Robert Frost.. Ghost House

Ghost House Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me— Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad— Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,— With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things, As sweet companions as might be had.

I chose this poem from Robert Frost because it is explaining the old house in which he lived, full of detail and easy to feel like you were a part of the poem. This is a poem by an author we read in class. I like poems by Robert Frost because he has a way of making you feel as if you are involved and he is an easy artist to read.

C. D. Wright.. Personals

Personals C. D. Wright, 1949

Some nights I sleep with my dress on. My teeth are small and even. I don’t get headaches. Since 1971 or before, I have hunted a bench where I could eat my pimento cheese in peace. If this were Tennessee and across that river, Arkansas, I’d meet you in West Memphis tonight. We could have a big time. Danger, shoulder soft. Do not lie or lean on me. I’m still trying to find a job for which a simple machine isn’t better suited. I’ve seen people die of money. Look at Admiral Benbow. I wish like certain fishes, we came equipped with light organs. Which reminds me of a little known fact: if we were going the speed of light, this dome would be shrinking while we were gaining weight. Isn’t the road crooked and steep. In this humidity, I make repairs by night. I’m not one among millions who saw Monroe’s face in the moon. I go blank looking at that face. If I could afford it I’d live in hotels. I won awards in spelling and the Australian crawl. Long long ago. Grandmother married a man named Ivan. The men called him Eve. Stranger, to tell the truth, in dog years I am up there.

This is a poet we have not read in class. I chose this poem and poet because i liked the way she wrote the poem. She did not use many line breaks and she was very informative of what she wishes things could be as well as how they are for her all at once.

Jehanne Dubrow..Much Tattooed Sailor Aboard USS New Jersey

Much Tattooed Sailor Aboard USS New Jersey Jehanne Dubrow

Squint a little, and that’s my husband
in the photograph, the sailor on the left—
the one wearing a rose composed of ink
and the Little Bo Peep who stands
before a tiny setting sun and the blur
on his forearm which might be a boat—
while the sailor on the right is leaning in,
his fingers touching the other man’s skin,
tracing what looks like the top of an anchor
or the intricate hilt of a sword, perhaps
wiping blood from the artful laceration,
in his other hand something crumpled,
his cap I think or a cloth to shine brass,
lights on a bulkhead, fittings and fixtures,
because let’s not forget this picture
must be posed, the men interrupted—
mops laid down, ropes left uncoiled, or else
on a smoke break, Zippo and Lucky Strikes
put aside—the men shirtless on a deck,
legs bent at beautiful angles,
a classical composition this contrast
of bodies and dungarees, denim gone black
and their shoulders full of shadow—
although on second thought how effortless
this scene, both of them gazing toward
a half-seen tattoo so that we too lean in
trying to make out the design on the bicep,
close enough we can almost smell the salt
of them and the oil of machinery,
which is of course the point, as when in a poem
I call the cruiser’s engine a pulse inside my palm
or describe my husband’s uniform,
ask him to repeat the litany of ships and billets,
how one deployment he sliced himself
on a piece of pipe and how the cut refused
to shut for months—Hold still, I tell him,
I need to get the exquisite outline of your scar.

This is a poem with a topic that matters to me, beauty. This poem by Jehanne Debrow show the beauty she still sees in her husband after so many years. I find this poem very sweet because she still sees every scar and mark on his body to be beautiful and she wants to embrace it.

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