This is a top-tier aphorism. It remains so true to this day.

This phrase stopped me dead in my tracks. The combination of truthfulness to the whole sentiment, and the alliteration just drives a wooden stake into this undead heart.

It boggles my mind how relevant this line (again, delivered in ironclad blank verse) remains nearly a hundred years after it was written.

Again, formally speaking, McKay serves a masterstroke here. He expertly employs the structure of the sonnet, surely by 1922 an antiquated form, and subverts it to encompass merely a facet of the experience of the African American in Wordsworth-ian langauge.

Formally speaking, this is the most Romantic of poems between Hughes and Bennett (the meter is in blank verse / iambic pentameter?), the rhyme scheme is ABABCC for three verses. The refrain of "street to street" at the end of each verse is particularly affecting.

This is an affirmation of Bennett's earlier emphasis on what I think is her perspective on the African in America's identity as a "performance artist", as she implies that the identity of the African in America only seems to have value in a performative function to the outsider or culture at large.

There is an echo here to Hughes, at least in terms of an acknowledgement of the fundamental ubiquity of African history.

In these three poems, Bennett is concerned not only with the identity of the African in America, but also with how the identity of the African in America is perceived by the outsider, with a particular focus on the cultural connotations (existence as seen through song, performance, etc).

This line hits very close to home. A musician myself, although formally untrained and barely professional by experience, I do know this sensation in my bones, of the ragged feeling of performing for slight audiences and even slighter attention spans. And to do it over, and over again, not of any economical necessity, but a spiritual calling. Yet, one does often wind up feeling like a fool after a while.

For some reason, these lines make me think of the title of Ta-Nehisi Cotes' "We Were Eight Years In Power". I do not know why, other than I read this as a preface to disappointment, disenfranchisement, or some kind of cynical prophecy. It makes me sad, as I, too, am America.

This is a brilliant connection by Hughes, linking the institution of slavery from Egypt and Old Testament tales to the foundation of the United States.

this phrase dovetails with the imagery I connected with earlier about Crane and Ayler, in regards to drowning. This seems to be a recurring theme throughout the poem, some of it is an echo of the Phoenician Sailor in Eliot's The Waste Land, but the perspective Ginsberg seems to produce is much more present and less mythological.

this line makes me think of two artists, Hart Crane and Albert Ayler. both struggled with mental illness, and both supposedly died by suicide by drowning. the "to the Brooklyn Bridge" reference made this connection for me, there is an ominous finality to that for some reason. Crane came before Ginsberg, Ayler came later.

This line, in what we may regard as our "new normal" now, cuts very deep and feels very real, for being written some seventy-odd years ago and under very different circumstances. I would lodge this along with Eliot's "The Hollow Men", in terms of apocalyptic imagery in modern poetry.

This section very much speaks to me in terms of the motif of "exile". Aside from the language of imprisonment, multiple uses of the word "prison", and the sound of a key turning in a door "once only", the allusion to Coriolanus is huge here. Coriolanus is a character that Shakespeare based one of his tragedies on, he was a successful Roman general who was betrayed by his government (essentially) and was forced into exile and later waged war against his own people in Rome. He was eventually defeated and imprisoned as an enemy in what was at one point his own home. This element, briefly mentioned in the poem, makes me think about parts of Eliot's own biography, even though I am sure he is not being strictly literal here, there are other parts of the poem that make one think that Eliot was considering his own affairs and life in terms of his long poem (references to Margate, his wife, etc.) and how he felt in relation to it. His absence from his home in the United States (I am pretty sure he was a dual citizen in the UK at this point), and how he felt about it must have factored in here at some level, thus the brilliant reference to Coriolanus has a deeper, more resonant ring, if I am not totally full of crap here.

