{"content":{"sharePage":{"page":0,"digests":[{"id":"39624696","dateCreated":"1306461097","smartDate":"May 26, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"tammy_sev","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/tammy_sev","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/pic\/1285868666\/tammy_sev-lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39624696"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"The shout","description":"The Shout
\nBy: Simon Armitage
\n
\nWe went out
\ninto the school yard together, me and the boy
\nwhose name and face
\n
\nI don't remember. We were testing the range
\nof the human voice:
\nhe had to shout for all he was worth,
\n
\nI had to raise an arm
\nfrom across the divide to signal back
\nthat the sound had carried.
\n
\nHe called from over the park\u2014I lifted an arm.
\nOut of bounds,
\nhe yelled from the end of the road,
\n
\nfrom the foot of the hill,
\nfrom beyond the look-out post of Fretwell's Farm\u2014
\nI lifted an arm.
\n
\nHe left town, went to be twenty years dead
\nwith a gunshot hole
\nin the roof of his mouth, in Western Australia.
\n
\nBoy with the name and face I don't remember,
\nyou can stop shouting now, I can still hear you
\n
\nFor this poem a simple word choice is used, and it is not hard to understand, but it has no meaning; no emotion added to it. The poem tells the story of two boys trying to test the range of the human voice. The author tells their story, as they got farther away from each other. He then tells us that this boy dies, and that he can stop shouting because he is still heard. I can\u2019t see how the author\u2019s thoughts or feelings are put into the poem. Without emotions or feeling the poem has no sense; there is no point in writing it. I feel like this poem is just telling a story; the reader is not left with anything, when it finishes. There are no metaphors or similes to get a \u201cdeeper\u201d point across. It has no message, no theme, not even an intended audience. Simon Armitage is just telling an event of his past, and it\u2019s not even a very interesting one.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39623550","dateCreated":"1306459268","smartDate":"May 26, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"MaFe1595","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/MaFe1595","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/i\/user_none_lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39623550"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"What the Living Do","description":"What the Living Do
\nby Marie Howe
\n
\nJohnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
\nAnd the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
\n
\nwaiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
\nIt's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
\n
\nthe open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
\nFor weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
\n
\nI've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
\nwobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
\n
\nI thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
\nParking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
\n
\nWhat you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
\nwhoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss\u2014we want more and more and then more of it.
\n
\nBut there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
\nsay, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
\n
\nfor my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
\nI am living. I remember you.
\n
\n
\n\u201cWhat the Living Do,\u201d by Marie Howe, is a very bad poem. First, it lacks any kind of pattern or structure. It looks like a bunch of run on sentences put together. There is no rhythm, or musicality. The words aren\u2019t chosen carefully. There is no rich word choice. The poem is very boring. It had very long sentences and it doesn\u2019t really catch my attention. There is no feeling. The author didn\u2019t add her feelings in the poem. I can\u2019t relate to this and there is nothing that actually grabs my attention.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39565332","dateCreated":"1306359355","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"teagvest","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/teagvest","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/i\/user_none_lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39565332"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"Girl","description":"The poem \u201cGirl\u201d by Eve Alexandra is supposed to somehow be a poem about something about a girl. The poem is written basically as a paragraph in which the sentences are broken in random. Places. This is supposed to create a certain choppiness that is supposed to evoke a sense of poetry but instead results in an epic fail. Madame Eve Alexandra was woefully deceived when this poem became famous because the structure ruins the entire anything of it. The words might be nice and there are some good examples of metaphors and similes, but the way it is written takes any understandable theme away from it. It is difficult to read because the coherency is nearly nonexistent. There cannot be any way in which this scrambled mass of words can be considered a poem- there is nothing poetic about it. There is no meter or rhyme or anything special. This could be a wonderful stream-of-consciousness paragraph in some other context, but it just does not work the way she wrote it. When I think of a poem, there is usually a rhythm and\/ or rhyme and somewhat readable. This thing has none of those. Madame Eve Alexandra would need to rewrite this to at least have rhythm to become a poem.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[{"id":"39565540","body":"Sorry Mr Webster- here's the poem
\n
\nGirl
\nby Eve Alexandra
\n
\nBe careful if you take this flower into your house. The
\npeony has a thousand lips. It is pink and white like the lady\u2019s
\nskirt and smells sharp and sweet as cinnamon. There are a
\nthousand ants living inside but you will only see one or two at
\na time. I am like that down there--pink and busy inside. The
\ndark is a bolt of cloth, crushed and blue, and I unfurl against it.
