Tuesday, 7 May 2013

Inappropriate Limericks

Increasingly Inappropriate Limericks

There once was a fellow from York
Who couldn't put down his fork
He had too much bacon
His gut was forsaken
And now the man hates pork

There once was a lass from Berlin
Who liked a guy named Tim
She cornered him right
Showed him quite a sight
Then discovered he wasn't a him

There once was a boy with the flu
Who
really needed the loo
He ran like a bug
Tripped on a rug
Now the room is covered in poo

There once was a man in the rain
Whose head was in a lot of pain
He went to a doc
While chewing a sock
Turned out the guy was insane

A guy was in the wrong lane
While he was flying a plane
He looked ahead
And saw in dread
Another pilot had done the same

Alone in a Crowded Room- Free Verse Poem

Alone in a Crowded Room
Have you ever been alone?
I don't mean you didn't have a girlfriend
Or a guy, or whatever you fancy
Or that your friends haven’t rung you up
And your family is too busy
To give their son a visit.
And your siblings are too engrossed
In their existence
To see yours.

I mean truly alone.
When I was just a boy
I went to the moors of Scotland
There was nothing but fog
And the rain
And the insects
And the muddied grass
The color of sorrow
And the slow beating
Of my empty heart
And that was when I realized
The best day of my life had come



I didn’t fear anyone
I didn’t hate anyone
I didn’t love anyone
I didn’t know anyone
Because in the moors
No one mattered
Especially not me

When I was with others
I never felt more alone
In that crowded room
I felt myself suffocating
And my voice
Pleading for help
For anyone to just take the time
to say;
“Why are you so sad?”
“What are these marks on your wrists?”
“You seem nice”
“I love you”

I have never heard those words
And I never will
Because the chaos in my own
rotten skull
Is too much already
So why should I bother to reach out
To you?
When you can't
Stop me from drowning?
Please.
Please pull me up.
Please.
Please say something.
Please.

But I have heard the heartbeat of the moors
And I know that loneliness
Is the cure to itself

The Man on Main Street- Free Verse

The Man on Main Street: Free Verse

If you walk down Main Street, and up 15th
To the cafe with the faded sign
Next to the bakers, the one whose son runs the shop
You’ll find there a man, his legs bent
He’ll nod hello, stranger or friend
As he sips on his coffee
And picks at his biscotti
And skims his paper
And wears his skin like paper
With the weight of iron
His arms crossed, his face withered
And in his eyes an ocean
Once I stopped to talk to the man;
he reads his paper
Because he always wanted to write for one
He dreamed of travelling the world,
of not having enough to eat
Nor a home to call his own
and only legends and rumours for food
Of tales of adventure
And bravery
And romance
And passion
Of being so much more
And he sips on his coffee
To remember the ones his mother gave him
When he was just a youth
And to remember the ones he shared
With friends, gone and passed
In a land he no longer knows
Where he used to sit and laugh
At the people who walked by
And the friends who smiled at him and his face
Which was once unwithered
And at the other men who sat at cafes
Like he does now
And the man still picks at his biscotti
Because his sister became a baker
Not the one next to the cafe;
His sister lived in the land
That he no longer knows
She would give him leftovers
Small favors from her shop
And to her, they were nothing
But to him they were the world
They filled him with joy
And gave him scraps of his broken past
Charity for the poorest of men
A prop to stand up the broken frame
That is the poor mans soul
Sometimes the baker-not the sister, shes long gone-
Comes and talks to the man
And wishes him well, honestly
From the bottom of that baker’s heart
Theres a little tiny ray that he tries to give to the man
Because he sees the man every day
And thinks of him more than that
Because he hopes, maybe one day
He will look out his window, and the man will be gone
But the ray doesn’t touch the man
He is too far away in his chair
And so he sits there, and eats
And drinks
And reads
To remember what he has left behind
And where he could have gone
He sits there every morning, and looks across the street to the house
Where the one he loved once lived
He saw her every day, walk past that cafe
But never told her
That her visit kept his heart beating
Beneath his paper skin
In his iron chest
So the man sits there, and drowns in that ocean in his eyes
And he never lets the world know
His pain
And he never let the world know
What happiness he might have had
Or who he is
Beneath his paper skin
He refuses to let his fire
Burn away
Instead the man on Main Street
Flickers on
Because he hates what he is but can’t die yet
Like a lost candle in a vigil
Flickering
Never ending
Never dancing or crackling or hissing

