Analysis of "The Youngest Daughter" by Cathy Song (Blog #12)

The sky has been dark

for many years.

My skin has become as damp

and pale as rice paper

and feels the way

mother’s used to before the drying sun   

parched it out there in the fields.

 

Lately, when I touch my eyelids,

my hands react as if

I had just touched something

hot enough to burn.

My skin, aspirin colored,   

tingles with migraine. Mother

has been massaging the left side of my face   

especially in the evenings   

when the pain flares up.

This morning

her breathing was graveled,

her voice gruff with affection   

when I wheeled her into the bath.   

She was in a good humor,

making jokes about her great breasts,   

floating in the milky water

like two walruses,

flaccid and whiskered around the nipples.   

I scrubbed them with a sour taste   

in my mouth, thinking:

six children and an old man

have sucked from these brown nipples.

I was almost tender

when I came to the blue bruises

that freckle her body,

places where she has been injecting insulin   

for thirty years. I soaped her slowly,

she sighed deeply, her eyes closed.

It seems it has always

been like this: the two of us

in this sunless room,

the splashing of the bathwater.

In the afternoons

when she has rested,

she prepares our ritual of tea and rice,   

garnished with a shred of gingered fish,

a slice of pickled turnip,

a token for my white body.   

We eat in the familiar silence.

She knows I am not to be trusted,   

even now planning my escape.   

As I toast to her health

with the tea she has poured,

a thousand cranes curtain the window,

fly up in a sudden breeze.

 

 

I don't think I am emotionally stable enough to academically analyze this poem. I'm going to personalize my response because, at this point, it's all my heart can handle.

 

I first thought this piece would be about the struggles of the daughter, which would makes sense because of the title and the first few lines. I was ready to sympathize with whatever the daughter had gone through. It seemed to be aging at first, she wasn't used to her body and face aging. But I then realized it was about both the daughter and her frail mother. The dynamic between a sick mother and her child as caretaker is something very peculiar and complex. The duty of providing care to a parents, especially one who was dying, can be very tiresome and heavy with burden. The obligation to care for someone who took care of you drives the daughter's motivation to care for her mother. But the daughter's desire and need to want to live on her own and take care of herself is crushed by her obligations to her old mother. It becomes a battle between selfishness versus selflessness. 

 

I watched my father slave over his sick parents during their final years. My Mom-mom was sick six months before she died, bed-ridden and unable to take of herself in any form. She struggled to walk and to bathe herself while I was a little girl, so her completely sedentary state was an expected transition. For six months, my father and mother visited my grandparents three times a day everyday. As a tag team, my parents changed sheets, diapers, and clothes for my grandmother, as well as fed her medications and food. My Pop-pop could just barely take care of himself. I hated visiting my grandparents because I hated seeing them die. When Mom-mom passed, Pop-pop went crazy. Another year with him was all I unknowingly had left. He lived with us for a few months, but the burden to take care of him was too great. His delusional episodes cost my parents many sleepless nights as well as new worry lines taking up real estate on their faces. I couldn't bare to be home when Pop-pop was hallucinating. I hardly even visited him after we moved him to the nursing home. I don't recall what hurt more, watching my valiant hero crumble before my eyes or wishing he was dead in order to relieve my stress and pain. I love my grandparents, and their deaths have far more hurt me than any ordeal my family faced while they were living. 

 

This poem perfectly captivates what it's like to watch your loved ones go frail and the intrinsic struggle you face when taking care of them. 

*I'm sorry, I can not continue...

Analysis of "The World Is Too Much With Us" by William Wordsworth (Blog #11)

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

The poem is about humans and their impact on the world. We waste our "powers" on us and our own advancement, turning away from nature. We put our faith, time, and energy into ourselves. We don't pay attention to the sea, the moon, the wind, NATURE anymore. It no longer moves us emotionally and spiritually. The speaker wishes he were a Pagan (from research, I discovered that meant he wishes to worship old values) so that he could look at nature and appreciate it better. That way, the speaker might be able to see powerful mythical gods rise from the sea. He wants to be able to adore nature whole-heartedly.

Astoundingly, in 1807 when William Wordsworth published it, this poem refers to very specific scientific aspects of nature ("this Sea that bares her bosom to the moon", the connection of the ocean's tides to the gravity pull of the moon) and reveals interesting predictions about the future understanding of the ocean. He also uses the ocean, sea, or things related to bodies of water (Gods) in order to elaborate his desire to appreciate nature. Wordsworth worshiped water, which is an interesting considering, again, the year of publication. Water was no a resource lacking or in high demand. Whereas today, we're trying to find new and better ways to preserve and and sterilize water. California is also currently going through a drought. So, again, Wordsworth predicts the importance of nature future and its values.

