This was a tough choice for me. I debated for some time before finally making my decision.
With an excellent selection of poetry combined with wonderful commentary, I felt this one was a cut above the rest.
Coming in the top five were Annejb, A Blog to Pass the Time, Volleyball14, and Ninjadrock. All were excellent reads for me.
Dry your eyes and quietly bear this pain with pride
For heaven shall remember the silent and the brave
And promise me they will never see, the fear within our eyes
(my eyes are closed)
We will give strength to those who still remain
So bury fear, for fate draws near
And hide the signs of pain
With noble acts, the bravest souls
Endure the heart’s remains
Discard regret, that in this debt
A better world is made
That children of a newer day might remember
And avoid our fate
(I’ve waited all day in the pouring rain, but nobody came, no, nobody came)
And in the fury of this darkest hour
We will be your light
You’ve asked me for my sacrifice
And I am Winter born
Without denying, a faith is come
That I have never known
I hear the angels call my name
And I am Winter born
Hold your head up high-for there is no greater love
Think of the faces of the people you defend
(you defend)
And promise me, they will never see the tears within our eyes
(my eyes are closed)
Although we are men, with mortal sins, angels never cry
So bury fear, for fate draws near
And hide the signs of pain
With noble acts, the bravest souls
Endure the heart’s remains
Discard regret, that in this debt
A better world is made
That children of a newer day might remember
And avoid our fate
And in the fury of this darkest hour
We will be your light
You’ve asked me for my sacrifice
And I am Winter born
Without denying, a faith in God
That I have never known
I hear the angels call my name
And I am Winter born
And in the fury of this darkest hour
I will be your light
A lifetime for this destiny
For I am Winter born
And in this moment..I will not run
It is my place to stand
We few shall carry hope
Within our bloodied hands
(bloodied hands)
And in our Dying, we’re more alive-than we have ever been
I’ve lived for these few seconds
For I am Winter born
And in the fury of this darkest hour
We will be the light
You’ve asked me for my sacrifice
And I am Winter born
Without denying, a faith in man
That I have never known
I hear the angels call my name
And I am Winter born
Within this moment now
I am for you, though better men have failed
I will give my life for love
For I am Winter born
And in my dying
I’m more alive, than I have ever been
I will make this sacrifice
For I am Winter born
The Cruxshadows
I picked my last poem only after seeing that other people had done songs for their posts. This let me realize I could pick a song as well.
The main reason I picked this particular song is the fact that almost no one appears to understand what it is about. One of the most common interpertations of the song is that it relates to the fall of the city of Troy, as many of the songs on the album it comes from are about that same thing. But would someone from ancient Greece make references to “mortal sins” or speak about how “angels never cry”? No. Those are inferrences towards Christian themes. And if one looks at the lyrics with an eye towards those themes, it becomes apparent that this song is about the death of the most famous person who allegedly was born in the winter (even if they were not born then, we celebrate their birth on Christmas day regardless).
Just reading the words is not good enough in my eyes, I wish I had a way to get others to listen to the song as it is performed. That would make it even easier to comprehend, in my opinion.
For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
“How do you know if you are going to die?”
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
“When you can no longer make a fist.”
Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Poetry does not need to rhyme. This seems like a fairly obvious idea, but nine times out of ten when you get an example of poetry put forward, it will involve some kind of rhyme scheme. This poem is a good example of a narrative that does not follow most of the usual conventions. Yes, it may seem harder to write in the standard formats that we associate with poetry, but I tend to think that it is easier to use a template to write poetry. Making a free-verse, non-rhyming poem good is much harder than it seems at first. That is why I like this poem- it manages to be excellent without using any kind of formula.
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This is one of the poems I brought into class to use for the video recording. It wasn’t chosen because another poem that was brought in was a perfect choice, but I wanted to do something with this one in any event.
What I love about this poem is the way it does not need to come out and tell the reader what has happened. Yes, Thomas most likely intended to have the reader figure out what occurred on the anniversary with the lines “The windows pour into their heart/ And the doors burn in their brains”. But there isn’t a desire to come out and bluntly state the facts. I enjoy this approach more than simply having a poet come out and say “Two people died in a fire on their wedding anniversary”. Which one would you rather read?
How thin and sharp is the moon tonight!
How thin and sharp and ghostly white
Is the slim curved crook of the moon tonight!
