The late James Merrill was recognized as one of the leading poets of his generation. Praised for his stylish elegance, moral sensibilities, and transformation of autobiographical moments into deep and complex meditations, Merrill’s work spans genres—including plays and prose—but the bulk of his artistic expression can be found in his poetry. Merrill’s talent was recognized immediately, though his earliest work was seen as polished and technically proficient rather than deep. It was not until his themes became more dramatic and personal that he began to win serious attention and literary acclaim. Over the long course of his career, Merrill won nearly every major literary award in America.
Look closely at the letters. Can you see,
entering (stage right), then floating full,then heading off—so soon—how like a little kohl-rimmed moono plots her course from b to d
—as y, unanswered, knocks at the stage door?Looked at too long, words fail,phase out. Ask, now that body shinesno longer, by what light you learn these linesand what the b and d stood for.
In "body," Merrill uses metaphor to represent life, death, the circle that they create, and the ambiguity that leaves us asking questions. The speaker asks the reader to observe the letters that make up the word "body." Each letter is its own metaphor while a conceit representing life as a stage is also present. In its most basic form, "b" and "d" stand for birth and death with an "o" in the middle that represents the constant cycle, the circle of life. This meaning is further emphasized when the "o" is compared to "a little kohl-rimmed moon." The use of the moon to represent natural cycles, the ups and downs that we face between birth and death. Lastly the "y" seems to be left out of the enclosed system containing "bod." This "y," taken literally can be understood as a question, "why?" This question addresses not only the circle of life, but asks what comes after death, leaving an unfinished, incomplete feeling. On a deeper level, Merrill subtly alludes to the Shakespearean idea that life is just a stage and we are merely players. Quite literally, "bod" looks like a stage while the "y" takes a back seat to all the action. Applied to today, often we get so caught up in the cycle, that is the spectacle that almost becomes a show, that we fail to ask and seek answers to some of the most pertinent "why's." The use of metaphor allows the reader to understand a commentary on life from four simple letters.
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metaphor. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
"To a Daughter Leaving Home" Linda Pastan
Poet Linda Pastan was raised in New York City but has lived for most of her life in Potomac, Maryland, a suburb of Washington, DC. In her senior year at Radcliffe College, Pastan won the Mademoisellepoetry prize (Sylvia Plath was the runner-up). Immediately following graduation, however, she decided to give up writing poetry in order to concentrate on raising her family. After ten years at home, her husband urged her to return to poetry. Since the early 1970s, Pastan has produced quiet lyrics that focus on themes like marriage, parenting, and grief. She is interested in the anxieties that exist under the surface of everyday life. (www.poetryfoundation.org)
When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.
In "To a Daughter Leaving Home," Pastan's metaphor of a mother watching her daughter learn to ride a bicycle for the first time is best understood in context of situation and setting, both relatable to a high school audience and many others. While narrating a childlike and playful experience (however stressful it may be for the mother), the speaker and mother's sentiment foreshadow and represent the same anxieties and fears she'll feel when her daughter leaves the house to live on her own, just as the daughter experiences a new found sense of freedom and independence on the bike, and will experience those same feelings in the future. The contrast between the past and the present found in this poem can be understood by almost any reader and therefore the situation and setting are more easily appreciated. We've all experienced a situation similar to the one described in the poem. Learning to ride a bike for the first time is a big, and often unforgettable experience in a child's life, not to mention the parent's. The anxiety felt by the mother as "[she] kept waiting for the thud of [the child's] crash as [she] sprinted to catch up." The relatability of this account is ultimately the factor that allows readers to comprehend the mother's dread and fear as her daughter leaves to create a life for herself. Not only does the mother's protective instinct relate the account to readers, but the setting creates a familiar backdrop for a somewhat hefty metaphor. Many can call upon memories of those "two round wheels" that "lop[ed] beside us" and our "hair flapping behind [us] like a handkerchief waving goodbye." This setting creates a familiarity that coexists with something that is in the high schooler's imminent future. Pastan uses the familiar setting and situation to use a simple instance to represent an emotional change in life that most will or have experience[d].
When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.
In "To a Daughter Leaving Home," Pastan's metaphor of a mother watching her daughter learn to ride a bicycle for the first time is best understood in context of situation and setting, both relatable to a high school audience and many others. While narrating a childlike and playful experience (however stressful it may be for the mother), the speaker and mother's sentiment foreshadow and represent the same anxieties and fears she'll feel when her daughter leaves the house to live on her own, just as the daughter experiences a new found sense of freedom and independence on the bike, and will experience those same feelings in the future. The contrast between the past and the present found in this poem can be understood by almost any reader and therefore the situation and setting are more easily appreciated. We've all experienced a situation similar to the one described in the poem. Learning to ride a bike for the first time is a big, and often unforgettable experience in a child's life, not to mention the parent's. The anxiety felt by the mother as "[she] kept waiting for the thud of [the child's] crash as [she] sprinted to catch up." The relatability of this account is ultimately the factor that allows readers to comprehend the mother's dread and fear as her daughter leaves to create a life for herself. Not only does the mother's protective instinct relate the account to readers, but the setting creates a familiar backdrop for a somewhat hefty metaphor. Many can call upon memories of those "two round wheels" that "lop[ed] beside us" and our "hair flapping behind [us] like a handkerchief waving goodbye." This setting creates a familiarity that coexists with something that is in the high schooler's imminent future. Pastan uses the familiar setting and situation to use a simple instance to represent an emotional change in life that most will or have experience[d].
