What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming
The repetition of "what is" and "who are" in this stanza illuminates a fragmented series of lines, as if working through the an internalized thought process in someone's head. Also the hood imagery includes this obfuscated image that separates the internal from the external, as if the hood is an extension of an individuals cloudy perspective.
And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon
Noon mentioned as a time of day, perhaps this is the lyncpin of the fragmented segments of day and night. The connecting piece of a busy day. The chatter and clatter from "within" depicts a sort of muffled understanding of those around the speaker, creating a detachment between the actuality of the chatter and the potential.
Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon
That notion of fragmentation manifests here. The "unrealness" of the aforementoned city suggest a quality of disbelief which makes me think of cities as a whole. There is a fragmented quality in the logistical layout of city living that feels disconnected yet interconnected at times, this ironic depiction rings true in this "unreal" quality. Also the fog, winter setting and time of day offer this visual of hazyness memory induced pictures.
The lady of situations.
"Lady of the Rocks" is capitalized in the previous line but not here, despite occupying its own line. What the "situations" may be perplexes me, as I've yet to grasp an overall theme within the various stanzas and struggle to find common ground to cement as a basis.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish?
Could this be about the roots of culture? legacy? Are the branches not rubbish despite growing from "stony rubbish?"
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
Whole line of German within the first stanza makes me wonder if Eliot wants the reader to translate or disregard the literal meaning and make peace with the unknown?
Melancholy do lip sing.
Rita hayworth's lip syncing in Gilda was very melancholic, especially in the beautiful black and white cinematography (https://render.fineartamerica.com/images/rendered/default/poster/8/10/break/images/artworkimages/medium/2/rita-hyaworth-playing-guitar-in-gilda-globe-photos.jpg)
Little branches. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale. Pale.
Actually reminded me of paper birch trees in the winter (https://newengland.com/wp-content/uploads/legacy_media_photos/3837.jpg)
Henry Henry Henry. A hand is Henry. Henry Henry Henry.
The repetition of the names reminds me of the poster for being john malkovich (https://musicart.xboxlive.com/7/49631100-0000-0000-0000-000000000002/504/image.jpg?w=1920&h=1080
All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
Love the first lines syntax transitioning into the strong sounding adjectives, makes the two lines feel like five in a good way. Ending the line with "reddish" then into "purplish" denotes a continuation worth the line break, that the descriptors are of such value that they populate the entire poem and stanza structures.
so sweet and so cold
Hilarious, love seeing poetry in a looser more quippy form alongside serious social commentaries.
and so, at last
The suggestion of inevitability or predictable outcome makes the conent feel very somber. That these reminders of flaws or issues are so commonplace that the critics become the friends. Or that they live in dishonesty and are surprised by the genuine concern.
Unthorned into the tending hand
The words "thorn" and "tend" in the same line give a prickly texture that muddles my understanding but in a postively frustrating way.
whose the heavy blade? . . .
The ellipsis following the the trio of qestions heightens the climax and dramitization of the poem. The heaviness that overcomes the reader of asking these series of questions into a culminating breath underscore the final lines notions about speaking. The noise and silence is palbable here, I wonder which one Millay values more.
Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
The inevitability of death comes across in Millay's phrasing here. I wonder if she thinks it is easier to make peace knowing that death is a certain, but love isn't. Death is singular and love is often assumed as a collective feeling, of course self-love is important as well. Love the alliteration of "M's" which give a sonically somber feeling to how the line roles off the tongue.
I did not think that I should find them there
A smidge befuddling and alluring, creates an atmosphere out the gates. I have enjoyed seeing the variations of the first person form in different storytelling mediums.
WENT
Use of punctuation has been on my mind ever since my Dickinson class last semester. Full capitalization in the previous poems felt like a burst of energy, placing it after the initial "I" makes it feel like a scream, a different form of poetic energy.
Good fences make good neighbors.