Wordsworth mentions Gods of the sea and ocean to put emphasis on the fantasy that nature will be worshiped again. He wishes to see glimpses of Proteus (Old Man of the Sea, controls the constant change of the sea) and Triton (messenger of the sea) mythical figures, which represents the absurdity and mythical quality to the desire to see nature valued again. The shift in the poem, where the speaker desires to be a Pagan (desire to live by older values, not worshiping nature) might represent the changing tides of the ocean, like the changing tides of human desire. While the poem, on the surface, may be about nature and the ocean, it's more likely about human nature, constantly changing ways of life and philosophy. 

Analysis of "Death, Be Not Proud" by John Donne (Blog #10)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Woah, heavy stuff man.

I think the speaker is standing up to death, facing their fears and misfortunes caused by death. They kind of talk down upon death, the same way an ordinary guy stands up to a bully in one of those cheesy Disney channel movies. "Death, be no proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so." The speaker defies the "power" of death ("nor yet canst thou kill me"). The speaker then goes on to say that the greatest people on earth will go with Death and that Death only follows the orders and ordeals of fate, kings, and men. Death uses many tools to collect his souls (poison, war, sickness). However, when the dead awake in heaven as immortal souls, Death will truly die and have no purpose.

John Donne uses beautiful diction and personification to bring this piece to life (literally, and quite ironic!). Starting with diction, Donne carefully crafted the sentences to create something that conveys so much more meaning than what appears to meet the eye. With address to Death directly and clear moments of defiance, the poem represents a confrontation from a subordinate to a superior. "Death shall be no more," strongly emphasizes the importance of the poem and its purpose of defiance. And the personification of Death (turning into a person) brings it to life (HAHA!). Death becomes more than a means to an end, it becomes a person who any sad or angry victim can publicly and physically blame.

Oh, if it were only that easy. If Death could be stopped by diction and defiance and dignity. As mere mortals, we are at Death's grip and mercy. For me, it is easier to cope with the possibility of death if I just believe that this time on Earth is our only time, so I should make best of it. Immortality, the after life, freak me out! I'm comforted by the fact that You Only Live Once. Like the poem "To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time", I believe that it's important to value and respect the time we have at hand. 

Analysis of "Rite of Passage" by Sharon Olds (Blog #9)

"Rite of Passage"

As the guests arrive at our son’s party   

they gather in the living room—

short men, men in first grade

with smooth jaws and chins.

Hands in pockets, they stand around

jostling, jockeying for place, small fights

breaking out and calming. One says to another

How old are you? —Six. —I’m seven. —So?

They eye each other, seeing themselves   

tiny in the other’s pupils. They clear their   

throats a lot, a room of small bankers,

they fold their arms and frown. I could beat you

up, a seven says to a six,

the midnight cake, round and heavy as a

turret behind them on the table. My son,

freckles like specks of nutmeg on his cheeks,   

chest narrow as the balsa keel of a   

model boat, long hands

cool and thin as the day they guided him   

out of me, speaks up as a host

for the sake of the group.

We could easily kill a two-year-old,

he says in his clear voice. The other   

men agree, they clear their throats

like Generals, they relax and get down to   

playing war, celebrating my son’s life


The poem is about boys and they're games of make believe at a birthday party. The story is told from the point of view from one of the parents of the birthday boy (perhaps the mom?). They continue to talk about the boys (the short men) that arrive for the son's birthday and how they compare in age and aggressiveness. The boys assess their capabilities to beat each other up. The boys play and one announces that they could beat up a two year old. The other boys agree (in a manner like war Generals) and they continue to play war in honor of the son's birthday.

  This poem reminds me so much of Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. There's a hyperbolic tone that exaggerates the literal circumstance of the piece. Young boys, just out of their kinder years, play war and threaten to slaughter young toddlers. The poem praises the glorification and glamorization of war by placing the new burden on the shoulders of young boys. Boys watch their fathers and male role-models talk about war and death. Naturally, the young boys want to act mature and older, so they play war to feel like genuine adults. A giant game of make-believe all around. And with a title like "Rite of Passage" the poem is about the endless cycle that this vicious accidental teaching and how it "turns boys into men" by using praise of war. 

