Hello
Some nights
the rat with pointed teeth
makes his long way back
to the bowl of peaches.
He stands on the dining room table
sinking his tooth
drinking the pulp
of each fruity turned-up face
knowing you will read
this message and scream.
It is his only text,
to take and take in darkness,
to be gone before you awaken
and your giant feet
start creaking the floor.
Where is the mother of the rat?
The father, the shredded nest,
which breath were we taking
when the rat was born,
when he lifted his shivering snout
to rafter and rivet and stone?
I gave him the names of the devil,
seared and screeching names,
I would not enter those rooms
without a stick to guide me,
I leaned on the light, shuddering,
and the moist earth under the house,
the trailing tails of clouds,
said he was in the closet,
the drawer of candles,
his nose was a wick.
How would we live together
with our sad shoes and hideouts,
our lock on the door
and his delicate fingered paws
that could clutch and grip,
his blank slate of fur
and the pillow where we press our faces?
The bed that was a boat is sinking.
And the shores of morning loom up
lined with little shadows,
things we never wanted to be, or meet,
and all the rats are waving hello.
Naomi Shihab Nye
The ephemeral beauty of the ordinary life. My life, in fact is made golden with little moments all the time, but I sometimes forget how important that is. It is a sign of hope.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
the moment
The Moment
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
Margaret Atwood
-In the poem “The Moment”, Margaret Atwood has beautifully described the importance of work and struggle in human life as compared to lying back and just loving your accomplishments. The poetess lays due importance on the favt that if one always wants to be a part of the universe, he or she is expected by the universe itself to be working constantly. Its always lazy people i the world.. its basically saying dont give up and say thats enough just because you feel like you did enough , always strive for more.
Bored
Bored
All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.
Margaret Atwood
The diction is plain spoken, simple.The tone develops into one of regret and wistfulness for a time insufficiently appreciated. The speaker would like to have her old life back because she sees how happy it was in comparison, perhaps, to the livelier but not as happy time she has had since then. However, she cannot. She has come into too much knowledge. She would not be bored now, but she has become someone else. It is an analogue of the Fall. “bored” is a poem that about boredom of course but also about learning, paying attention, and most of all about love and loss.
The diction is plain spoken, simple.The tone develops into one of regret and wistfulness for a time insufficiently appreciated. The speaker would like to have her old life back because she sees how happy it was in comparison, perhaps, to the livelier but not as happy time she has had since then. However, she cannot. She has come into too much knowledge. She would not be bored now, but she has become someone else. It is an analogue of the Fall. “bored” is a poem that about boredom of course but also about learning, paying attention, and most of all about love and loss.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
You Fit Into Me
You Fit Into Me
You fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye
Margaret Atwood
-This poem is short and simple. Its straight to the point, its means exactly how its written.She turns the expected definition of “hook and eye” and replaces it with an image of violence. She frequently uses surprise in her poems. Its interesting how she makes the poems where you think of it in a way where it can be expressed in different meanings. Its such a short poem with so much meaning, but its easiy explained.
-This poem is short and simple. Its straight to the point, its means exactly how its written.She turns the expected definition of “hook and eye” and replaces it with an image of violence. She frequently uses surprise in her poems. Its interesting how she makes the poems where you think of it in a way where it can be expressed in different meanings. Its such a short poem with so much meaning, but its easiy explained.
This is a photograph of me
This is a Photograph of Me
It was taken some time ago
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion.
but if you look long enough
eventually
you will see me.)
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you can see something in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or how small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion.
but if you look long enough
eventually
you will see me.)
Margaret Atwood
-The title may give rise to several interpretations.She wants our attention drawn to the photograph. The fact that she claims that it is her in the photograph, pushing on the fact that she looks very different in reality. The most reasonable interpretation would be that- the general perception or outlook about her was quite different; this was her real self in the photograph. She's trying to say that within every photograph is something you can't see. The photograph wasn't taken of her, 'under the surface', it was of the lake, the surroundings. She's trying to say that sometimes a photographer doesn't see what it's camera does, and that there's always something more within it.
-The title may give rise to several interpretations.She wants our attention drawn to the photograph. The fact that she claims that it is her in the photograph, pushing on the fact that she looks very different in reality. The most reasonable interpretation would be that- the general perception or outlook about her was quite different; this was her real self in the photograph. She's trying to say that within every photograph is something you can't see. The photograph wasn't taken of her, 'under the surface', it was of the lake, the surroundings. She's trying to say that sometimes a photographer doesn't see what it's camera does, and that there's always something more within it.
Spelling
Spelling
My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.
I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.
A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.
I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.
Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.
A word after a word
after a word is power.
At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.
This is a metaphor.
How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.
I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.
A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.
I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.
Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.
A word after a word
after a word is power.
At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.
This is a metaphor.
How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.
Margaret Atwood
Margaret Atwood’s Spelling is a sophisticated and emotional poem. The main focus which is clearly highlighted within the poem, is education and not just education, but education for women. Atwood uses "spelling" as testament of the power of words and she depicts the poem of the powerlessness of women without the use of language. Like much of Atwood’s poetry, it has one central objective deeply rooted in her feminist beliefs. She aims firstly at the women in history by expressing the horrors of the low social status of women and how they were tortured in war; then she explains that education is what gives women the power to stand up for themselves and fight for freedom and convinces more people to start receiving education.
Margaret Atwood’s Spelling is a sophisticated and emotional poem. The main focus which is clearly highlighted within the poem, is education and not just education, but education for women. Atwood uses "spelling" as testament of the power of words and she depicts the poem of the powerlessness of women without the use of language. Like much of Atwood’s poetry, it has one central objective deeply rooted in her feminist beliefs. She aims firstly at the women in history by expressing the horrors of the low social status of women and how they were tortured in war; then she explains that education is what gives women the power to stand up for themselves and fight for freedom and convinces more people to start receiving education.
More and more
More and More
More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.
I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.
Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.
So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:
This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.
There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.
I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.
Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.
So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:
This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.
There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.
Margaret Atwood
This poem is about our relentless attempts to try and understand the world.Whatever journey this exploration takes us on we always return to what we know. It shows us a child's uncensored and free view of the world and itself. We take in well what we've experienced closely and label the rest with widely aceepted biases. We loose our free perception in an attempt to look "learned" or "biased.
This poem is about our relentless attempts to try and understand the world.Whatever journey this exploration takes us on we always return to what we know. It shows us a child's uncensored and free view of the world and itself. We take in well what we've experienced closely and label the rest with widely aceepted biases. We loose our free perception in an attempt to look "learned" or "biased.
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