I think this section touches on many of the motifs mentioned. "The river sweats / oil and tar" evokes zombies to me, as it implies the river Thames is trying to expel the residue of the humans who ride upon it / live next to it. It is a rejection of the animal kingdom on the part of the otherwise inanimate natural world, which to me is what usually is representative of a "zombie" or undead narrative. Both "the turning tide" and "red sails" seem to represent "desire frustrated" and, in a strange way "women and men", respectively. The imagery of a turning tide suggests a reversal of expected results, meaning a bunch of sailors in a boat experience the opposite or a reversal of what their professional experience would lead them to believe, meaning "hey guys, the water looks like it is going to help lead us this way...oh crap, wait...". Much in the same way "red sails" makes me think of Jason and the Argonauts, when their successful returning ships are supposed to display a certain set of sails upon their journey home. The corruption of that message (by Medea I believe?) leads the king of Argos (I am probably butchering the narrative here) to leap off the cliff to his death. This element of color and sails makes me think of this particular story, and how the relationship between a man and a woman (in this case, Jason and Medea) can go sour and have consequences outside of a particular binary relationship. The motif of voices springs up to me in several places, in particular with "To leeward, swing on the heavy spar", this is very much maritime/naval language, leeward meaning to the side of the boat that is opposite the wind (or the side that is in the shadow of the boat), and I am pretty sure "swing on the heavy spar" is also a maritime-specific term, I believe that a spar is some kind of counter-weight for sail. The end of the section "weialala leia..." is evocative of humming the melody of a popular song, although I am entirely unsure of what song Eliot may have in mind, I would put Vegas money on this being a song of some significance to Eliot or something he knew his readers would be familiar with.

I am curious as to the place being referenced here, I have to assume it was a real place the Eliot visited in his time. Is it a tavern, a restaurant, cafe? Why is Mary Woolnoth a Saint? This has to be an ironic nickname, which makes me think this is a person who keeps a tavern. The "final stroke of nine" might be 'last call' in Eliot's time. I don't know.

I get confused here, since I am not familiar with the cards in the Tarot deck (which is what I assume is being referenced here). When he refers to "crowds of people..." I do not know if the perspective has (once again) rapidly shifted to another conversation or if it is still a reference to the cards (and its potential significance). I think, if anything, the last three lines might actually be from a conversation, perhaps with the Madame, and of course we do not know who Mrs. Equitone is.

This part confuses me, mainly because I think it is playing with the expectation that the initial POV, which is first person, is from the author - Eliot, but at the end of this first stanza it is revealed we (the reader) are in the perspective of someone named "Marie"

Here again I find myself reading the poem as an anti-war piece, just as in "Love is Not All", yet here I believe the message is more up front and concrete. The very end has some vivid imagery for me, "whence the broadside" is evocative of naval warfare to me (IIRC, a broadside is when two ships are side by side and unload a round of artillery directly at the opposing ship). With that in mind, the phrase "poor scattered mouth" is particularly devastating, as one can barely imagine what it must be like to be on the receiving end of such force and violence.

This section makes me think that Millay is talking about men at war, and the suffering they endure. I am tempted to take a pacifist's reading here, as armed conflict and human suffering always have a lack of love for one another as people at its root. I am conflicted in this reading though, as with the scant knowledge I have of her biography, I do know that she was a vocal supporter of WWII only a decade or so after this poem was written. People can change, and people can misread poems, I suppose.

This is my favorite stanza in the poem. Much like in Robinson, there is an economy to Frost's language that despite its succinct simplicity, manages to say a lot and is very evocative of the senses - sound and hearing in this case. "Downy flake" is also a great pairing of words and sounds.

It is interesting that Frost uses the imagery of a witch both here and earlier in "Design" when he is describing the spider.

I hear this line echoed in the lyrics to Neil Young's "Hey Hey, My My" - 'It is better to burn out than to fade away'

These lines are very evocative, especially "the silver loneliness", the language is very descriptive despite its economy. The "two moons listening" implies he is sitting by a lake or a pond, without having to state so directly. The silver of the night shows perhaps a full, bright moon and a clear sky.I really appreciate how Robinson can say so much with so little, and to leave so much to the reader's interpretation and choice.

