The contrast of the Biblical language against the harsh, modernist restrictions is really jarring, and speaks to Brown's earlier mention of "the religion which they disgraced." Also interesting is the juxtaposition of "they shout," and "you laugh," which establishes further contrast.

The imagery of the "roarin' water" takes me back to the similar images evoked in Hughe's "The Negro Speaks of Rivers." A similar sense of timelessness and deeply rooted connection is created here, but it is decidedly different, in that this image is considerably more hopeful than those created by Hughes.

There's something about the visual effect of black and yellow keys that is particularly striking. Pianos are - obviously - known for being white and black, and to have that widely recognized visual subverted is deeply effective. This is a poem rooted in the shared African American experience; it is a celebration of their coming together and culture, not of others (including White individuals). The image of Ma Rainey's gold teeth, juxtaposed against the yellow keys, further seems to suggest that she (or the African American experience altogether) is deeply rooted in this new form of music.

This passage, particularly when Hughes mentions "his liberators, friends, and benefactors," and their influence on the stereotypes of a Black individual, makes me think of the "White savior complex" that is still so prevalent even today.

I suppose this dual role serves to support Locke's assertion that one of the primary functions of a Black individual is to be argued over. But even so, I cannot help but be intrigued by these starkly different classes of a Black individual's worth: are they a pressing issue that weighs heavily on society (burden), or largely inconsequential but more or less inconvenient (bogey)? If it's the latter, what does this say about the continued debate over their role, their "place," and their worth?

I'm intrigued by Hughe's use of the word "deferred," which is considerably more ambiguous than if he were to say something like "a dream abandoned," or "a dream destroyed." Despite the dismal imagery that he creates throughout the rest of the poem, the possibility of the dream merely being deferred - which is still nevertheless upsetting, but implies that it is something to which one can return - offers a faint glimmer of hope. And I think that's very much in tune with the varying degrees of despondency that Hughes creates with each image; it's entirely possible for a dream that's deferred to be entirely destroyed ("explode," "stink," "dry up"), but it's also possible that it will simply remain stagnant ("crust and sugar over," "just sags," "fester and then run"), until such a time that one returns to it.

I appreciate this assertion, as sad as it is to hear; it's refreshingly real to hear one say that they will simply "put their troubles on the shelf," implying that they are still very much present, rather than people who assert that they might just "make up their mind to be happy." The sentiment asserted by Hughes here is much more realistic, however melancholy it may be, and shows that one can simultaneously bear the weight of their problems (even unconsciously) but still move through life.

Beyond merely being vivid terms, which bring to mind very extreme shades of black and white, I love that Hughes has chosen the terms "ebony" and "ivory" here, as they are both materials that, though vastly different, are incredibly ornamental and aesthetically valuable. Yet their difference is still important. Ebony is a wood, deriving from the earth, and can be harvested fairly easily, with no bloodshed, whereas ivory is quite the opposite, and is often the more coveted material. Even though Hughes has chosen materials that both have their own sort of value, ivory still has considerably more than ebony does, in most people's perspectives.

But perhaps I'm reading too far into this.

I think that this passage alone very succinctly summarizes the phenomenon that is so prevalent throughout Hughes' work: that, despite their attempts at conforming to White expectations and standards of living, the upper-class PoC still do not have the same sort (or even amount) of influence as their White counterparts, and their refusal to support their fellow artists does nothing to correct this imbalance.

I wonder what Hughes would define as a "really colored face." It's horrifying to think that similar comparisons are made even today, with certain POC being told that they're "not really [insert non-Caucasian ethnicity here]," as though there is a certain benchmark of stereotypical behaviors or oppression that one must endure in order to be branded a member of their own ethnic identity, even by members of that very identity.

I wonder if Hughes applies this mentality to all aspects of a person's identity, or simply their race (as it seems entirely possible that it's the latter). In turn, I wonder whether or not he means that one cannot be a great poet only when they try to run away from this identity, or that they are forever incapable of such greatness if ever this desire is felt. Could prolific poems about this very desire to run away from one's racial identity not be profound and great in their own way? Or can one only acknowledge that desire when they have overcome it?

I'm going back and rereading this poem again (because it's only 13 lines, so why the hell not?), and now I'm reading it with another context. It almost seems kind of biting and sardonic; like, it, too, embodies the notion of change and fast pace, and a subsequent inability to keep up. The final stanza seems kinda like a more malicious, "neener-neener" jab, to the effect of "Sorry not sorry; if you wanted the plums, you shouldn't have left them in the icebox for anyone to consume," which also speaks to the effect of an ever-evolving world without even the slightest hint of stability.