\nIf you lie down on the floor of the closet the hems of silk will
\nlick you. My own gown is thin as the skin of dried grass so I
\ncan see the ants dancing down there. The night has big paws.
\nI imagine the wool of the bears, the cloth of monkeys. the night
\nsmells like vetiver and cedar. His mouth is cool with mint and
\nwarm with rum, and I am not afraid as he rubs his wool against
\nme. I saw the bear dancing at the circus when I was small. He
\nwas wearing a green felt cap with gold bric-a-brac and kept by
\na thin wire thread. My brother bought me a sucker for the train
\nride home, and I am like that now on the inside, burning soft
\nwith lemon. What fruit do you like best? I like tangerines.
\nAnd the night leaves me these. A small paper bag on the bedside
\ntable. The wrought iron and roses like an altar. I am glowing now.
\nMy teeth are stitching kisses to my fist. I go to the river. My legs
\nare frogs legs. Tiny wands, see how they glisten. A thousand fish
\nswim through me. I am a boat now. I know no anchor. My hair
\nunfurls, copper and cinnamon. Look how it opens, beautiful world.","dateCreated":"1306359610","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"teagvest","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/teagvest","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/i\/user_none_lg.jpg"}}],"more":0}]},{"id":"39565256","dateCreated":"1306359258","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"danielx_184","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/danielx_184","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/i\/user_none_lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39565256"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"Ode to Stephen Bowling Dots, Dec'd","description":" And did young Stephen sicken,
\nAnd did young Stephen die?
\nAnd did the sad hearts thicken,
\nAnd did the mourners cry?
\n
\nNo; such was not the fate of
\nYoung Stephen Dowling Bots;
\nThough sad hearts round him thickened,
\n'Twas not from sickness' shots.
\n
\nNo whooping-cough did rack his frame,
\nNor measles drear, with spots;
\nNot these impaired the sacred name
\nOf Stephen Dowling Bots.
\n
\nDespised love struck not with woe
\nThat head of curly knots,
\nNor stomach troubles laid him low,
\nYoung Stephen Dowling Bots.
\n
\nO no. Then list with tearful eye,
\nWhilst I his fate do tell.
\nHis soul did from this cold world fly,
\nBy falling down a well.
\n
\nThey got him out and emptied him;
\nAlas it was too late;
\nHis spirit was gone for to sport aloft
\nIn the realms of the good and great.
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n\u201cOde to Stephen Bowling Dots, Dec'd\u201d is a piece of obituary poetry written by fictional character Emmeline Grangerford in Mark Twain\u2019s Huckleberry Fin. While the poem might seem fine at first glance it is not at all that great. It is a forced piece of work. It does not show to have been written with inspiration it seems like the writer wrote it because she was compelled to do so. She does not have any kind of selection that shows that she truly cares about what she is writing about. The repetition of the name at the end of every stanza instead of showing some kind of affection rather reflects an idea of non-belonging almost like saying \u201chey this poem is not about me, this is about Stephen.\u201d The word choice also gives it a-b-a-b rhyme. Yet it is not at all powerful rhyming, in fact in the last stanza it is appreciated that the writer has not encountered a word that she can use to make the 1st and 3rd verse rhyme so she turns to using the word aloft. The rhyme does not add to the content it makes it sound more indifferent. No feelings are evoked through reading this piece because it does not show any kind of impersonation of the writer\u2019s thoughts and believes. Such plastic creation thereby should deserve the name of a bad poem.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39562642","dateCreated":"1306355171","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"julibarca10","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/julibarca10","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/pic\/1269448814\/julibarca10-lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39562642"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"The Fist","description":"The Fist
\nby Derek Walcott
\n
\nThe fist clenched round my heart
\nloosens a little, and I gasp brightness;
\nbut it tightens again.