I get the feeling that this poem is more about someone (the poet, perhaps) sitting down to reread older poets and is either surprised or pleased that they still retain the power that they remembered they once had. The use of "sublime" at the head of this stanza makes me think of the Romantics (Blake, Shelley, Keats, etc), and the connection here to Keats makes me think of his poems where he describes sitting down to read old poetry and still being blown away by it ("On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer", "On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again"), its poetry ABOUT reading poetry and the power it can have over someone. That is what I think is going on here in "The Clerks".

This note is not necessarily for this passage, but for the three poems as a whole. I like how Lee connects these poems through a shared background of Spoon River. It reminds me of other fictionalized places that writers return to again and again, like Faulkner's "Yoknapatawpha County" (I had to look up how to spell that, yikes) or Sherwood Anderson's "Winesburg, Ohio". Having this place populated and realized gives the poems a novelesque feel when read together, which I have not experienced in much poetry.

I like how Lee end the poem with how it started, but then develops it a step further. The poem ends on a melancholic note, as the poet seems to be self-assessing as weak or weed-like in their writing in comparison to acknowledged greats such as Homer and Whitman, who are far away in the great forest while Petit (or Lee for that matter) are left to toil in the lowly field.

Whoa. Here the narrative takes a vividly creepy turn, culminating in John entering the room and fainting at the sight of what his wife has become. The imagery of her crawling around the room, following the gross darkened path along the wall is devastatingly effective. I don't watch much modern horror, but I have seen enough to project this scene into films such as the Grudge, Ring, Paranormal Activity, et al. Terrifying yet so simple. Overall, especially with the first person narration, the paranoia throughout the story and its quick downturn toward the end remind me very much of H.P. Lovecraft. Even in the absence of any concrete supernatural elements as seen in Lovecraft, the overall collapse of the narrator's sanity and shifting POV (going from herself > to being the woman trapped in the wall paper) are in the same horrific mold. Scary stuff.

The details of the room that Gilman chooses to reveal about the room our narrator is in seem eerie and ominous. The bars on the window and the gate at the top of the stairs give an impression of a prison or a place that is meant to keep its occupant decisively inside. The fact that they are revealed in such a casual manner by the narrator gives some additional perspective on her mindset. These features seem to be nothing new to her, or at the very least do not seem to make her uneasy. It begs the question as to whether or not she has been in an environment or situation like this before. If these were unfamiliar features of a living situation, one would think she would comment on them unfavorably.

This is an interesting statement, which could be read perhaps as an ironic statement. Why would she believe she is not getting better if her husband is a doctor? That is the opposite of what one would suspect or assume in a situation like this, if one were ill, what better partner to have than a doctor? She is implying that John is actually keeping her unwell, as a result of his medical knowledge. The unexpected nature of such a declaration by the narrator also sets up the possibility that her perspective and narration is unreliable.

This is a question that I forgot to bring up in class. Is there an echo of this opening statement in the phrase "between the world and me" that James Baldwin uses in The Fire Next Time, which is again later used as the title of Ta-Nehisi Coates' book of the same name? If so, it is really cool how the later authors carry on the thread from DuBois into their own work, which of course deals with the very same struggle in two vastly different time periods.

This line of phrase caught my eye for some reason, it resonated with something I had read before. Our friend Google let me know it is a quotation or allusion to Joshua 9:23. I am not religiously affiliated or even that strong in my knowledge of the Bible, but I do read and reference it from time to time in my literary studies. The particular line in Joshua is in reference to a nation of slaves. Given what DuBois is talking about in this chapter, this line to me is given extra weight and depth by the Biblical allusion (of which there are many throughout the piece, 'Canaan', etc.).

This is intended for the header graphic: I really like how DuBois included musical notation in this opening piece. This seems radical for the time, as it makes the text a multimedia experience (if you can read the music, I cannot, and am very curious as to what it sounds like and how the piece may reference the text and give it depth). I read the piece in one of my Norton anthologies, which includes a later chapter in the book as well. There is another piece of music that opens that chapter as well, and is accompanied by lyrics (I do not have the book with me now to reference), but I like that the music seems to be a recurring device in the book. I would like to read the whole thing.