who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
They tried so hard to throw away time and its power over them and then they were stuck with alarm clocks constantly reminding them every day of their lives that their time is up. This line was particularly painful to me for some reason. You just can't catch a break when it comes to time.. it always catches up to you.
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg
I might be reading too much into this but it seems to me like this line is trying to say that they are searching for birth among death. They risk their lives throwing themselves under contraptions of death and corpses and expect to find an egg, like they are so desperate for a new start at life that they decide to search in a place where they're least likely to find it.
who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion
These lines here seem to insinuate that the people in question don't really know what they are doing during said "suicidal dramas" they've created. They're crowned with crowns of laurel which symbolize victory and yet they are described as being in oblivion. They do things as acts of rebellion but don't seem to understand what they want to achieve. It's clear that they are starting to lose their sanity after so much suffering and oppression.
I stand within her walls with not a shred Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,
Though this poem is very grim in its choice of words, it feels very strong and confident. I like how powerful this poem feels and the way the speaker seems to be standing up to America while at the same time seeing its beauty.
I shall return, I shall return again, To ease my mind of long, long years of pain.
I really enjoy the descriptions and imagery of this poem, it seems like the speaker is hopeful that things can go back to the way they were before colonialism - though I'm not sure that's possible, I'm sure it helps to strive for something.
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet In Harlem wandering from street to street.
These final lines refuse to sugarcoat the truth of what they're going through - it's harsh and the speaker wants to make sure everyone knows it.
That I sing the heart of race While sadness whispers That I am the cry of a soul … A-shoutin’ in de ole camp-meeting-place, A-strummin’ o’ de ole banjo. Singin’ in de moonlight, Sobbin’ in de dark. Singin’, sobbin’, strummin’ slow … Singin’ slow, sobbin’ low. Strummin’, strummin’, strummin’ slow … Words are bright bugles That make the shining for my song,
I love the passion in these lines, they give a hint of the sadness and the longing to be heard while displaying such resolve.
I want to feel the surging Of my sad people’s soul Hidden by a minstrel-smile.
This reminds me a bit of the end of "The Weary Blues" by Langston Hughes in that it captures that deep sadness that people of color feel when faced with oppression. In this poem the speaker just wants to enjoy their history and roots but a lot of it has been anguished by slavery and injustice.
And so we stand like ginger jars Like ginger jars bound round With dust and age; Like jars of ginger we are sealed
I wonder what the significance of the ginger is? I notice it was mentioned many times in this poem. I know they are comparing themselves to the jar of ginger as being contained entities, by why ginger specifically?
Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.
I can picture it "sagging like a heavy load," because in the back of your mind, a dream that can't be reached will always be there weighing down on you. This is especially true for people of color who aren't given equal opportunities to succeed and they're made to feel like they can't do it.
“I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied– I ain’t happy no mo’ And I wish that I had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
This truly encapsulates the pain that he's feeling and there's something so sad and relatable about the way in which it feels like every glimmer of light goes out and you're all alone with your thoughts. Something about the way this poem ends resonates with me; I find it really beautiful.
I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.
I really like these lines because it shows his resilience and determination to come out stronger in the face of oppression.
Fortunately from some inner, desperate resourcefulness has recently sprung up the simple expedient of fighting prejudice by mental passive resistance, in other words by trying to ignore it. For the few, this manna may perhaps be effective, but the masses cannot thrive on it.
I feel like passively ignoring problems can only get one so far; protesting seems to have historically worked better in terms of achieving even the smallest victories.
Religion, freedom, education, money–in turn, he has ardently hoped for and peculiarly trusted these things; he still believes in them, but not in blind trust that they alone will solve his life-problem.
This is a really good mentality to have I think, the knowledge and faith that these things provide support and comfort but aren't necessarily the solutions to everything.
So for generations in the mind of America, the Negro has been more of a formula than a human being –a something to be argued about, condemned or defended, to be “kept down,” or “in his place,” or “helped up,” to be worried with or worried over, harassed or patronized, a social bogey or a social burden.
Yeah and I feel like black people are often talked about by the media as if they were just statistics rather than actual human beings. Absolutely no empathy at all.
to change through the force of his art that old whispering “I want to be white,” hidden in the aspirations of his people, to “Why should I want to be white? I am a Negro–and beautiful”?
I really like this line here, it's very powerful.
But let us look at the immediate background of this young poet. His family is of what I suppose one would call the Negro middle class: people who are by no means rich yet never uncomfortable nor hungry–smug, contented, respectable folk, members of the Baptist church. The father goes to work every morning. He is a chief steward at a large white club. The mother sometimes does fancy sewing or supervises parties for the rich families of the town. The children go to a mixed school. In the home they read white papers and magazines. And the mother often says “Don’t be like niggers” when the children are bad. A frequent phrase from the father is, “Look how well a white man does things.” And so the word white comes to be unconsciously a symbol of all virtues.