It simply is

Like the faded sign
Next to the man on Main Street

The Hero We All Deserve- Epic Poem

The Hero we All Deserve

On this black city, pain dealt its card
A place beholding false gods of hatred
The streets, black and dark and hard
Bore water that ran filthy and red

Deliverance was needed
To the sky, they pleaded
But no answer was heard

For an ordinary man
From the rooftops ran
And took from the thief his weapon and pride

And thus the tide,
of endless crime
Was stopped by a light;
the darkest of nights

He sits upon a concrete throne
Austere, he reigns
Guardian of our home
Defier of Bane

The Lord whispers in the night
“Should any villain reach my sight!”
They will be driven to flight!”
Except for Penguin, who, despite
Being a bird, cannot escape
the masked man and his cape

And when the killing joke was had
When people cried and screamed
And the world went mad

When a clown ruled over Gotham, a false king
The streets his; the opposers gone
His arrows of fortune and madness to sling
His marchers singing their victory song

The austere knight, justice fell
Devouring day, devouring hell

And so the night would end
And give wake to day
From heaven, or hell, was the hero sent?

For whenever those
Who could not bear arms
Faced a shadow’s blows
He would save them from harm

If the shadow should ever overtake that land
Then the mountains would first turn to sand
And if that knight should ever falter or fall
Then it would be because the small grew tall
And fear no longer ruled
In Gotham’s halls.

Poe Themed Poems: The Fat King & The Talking Graves

The Fat King

This whole town is filled with rats,
Criminals, whores- the worst of the pack.
Carve them slowly, remove the fat
Burn it down in that bubbling vat
They gave us the Somme;
We will give them bombs
So my smokestacks burn away at the streets
Ending the burden on the poor’s feet
And as for my wife
The smokestacks took her away
Not mine, but those of other day’s
The buzzing blades that fell from the sky
Tore us apart, my wife and I
So I sit here in my liar's chair
Extracting sulfur from urchin’s hair
The pain that I felt on that night
As the bombers ended their eternal flight
This gift that Germany gave to me,
I will return with fire and peat
Because the buzzing blades of that night
Took my heart, my love, my light.
The Talking Graves
Its a miracle how fast rain can fall
Piercing sky, drowning earth
And yet the graves stand tall
Always seen, never heard
Are the stories of those dead days
When my love was not dream
Before the last day of May
The world did seem

Easier, brighter, lighter in weight
I still owned a smile to wear everyday
My future was a picture I could still paint
But came the day I heard her say


The medication was failing
The end was in sight
Her heart was failing
Her eyes became night

So now the graves talk
To me, their only friend
Because in that shock
I saw the end

Here it is again
One trigger, one shot
To see my love again
To suffer not

Saturday, 23 March 2013

Still I Rise: Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou (born Marguerite Johnson) has had a harder life than any poet I have reviewed this far, including Edgar Allan Poe. She was born in 1928. When she was a young girl, her parents divorced (she would rarely see her father afterwards). At the age of eight, she was raped by her mothers boyfriends, who was later killed by her relatives. The experience rendered her mute for 5 years. 

After graduating from high school, she soon became a single mother and quickly slid into poverty. She was forced to take up jobs as a prostitute and nightclub dancer. Backstories of this nature usually result in drug addiction, an early death, being murdered and found the next day, or imprisonment. Don't forget that Angelou, as a black woman, was racially persecuted throughout her upbringing. 

And yet despite all of this, Angelou became a successful journalist, civil rights activist, performer, and now, a writer most well known for her poetry. One of her better known works is Still I Rise. Here are the first two stanzas:

"You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room."


The structure of the poem is somewhat irregular. Every other line rhymes, but there are no other cases of rhyme to be seen, which could make the poem a combination of free and alternating verse. There are also few poetic devices utilized, except for apostrophe (We cannot yet determine if Angelou is addressing someone who is present, or if she is even addressing one specific person). The poem is obviously very narrative in its nature- unlike Poe, who preferred to take out his emotions through a written proxy, Angelou is directly conveying her thoughts and emotions to her target. 

We see the use of dust and dirt in the writing, with an emphasis on it "rising", as per the poems title. The meaning is heavily symbolic- from the very bottom of life, dirt rises back when stomped or attacked, just as Angelou never yielded to the social and pressures and attacks upon her. 