Monday, November 3, 2014
"Eden" Emily Grosholz
Emily Grosholz is a poet, literary critic and philosopher. She was born and raised in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She attended the University of Chicago, where she received her B.A. in 1972, and Yale University, where she received her Ph.D. in Philosophy in 1978. She has traveled widely in Italy and Greece, and lived in Germany, France, and England. Professor of Philosophy and African American Studies and Fellow of the Institute for the Arts and Humanistic Studies at the Pennsylvania State University, and Life Member of Clare Hall, University of Cambridge, she is married to the medievalist and soccer coach Robert R. Edwards. They have four children, Benjamin, Robert, William Jules-Yves, and Mary-Frances (Poetnet.org).
In lurid cartoon colors, the big baby
dinosaur steps backwards under the shadow
of an approaching tyrannosaurus rex.
"His mommy going to fix it," you remark,
serenely anxious, hoping for the best.
After the big explosion, after the lights
go down inside the house and up the street,
we rush outdoors to find a squirrel stopped
in straws of half-gnawed cable. I explain,
trying to fit the facts, "The squirrel is dead."
No, you explain it otherwise to me.
"He's sleeping. And his mommy going to come."
Later, when the squirrel has been removed,
"His mommy fix him," you insist, insisting
on the right to know what you believe.
The world is truly full of fabulous
great and curious small inhabitants,
and you're the freshly minted, unashamed
Adam in this garden. You preside,
appreciate, and judge our proper names.
Like God, I brought you here.
Like God, I seem to be omnipotent,
mostly helpful, sometimes angry as hell.
I fix whatever minor faults arise
with bandaids, batteries, masking tape, and pills.
But I am powerless, as you must know,
to chase the serpent sliding in the grass,
or the tall angel with the flaming sword
who scares you when he rises suddenly
behind the gates of sunset.
The speaker's tone in Emily Grosholz's poem, "Eden" is dynamic, beginning as childish, playful, and simple, and ending as lofty, grandiose, and dignified. This shift is catalyzed by Grosholz’s diction, poetic structure, and metaphor. The beginning of the poem mirrors, in many ways, a nursery rhyme or a children’s story. The narrative poem, accounted by who we assume to be a mother opens with a metaphor using dinosaurs and cartoons -- any kid’s two favorite things. This, in addition to the baby-like dialogue, “His mommy going to fix it," sets a tone that seems to be lighthearted and childish, continuing until a turning point in which the speaker uses an extended metaphor, comparing her son to Adam, herself to God, and their situation to Eden. This simple allusion automatically takes the poem to a graduated level, yet irony is found in the fact that the story of Adam and Eve is often told to little children. Even though the tone is more impressive, the subject matter has changed in a very minor way. The biblical allusion continues the even stanzas of four lines each. At first, this structure complements the playful nature that the nursery rhyme-like account embodies. Later, however, the quatrains add a finality and an authority to the speaker’s tone. They give the impression that there is a real plan behind the words on the page (kind of like how God had an intricate plan to create Adam and Eve). Grosholz’s change in tone is reflected through the diction, poetic structure, and metaphor, with an underlying irony that adds complexity to the seemingly simple narrative.
In lurid cartoon colors, the big baby
dinosaur steps backwards under the shadow
of an approaching tyrannosaurus rex.
"His mommy going to fix it," you remark,
serenely anxious, hoping for the best.
After the big explosion, after the lights
go down inside the house and up the street,
we rush outdoors to find a squirrel stopped
in straws of half-gnawed cable. I explain,
trying to fit the facts, "The squirrel is dead."
No, you explain it otherwise to me.
"He's sleeping. And his mommy going to come."
Later, when the squirrel has been removed,
"His mommy fix him," you insist, insisting
on the right to know what you believe.
The world is truly full of fabulous
great and curious small inhabitants,
and you're the freshly minted, unashamed
Adam in this garden. You preside,
appreciate, and judge our proper names.
Like God, I brought you here.
Like God, I seem to be omnipotent,
mostly helpful, sometimes angry as hell.
I fix whatever minor faults arise
with bandaids, batteries, masking tape, and pills.
But I am powerless, as you must know,
to chase the serpent sliding in the grass,
or the tall angel with the flaming sword
who scares you when he rises suddenly
behind the gates of sunset.
The speaker's tone in Emily Grosholz's poem, "Eden" is dynamic, beginning as childish, playful, and simple, and ending as lofty, grandiose, and dignified. This shift is catalyzed by Grosholz’s diction, poetic structure, and metaphor. The beginning of the poem mirrors, in many ways, a nursery rhyme or a children’s story. The narrative poem, accounted by who we assume to be a mother opens with a metaphor using dinosaurs and cartoons -- any kid’s two favorite things. This, in addition to the baby-like dialogue, “His mommy going to fix it," sets a tone that seems to be lighthearted and childish, continuing until a turning point in which the speaker uses an extended metaphor, comparing her son to Adam, herself to God, and their situation to Eden. This simple allusion automatically takes the poem to a graduated level, yet irony is found in the fact that the story of Adam and Eve is often told to little children. Even though the tone is more impressive, the subject matter has changed in a very minor way. The biblical allusion continues the even stanzas of four lines each. At first, this structure complements the playful nature that the nursery rhyme-like account embodies. Later, however, the quatrains add a finality and an authority to the speaker’s tone. They give the impression that there is a real plan behind the words on the page (kind of like how God had an intricate plan to create Adam and Eve). Grosholz’s change in tone is reflected through the diction, poetic structure, and metaphor, with an underlying irony that adds complexity to the seemingly simple narrative.
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