\nWhen have I ever not loved the pain of love?
\nBut this has moved past love to mania.
\nThis has the strong clench of the madman,
\nthis is gripping the ledge of unreason,
\nbefore plunging howling into the abyss.
\nHold hard then, heart.
\nThis way at least you live.
\n
\n
\nI find the way the poem is conveyed to be very unsuccessful for various reasons. When we write poetry we express the most natural and sincere feelings just like when a musician plays his instrument its one of the most honest ways of expressing your feelings. The poem is structure-less there is no metric and when you want to convey such a strong feeling as the one expressed in this poem you should have some order. This is why in music there is a beat and measure. So that the music is played in order and the message the music is carrying can be correctly understood by the listener. The lack of organization also takes away the opportunity to have just a stanza stand out and express the true feeling of his poem, since this subject can be understood and interpreted in millions of ways.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39556464","dateCreated":"1306346736","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"paulasev_th","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/paulasev_th","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/pic\/1265121950\/paulasev_th-lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39556464"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"Deer Dancer","description":"Nearly everyone had left that bar in the middle of winter except the
\nhardcore. It was the coldest night of the year, every place shut down, but
\nnot us. Of course we noticed when she came in. We were Indian ruins. She
\nwas the end of beauty. No one knew her, the stranger whose tribe we
\nrecognized, her family related to deer, if that's who she was, a people
\naccustomed to hearing songs in pine trees, and making them hearts.
\n
\nThe woman inside the woman who was to dance naked in the bar of misfits
\nblew deer magic. Henry jack, who could not survive a sober day, thought she
\nwas Buffalo Calf Woman come back, passed out, his head by the toilet. All
\nnight he dreamed a dream he could not say. The next day he borrowed
\nmoney, went home, and sent back the money I lent. Now that's a miracle.
\nSome people see vision in a burned tortilla, some in the face of a woman.
\n
\nThis is the bar of broken survivors, the club of the shotgun, knife wound, of
\npoison by culture. We who were taught not to stare drank our beer. The
\nplayers gossiped down their cues. Someone put a quarter in the jukebox to
\nrelive despair. Richard's wife dove to kill her. We had to keep her
\nstill, while Richard secretly bought the beauty a drink.
\n
\nHow do I say it? In this language there are no words for how the real world
\ncollapses. I could say it in my own and the sacred mounds would come into
\nfocus, but I couldn't take it in this dingy envelope. So I look at the stars in
\nthis strange city, frozen to the back of the sky, the only promises that ever
\nmake sense.
\n
\nMy brother-in-law hung out with white people, went to law school with a
\nperfect record, quit. Says you can keep your laws, your words. And
\npracticed law on the street with his hands. He jimmied to the proverbial
\ndream girl, the face of the moon, while the players racked a new game.
\nHe bragged to us, he told her magic words and that when she broke,
\n became human.
\nBut we all heard his voice crack:
\n
\nWhat's a girl like you doing in a place like this?
\n
\nThat's what I'd like to know, what are we all doing in a place like this?
\n
\n
\nYou would know she could hear only what she wanted to; don't we all? Left
\nthe drink of betrayal Richard bought her, at the bar. What was she on? We all
\nwanted some. Put a quarter in the juke. We all take risks stepping into thin
\nair. Our ceremonies didn't predict this. or we expected more.
\n
\nI had to tell you this, for the baby inside the girl sealed up with a lick of
\nhope and swimming into the praise of nations. This is not a rooming house, but
\na dream of winter falls and the deer who portrayed the relatives of
\nstrangers. The way back is deer breath on icy windows.