The balance of an unfamiliar world against a familiar wind is very reminiscent of the first quote of the handout we looked at on Tuesday (forgive me, I lost it). The world that they are entering is entirely alien to them, but that isn't going to stop the pace of progression; it is their responsibility to adapt and deal with the changes of this new world as best they can, or else be left behind. But there is the familiarity of the wind to make their adjustment a bit more bearable, and to help them find a home of sorts in this new environment.

There is something about the way this title fits into the flow of the poem that really interests me, because I'm not sure of how exactly to read it. The poem seems simple enough; it's a simple apology for eating plums that didn't belong to "I" in the poem. The acknowledgment of their deliciousness at the poem's conclusion almost seems like a playful jab, as if to say, "At least someone enjoyed them." But before I had read the rest of the poem, I had read the title as detached, almost melancholic. Almost as if it was spoken by someone who meant it to say, "Sorry to bother you, I'll keep this quick." It felt almost like a final goodbye sort of thing to me, which I think sort of plays off of the earlier mentioned themes of defamiliarization in a previously comfortable, or at least constant environment. Like "I" doesn't know what to say at the end of this interaction anymore, and so an almost trivial apology for the plums is all they can bring themselves to say.

I love that, despite his decision to choose to live as Freddie shortly hereafter, Dummond does not simply disregard his experiences as Bill. In fact, he does not appear to lend any particular weight or favor to either identity in this assessment of his situation; he simply recognizes that maintaining both is futile, without lending any support to a particular side. This indicates the validity of both identities, however short-lived his time as Bill may have been, to this point.

I'm confused by the term "successful termination" featured here, as to whether it means that the strike was successful and was subsequently terminated, or the termination of the strike was successful. Depending on either reading, the ending seems to be entirely different. If the strike was terminated prematurely, then it would appear that Freddie's (or Bill's) efforts were ultimately inconsequential, much like the scenario depicted in Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken." In this case, however, he does still have his happiness and personal truth, and the hand of Mary as a personal reward. Perhaps the work is asserting that, despite his own personal accomplishments, Freddie's decision is ultimately meaningless?

The sudden deviation from his typical character reminds me of the narrator's actions in The Yellow Wall Paper. Similarly, Freddie has finally broken free of the prison he has been held captive in, and is finally able to embrace the identity within him, albeit without the loss of his sanity. It could be argued, however, that the trade-off is Catherine's happiness and expectation.

I love the characterization of a rose's thorns as its armour, rather than as a weapon, given the tendency of thorns to prick and draw blood. I feel as though roses are often regarded as a beautiful artifact that will hurt you, often assigning blame to the flower itself rather than the person attempting to pick it, and I think that it's refreshing to see Millay characterize it in this way, rather than the opposite.

As others have pointed out, I love these final lines of the sonnet, particularly in the way that they appear to flip the initial argument of the poem up to this point. Indeed, love transitions from a force with little value at the poem's start to one that is a viable source for bartering, albeit under dire and miserable circumstances. Milly is assigning value to love which she had previously denied it.

Even beyond that, I appreciate the air of uncertainty that the poem ends on. Although it seems that Millay's perspectives have undergone a complete 180, her decision to use the phrase "I do not THINK I would" is particularly intriguing, in that it shows development that is currently in progress, rather than complete. It would be one thing if Millay were to outright deny the notion of trading love for nourishment or peace, but instead she maintains a reasonable, authentic sense of uncertainty and conflict. MAYBE she will realize that love is worth holding onto in the face of turmoil, but maybe she won't. I love that it seems unfinished.

Something about this stanza reminded me about the repeated refrain found in Gilman's short story, "The Yellow Wall Paper:" "what is one to do?" Similarly to how Gilman's narrator is trying to articulate her confusion and disdain for the happenings about her, it seems that the narrator of Frost's poem is similarly perplexed by the events unfolding. The narrator appears to question why these chain of events had to come together as they did, and if there was a way to have avoided it altogether, just as the narrator of Gilman's story seems hesitant to ask how she can escape from her circumstances.

Frost's conflicting likening of the two roads through their inherent differences reminds me of Robinson's poem, "The Clerks." Here, Frost describes his compulsion to travel either road due to its aesthetic, similarly to how the clerks in Robinson's poem are valued (or not) based on their physical qualities, both past and present. Yet despite his inclination to one road or the other, he admits that, really, the physical look of the road does not make either any more or less worthy of travel. This echoes the air of fruitlessness that is so prevalent in Robinson's poem, as Robinson points out that, ultimately, we are all united and all similar, despite our apparent differences and focus on them.

