Literature Class

[Janie]

QUOTE (Queen of Megadon @ Oct 16 2008, 06:20 AM)

QUOTE (Janie @ Oct 15 2008, 08:16 AM) WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS This is Just to Say 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 (1934)   Oh ThankYou! for bringing William Carlos Williams back to me! Shame on me for forgetting.   wow...that was so very cool.     (disclosure--I was an English/Communications major in college with a writing concentration, but oh did I love me my poetry classes!) I do love WCW. There are so many poets I adore. I haven't read poetry in a few years and this thread has rekindled my interest in it. I think this weekend I'll go through and re-read some of my favorite poems.   One of my most cherished books is the Norton Anthology of English Literature, 7th ed., v. 2. It weighs about 200 lbs but I'll pull it from the bookshelf, brush off the dust and read my favorite poets this weekend.

[Janie]

Another one of my favorite poets is William Wordsworth. Here's his poem titled, "We Are Seven." I just love this poem.

 

 

We Are Seven

By William Wordsworth

 

--------------A simple Child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

 

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

 

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

-- Her beauty made me glad.

 

Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?

How many? Seven in all, she said,

And wondering looked at me.

 

And where are they? I pray you tell.

She answered, Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

 

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother.

 

You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! -- I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be.

 

Then did the little Maid reply,

Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree.

 

You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five.

 

Their graves are green, they may be seen,

The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side.

 

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

 

"And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

 

"The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

 

"So in the churchyard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

 

And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side.

 

How many are you then, said I,

If they two are in heaven?

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

O Master! we are seven.

 

But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, Nay, we are seven!

Edited October 16, 2008 by Janie

[nic2112nic]

My lit. classes are the only place I hear teachers swearing in:P Especially when we are studying Philip Larkin

One of them even used the see you next tuesday word! I couldnt believe she said that!

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (nic2112nic @ Oct 16 2008, 01:00 PM)

My lit. classes are the only place I hear teachers swearing in:P Especially when we are studying Philip Larkin One of them even used the see you next tuesday word! I couldnt believe she said that!

Mine let me say female dog today in class.

Since it was in the play we were reading.

[*Limelight*]

King Lear

Only in act II right now, but it is a great piece of work.

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Oct 20 2008, 11:51 PM)

King Lear Only in act II right now, but it is a great piece of work.

Finished it the other day.

 

It's so very good.

[nic2112nic]

Anyone here read Enduring Love by Ewan McEwan? We are doing that in our Lit class and it is wierd!

[GeddyRulz]

QUOTE (nic2112nic @ Oct 25 2008, 10:24 AM)

Anyone here read Enduring Love by Ewan McEwan? We are doing that in our Lit class and it is wierd!

You mean Ian McEwan.

 

I've never read any of his stuff, but was given half-a-dozen of his books by my in-laws. They retired and moved to Scotland, and love everything about the UK... including literature. They keep pushing Ian McEwan and Iain Banks on my wife and I.

[nic2112nic]

QUOTE (GeddyRulz @ Oct 25 2008, 03:29 PM)

QUOTE (nic2112nic @ Oct 25 2008, 10:24 AM) Anyone here read Enduring Love by Ewan McEwan? We are doing that in our Lit class and it is wierd! You mean Ian McEwan.   I've never read any of his stuff, but was given half-a-dozen of his books by my in-laws. They retired and moved to Scotland, and love everything about the UK... including literature. They keep pushing Ian McEwan and Iain Banks on my wife and I. Yep, I knew that I wasn't thinking It's a wierd book

Edited October 25, 2008 by nic2112nic

[*Limelight*]

SONG.

by John Donne

 

 

SWEETEST love, I do not go,

For weariness of thee,

Nor in hope the world can show

A fitter love for me ;

But since that I

At the last must part, 'tis best,

Thus to use myself in jest

By feigned deaths to die.

 

Yesternight the sun went hence,

And yet is here to-day ;

He hath no desire nor sense,

Nor half so short a way ;

Then fear not me,

But believe that I shall make

Speedier journeys, since I take

More wings and spurs than he.

 

O how feeble is man's power,

That if good fortune fall,

Cannot add another hour,

Nor a lost hour recall ;

But come bad chance,

And we join to it our strength,

And we teach it art and length,

Itself o'er us to advance.

 

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,

But sigh'st my soul away ;

When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,

My life's blood doth decay.

It cannot be

That thou lovest me as thou say'st,

If in thine my life thou waste,

That art the best of me.

 

Let not thy divining heart

Forethink me any ill ;

Destiny may take thy part,

And may thy fears fulfil.

But think that we

Are but turn'd aside to sleep.

They who one another keep

Alive, ne'er parted be.

