<hi rendition="#times">EN 110: Poems</hi>

font-style:italic; text-decoration:none; font-variant:small-caps; text-align:center; font-weight:bold; font-family:times-new-roman; font-size: 125%; Choose one of the following poems and explain what you like about it. Try to combine your observations with close examination of the ways in which sound, image, rhyme, patterns of repetition, or other formal features complement and intensify the poem’s meaning.

Mary Wroth “Sonnet 1” When night’s blacke Mantle could most darknesse prove, And sleepe, death’s image, did my senses hire From knowledge of myselfe, than thoughts did move Swifter then those most swiftnesse neede require. In sleepe, a chariot drawne by winged desire I saw, where sate bright Venus, Queene of Love, And at her feete, her son, still adding fire To burning hearts, which she did hold above. But one heart flaming more than all the rest, The Goddesse held, and put it to my breast. “Dear Sonne now shut,” said she, “thus must we winne.” He her obeyed, and martyred my poore heart. I, waking, hoped as dreames it would depart: Yet since, O me, a lover have I beene. “Sonnet 40” False hope, which feeds but to destroy, and spill What it first breeds, unnatural to the birth Of thine own womb; conceiving but to kill, And plenty gives to make the greater dearth, So tyrants do who falsely ruling earth Outwardly grace them, and with profits fill; Advance those who appointed are to death To make their greater fall to please their will. Thus shadow they their wicked vile intent, Coloring evil with a show of good, While in fair shows their malice so is spent; Hope kills the heart, and tyrants shed the blood. For hope deluding brings us to the pride Of our desires the farther down to slide.

John Donne “The Flea” MARK but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be. 5 Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two; And this, alas! is more than we would do. 10 O stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, yea, more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is. Though parents grudge, and you, we’re met, 15 And cloister’d in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since 20 Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it suck’d from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou Find’st not thyself nor me the weaker now. 25 ’Tis true; then learn how false fears be; Just so much honour, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee. “Holy Sonnet XIV” Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new. 5 I, like an usurp’d town, to another due, Labour to admit you, but O, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, 10 But am betroth’d unto your enemy; Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Milton “Sonnet: O Nightingale!” O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray Warbl’st at eve, when all the Woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the Lover’s heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, First heard before the shallow Cuckoo’s bill Portend success in love; O if Jove’s will Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some Grove nigh: As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief; yet hadst no reason why, Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. “Sonnet: When I consider …” When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

John Keats “To Autumn” 1. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. 2. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 3. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. “O Solitude!” O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep— Nature’s observatory—whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep ’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d, Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

Sir Philip Sidney “Astrophil and Stella: Sonnet I” Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain, Oft turning others’ leaves to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn’d brain. But words came halting forth, wanting invention’s stay; Invention, Nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows, And others’ feet still seem’d but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, “Fool,” said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”

Terrance Hayes “American Sonnet for Wanda C.” Who I know knows why all those lush-boned worn-out girls are Whooping at where the moon should be, an eyelid clamped On its lightness. Nobody sees her without the hoops firing in her Ears because nobody sees. Tattooed across her chest she claims Is bring me to where my blood runs and I want that to be here Where I am her son, pent in blackness and turning the night’s calm Loose and letting the same blood fire through me. In her bomb hair: Shells full of thunder; in her mouth: the fingers of some calamity, Somebody foolish enough to love her foolishly. Those who could hear No music weren’t listening—and when I say it, it’s like claiming She’s an elegy. It rhymes, because of her, with effigy. Because of her, If there is no smoke, there is no party. I think of you, Miss Calamity, Every Sunday. I think of you on Monday. I think of you hurling hurt Where the moon should be and stomping into our darkness calmly.

Andrew Marvell “The Garden” How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays; And their uncessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green; Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name. Little, alas, they know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheresoe’er your barks I wound No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion’s heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The gods who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race. Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow, And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness: The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one To live in Paradise alone. How well the skillful gard’ner drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new; Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And, as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers!

Adrienne Rich “Diving Into the Wreck” First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone. There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment. I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin. First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element. And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here. I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters. This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.

Georgia Douglas Johnson “The Measure” Fierce is the conflict—the battle of eyes, Sure and unerring, the wordless replies, Challenges flash from their ambushing caves— Men, by their glances, are masters or slaves. “Common Dust” And who shall separate the dust What later we shall be: Whose keen discerning eye will scan And solve the mystery? The high, the low, the rich, the poor, The black, the white, the red, And all the chromatique between, Of whom shall it be said: Here lies the dust of Africa; Here are the sons of Rome; Here lies the one unlabelled, The world at large his home! Can one then separate the dust? Will mankind lie apart, When life has settled back again The same as from the start?

John Prine “Lake Marie” We were standing Standing by peaceful waters Standing by peaceful waters Whoa, wah, oh wha, oh Whoa, wah, oh wha, oh Many years ago along the Illinois-Wisconsin border There was this Indian tribe They found two babies in the woods White babies One of them was named Elizabeth She was the fairer of the two While the smaller and more fragile one was named Marie Having never seen white girls before And living on the two lakes known as the Twin Lakes They named the larger and more beautiful lake, Lake Elizabeth And thus the smaller lake that was hidden from the highway Became known forever as Lake Marie Many years later I found myself talking to this girl Who was standing there with her back turned to Lake Marie The wind was blowing especially through her hair There was four Italian sausages cooking on the outdoor grill And man, they was sssssssizzlin’ Many years later we found ourselves in Canada Trying to save our marriage and perhaps catch a few fish Whatever seemed easier, that night she fell asleep in my arms Humming the tune to, “Louie Louie” Aah baby, we gotta go now The dogs were barking as the cars were parking The loan sharks were sharking, the narcs were narcing Practically everyone was there In the parking lot by the forest preserve The police had found two bodies in the woods Nay, naked bodies Their faces had been horribly disfigured by some sharp object Saw it on the news, on the TV news, in a black and white video You know what blood looks like in a black and white video? Shadows, shadows, that’s exactly what it looks like All the love we shared between her and me was slammed Slammed up against the banks of Old Lake Marie, Marie We were standing Standing by peaceful waters Standing by peaceful waters Whoa, wah, oh wha, oh Whoa, wah, oh wha, oh