Looking at the young poet's background definitely shows why Hughes interpreted his comment the way he did - perhaps "I want to be white" is what the young poet was insinuating, which is so disheartening and shows the damage done by a society that idolizes whiteness.
One of the most promising of the young Negro poets said to me once, “I want to be a poet–not a Negro poet,” meaning, I believe, “I want to write like a white poet”; meaning subconsciously, “I would like to be a white poet”; meaning behind that, “I would like to be white.”
When I first read this I thought he was saying that he didn't want race to matter when it came to his poetry but I can see where Hughes is coming from in that it feels like the poet is rejecting his identity as a person of color.
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.
In this excerpt I notice examples of the motif of zombies. There are many conflicting ideas that are meant to coexist as one the way zombies are both alive and dead. “Profit and loss,” “rose and fell,” “age and youth,” are all opposite concepts that are present together. It’s also interesting to note how Phlebas the Phoenician has apparently been dead for a fortnight and yet he is spoken of as if he is currently alive. Perhaps he is an actual zombie. I think this section also represents natural/unnatural time as well. A fortnight is a sensible measurement of time, unlike the description of Phlebas’ passing of the stages of his life while entering a whirlpool, almost as if time had sped up as he entered the water and he saw his life “flash before his eyes,” so to speak. I think what Eliot means to say here is that nothing is truly one thing; there are many facets to things and sometimes they conflict, but that doesn't make them any less valid. They may be confusing but that doesn't take away the fact that they are real.
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses.
In this excerpt I see examples of fragments, wet/dry, and exile. “The river’s tent is broken” suggests the presence of fragments, though I’m not familiar with Eliot’s reference here and what the “river’s tent” is meant to be. The “empty bottles, sandwich papers, silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends” are all things that are left over from something else; they are the results of bottles containing drinks, sandwiches, cigarettes, packages, etc. and they are all now fragments of a whole thing. I think these things can also fit into the motif of wet/dry, because they are dry objects which are not meant to be submerged in water. Though the lines state that the river does not bear these things, the very concept of trash within the water fits wet/dry. “Wet bank” vs “brown land” also illustrates wet vs dry. The lack of trash in the water also suggests the concept of exile. No one is around to litter, the “nymphs are departed,” and their friends are also gone without leaving any clues as to where they went. I believe the significance of these motifs in this section are that they mean to show how barren the land and river now are. There is no sign of life: no nymphs, no trash, only fragments and dichotomies.
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
I wonder what the significance of the pearls are? Are they meant to represent someone who only sees things for what they could possibly be worth?
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
I don't know what it is about these lines but they're so grim yet nonsensical and I love them.
and my eyes failed
What does it mean for someone's eyes to fail?
But by this familiarity they grew used to him, and so, at last, took him for their friend and adviser.
This reminds me of that phrase "familiarity breeds fondness." Is it really true? Granted, in this situation the school physician is actually trying to help.
you were probably saving for breakfast
Kind of messed up that he knew the other person was likely saving these plums to enjoy later and he still ate them with the excuse that they were just too good to pass up. He asks for forgiveness but didn't even give a genuine apology.
as if the earth under our feet were an excrement of some sky
I like this descriptor of earth as this place of sheer waste and suffering, only existing because it is the byproduct of some greater thing.
Don’t use such an expression as “dim lands of peace.” It dulls the image. It mixes an abstraction with the concrete. It comes from the writer’s not realizing that the natural object is always the adequate symbol.
What would be a better expression in this instance?
It is the presentation of such a “complex” instantaneously which gives that sense of sudden liberation; that sense of freedom from time limits and space limits; that sense of sudden growth, which we experience in the presence of the greatest works of art.
I really like this description of artwork; the sense that something can hit you in a meaningful way in such a short span of time shows the impact images can have.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough.
To me this feels like Pound is describing all these faces in the crowd as blending into each other until they are practically indistinguishable from one another. Though a bunch of flower petals would look similar at first glance, they all do truly have their own unique characteristics. To somebody who is alone among them, however, they're all the same. This is what loneliness feels like.
Man, doughty Man, what power has brought you low,
I really like the contrast between "power" and "low;" they're not words you'd expect to see together. I also find it interesting how she put "low" as its own line to emphasize its meaning.
I do not think I would.