[*Limelight*]

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US

by Ben Jonson

 

To draw no envy, SHAKSPEARE, on thy name,

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ;

While I confess thy writings to be such,

As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ;

For seeliest ignorance on these may light,

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ;

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ;

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,

And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.

These are, as some infamous bawd or whore

Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more ?

But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,

Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.

I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!

The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage!

My SHAKSPEARE rise ! I will not lodge thee by

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further, to make thee a room :

Thou art a monument without a tomb,

And art alive still while thy book doth live

And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so my brain excuses,

I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses :

For if I thought my judgment were of years,

I should commit thee surely with thy peers,

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,

Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,

From thence to honour thee, I would not seek

For names : but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus,

Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,

To life again, to hear thy buskin tread

And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on,

Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show

To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe.

He was not of an age, but for all time !

And all the Muses still were in their prime,

When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm

Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm !

Nature herself was proud of his designs,

And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines !

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;

But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.

Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art,

My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.

For though the poet's matter nature be,

His art doth give the fashion : and, that he

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat

Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same,

And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ;

Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn ;

For a good poet's made, as well as born.

And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face

Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines

In his well torned and true filed lines;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandisht at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,

That so did take Eliza, and our James !

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere

Advanced, and made a constellation there !

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage

Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage,

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

[Disco]

QUOTE (nic2112nic @ Oct 25 2008, 05:24 PM)

Anyone here read Enduring Love by Ewan McEwan? We are doing that in our Lit class and it is wierd!

My tuppence worth...

 

For me, McEwen is as good as anyone writing in the UK at the moment, but this book is not his best.

 

What I enjoyed most about his early works was how lean they were. it was reduced down to the structural architecture required to carry the plot and character. Enduring Love is however flabby. For the first time in his work you get taken down sideroads in which he explores things not essential to the plot, but interesting to him. for example when he goes to the British Library (I think it is) and discussed how the non-fiction is not given as much weight of respect as the fiction. For the first time you can hear the voice of the author and his interests in the work.

 

The first chapter is of course fantastic and condensced is everything that makes McEwen good. The slowing down of time and the exploration of every nuance of emotion and inflection of word. Just fantastic, but it loses it's way after the first chapter.

 

Far better for my money, and the best book I've read for years is 'On Chisel Beach'. Back on form, doing everything that is good in his (the exploration of self deceit, economy of language, breathtaking emotional insight) without any of the flab.

 

Disco

[Analog Kelly]

I LOVE this thread !

I was an English major also and this spring I am going back to get my masters to be an English teacher

 

One of my all time favorite poems by William Butler Yeats

 

When You are Old

 

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

 

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true;

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

 

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead,

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

 

[nic2112nic]

QUOTE (Disco @ Nov 1 2008, 10:56 AM)

QUOTE (nic2112nic @ Oct 25 2008, 05:24 PM) Anyone here read Enduring Love by Ewan McEwan? We are doing that in our Lit class and it is wierd! My tuppence worth...   For me, McEwen is as good as anyone writing in the UK at the moment, but this book is not his best.   What I enjoyed most about his early works was how lean they were. it was reduced down to the structural architecture required to carry the plot and character. Enduring Love is however flabby. For the first time in his work you get taken down sideroads in which he explores things not essential to the plot, but interesting to him. for example when he goes to the British Library (I think it is) and discussed how the non-fiction is not given as much weight of respect as the fiction. For the first time you can hear the voice of the author and his interests in the work.   The first chapter is of course fantastic and condensced is everything that makes McEwen good. The slowing down of time and the exploration of every nuance of emotion and inflection of word. Just fantastic, but it loses it's way after the first chapter.   Far better for my money, and the best book I've read for years is 'On Chisel Beach'. Back on form, doing everything that is good in his (the exploration of self deceit, economy of language, breathtaking emotional insight) without any of the flab.   Disco Although you do have to realise that quite alot of the unreliable narration is Joe Rose speaking and he, as a character, is a science journalist and his mind is more driven by facts and the logical, rather than emotion. Therefore, there will be some of Joe's thought process that rises to the forefront of the writing. This makes Clarissa and Jed Parry quite strong counterpoints.

[*Limelight*]

We read an exercpt from "Paradise Lost"

 

While i may not be into the christian thing, i do love the writing.

 

And the epic similie of comparing Satan's length to that of a Leviathan.

[goose]

My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together.

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

 

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

 

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

 

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

 

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 07:17 PM)

My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost is an amazing poet

[Finding IT]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 10:17 PM)

My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

So the great debate about this poem (and Frost never resolved it when he was asked about it during his life or in letters and papers published posthumously) is whether the poet is considering suicide.

 

If you have never considered this reading don't immediately dismiss the idea. Pull back and try to read the poem again. There are critics on both sides.