\n
\nThe next dance none of us predicted. She borrowed a chair for the stairway
\nto heaven and stood on a table of names. And danced in the room of children
\nwithout shoes.
\n
\nYou picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille With four hungry children and a
\ncrop in the field.
\n
\nAnd then she took off her clothes. She shook loose memory, waltzed with the
\nempty lover we'd all become.
\n
\nShe was the myth slipped down through dreamtime. The promise of feast we
\nall knew was coming. The deer who crossed through knots of a curse to find
\nus. She was no slouch, and neither were we, watching.
\n
\nThe music ended. And so does the story. I wasn't there. But I imagined her
\nlike this, not a stained red dress with tape on her heels but the deer who
\nentered our dream in white dawn, breathed mist into pine trees, her fawn a
\nblessing of meat, the ancestors who never left.
\n
\n
\n In Deer Dancer, the content of the poem does not work with the form of the poem. First of all, the silhouette of a deer is simple, delicate. A woman\u2019s silhouette has also these characteristics: a thin waist, delicate curves\u2026 The poem, however, placed on the paper doesn\u2019t resemble this at all. Its verses are long, concrete. They even seem heavy, which drives the reader out of the image of the deer, and this dream girl. The poem has an organized, structured form, with verses of about the same length and syllables, stanzas of normally 2, 3, or 4 verses separated as if they were paragraphs. This structure gives the poem a sense of monotony, without feeling, which doesn\u2019t contribute to the description of the people\u2019s despair and hopelessness in the poem. Finally, the poem has no rhythm. Instead of verses, its tone resembles prose, but this tone is constantly cut by the verses. Instead of ending the sentences along with the verses, most of the verses end with a preposition, a conjunction, or a word right in the middle of the sentences. For example, she describes the setting as, \u201cthe club of the shotgun, knife wound, of\/poison by culture.\u201d By cutting it after \u201cof,\u201d the sentence loses its rhythm. Joy Harjo would have achieved her goal better by writing in prose.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39556316","dateCreated":"1306346551","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"caro3arias","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/caro3arias","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/i\/user_none_lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39556316"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"An attempted assasination of the queen","description":"Attempted Assassination of the Queen
\nWilliam McGonagall
\n
\nGod prosper long our noble Queen,
\n And long may she reign!
\nMaclean he tried to shoot her,
\n But it was all in vain.
\nFor God He turned the ball aside
\n Maclean aimed at her head;
\nAnd he felt very angry
\n Because he didn't shoot her dead.
\nThere's a divinity that hedges a king,
\n And so it does seem,
\nAnd my opinion is, it has hedged
\n Our most gracious Queen.
\nMaclean must be a madman,
\n Which is obvious to be seen,
\nOr else he wouldn't have tried to shoot
\n Our most beloved Queen.
\nVictoria is a good Queen,
\n Which all her subjects know,
\nAnd for that God has protected her
\n From all her deadly foes.
\nShe is noble and generous,
\n Her subjects must confess;
\nThere hasn't been her equal
\n Since the days of good Queen Bess.
\nLong may she be spared to roam
\n Among the bonnie Highland floral,
\nAnd spend many a happy day
\n In the palace of Balmoral.
\nBecause she is very kind
\n To the old women there,
\nAnd allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
\n And each one get a share.
\nAnd when they know of her coming,
\n Their hearts feel overjoy'd,
\nBecause, in general, she finds work
\n For men that's unemploy'd.
\nAnd she also gives the gipsies money
\n While at Balmoral, I've been told,
\nAnd, mind ye, seldom silver,
\n But very often gold.
\nI hope God will protect her
\n By night and by day,
\nAt home and abroad,
\n When she's far away.
\nMay He be as a hedge around her,
\n As he's been all along,
\nAnd let her live and die in peace
\n Is the end of my song.