I find it pretty compelling the way the speaker spends the entire poem dismissing the concept of love as something essential to life, and yet in the end she still states that she would probably not trade love for nourishment. She shows how often, we may be well aware that our emotions are not completely rational, and yet we still struggle to control them.
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
I wonder who this is in reference to? I also find it especially interesting how this person isn't mentioned again.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
I really like these lines because they suggest that the speaker's behavior is deviating from what is considered the norm, and they are pushing through a difficult task that they must complete despite the strangeness and struggle.
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same
To me this sounds like the speaker is really uncertain about the differences between the roads. Though they visibly look different, the speaker seems like they doubt whether there really is a difference. I feel like life really is like this sometimes - no matter how different or similar some choices seem, in the end it's really impossible to know, especially when you must choose one over the other.
As in the days they dreamed of when young blood Was in their cheeks and women called them fair. Be sure, they met me with an ancient air,— And yes, there was a shop-worn brotherhood About them; but the men were just as good, And just as human as they ever were.
I like the reassurance here that people don't become lesser just because they are no longer youthful and beautiful. Age and wisdom are great qualities to have and at their core, these men are the same people.
And only when assured that on firm earth It stood, as the uncertain lives of men Assuredly did not
I really like this comparison between the fragility of human lives and the current safe state of the jug. That specific moment of certainty is only a blink in time compared to someone's life, and yet someone's life is only a blink in time compared to the overall existence of space, and it's so much more fragile.
Faint iambics that the full breeze wakens– But the pine tree makes a symphony thereof.
I really like this incorporation of art within nature. The two definitely go hand-in-hand I think.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness, Anger, discontent and drooping hopes? Degenerate sons and daughters, Life is too strong for you– It takes life to love Life.
This sounds like a critique on youth who at such an early age already have contempt for life, while the narrator spent her ninety-six years just living, working, and enjoying every moment. She seems to be saying that it takes a long time of being alive and gaining experience to learn of life's true value.
I beg of you, for my sake and for our child’s sake, as well as for your own, that you will never for one instant let that idea enter your mind!
This story reminds me a lot of Rosemary's Baby (minus the devil's involvement).
“Bless her little heart!” said he with a big hug, “she shall be as sick as she pleases!
He's really acting like she WANTS to be sick, like it's just a game of pretend and he'll go along with it to patronize her.
And dear John gathered me up in his arms, and just carried me upstairs and laid me on the bed, and sat by me and read to me till it tired my head.
His infantilization of her is honestly pretty disturbing. He gets such a weird power trip from this and it's obvious he's the one with the real issues.
I get unreasonably angry with John sometimes. I’m sure I never used to be so sensitive. I think it is due to this nervous condition.
It's clear from this line that John has been gaslighting her for quite some time. Even she feels that her emotions are wrong and hysterical.
If a physician of high standing, and one’s own husband, assures friends and relatives that there is really nothing the matter with one but temporary nervous depression—a slight hysterical tendency—what is one to do?
It's this kind of dismissal of women's very real symptoms that leads to so many women not being properly diagnosed with whatever illness they may have - it's always "in their heads."
It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
This is a very sad and powerful statement. Not being able to just exist without being overly aware of how others perceive you is exhausting and defeating.
Just how I would do it I could never decide: by reading law, by healing the sick, by telling the wonderful tales that swam in my head,—some way. With other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a bitter cry
It seems like he felt like success was the only way to triumph over oppression, while hatred and anger were wastes of time. I feel like sometimes those sorts of negativity are almost necessary; they definitely have their place.
the pen becomes a sort of blind-man’s dog, to keep him from falling into the gutters
Is this suggesting that people often use self-expression as a crutch to prevent them from losing sight of themselves? Maybe we rely too heavily on it to the point where we don't actually know who we are.
Neither of them felt goddesses as power–only as reflected emotion, human expression, beauty, purity, taste, scarcely even as sympathy.
Why is it that anything perceived as feminine is also immediately perceived as emotional and weak?
Nothing in education is so astonishing as the amount of ignorance it accumulates in the form of inert facts.
This statement applies pretty well to certain styles of teaching in which students are encouraged to memorize and spit out facts but don't really learn much beyond them.
From the sweet glues of the trotters Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower Of the hams the thorax of caves
I find these lines very intriguing despite having no clue what they're supposed to mean. I especially like how unique the phrase, "the sweet kinks of the fist" is. Is it supposed to be describing the folds of someone's skin when they ball their hand into a fist?
Out of the bones’ need to sharpen and the muscles’ to stretch, They Lion grow
I like the suggestion here that the Lion grows due to the body's natural need to strengthen and improve itself. Despite whatever hardships a creature may go through, instinct will will it to adapt to the experience and evolve from it.