Far from the little girl that was once rendered mute from exacting revenge, Angelou now savours it. The poem is very autobiographic in nature in that she seems to be addressing issues in her own past and is doing little to disguise them with metaphors or other literary devices. This is plain, honest writing at its best. The following stanzas have a similar theme; Angelou questions the unseen figure, asking if her victories throughout her life have upset or angered him, showing that whatever life throws at her, still she will rise. 

All of the stanzas are ordered in pairs. In the first stanza of each pair, Angelou names a host of things that others may wish to inflict upon her- make her weak, make her sad, destroy her spirit- and in the second stanza, Angelou rebukes her attacker by insulting them, and then going on to state her victory. It makes her appear independent and strong- though it is easy to win an argument when you control both sides of the argument, mind you. 

The poem finally concludes with a stanza that does not fit the described pattern:



"Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. "
Here we see heavy use of the line "I rise", and an entirely new rhyme scheme where the final work of every full line now rhymes with the final line of the next full line. This gives the poem a sense of more rapid progression and makes the bold proclamations Angelou writes even more powerful and graceful. 
It also gives some clues as to the meaning of the poem. It becomes a reference to the Civil Rights movement and the progressing rights of African Americans. Use of terms like "black ocean" and "the gifts my ancestors gave" are obvious allusions to the rise in status and sense of empowerment felt by Angelou and all African Americans.
But most of all, this should be a poem about the writer. Who better to exemplify dust rising then a woman who rose from the dust until she filled the sky? 



The Darkling Thrush: Thomas Hardy

Why? 

Why am I writing this analysis right now? I could be sleeping. Its a miserable day and I don't really feel like doing much in any case. Why do anything at all? Why should I smile and pretend its alright when its really not? 

Poets are not as blunt as I am. They like to ask questions in massive stanzas rather then in short sentences (Just look at The Tyger an an example). Thomas Hardy asks a very serious question in A Darkling Thrush, which I have already explored. In this gray, miserable shell of a world, why bother? Why does the sun even care to remain in that pale sky? Why do birds sing? Well lets get to it and find out, shall we? 

Hardy is a fairly contemporary poet (he lived from 1840 to 1928). An Englishman, his works deal with English rural life and its decline during his life. He is a realist in his writing style- you will find fanciful metaphors and wordplay, but he rarely weaves imagery that couldn't occur in reality. 

It should be remembered that as someone who lived in the country, Hardy's way of life was declining. Industrialization and poverty had emptied and soiled the line. It could even be said that his inspirations were similar to Charles Dickens's. 

And in keeping with that theme, the first two stanza finds Hardy painting a dismal picture of his home


"I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I."

We understand some elements of the structure immediately. Alliteration is used to create a sense of flow
to the work very frequently, while metaphors are used to convey the melancholy desolation of the 
narrators surroundings. The rhyme scheme is in standard alternating style. Hardy also seems to be very 
selective in the arrangement of his sentences and his use of symmetry. See the lines "was shrunken hard
and dry" and "germ and birth", where Hardy seems to be aligning use of the word "and" to create a
sense of order and organization within the work. 

We see grey English countryside, where the remnants of a harsh winter has rendered the eye of day (the
sun) to the status of a dim candle. Barely any blue sky- which Hardy compares to the strings of broken
lyre- can even find its way through the clouds. The houses and structures- the corpses of the century-
are deserted, their denizens having long retreated to the cities, leaving the rural buildings to ruin. Hardy
states it himself in the second stanza- the rural countryside, and the lives of those who live there, is
rotting away slowly. The ancient pulse of germ and birth- the earth itself- is hard, dry, and frozen. 

And the narrator, Hardy, finds himself looking upon this gloomy landscape. Unlike the other
inhabitants of the land, he has ventured out into the cold, demonstrating that in contrast to them, Hardy
seeks an answer, a reason, to the frost and gloom around him. And he gets it- not everything in the cold
countryside has perished. 

"At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small
In blast-beruffled plumed
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom."

We see a sudden and drastic transformation of the tone. The first two stanzas ooze melancholy sorrow,
with their words of a broken sky and a frozen world. But upon the entry of this thrush, this elderly bird
singing its song, the tone becomes lighter and softer. Words like "twigs", "joy", and "plumed" lighten
the once dark tone. 

"So little cause for carolling
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware."

This transformation of tone becomes even more pronounced in the final stanza. Words like "carolling",
"ecstatic", and "blessed" take what was once a very sad poem and make it pleasant, take a winter's
dismal afternoon and turn it into a warm summers eve. And then Hardy gets to the question which was 
mentioned at the very beginning of this analysis. 

