soft and happy...
the first three stanzas are filled with adjectives like sweet, mild, pleasant. The mother seems to be friends with who she's addressing (dreams, sleep, smiles); the baby seems in a good place.
The fourth stanza continues with the soothing diction...
making the reader feel safe, but the addition of the word "moans" introduces something else.
Then, the fifth stanza approaches. It starts out quite positive: Blake repeats the word happy, but that's just him lulling the reader so that the jolt of the last line is all the sharper: "while o'er thee thy mother weep." After almost being rocked to sleep in perfect harmony, Blake goes back on the reader's trust. Now, it seems the mother is unhappy.
However, the closing stanzas clarify this. The mother is thinking about God, and when God became a baby. I'm fairly certain it's not a huge leap to assume that would be Jesus. ;) It closes on a feel-good, Jesus loves us kind of note.
In case you couldn't tell, I like the poem more when you chop off the last three stanzas. That way, you have the really strong (because unexpected) line ending the poem. However, I'm sure that Blake had a point to make; a quick minute at Wikipedia informed me that Blake liked Jesus, but didn't like the Church. Hmmm..apparently he developed his own religion and mythology. Quite interesting. (can you tell we never discussed Blake in my high school? I feel like my complete ignorance about him is embarrasing me) So, I suppose his Jesus references weren't ironic; they were a real sign of his beliefs. You have to admit, it's a nice belief-very rosy. Perhaps that's why this poem was from Songs of Innocence. ;)
Ok, I think I've rambled on long enough. I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing for the Poetry Challenge (I was half tempted to just post the poem and tell people to read it), so I hope I've done my duty. This is definitely a poem that I'll memorise. Perhaps after this challenge I'll be so addicted to poetry that I'll start posting a poem a week. But without the analysis.
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