Langston Hughes
It’s interesting I ended up picking the same poet this week that I did last week. But I felt that this poem represented what I wished to say for this time: that length does not make a poem good or bad. Hughes only needs three lines to express his feelings about a crescent moon being visible in the sky. A poem could be several volumes long and still manage to not mean much of anything. In literature, there is a tendency towards length being the equivalent of higher quality. But even a short piece can be excellent if the writer accomplishes his or her goals for the work. Having picked more lengthy poems in the past, I felt I needed a short, high quality poem this time around.
My old man’s a white old man
And my old mother’s black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I’m sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder were I’m going to die,
Being neither white nor black?
Langston Hughes
In one of my other classes this semster we have dicussed the difficulty of belonging to two different worlds. This poem is an excellent snapshot of how it would have been to be of mixed race in the early part of the twentyth century. There would have been no choices as to who you belonged- unless you happened to be very light-skinned, you were seen as black. There was no chance for a dual existance, as most people had to sit within the category alloted to them. It’s a testiment towards the subject of the poem’s insight that he appears to have feelings toward both groups, black and white. Admittedly, those feelings are equally hostile in the beginning, but as he relates during the poem, he now regrets those angry feelings.
None of this ends up giving the subject a solid place in the world, but there is some hope in that he appears to acknowledge both sides of his past. One day, he may find acceptence with both.
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One of the reasons I picked this poem was because I realized all of my previous poems had been written by men. Since there have been at least as many good female poets as have been men, I felt I needed to pick a woman this time around.
Another good reason I picked this poem was the fact I could draw a bit of a paralell to an earlier poem we did in class. The part of this poem that I felt confused by when I first read it was the line about how “they took my lover’s tallness off to war/left me lamenting”. Huh? What did that mean? I felt even weirder because I usually understand poetry. But I had to keep going back to the poem. Like the construction worker who learned to love Whitman, I came to a greater understanding of the work via re-reading. It’s one of the few sonnets I have read over and over, and I believe this has helped me to appreciate that form of poetry even more.
This is an example of a poem that it took me a while to learn to love. I heard it as a lyric poem, but I wasn’t able to think of it as particularly melodic. I think this is true of most poems that lack an easily recognizable rhyme scheme. It was only after several readings that it grew on me, and now I consider it one of my favorite poems of all time.
The thing I like best about the poem is the dramatic recitation of a universal theme. Heartbreak is something we all will experience in our lifetimes, although this is the first time I have seen it compared to the charging of an army. Yet when it is all placed together, the end result is powerful and will not be forgotten by the reader quickly.
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
This is yet another one of my favorite poems. I first read it shortly after my stepfather died, and it spoke to me. My stepfather would not have agreed with Donne’s statements, but I find them to ring loud and true. Death is a seemingly frightening exprience, but it is a brief thing. And once death has come, we need never fear it again.
The main reason that I know my stepfather would not have agreed with Donne is he was an atheist. While I still am uncertain of what I shall call my own beliefs, I do know I believe in God. Donne’s poem reminded me that the true victims of death are those who are left behind. Pain is for the living, although despite this I still enjoy life. I doubt Donne is saying to not enjoy life as we live, but is instead saying that one need not live life in a state of fear over dying. Even if what comes after death is pleasant, it still takes you away from your loved ones. And there is no way of returning. Death, once defeated, means being separated from those who have yet to challenge it.
The Tropics in New York
Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root,
Cocoa in pods and alligator pears,
And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit,
Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs,
Set in the window, bringing memories
Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills,
And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies
In benediction over nun-like hills.
My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze;
A wave of longing through my body swept,
And, hungry for the old, familiar ways,
I turned aside and bowed my head and wept.
Claude McKay
I’ve always loved this poem. It manages to evoke a feeling of homesickness
that I believe we all have felt from time to time. New York is far away from
the Caribbean, and the differences in culture that are found in the two
regions can be seen as farther still. While the sight of something from
one’s home is often a pleasant experience, it can also bring one to despair
of what was lost when one left the prior home.
Everyone can relate to longing, even if we have stayed in the same town our
whole lives.
I still desire to travel and see much of the things mentioned above- the “bananas ripe and green”, the “fruit trees laden by low singing rills”, and all other features of a very different world. I wonder whether I will in turn miss the multi-colored leaves and untouched white snow that is in turn found in my own home (the winter in the Carribean, perhaps?)