Why? 

The narrator of this poem feels like life it not even worth living. The earth around him is grey
and dead, and even his fellow countrymen have shut themselves inside their homes in defeat. But this 
bird, this trash is not only content with its surroundings, but it finds the happiness to produce song. The 
narrator marvels at the powers of the trash to command happiness where he sees none, and concludes 
that the trash is privy to some secret truth that he is not aware of. But what is the poem about? Is it a 
metaphor for childhood, and innocence held by children despite the worst of circumstances? Is it a tale 
of how the faintest smile glows brightest in the dark? Perhaps a marvel on the powers of nature? Or 
maybe its just what it seems to be; a story of how happiness can be found by those who search for it. 



Tamarlane: Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was not a happy man. His life consisted of alcoholism and narcotic use, divorce, heartache, death, misery, and mental illness. Even his death was a dark mystery- all that is known is that he was found near dead on a street in Baltimore, and expired shortly after. 

As his life would suggest, his works are not of a pleasant nature.
Tamarlane is no exception. It is an epic centred around the historical figure Tamarlane (more commonly known as Timur) but while it is written in the dramatic monologue or epic style, Tamarlane is not a story of redemption or heroics, but one of regret. Like Ulysses, it finds its subject in the final stages of life, only unlike Tennyson's Greek king, Tamarlane does not dream of heroics and new adventures, but mourns over the mistakes he made and the pleasures he has lost. 

Please note the poem's vast length will prevent the writer from dissecting each individual paragraph and stanza, but the themes of the poem will become clear through smaller samples of the work. It may become necessary for the writer to revisit this post on numerous occasions to add pieces to further the intensity of the analysis. 


But now back to the subject; Tamarlane was a real historical figure, though he is usually known as Timur. Timur was a Turkic king who ruled from 1336-1403. He aimed to reconstruct the empire of his ancestor, Genghis Khan, through military force and political trickery. His conquests stretched across multiple continents and resulted in the death of approximately 17 million people, of 5% of the world population at the time. 


Regardless, Timur is often viewed historically as being a more humane figure then Genghis. Excessive pillaging and rape was not documented in relation to his conquests nearly as much as it was with Genghis. Furthermore, Timur was a brilliant military tactician,diplomat and an intellectual who often utilized elements of his faith (Islam) to impose power over regions by appealing to fellow Muslims without bloodshed. 


A similarity between the two was their mythical status. Such was their conquests that even hundreds of years later in the time of Edgar Allan Poe, few solid facts were known of Tamarlane (A good example being that his real name was not even known). Like Coleridge with Kublai Khan, Poe's lack of knowledge regarding Tamarlane lead to romanticism of his character. Poe, throughout the poem, inserts many aspects of Tamarlane's life that did not occur in order to make the figure more human. Poe also likely did this to insert aspects of his own character into Tamarlane, as was Poe's custom. In other works, such as
The Raven or Annabel Lee, Poe's writing is almost always in the first person and always reflects his own personal experiences throughout his life. 

The poem opens with an elderly man approaching a dying Tamarlane ("Kind solace in a dying hour!"). 

Tamarlane initially shuns and rejects the old man, but later bids him to join him in his final hours. Tamarlane then begins to do something that is in greater custom with Christians than Muslims; he begins to confess. 


" will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in-
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope-that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:"


Tamarlane is confessing the sins that he has committed, admitting that no earthly power could cleanse him of them. He also hints that many sins he has committed were due to his greed, though what he lusted for is not revealed. 

This is obviously a device for Poe to visit Tamarlane's past. It is also more evidence that Poe clearly does not know many solid facts about his subject- he begins the poem with a  devout Muslim confessing his sins in the fashion of Christianity, complete with an elderly consoler at his bedside! It should be remembered, however, that Poe was a gothic writer who specialized in the macabre. Death, confessions, and sins were common themes in his writing. It makes sense for him to utilize them to connect with his work, as well as to please his adoring audience. 

Structurally, the poem is fairly standard, using basic rhyme schemes in a very organized fashion. The tone is clear and concise, with the sorrow of the poem being reflected mostly in the diction. 

Many of the following lines continue Tamarlane's themes of regret. He calls his jewelled throne a "Halo of hell" and scoffs at what mortal pleasures he still retains. He then proceeds to his rise to power:




"I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow
I claim'd and won usurpingly-
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar-this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind."