\n
\nWhen one reads this poem aloud, this poem is rocky, and difficult to read rhythmically. Although the poet attempts to create rhyme, every line seems to be stopped short too soon. The poem\u2019s topic has potential but the way it\u2019s written makes it seem extremely superficial. The poet does not talk about the consequences of the queen\u2019s death, or the pain she might experience. He lists, rather robotically, what Maclean does and why he shouldn\u2019t. It sounds like an amateur\u2019s babble, like a student forced to write poetry in a foreign language. The content of the poem is also very hard to relate to. Few people know who Maclean is, which queen he is talking about or even why he wants to kill her. It has no impact on the reader except for disgust for the plain and monotone writing. William McGonagall has long been known as the world\u2019s worst poet and this poem explains why. The writing is plain, the message is plain, and the structure is repetitive. In conclusion, Attempted Assassination of the Queen is a weak attempt at poetry with its bumbling writing and shallow message.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39536852","dateCreated":"1306326730","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"kelseygymnastics","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/kelseygymnastics","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/pic\/1222807559\/kelseygymnastics-lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39536852"},"dateDigested":1531973826,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"Green Sees Things in Waves","description":"Green first thing each day sees waves\u2014
\nthe chair, armoire, overhead fixtures, you name it,
\nwaves\u2014which, you might say, things really are,
\nbut Green just lies there awhile breathing
\nlong slow breaths, in and out, through his mouth
\nlike he was maybe seasick, until in an hour or so
\nthe waves simmer down and then the trails and colors
\noff of things, that all quiets down as well and Green
\nstarts to think of washing up, breakfast even
\nwith everything still moving around, colors, trails,
\nand sounds, from the street and plumbing next door,
\nvibrating\u2014of course you might say that's what
\nsound really is, after all, vibrations\u2014but Green,
\nhe's not thinking physics at this stage, nuh-uh,
\nour boy's only trying to get himself out of bed,
\nget a grip, but sometimes, and this is the kicker,
\nanother party, shall we say, is in the room
\nwith Green, and Green knows this other party
\nand they do not get along, which understates it
\nquite a bit, quite a bit, and Green knows
\nthat this other cat is an hallucination, right,
\nbut these two have a routine that goes way back
\nand Green starts hollering, throwing stuff
\nuntil he's all shook up, whole day gone to hell,
\nbummer . . .
\n
\n Anyhow, the docs are having a look,
\nsee if they can't dream up a cocktail,
\nbut seems our boy ate quite a pile of acid one time,
\nclinical, wow, enough juice for half a block\u2014
\ngo go go, little Greenie\u2014blew the wiring out
\nfrom behind his headlights and now, no matter what,
\ncan't find the knob to turn off the show.
\n
\n In \u2018Green Sees Things in Waves\u2019 by August Kleinzahler, the form distracts greatly from the content. One can easily see this poet is talking about craziness, but it is very tedious and confusing to read. Each stanza is one grammatically-incorrect run-on sentence, with the narrator jumping from subject to subject. It is quite easy to lose your spot in this poem, as the stanzas are long, verbose, and all the lines look the same. The imagery also overpowers the poem. One gets so caught up in figuring out the imagery, it takes at the least two readings to decipher. And that doesn\u2019t even address the main character, Green. By the second reading, one can see that Green is a person, not an adjective as it first appeared to be. And the poem just keeps getting more muddled. The usual sentence order has been jumbled in places, including the first line (so that confusion is the first thought in your mind reading this), making reading even the first line a monumental task. The author might have thought he was using the form to reflect his content- craziness. But he took it a few steps too far, and confusion and frustration took over this poem.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39535826","dateCreated":"1306325254","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"Ingrid89","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/Ingrid89","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/pic\/1228179242\/Ingrid89-lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39535826"},"dateDigested":1531973827,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"Dream Variation","description":"Dream Variations
\nby Langston Hughes
\n
\n
\nTo fling my arms wide
\nIn some place of the sun,
\nTo whirl and to dance
\nTill the white day is done.
\nThen rest at cool evening
\nBeneath a tall tree
\nWhile night comes on gently,
\n Dark like me--
\nThat is my dream!