This passage reminds me a bit of the end of the "Seth Compton" poem, from Masters' Spoon River Anthology. Although it seems to lack the acidity that Masters' poem has, instead seeming to be an attempt at reasoning with the narrator's neighbor, it is still a passage which serves to remind listeners that our perceptions of the world are entirely individual. Just as Compton laments that people will continue to "Choose your own good and call it good," it appears that the neighbor in Frost's poem seems to follow this mindset, repeating his father's refrain despite the narrator's counterpoints. Despite the refusal to let go of his mindset, however, I do believe that the narrator of Frost's poem is far more compelling in his argument, as he appears to be discussing for the sake of understanding, rather than for the sake of winning, or of placing himself above his audience. This is perhaps because Compton, in Masters' poem, is dead and possibly resentful of the life he left behind, whereas the narrator in Frost's poem is still alive, and still has the desire to mend the bond between him and those around him.

I think Robinson's incorporation of the old Scot song is particularly interesting, given its dual nature as a song used to say both good and hello, depending on the context in which it is used. For auld lang syne, as it's already been pointed out, is interpreted to mean "for old time's sake," so it seems to be - given Flood's apparent loneliness - a song sung as a goodbye, and indeed it seems that the final stanza of the poem solidifies that. But something about the way that Flood still seems to care, even going so far as to set the jug down gently so that at least it will not break seems to indicate that perhaps there is a sense of welcome in the refrain, particularly given Flood's "Welcome home."

I live for this sort of affirmation. I feel so often, when comparisons are made between one who may not be seen as conventionally attractive or appealing and one who is, the common approach is to assure the former that they are attractive in their own way. Here, Robinson executes what I feel is a much more healthy response, which does not seek to coddle the ego of the person in question. And sure, the rest of the poem takes a plunge off a pretty (what I feel to be) nihilistic cliff, but in these particular lines are uplifting and true, in that they do not assign a person's inherent value to their physical or materialistic properties. Everyone could use a hype-man like that.

I kind of sort of hate this passage, as common a mindset as it is. Or, at least, I hate the rigorous extremism of it. I feel as though it's almost irresponsible to compare the values of truth and falsity against those of good and evil, as there is significantly more room for interpretation among the latter two. And is the opposite of good inherently evil, or can it be something less extreme? It seems strange that a person who speaks of their work trying to expand the minds of the general public through the maintenance of a library would speak with such a black-and-white perspective, even after his acknowledgment that people will "choose your own good." It just seems entirely contradictory.

I find this section to be arguably the most complex of the poem, in that I cannot determine whether it is meant to indicate praise or criticism on Master's part. It seems like maybe it could be a bit of both. I initially assumed that his depiction of life's many facets as patterns was meant to indicate a reverence and appreciation of their aesthetic appeal, and the beauty of common experiences that unite us. But then I wondered if "patterns" was meant to be a criticism of life's banality and fruitlessness, especially given that it follows the melancholy image of the wilted rose. I also find it interesting how Masters describes life as patterned, and even goes so far as to compare it to other forms of structured poetry, when his poem is in free verse.

I'm admittedly a bit confused by this phrase, at least in regards to "escape ... death." How does DuBois mean this? Does he mean it literally, of the opinion that societal acceptance will increase his life expectancy, or opportunity to find stability that will elongate his life? Is he referring to the narrative of African Americans as a whole, which have been so systemically erased? Is it both? Is it neither of these? How many more follow-up questions can I ask so that I can better understand this?

I think Bu Dois' characterization his society's biases and limitations as a veil is a particularly interesting choice. He could have easily decided to characterize it as a fence through which he looks, a hole in a wall, or something else arguably more difficult to overcome. In characterizing these biases as a (admittedly gargantuan) veil, DuBois affords those who sport the veil a sense of autonomy in the matter. Although the veil is still going to present in society, and the total eradication of it would take a collective effort, a veil is an accessory which one can easily remove and again adorn themselves with, at will. Essentially, DuBois is depicting the choice of giving into, or accepting racism and bigotry, but also reminding readers that they can just as easily remove that veil, if they are willing to make the effort.

I think this is probably one of the more poignant statements, or expressions of longing, of the passage, and it's great, because it expresses a really complicated ideal so succinctly. Although he acknowledges throughout the rest of the reading that there is a certain identity that is forced upon him by others, here he takes control of that identity, asserting that it is one that now belongs to him, and that he can embrace it just as much as they set out to stick him with it. It deviates from the idea of leaving one's past entirely behind them, to the phrase "I'm not that person anymore" (which granted is usually a saying associated with actions or personality traits, rather than inherent identities), and instead asserts that one can have multiple, equally valid facets that make up their personhood.

The third stanza is gripping, and I think that that's largely because it is the only one not to echo the pattern of another stanza. It's an interesting tactic, and it seems to be a really pivotal point in the poem, as shown through the established transition, "From 'Bow Down' come 'Rise Up.'"

As marisah has already pointed out, I find the description of tar as possessing candor to be striking, as tar is not something which I typically see as being particularly open or honest (if only because I rarely think about it). That said, something about it seems inherently right within the context of the poem. I wonder if "the candor of tar" is representative of the true growth that is undergone through struggles and hardship, as tar is often seen as an enveloping obstacle.