Poe may not have been aware of Tamarlane's religious beliefs or of his real name, but at least he knows his family tree. The influence of Genghis Khan on the actions of Tamarlane in claiming his kingdom are seen. Tamarlane does not just view his empire as something that he wishes to attain, but as a birthright. We now see Tamarlane as having once been a proud, ambitious man. 

The allusion to the ill-fated conquerer Caesar was likely chosen by Poe for the purpose of foreshadowing. Poe is clearly stating that Tamarlane's dreams will not come to fruition. In the meantime, however, the conquerer is succeeding. The next few stanzas find Tamarlane conquering and ascending his throne through conquest- but not without cost to his soul. 



"My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurp'd a tyranny which men
Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
My innate nature-be it so:
But father, there liv'd one who, then,
Then-in my boyhood-when their fire
Burn'd with a still intenser glow,
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E'en then who knew this iron heart
In woman's weakness had a part."


Tamarlane again references Genghis Khan, who he believes he has succeeded, proving himself a warrior but admitting himself a tyrant. He then states that even that man, Genghis, was subject to wounds of love, administered by a beautiful woman. 

Oh boy, here we go.

Those familiar with the works of Poe could forgive themselves from groaning. Virtually all of Poe's greater works deal with "The loss of a beautiful woman". This is influenced by the death of many women in Poe's life, including his mother (he was raised an orphan and never knew her) his first love and his cousin (and later, wife). Poe is clearly using Tamarlane as a metaphor to explore his relationship with one of these women (Most likely his first love, Sarah Royster). He may also be using it to explore his relationship with his father- Tamarlane is striving to succeed to prove himself worthy of being the descendant of Genghis Khan. Poe's stepfather often expressed dissatisfaction with him, sending him for some time to boarding school in England. Much of Poe's depression likely resulted from attempts to impress or prove himself to his stepfather. 

Back to the poem! Poe now introduces Tamarlane's Sarah Royster, in the form of a beautiful (but unnamed) woman. And of course, she is beautiful beyond compare. Tamarlane compares her to everything up to and including the moon, life, and his crown. The writer of this post will not directly address one of these stanzas (and there are many) because the facts of the situation are much better imparted then by what he has already written, and because the stanzas in question are rather cheesy. 

As this stage, with a woman he loves by his side and the world underneath his finger, Tamarlane could not be happier. 



O, human love! thou spirit given
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall'st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound,
And beauty of so wild a birth-
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.


Alas, this does not persist. 



What tho' the moon-the white moon
Shed all the splendour of her noon,
Her smile is chilly, and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one-
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown-
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty-which is all.
I reach'd my home-my home no more
For all had flown who made it so.
I pass'd from out its mossy door,
And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known-
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
A humbler heart-a deeper woe.
Father, I firmly do believe-
I know-for Death, who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar,
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro' Eternity-
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path-
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellis'd rays from Heaven,
No mote may shun-no tiniest fly-
The lightning of his eagle eye-
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love's very hair?


We see in this series of stanzas that the woman Tamarlane pledges himself to passes away. Poe's use of metaphor and simile is often cited as being near flawless, but is particularly beautiful in these stanzas, conveying sadness perfectly with images of dying flowers and lost innocence. He shows that he is haunted by his dead lover- he hears her voice throughout his home and even sees her through the dates of heaven and death. Love has struck him like an arrow, and at the poems conclusion, Tamarlane reveals that his love did not die of natural causes. It was his ambition, his need to conquer and rule, which ended her life. The moral in the end is very Christian (ironically enough); that greed and envy, should it be taken too far, will bring ruin to a man and those he loves. 




Thursday, 21 March 2013

The Tyger: William Blake

The Tyger is one of the most commonly analyzed poems by English writer and artist William Blake. Before the work is properly dissected, it is important to get an idea on the religious and personal beliefs of Blake himself, as they were very irregular for his time (mid 1700s, early 1800s) and greatly defined many themes in his works.

Blake was a highly religious man, but rejected many conventional religious structures, including organized religion. He could in that respect be called a spiritual Christian because of his intense devotion to God, relationship with the divine, and mythological aspects of his beliefs. His political beliefs are much like those of philosopher John Locke- Blake's viewpoints throughout life indicate support for liberalism and representative democracy, while still maintaining heavy ties between government and the church.

As his religious history would indicated, The Tyger is one of Blake's many odes to God. Here is the first stanza:

"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"

Note the use of the archaic spelling of 'tiger' seen both in the title and work.