There's no rhythmic structure to the poem. However, there's clear and distinct beginning, middle, and end (the CYCLE). The beginning is the arrival of the young male guests, with an emphasis on their youth and innocence. The middle is the boys talking about age and evaluating their strengths over one another ("I could beat you up"). The end is the gathered boys, guided by a leader that shouts "We could easily kill a two-year old", in agreeance of their strengths over the little ones below them. The poem, with its clear storytelling structure, displays and exemplifies the cycle of boys turning into men through war and violence. The hyperbolic exaggeration of the ages of the boys is used to shock (?) the reader and to make the cycle more prominent, demonstrating the dangers of when the cycle leaks into the lives of kinder-aged boys. The final two lines serve as an attempt to be optimistic about the violent boys (they continue to play make believe to celebrate the son's birthday), but, in fact, it only makes the poem darker and more cynical. It serves as a message to most likely preserve the youth and innocence of our children.

Analysis of "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden (Blog #8)

"Those Winter Sundays"

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

The title suggests that the poem will be about Sundays during winter, specifically a certain type of day that the speaker is looking back on (good, bad and the ugly). In a other words, the speaker talks about their father getting up early on Sundays as well, getting dressed in the cold darkness. With weary and overworked hands, father built a fire with no thankful words towards him. The speaker would awake to the cold easing, waking to his father's call that the house was warm. Slowly, the speaker would get ready and rise, fearful of the tension on the household. Without regards to father's kindness towards the speaker (warming the house, cleaning the speaker's shoes), the speaker questions his understanding of love and its sorrow.

Hayden uses strong imagery, point of view, and metaphors to emphasize the meaning on his poem. Imagery like "cracked hands that ached" and "hear the cold splintering, breaking" brings the story to life. It creates sounds, images and solidify the reality of the speaker. The first person point of view makes the story personal and meaningful. The indifferent speaker analyzes their father carefully and without bias. However, the first person point of view brings the situation to close proximity. The attitude is clinical, oddly detached. The relationship is close and personal, but the speaker is unaware of the depth of the situation.

After closely reading the poem, the title suggests that the speaker might be recalling a memory and have a different reflection on the situation than when they actually lived it. The speaker appreciates their father for being so kind and caring and thoughtful to the family. I think the overall theme is something about how later self reflection contributes to a altered perception of your past.

I find this poem to connect to my life so passionately. I'm looking at a current situation and reflecting on how I could have, should have, and would have acted differently if I knew then what I know now. It's therapeutic to find peace and a new sense of justice after your self reflection is altered. The past is in the past, and we can only move forward to make a difference. For the speaker, they can appreciate their father in the future. For me, I can say no more easily.

Analysis of "To The Virgins, To Make Much of Time" by Robert Herrick (Blog #7)

The title suggests that the poem might be a letter or an address to virgins in general. The speaker is offering advice to utilize their time wisely. Virgins could also be interpreted as young folk, maybe as children, and the poem/poet is advising them to be cherish their time as young people. In its most basic form, the poem can be paraphrased as: Collect your rosebuds now, old time is still passing, and this flower may be in bloom now, but tomorrow it will be dying. As the sun rises higher, the sooner it is setting. Youth is great and new and wonderful, but time damages youth. Don't play and use your time, marry now while you still can, because you may regret not doing so once you age greatly.

The poet uses metaphors, imagery, symbolism, and personification to amplify the meaning of the poem. "Flying time" and "glorious lamp of heaven, the sun" are metaphors that solidify and strengthen the message of the poem (utilize time). "Gather ye rosebuds" and "glorious lamp of heaven" (again) are great uses of imagery that help the reader to imagine the images the speaker has in mind when delivering their message. The imagery stimulates the sense of sight so that the reader is submerged into the poet's mind. The language revolving around the sun, "the glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, the higher he's a getting, the sooner will his race be run, and nearer he is to setting" is symbolic to the sun's phases throughout the day. The sun becomes more human because the language personifies it (running a race). 

The speaker is very matter-of-fact, almost as if they know what they're saying to be absolutely true. Their message to virgins is important to them, and important to the person(s) they are addressing it to. The speaker is almost indifferent to time and aging, they just accept it as a fact of life. I think there might be a shift in the final stanza, "then not be coy, but use your time". It serves as a final piece of advice to reiterate the depth of the message (USE YOUR TIME WISELY!). 

After closer examination, the title could be to anyone who is still young and naive, who doesn't believe that time will catch up to them. The poem is a warning, and strict message, that emphasizes the importance of utilizing youth and time, The poem is about good things coming to an end (nature, the sun, youth). Time is precious and shall not be wasted.

This is a poem I wish I could send my younger self. Freshman Sarah wasted a lot of time doing homework, school work, and worrying about things that didn't need the extra thought. I wish I would have spent more time with my grandparents before they died, I wish I would have spent more time with my friends before I went to high school, I wish I would have spent more time enjoying my time than worrying about it. Carpe diem, seize the day.