[*Limelight*]

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 12 2008, 10:09 PM)

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 10:17 PM) My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening     Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. So the great debate about this poem (and Frost never resolved it when he was asked about it during his life or in letters and papers published posthumously) is whether the poet is considering suicide.   If you have never considered this reading don't immediately dismiss the idea. Pull back and try to read the poem again. There are critics on both sides. Ya, i can see that now.   It could go either way.

[Merely Space]

I'm still a sucker for T. S. Elliot - The Wasteland.

[Finding IT]

QUOTE (Merely Space @ Nov 13 2008, 01:54 PM)

I'm still a sucker for T. S. Elliot - The Wasteland.

Absolutely. I love all of the modernists, but Eliot is my fave, especially this early verse from the poem:

 

 

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water.

 

 

BTW, as a bit of trivia, did you know the first line of the Waste Land, "April is the cruelest month" is stated in opposition to Chaucer's first line of The Canturbury Tales, "Whan that Aprille, with hise shoures soote?"

 

[goose]

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Nov 13 2008, 01:17 AM)

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 12 2008, 10:09 PM) QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 10:17 PM) My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening     Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. So the great debate about this poem (and Frost never resolved it when he was asked about it during his life or in letters and papers published posthumously) is whether the poet is considering suicide.   If you have never considered this reading don't immediately dismiss the idea. Pull back and try to read the poem again. There are critics on both sides. Ya, i can see that now.   It could go either way. From Sparknotes (is that cheating? )   "The basic conflict in the poem, resolved in the last stanza, is between an attraction toward the woods and the pull of responsibility outside of the woods. What do woods represent? Something good? Something bad? Woods are sometimes a symbol for wildness, madness, the pre-rational, the looming irrational. But these woods do not seem particularly wild. They are someone's woods, someone's in particular--the owner lives in the village. But that owner is in the village on this, the darkest evening of the year--so would any sensible person be. That is where the division seems to lie, between the village(or "society," "civilization," "duty," "sensibility," "responsibility") and the woods (that which is beyond the borders of the village and all it represents). If the woods are not particularly wicked, they still possess the seed of the irrational; and they are, at night, dark--with all the varied connotations of darkness."   So, the nature of the dark & luring wilderness is wide open. Seeing it as a potential end to the depths of winter - a dark depression? - would certainly lend itself to the suicide interpretation.

[Finding IT]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 14 2008, 12:03 AM)

QUOTE (*Limelight* @ Nov 13 2008, 01:17 AM) QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 12 2008, 10:09 PM) QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 10:17 PM) My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening     Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. So the great debate about this poem (and Frost never resolved it when he was asked about it during his life or in letters and papers published posthumously) is whether the poet is considering suicide.   If you have never considered this reading don't immediately dismiss the idea. Pull back and try to read the poem again. There are critics on both sides. Ya, i can see that now.   It could go either way. From Sparknotes (is that cheating? )   "The basic conflict in the poem, resolved in the last stanza, is between an attraction toward the woods and the pull of responsibility outside of the woods. What do woods represent? Something good? Something bad? Woods are sometimes a symbol for wildness, madness, the pre-rational, the looming irrational. But these woods do not seem particularly wild. They are someone's woods, someone's in particular--the owner lives in the village. But that owner is in the village on this, the darkest evening of the year--so would any sensible person be. That is where the division seems to lie, between the village(or "society," "civilization," "duty," "sensibility," "responsibility") and the woods (that which is beyond the borders of the village and all it represents). If the woods are not particularly wicked, they still possess the seed of the irrational; and they are, at night, dark--with all the varied connotations of darkness."   So, the nature of the dark & luring wilderness is wide open. Seeing it as a potential end to the depths of winter - a dark depression? - would certainly lend itself to the suicide interpretation. I think this critic is still reading too much negativity into the woods. The scene is described in very positive terms, eh? We are given gentle images and language, e.g., "easy wind and downy flake" and "lovely, dark and deep." I believe him or her to be right on regarding the call of duty as the pull back from the allure of the woods.

[goose]

QUOTE (Finding IT @ Nov 14 2008, 03:18 PM)

I think this critic is still reading too much negativity into the woods. The scene is described in very positive terms, eh? We are given gentle images and language, e.g., "easy wind and downy flake" and "lovely, dark and deep." I believe him or her to be right on regarding the call of duty as the pull back from the allure of the woods.

I tend to see it more your way, that the woods respresent that desire to follow your instincts, the call of the heart, dangerous as it may be. The safer route led by the harnessed horse is the path most all of us end up taking, but those glimpses into the woods are magic moments.

[Queen of Megadon]

QUOTE (goose @ Nov 12 2008, 11:17 PM)

My daughter was assigned to read a couple of Robert Frost poems over the weekend, and this is one she chose, and we read together. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

what a wonderful poem, and poet, to share