\n
\nTo fling my arms wide
\nIn the face of the sun,
\nDance! Whirl! Whirl!
\nTill the quick day is done.
\nRest at pale evening . . .
\nA tall, slim tree . . .
\nNight coming tenderly
\n Black like me.
\n
\n
\n
\n This poem represents, as expressed in the title, the dream variations. There are two different dreams as the two verses represent. These dreams are supposed to vary as dreams one has do. These two verses, although they are written beautifully, as the use and placement of words is very precise, it fails to capture the essence itself of the poem. It does not represent the variation, as the words from verse to verse repeat themselves. When one dreams, almost always it is a complete different image than the one the night before; hence having the dreams have similarities doesn\u2019t quite express the uniqueness of each dream. Because it fails to envision its title and purpose, it is unsuccessful. What is successful though is the different voices between the verses, the top one happy and the other desolated. Because both dreams\/ verses have the same scenery, it again fails to completely separate one dream from the other.
\n Langston Hughes uses similar words in the two \u2018different\u2019 verses. This appears unsuccessful because the words used in the poem are very simple and hence covey no real emotion. If he were to repeat less, or find synonyms for those repeated words, not only could it be more visual, but it will actually represent and express the true, obvious variation from the dreams.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]},{"id":"39531136","dateCreated":"1306309013","smartDate":"May 25, 2011","userCreated":{"username":"maaayyyaaa","url":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/view\/maaayyyaaa","imageUrl":"https:\/\/www.wikispaces.com\/user\/pic\/1222817730\/maaayyyaaa-lg.jpg"},"monitored":false,"locked":false,"links":{"self":"https:\/\/davidgarethw-books-b.wikispaces.com\/share\/view\/39531136"},"dateDigested":1531973827,"startDate":null,"sharedType":"discussion","title":"As If We Were Two People","description":"\u201cOur Bed Is Also Green\u201d by Joshua Bell
\nhttp:\/\/www.poets.org\/viewmedia.php\/prmMID\/21996<\/a>
\nMicrosoft Word was not at all pleased with the structure of the poem. Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr Webster.
\n
\nDear Mr Joshua Bell,
\nThank you for your poem. It was, shall I say, interesting. Intriguing. Challenging. It was an unruly deviant from the conventional idea of poetry we hold (whatever that may be). In the end, it all comes down to one aspect of your piece\u2014its form. I think we both agree that innovation and experimentation are fundamental in any genre of literature. They keep things evolving, developing, and morphing into something new, something different. The job of a poet is one of a juggling act. Countless aspects of the poem\u2014meter, rhyme, rhythm, structure, repetition, word choice, imagery\u2014are hurling through the air simultaneously, while the poet must find a way to balance them all. The trick here is maintaining such a balance. How can we emphasize one particular aspect of a poem without wrecking havoc? How can we incorporate innovation without befuddling the message of the poem, and consequently, the mind of the reader? It is here where I think you were not fully successful. The unique form of your poem draws the reader away from your words and images and forces him or her to focus, instead, on the literal reading of it. The structure of a poem should never be a hindrance to its meaning; rather, it should heighten and complement the content. In your poem, there is a \u201cme\u201d and a \u201cyou.\u201d \u201cI almost\/felt, believe me,\/as if we were\/two people.\u201d The two-column structure and ragged lines reflect this idea of two separate, yet interconnected, people. However, one cannot ponder such meanings, as one\u2019s eyes are too preoccupied darting back and forth across the page in a state of near-nausea. One blink, and you have lost your place on the page. The rhythm created is reminiscent of a broken record: abrupt and obnoxious. I feel that the balance is not maintained, and an excessive attention to structure draws too much away from the other aspects of what could otherwise be a good poem.","replyPages":[{"page":0,"digests":[],"more":0}]}],"more":true},"comments":[]},"http":{"code":200,"status":"OK"},"redirectUrl":null,"javascript":null,"notices":{"warning":[],"error":[],"info":[],"success":[]}}