It should be noted the use of exclamation marks and questions occur throughout the poem and create a tone of curiosity, imagination, and almost reverence towards "The Tyger". Blake also utilizes a host of words that could be associated with the divine, like "bright" or "immortal", to contribute further to this tone.

The poem's structure is somewhat irregular. In most of the lines, the structure is trochaic tetrameter, but in some lines-most notably the final one in the above stanza-the structure shifts to iambic tetrameter.

The theme of the poem becomes obvious in the final two lines of the stanza. The reference to the immortal hand and eye refers to intelligent design. Blake wonders and marvels at how God, who he sees as the designer and architect of all living things, created the being he sees before him. Blake later arrives at another question; why did God create such a beast?


"In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?"

If God is a benevolent and loving being, why did he craft a tiger? To Blake, the tiger is not in any way a creature resembling God- it is a fearsome and merciless hunter of the night that does nothing to provide for man. Blake also comments on how unfeeling the tiger is, nothing that nothing in his capacity could possibly even slow or hamper the beast. He at one point ponders:

"When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"

The Lamb is another of Blake's works, often compared in direct contrast to The Tyger. This is a very effective method of contrast- Blake takes a creature associated with innocence and with God and then compares it to a creature, that, as far as he sees is, does not belong in God's realm.

Blake almost sees the existence of the tiger as a challenge to his faith. He genuinely cannot imagine why his God has crafted the creature. And the rest of the poem is...just that. Blake, despite having several stanzas in which to do it, can't compose a valid reason why this being exists. He ends the poem with the very same stanza that he started it with; What being could have composed you? And, for that matter, why? 

Friday, 15 March 2013

To a Mouse: Robert Burns

To a Mouse is one of the better known works of the Scottish poet Robert Burns. Burns is well known for his association with Scotland as the nation's poet and for his blunt, honest writing. Burns was one of the founders of the Romantic movement and is notable for often writing in a light Scottish dialect.

In To a Mouse, Burns narrates an encounter a man has with a small mouse. The poem is notable for its  very clear story ark of the encounter and its results. The first stanza: 

"Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim'rous beastie
O, what panic's in thy breast!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!"

This stanza begins the story, a man encountering a mouse and encouraging it not to flee, despite its obvious fear of him.

In this stanza, we get an idea of Burn's structure and rhyme scheme. The rhymes are imperfect ("thee" and "hasty") and occur in a standard alternating style. Burns's use of the Scottish dialect becomes apparent. We see the intentional modification of words to fit the dialect ("Wi' murd"ring" as opposed to "with murdering"). Burns may be utilizing the dialect to cheat, in a sense. The dialect using allows him to make words flow smoothly by removing excess syllables from sentences. Furthermore, the use of the dialect forces one to interpret it in its accent form- in other words, the reader does not "hear" plain English while reading, but the dialect.

We also see use of Scottish diction. Words like laith (loath), pattle (small shovel), and brattle(scurry or run) help emphasize the tone of the poem. They also send a clear message that the poem was written for the people of Scotland and perhaps northern England, as the diction might not be understood outside these places. 

From here the poems story quickly progresses, with the narrator adopting a more serious tone with less use of Scottish diction. 

"I'm truly sorry Man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 
Which makes thee startle, 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 
An' fellow-mortal!"

The narrator begins to begin what becomes the theme of the rest of the poem; man's scourging of nature and the mistreatment of mice by men. Burns equates himself with the mouse, and then goes on in the next stanzas to explore the mouse's perspective. 

Consider the life of a mouse; a hated creature that is honestly just doing what it needs to do to survive.
It may steal crumbs, but in the end that is a small thing in comparison to the life of the mouse. After exploring the true pain that a mouse has to face in life, Burns then again equates himself with the mouse, this time on a personal level. 

"But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, 
Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee:.... "

Burns explores not only the pain felt by a mouse, a being hated by all but God, whose plans and goals are ravaged by the contempt others hold for them, but the pain of men. Burns brings up his personal life in the writing of the poem- perhaps a reference to the tragedies he has suffered prior to writing the poem. His beloved, Mary Campbell, had recently passed away, and Burns's brother had contracted typhus. Furthermore, Burns found himself in a much grimmer financial state- which prompted him to publish several of his works, including To a Mouse. 

Is it a testament to natures glory, an anthem for the mice among us, or the lesson that no matter how we may plan and fret, our plans will disintegrate before life? It is all of them. To a Mouse is a simple poem with very, very profound roots.