Making the poem one long stanza resembling a fench line makes this line hit harder repeated towards the end. There's this idea of old ideology without compromise, that boundries produce growth and identity. The collective rebuilding of willing seperation sparks so many questions involving daily habitual life.
sigh
I wonder about this sigh, is it due to regret, FOMO, or nothing of the sort? Perhaps this is the culmination/eureka moment for the speaker.
To stop without a farmhouse near
Love this introspection on nature, and how we as humans facilitate our livelihoods through control of nature, specifcally animals. When I think of a farmhouse, I don't view it as beauty the same way I view the untapped labryinth of trees in a forest. A cabin in the woods is eerie yet melancholic, a farm is no different than a factory.
The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight.
Early mention of "light" that returns in my previous annotation, tactile descriptions here set the stage for quite the illustrated narrative. The speed, color, lights and smell of the room work to make the narrative feel as insular as the narrator does in the story.
On a pattern like this, by daylight, there is a lack of sequence, a defiance of law, that is a constant irritant to a normal mind.
The playful rhythm of pace comes across at this midway point, puts the reader into the mind of daily banality in a single room. The pattern on the wall pricks at the narrator like the pricking of a nagging/manipulative husband, same as the pricking over the various observations the narrator has over what seems like a menial thing.
And then I said it again, several times, very gently and slowly, and said it so often that he had to go and see, and he got it of course,
Moment of calmness in the frantic climax, visualizes a disconnect of language between narrator and husband. The repitition is palpable in the sentence itselfas it is so matter of fact during a tense moment.
black men seem the sole oasis of simple faith and reverence in a dusty desert of dollars and smartness
Stark contrast between the relationship between education between white and black americans of the time, for some it can be a hobby or way to procure money, for others it is survival in an unfair world.
But the facing of so vast a prejudice could not but bring the inevitable self-questioning, self-disparagement, and lowering of ideals which ever accompany repression and breed in an atmosphere of contempt and hate.
This dilemma between self-improvement despite extarnal societal pressure is different than Adams disconnect between technological advances and organic purity. It wasn't life or death for Adams, he had the privilege to pick and choose what devices and beliefs he could adopt, but Dubois's perspective for Black americans highlights a Catch-22 between the different classes.
Whatever of good may have come in these years of change, the shadow of a deep disappointment rests upon the Negro people
Rather than the disillusionment of the future that Adams had, Dubois recognizes a concurrent disillusion that plagues black americans at the time of writing. He had the wherewithal to predict that this issue is deep rooted into the DNA of American ideology, one that forces various groups of people to unfairly start on their backfoot.
as far as the magazines would let him venture; and one or two painters, for the flesh-tones. All the rest had used sex for sentiment
This historical firsthand account of the use-cases for sex in art during this time period is so fascinating. Really sets in stone how America came to be one of the more prudish anda sexually afraid countries in the world. We can plaster billboards around major cities promoting the new Saw movie with severed limbs or home invasion movies and any kid with parental consent can injest those creations, yet the moment there is a female nipple in fiction it is heresey and NC-17. These permeates so much into the lifeblood of the USA its hard to even imagine it changing considering it was being written about here over 100 years ago. When a cultural/society attribues natural things such as sex and human experience as taboo activities behind closed doors, it extends to how we perceive norms and acceptable behaviors at large, thus creating the heteronormative structures. While Adams is likely more concerned with maintaining a religious sanctity, its worth nothing that there is a sexual censorship afoot.
The true American knew something of the facts, but nothing of the feelings
Love this phrase, quite ironic if said in a modern context. The tug and pull between truth and evocation in life alongside art is quite the interest.
bearing butter
Love the plosive alliteration given the irony of being "out of" something despite having the abundance of "b" sounds in burlap, bearing butter, black bean and bread.
grow
Last word of first stanza is grow (as is the next 3) and the second stanza has one more line than the previous. 5 - 6 - 7 - 7 - 8 is the amount of lines per stanza so there is this essence of growth even in the verbiage.